Sunday, September 10, 2017

The Force Slinger

I don’t usually review things on this blog, but I’m making an exception for The Gunslinger.

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Stephen King fan. Or, I was until he stopped writing decent books, though I have to admit, I haven’t read any of his recent work so perhaps I am missing out on some good stuff. But I digress. His early books were great. And the Gunslinger epic was, well, epic, so I was looking forward to the movie.

The Gunslinger would not, I surmised, be hugely disappointing to either my wife or myself for two reasons: 1) my wife has never read anything by Stephen King and knows nothing about the Gunslinger saga, so she couldn’t be disappointed in that respect, and 2) I knew that fitting a 7-book series into an hour and a half was impossible, so it was going to be nothing like the epic journey Mr. King took me on all those years ago.

The Gunslinger Movie - 4,352 pages condensed into an hour and a half.
I also thought, knowing the series, that fitting the Gunslinger story into a single movie wouldn’t be all that hard. Two of the seven books are only peripherally related to the plot, meaning a total of 1,300 pages could be (and were) left completely out of the movie. The remaining 5 books are also bulked up with side-tracks and Mr. King’s famously bloated prose. Take away all of that, and you get a 90-minute movie.

A classic movie, as it turns out. This is how it goes:

Luke, I mean, Jake, is a boy with a power he doesn’t understand, and this makes the Empire, I mean, the Man in Black, interested in him. He escapes and meets a Jedi Master, er, Gunslinger, but the Emp..Man in Black kills aunt Beru and uncle Owen,I mean, his mom and step-dad, so he goes off with the Jedi-slinger to learn the Ways of the Force, I mean, you know.


Anyway, young Luke, I mean Jake, ultimately destroys the Death Star, or whatever that thing the Man in Black is using to bring down The Dark Tower. So, in the end, evil is vanquished, Luke…er, Jake, is learning the Ways of The Force, and… oh, bollocks.


It might not have been Star Wars, but all the elements were there (as, indeed, they were in The Force Awakens), but this shouldn’t surprise us, or put anyone off from watching the movie. After all, there is an actual formula for these types of stories, so you expect them to be, at least, similar.

I know this because, when you decide to become a writer, they give you The Rules for Plots. I don’t know who “They” are—no one does—but unless you’re a writer, like me, you won’t have been given The Rules. So here they are:

Act I
1. Readers are introduced to the hero's world
2. A disturbance or "call to adventure" interrupts the hero's world
3. The hero may ignore the call or the disturbance
4. The hero crosses the threshold into a dark world

Act II
5. A mentor may appear to teach the hero
6. Various encounters occur with forces of darkness
7. The hero has a dark moment within himself that he must overcome
8. A talisman aids in battle

Act III
9. The final battle is fought
10. The hero returns to his own world (to which I add: or continues on his quest, depending on reviews and revenue)

It was because of these Rules that The Gunslinger parallels Star Wars in so many ways (note: this is not, however, the reason The Force Awakens parallels Star Wars in so many ways; the reason for that is, they were out of plot ideas and the first movie seemed to work, so…).

In fact, the only major difference between Star Wars and The Gunslinger is the budding sexual tension between Luke, Princess Leia and Han. (Don’t forget, in the first movie no one—even themselves—knew they were brother and sister, so the initial attraction was, um, okay, even when she kissed him – eewww! – to make Han jealous. Anything more than that, however, wouldn’t fly, except in the more southerly solar systems.) All young Jake gets to do is save a girl—one he’d exchanged meaningful eye-contact with earlier—from the Imperial soldiers, I mean, the Dark Forces.

Ewwww! With tongues and everything!
But by far most impressive thing about The Gunslinger is how it made 95 minutes seem much, much longer.

If you’re a King fan, you shouldn’t miss it. Otherwise, watch Star Wars, for the 187th time. You’ll enjoy it more.




Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Moving Stuff

We spend a lot of time moving stuff these days. It’s what happens when you live in a small place; you are always in your own way.

If you want to get some stuff, chances are it’s under or behind some other stuff, so you have to move stuff off the top of stuff to get at the stuff you want. And then you have to move the stuff you took off the stuff you wanted back to where it was or it will be in the way of other stuff that belongs in the place where you put that stuff.

It’s like living on a canal boat, but without the charm.

Okay, so our flat isn't this small, but still...
When you are faced with the problem of having too much stuff to fit into the place you live, there are three options:
                             1.      You can cleverly store your stuff
                             2.      You can get rid of stuff
                             3.      You can let the stuff overwhelm you

A fourth option would be “move to a bigger place,” but we can’t do that, so we are making use of Options 1 and 2 and striving to avoid Option 3.

Having grown up in a three-bedroom house with my parents, two brothers, two sisters, various dogs, cats, guinea pigs, occasionally homeless friends and frequent visitors, I know how to ferret out usable space. Looking up is a good place to start. In our tiny office, I have managed to find accessible locations for my guitar, keyboard and bagpipes, something I didn’t even have in the old flat. And, as a bonus, with all that stuff off the floor, you can actually open the office door now.


Prior to moving in, we managed to off-load one filing cabinet, leaving us with just two smaller ones. After moving (i.e. once reality set in) it became necessary to dispose of another one. Fortunately, Staples had a marvelous solution in the form of stackable, plastic file boxes. Now, if I need a file, I still have to move stuff, but at least I don’t have to hunt for what I’m looking for; I can see the folders without opening the boxes. This save a lot of time.

Stackable, transparent file boxes, and a rubbish bin, all neatly stored under other stuff.
Another issue was my guitar case. Having solved the storage/access issues vis-à-vis the guitar itself, I now found I had a lumbering, space-consuming, and surprisingly heavy, hard-shell case to contend with. So, I bought a guitar bag, and that solved that problem. However, it left me with another problem: what to do with the hard-shell guitar case.

I put it outside in the hall hoping someone would steal it, but unfortunately, we have a better class of tenant here and, several days later, it was still there.  So I told my wife I was going to take it into town and leave it in the market place with a sign on it reading, “Looking for a new home,” but she said that would be Fly Tipping.

(I don’t think there is a US word for Fly-Tipping but, basically, it means taking stuff you don’t want—garbage, topsoil, that old armoire you don’t need anymore—and, after checking that no one is looking, dumping it somewhere so as to make it someone else’s problem.)

I told my wife that, since I was planning to come back and check on it at a later time, it would not be Fly-Tipping. It would simply be an unattended parcel, which would also mean I would just have to wait for the sirens and the swat team and the helicopters and the loudspeaker announcements that the town center was to be evacuated immediately to know that someone had taken an interest in the guitar case.

We’re about as packed in here as we can be now. It’s workable, but, ... well, whenever it starts to get to me, I just remind myself that people are currently paying over a quarter of a million pounds for flats that are smaller (and less well built) than this one, and that do not contain any storage space whatsoever. So, even though we have to move stuff off of stuff to get at stuff, at least we have a place for our stuff.


Well, most of it, anyway.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Residential Respite

It’s been a month since our move and, diminutive living quarters aside, we like where we live.

The town center was a convenient and agreeable place to reside, but Horsham is a growing town and, lately, it had become too rowdy for the likes of us. Here, I don’t have to jostle my way through crowds to get to the corner store. It’s peaceful, and secluded and you hardly see anyone, and the people you do see often say, “Good morning,” which still startles me a little. Instead of the bustling main street, the lanes are tree-lined and empty.


Where we live now

Where we used to live
And it is so nice to be able to walk out of my front door and not have to go down 68 steps to reach the pavement. I have not lived in a ground floor flat since 1993 and, although I did like being on top of the world, there is a lot to be said for street level.

Even on the ground floor, this flat has a balcony, so I get to sit, have a pipe and enjoy the view. Granted, the view is of the building where they keep the rubbish bins, but it’s a tidy little brick structure that reminds me of a pill-box, and at the very least it’s better looking than the rubbish area at Pelham Court, where we originally lived.

My current view

View of the rubbish area at Pelham Court
And it’s quiet. At night, there are no revelers with their 110-decibel conversations at two in the morning, no delivery vans banging and clanging at four, no bin lorries bashing and revving their engines at five and no street sweepers whirring and churning at six. For the first time in nearly three years we are able to get a full night’s sleep.

The nights here are dark, and the only sound is the distant hum of the highway (this is the south-east of Britain, after all; you are never very far from a main road). In the mornings we hear only the twitter of birds, and I’m pretty sure a pellet rifle will take care of that.

It is also, however, very, very white. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no racist; I’ve got nothing against white people (though I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one), but the town center was populated with people from the sub-continent, China, Indonesia, Africa and Eastern Europe who, together, wove an exotic human tapestry, and I find I miss the diversity.

Fortunately, the town center is just a15 minute walk away, so when I feel the need for multi-culturalism, I can find it fairly quickly.

But, alas, the place where I spend the bulk of my time—my office—is much smaller than my previous office and I find it still pinches around the edges. With so many other advantages, however, I’m sure I’ll get used to it. In time.


Old office

New office

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Settling

Well, we’ve moved. Or, to be exact, we are in the process of moving: we are still have stuff to retrieve from our old flat and there are still many things lying around on the living room floor, or in boxes, looking for a place to live. But the heavy lifting is done, the massive payouts are now just a painful memory and most of the initial maintenance has been completed – more on that in a moment.

We were without a phone or internet for two weeks after we moved in because, well, Britain. And we spent a lot more than we should have needed to on maintenance materials.

As mentioned in my previous post, we are being held to exacting standards vis-à-vis the condition of our erstwhile flat, but it seems the people leaving here were not, nor did the landlord care to give the place a quick once-over. And so, in addition to the headache of moving in, we had to deal with the dust and dirt and the pervading aroma of “old person’s house,”

Not only was the place not cleaned thoroughly, it was…well, take a look at these:

This is the inside of the cabinet in the dining area.

This is what happened to the towel holder when I touched it.
Some bright spark drew instructions for the burners, but didn't think
to tell us which was was "Hotter" and which was "Less Hot."
This is the inside of a kitchen cabinet.
And this is the inside of the other dining room cabinet.

I do give the landlord credit, however, for being tenacious enough to seek out the cheapest, flimsiest, most insubstantial shower curtain I have ever seen. He obviously puts a great deal of effort into sparing no inexpense.

In short, if this place was a hotel room or a holiday cottage, I would give it two stars.

We then set about the task of trying to fit ten pounds of shit into a five-pound sack, which involved the shedding of furniture, the building of a bespoke (US: custom made) desk that would fit into the tiny office, the hanging of shelves and the creation of an airing cupboard and storage cabinet where there had once been a large but useless space in the bathroom. Then there was the painting and the general maintenance, but much of that is also behind us (he says with the smell of fresh paint wafting through the air).

And in the middle of all this, our car died. It was ten-years old and had over 100k miles on it, but it seemed robust and we were quite fond of it, but then it just, quite suddenly, gave up the ghost. “Cam-belt,” the car-guy said, as he pronounced it DOA. At least it didn’t suffer.

So then we had the experience of trying to buy another car, while not having a car, and in the middle of moving, without the aid of a phone or the internet.

So, do I have anything good to report. Certainly:

The flat, while smallish, is adequate, and we are quickly making it our home. The area we moved to is quiet and close to town and has a Co-Op mini-market around the corner, a pub across the road and a theme restaurant (The Smith and Western, Yee Ha!) next to it. It also has a covered balcony, which has come in really handy these past two weeks.

The other good thing is, with all this heavy lifting, DIY and running about, I have lost nearly 10 pounds. But don’t worry, it’s got to be around here somewhere, I’m sure it will turn up again soon.




Saturday, July 8, 2017

Moving UK Style

We are still in the throes of moving, and the strain on my nerves and wallet are reaching a crescendo. The only consolation I have is to remind myself that we’re moving, and that’s just the way it is. But then I think, should it be?

I know I haven’t moved from place to place in the US for a long time, but when I did, I don’t recall it being so traumatic. In fact, I once moved seven times in the space of four years and, aside from having to move all my stuff, no onerous inconveniences,or unexpected expenses, stick in my mind when I reminisce about those days.

In the US, this is how I moved:

Realtor shows me an apartment. I like it. We sign a lease. I pay one month’s rent up front and one month’s rent for a security deposit. Then I go to the Post Office and submit a change of address form. For free. End of.

In the UK, this is how it goes:

Letting agent shows you a flat. You like it. Letting agent says, “Okay, pay £500 and fill out this notice of intent to rent.” Then you have to provide reams of documentation to prove that you live where you currently live (really, what’s the difference, I could live under a bridge and then move into a flat as long as I can pay the rent), how much you earn and your citizenship status. You then have to provide references, and pay the letting agent £30 to contact them.


Then you go to the Royal Mail and submit a change of address form: £125.98 for the two of us.

When you take possession of the flat, you pay one month’s rent up front, one and a half to two month’s rent as a security deposit, and another £126 as a check-out fee. (Yes, check-OUT fee.)

Every year, when your lease is renewed, which involves the letting agent sending you an e-mail informing you that the lease has been renewed, you are charged another £160.

When you check out, you are “strongly advised” to hire a professional cleaning company to stream-clean the carpets and curtains and generally bring the flat up to the sort of condition they will find acceptable, and, by the way, the letting agents have just such a cleaning service, so why don’t you hire them? This, in my mind, is a thinly veiled threat: “Pay us more money, or you won’t get your security deposit back.”

But that’s just my letting agent (Leaders, by the way). Others, and there are many, are just as bad, and some are even worse.

The reason for these money-grabs is, some time ago, letting agents discovered that they could charge random fees, with no reason or justification, without anyone complaining. Much. And they have embraced this business model with alacrity.

But, after all of that, you at least get a spacious, well-maintained flat at a reasonable pr…HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Sorry, I couldn’t write that with a straight face.

Fact is, if you are not rich, you take what you get, and you don’t complain, unless you want to find yourself out on the street and someone else living in the place you used to call home. Because there are more people looking for places to live than there are places to live, landlords can be choosy, meaning they will choose people who won’t complain about the state of their flats.

If you’re rich, you can rent a luxury flat. We’re in a luxury flat right now, and that’s one of the many reasons we're moving: we are not rich.

The “luxury” flats, however…Now, I’m not saying this will stop me from complaining about the size of our future home, but I took a peek at the flats for the latest development in town to see the cost and size of those flats. What I found just made my heart sink:

This is your living space, kitchen, dining room, living room, all
562.7 sq ft of it, and yours for only £295,000 ($380,228)
Do you see space for a TV?

And I thought our 600 sq ft flat was bad.

The up side, however, is that Prewetts Mill,when it is finished, is going to be located in 1962.
And this is what you get for your money:

Notice the insubstantial breeze-block (cinder-block) wall and the 2x2/chipboard framing.
Those bricks aren't real, either. That is (hopefully fireproof) imitation-brick cladding.
So, even though we are moving to a smaller place, at least our block of flats was built in the 1960s, when they used robust building materials, believed windows should be large and allowed to open, and understood that actual people were going to live in them.

Sorry to be so sour these days. It’s just that we’re moving, and that is really stressful.




Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Lowering the Flag

The flag has come down.

No, it’s nothing political—not me getting steamed up over Brexit, Chairman May or the village idiot in the White House—and I’m still as patriotic as ever. The reason is, we’re moving.

It seems strange to be moving again so soon. We haven’t been in our new flat long enough to stop calling it “our new flat,” and now we’re going to an even newer flat. There are various reasons for this move—cost, noise, 68 steps up to the door, rubbish managing agent—but overall, I think the main reason I decided to move was to make my wife stop looking at listings for flats.

Since we moved in here, she has been scrolling through listings for flats with all the enthusiasm and glee of a 13-year-old boy perusing porn. Now this wouldn’t be an issue (hey, I’ve been there) except, unlike that 13-year-old, her obsession demands an audience.

“Look at this one,” she says, setting her laptop down on the balcony table, “it’s really nice. And this one is expensive, but look how awful it is. We couldn’t live there.”

I nod and relight my pipe.

“And, oh, I found a good one in Southwater. Look at that! It has communal gardens, and it’s on a bus line…”

The good thing was, when we finally decided the reasons for staying did not outweigh the reasons for leaving, my wife had the lowdown on every available flat within a 10-mile radius.

And so, with our criteria firmly in mind—quiet neighborhood, ample parking, big enough for our stuff, close to town, in our price range, and on the ground floor—and a perky lettings agent leading the way, we set out to view flats.

It didn’t go as easy as in the past. The first four we looked at were all either too far away and/or too expensive and/or lacking in any parking (it still amazes me how, in Britain, there are properties with absolutely no place to put a car). But then we came to a ground-floor flat that was located in a quiet cul-de-sac with on-street parking (but there were lots of empty spaces) that was within our price range and just a short walk away from town. It even had a balcony. (Yes, a ground-floor flat with a balcony. Go figure.)
Our new flat is just off of the graphic. Not too far from the town centre.
It ticked every box, and so we took it. Then we realized we hadn’t actually checked that it was big enough for our stuff, but we figured it had to be about the same size as where we are living now so we didn’t worry about it. Until I went back with a tape measure.

Our future flat, it transpires, is way smaller than our current flat.

To get some perspective on how my life is shrinking: the one-bedroom flat I lived in before moving to Britain had 800 square feet of living space. Both two-bedroom flats we have lived in here have been around 720 square feet. Our future flat has only 600 square feet—an area an American wouldn’t raise veal in.
US 1 Bedroom, UK 2 Bedroom, our future flat
Consequently, we are now on a mission to jettison as much stuff as we possibly can. We downsized when we moved into this flat, but now we have to downsize in spades.

Will we manage to fit all our stuff in? Can we dispose of enough of our lives to allow us to live in such a small space and still have room to practice Limbo Dancing (if we ever want to take it up, I mean.)?

All that remains to be seen. In the meantime, I have forbidden my wife from looking at any more flats, lest she suddenly find “the perfect property” and leave us forever regretting this rash decision. (I’m pretty sure she still scrolls through the listings when I’m not looking, though.)

Oh, and the flag. Well, there’s really nothing to stop me from putting it up—no regulation that I know of—but a flag flying from a ground floor balcony will simply make me a target. And you just know some little oik will steal it.


Friday, June 16, 2017

Triskaidekafication

We go to America once a year, which adds up to a lot of trips. For the most part—despite the occasional hiccup—we have been lucky.

We have been lucky with the flights. But this time, both going and returning, our flights were missed, cancelled, delayed and just not very comfortable (in a first-world complaint sort of way).

Long story short: Missed connection in Newark, next flight cancelled, next flight delayed, and delayed, and delayed.

This would not have been so bad if we had not been in Newark’s United terminal, which handles short flights and therefore has all the amenities, comfort and grandeur of a bus station.

We finally took off at 11:30 PM after 12 hours in the airport.

(We did, however, take off in a thunderstorm, which made for a lively flight.)

Overall, we were lucky. Others didn’t even make it out that day. And I just saw on FaceBonk that my niece has been in Newark since Tuesday trying to get to Italy.


What the departures board looked like while we were waiting

(First World Problem: On the return trip, the in-flight entertainment was on a loop. There were a number of channels you could select, each one showing a movie. The movies all started, apparently, when the plane did, so when I went to look for some diversion, all the movies were already on. There was no indication of what the movies were or how long they had been playing. When the movies ended, they repeated, but since all the movies were not the same length, you could only watch one, partial, movie, then switch to another, partial, movie. I know this is a really small thing, but c’mon, that’s 1970s technology.)

My final three words on this: “United,” “Never” and “Again.”

Moving on.

We have been lucky with the hire car. Never a scratch. This year: three.

We have been lucky with timing. This year, my son, his wife and the G-kids moved house while we were there. (They were supposed to have moved last month but, you know, closings.)

We have been lucky with the weather. This year, it rained every day, except the last day, which was, oddly enough, the 14th day.

This, you see, was our 13th trip. I didn’t know it at the time, I just went along in a fog thinking, “Why is everything going wrong?” I’m not triskaidekaphobic or anything, but when I got home and realized what number this trip was, it all made sense.

We’re back now, and I’ll write up our adventures soon. Until then, watch out for that pesky number…you know the one.

We went to visit our favorite cafe, but it was closed. So we went to a different one.
Pretentious, confusing and expensive, and this was our order number.
I'm not superstitious or anything, I'm just sayin'

Monday, June 12, 2017

Bloody Hell

We just returned from two weeks in the States, but that will have to wait because I now find myself, for the fourth time in less than a year, having to roll out this caveat:

This is not a political blog, but today I am going to talk about politics.

Again.

The reason (this time): I have just landed in a country without a government.

For the second time in less than a year, the British political system is in melt-down because they called an election they did not need to call and got a result they could not imagine happening.

Bloody hell!

For my American friends, this is the long and the short of it.

After Brexit, Ms May, our new Prime Minister, set herself up as a “Strong and Stable” leader who would spearhead the charge into Brexit, confident of the WILL OF THE PEOPLE and secure the HARD BREXIT she knew we all wanted.

She said from the get-go that she was not going to hold an election. She had a majority, she knew the people were behind her. It was time to get on with the job.

But then, while walking in the bucolic Welsh countryside, it came to her that she needed to reinforce her position as leader. She owed her people a chance to tell her just how much they were behind her and, therefore, she needed to hold an election.

That’s her take. I’m pretty sure what really happened was her political advisers (who are now scouring the Want Ads) showed her some charts and graphs illuminating her popularity and, more importantly, the unpopularity of her opponents. If she held an election, they told her, she could not help but gain enough seats in Parliament to make her a virtual dictator. And that she could not resist.

I hasten to add, this was not a bad call. She was, at the time, very popular, while the Labour party, led by Jeremy Corbyn, was in disarray. Additionally, UKIP had made itself redundant, the Liberal Democrats had made themselves irrelevant and the Green Party, bless them, still held only one seat. So it looked like clear sailing toward a Parliament with a huge Conservative majority.

And her strategy was sound: all she had to do was nothing. If she did nothing, she eliminated the risk of committing a gaffe in front of her electorate; she left that to her opponents.

Unfortunately, she did nothing poorly.

The first nothing she did poorly was not reach out to the 48% of the voting public who didn’t want Brexit. In all her “Strong and Stable,” “Will of the People” leadership speeches, she totally ignored half of the population. This made her look less like a leader and more like the head of a cult.

She then refused to take part in any debates. This made her look less like a leader and more like someone afraid to, well, take part in debates.

During her few appearances on talk shows, she pointedly avoided answering questions, and not in the skillful way most politicians handle prevarications, but in a ham-fisted, awkward manner. This made her look less like a leader and more like someone with something to hide.

She tried to make up for this by going out and meeting “the people,” but it soon came to light that the people she was meeting were hand-picked supporters, herded together to make them look like a huge crowd when, in fact, there were only about thirty of them. This made her look less like a leader and more like a charlatan.

Ms May Rally -- the tight shot.

Ms May Rally -- the wide shot
These meetings were held in secrete locations and carefully orchestrated, and if a real reporter turned up, she would simply leave. This made her look less like a leader and more like a coward.

But even with all this against her, she remained confident that, when the people went to the polls, they wouldn’t have much of a choice, but then something as miraculous as it was unanticipated happened: Jeremy Corbyn started acting like a leader.

The often confused-looking, bearded man in the dowdy jumper started holding rallies, and speaking his mind, and people flocked to him—lots of people, not just a handful squeezed together to imitate a crowd. And as his popularity grew, hers shrank.

The old Jeremy Corbyn

The New Jeremy Corbyn

Jeremy Corbyn Rally -- no trickery here.
This was happening when we left for the States, but the popularity gap was still so wide that we told our friends the best we could hope for was a slightly increased majority.

Then, as we rode home from the airport this morning—after 12 hours of radio silence—Tony, our loquacious driver, filled us in on the astonishing details:

The Conservatives lost 13 seats, the Labour gained 30.

The Conservatives are still the largest party, but with only 318 seats, they do not have enough to form a government.* It was, as someone pointed out, “A humiliating victory.”

And it gets better. I have just heard that, in order to retain her tenuous grasp on power, Ms May has been forced to cobble together a coalition government with the Democratic Unionist Party of Northern Ireland (DUP), a splinter party with roots in religious fundamentalism who espouse some rather unpopular views.

DUPs
It looks like we’re in for an interesting ride, so hang on tight.

--------------------------------------------------

* For my American friends, a quick primer on UK elections. To put it into US terms, imagine you don’t actually vote for President. Instead, you vote for your state senators. When all the senators have been elected, they count them up, and the party with the most senators gets to have their Head Senator as President. The catch is, to effectively run a government, you would need to have 51 Senators of the same party holding the majority, otherwise, all your legislation would get voted down. That’s what happened in the UK just now. Ms May needed 326 seats but she only got 318.

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Reflections on Having Been a Writer

Some of you with long memories may recall that this blog was not started as a publicity platform for my books. It was quite the other way around. The books grew out of the blog.

This blog was begun before blogs even existed. Back then, I was uploading essays about my adventures in Britain to a web-log. That was in 2001. Blogs didn’t come along until 2004 or so, and I didn’t succumb until 2006. Even then, there were not so many blogs, and I was riding the crest of the wave. Accordingly, I drew a large following and, when the blog-to-book craze hit, I published Postcards From Across the Pond.

I followed that up a few years later with More Postcards From Across the Pond and Postcards From Ireland. I knew, even then, that I would publish no more essays, as I had said everything I had to say about being an expat.

The essays were good, however, and I was proud of the books. I can say that without reservation. In those days, every event was a delightful surprise, and everything seemed so wonderfully exotic that I couldn’t help but share it. My life was exciting and joyful and it would have been a shame to not let others in on that excitement and joy, and that joy came through in my writing.

Then the culmination of my life-long quest to be a published author came about when I published an actual novel, Finding Rachel Davenport. It wasn’t supposed to be the culmination; when you finally reach a lofty goal, you are supposed to seize that opportunity and build on it and move on to the next, better book, and then the next. But I somehow failed to do that.

When Hemingway stopped being a writer, he shot himself. 
At the time, I recall looking though Finding Rachel Davenport and remarking that it seemed as if someone else had written the book, and that I didn’t know if I could do it again but I did know I didn’t want to try. And, indeed, I have not.

In the years since (six and counting) I have been working on an eight-book fantasy adventure series for my grandsons. Currently, I am having a difficult time with book 5, so difficult, in fact, that I have begun thinking about abandoning the project. It’s not as if my grandsons care about the books, and I think my son and his wife probably wish I would stop, so there is little reason to carry on, except that I started it, and I feel I ought to finish it.

The problem with the series has always been, should I publish it to the wider world. As a published writer, I think I should, but as a published writer I also know that they are not that good. While I am pleased with the story arc, and think the adventures are good, the characters are two-dimensional and my research is, to be kind, a little light.

Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven.
What prompted this decision to keep them private (at least for now, I go back and forth on this a lot) was that I just stumbled across a review of Postcards From Across the Pond and realized something shocking: people are still buying those books. And reviewing them.

The books are going on ten years old, and some of the essays are over fifteen years old, yet people are still reading them, and publishing their opinions of them. This delighted me, but it is also humbling.

For the most part, people like the Postcard books, and the reviews—some as recent as last week—are kind. But there are also the detractors, who call me an Ugly American, or someone they would not care to meet, and suggest that I go home and stop whining. Those reviews are few and far between, but it stings when strangers make judgments about you based on something you wrote that they didn’t happen to like.

And poor Rachel. The reviews on her were split between the 30% who hated the book and the 60% who loved it and another 10% who weren’t sure about it. Some of the detractors were so vehement about the book's awfulness that I had to wonder what book they had read. Conversely, the praise some people heaped on it was so lavish that I had to wonder what book they read, as well.

For Rachel, however, the bad reviews won. The final two reviews in the list were both one-star. One simply said, “Stupid” and the other “A disappointment.” And then the sales, and the reviews, stopped. That was in 2014. I have sold hardly a book since.

Virginia Woolf filled her pockets with stones and walk into the river Ouse.
But what does all this have to do with what I am currently working on? Nothing, and everything. A fantasy adventure series is not a comic novel or a collection of humorous essays. It would have a different audience, but they would still be critical, and the criticisms would be valid, if picky. “Who is this so-called author who doesn’t know that shoe-laces weren’t invented until…” or “Everybody knows that Roman soldiers in the era he’s talking about didn’t wear that type of breastplate. What an asshole!” The way I feel right now, I don’t think I want to subject the books to that sort of criticism.

When you publish a book, you willingly open it up to scrutiny by the general public, and I don’t think I want strangers picking over the prose I wrote as gifts for my grandsons. It’s not fair to the readers, my grandsons or the books.

And so the books will be just what they were originally intended to be—personal gifts from me to my grandsons, which means I am no longer an active, publishing writer. And I have no plans to become one.

Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in the head.
That’s no bad thing, however. I did achieve my goal. I have four books published* and enough dwindling talent left over to produce a unique gift for my grandsons. That’s something not a lot of people can do, and I’m pleased that I was able to accomplish it.

My life is no less joyous now, but having been here so long, I find little to surprise me any longer and, being retired, my life is a bit more settled. There is, in short, little to write about, so I don’t see any hilarious American-out-of-his-comfort-zone essays on the horizon. And, as we have just decided, the novels I am writing now are not ready for prime time.

I think I’ve known for some time that I am no longer a real writer. When I get into conversations with people about how I find life here, I rarely think to say, “I like it so much I wrote a book about it. Let me give you my card.” And that’s just as well.

Additionally, in preparing for this article, I discovered that I don’t even own a copy of Postcard From Across the Pond. And while I think I should have it in my library, I just can’t be arsed to buy one.

And so, what does a person, who has wanted nothing more than to be a writer since he was eleven years old, do with his life once he realizes he is no longer a writer?

Well, he takes over running a choir, of course.

Mike Harling started a choir.

*Postcards From Across the Pond was published by Lean Market Press, and Finding Rachel Davenport was published by Prospera Publishing. The contracts have since run out so all the books are now self-published on Kindle (begin promo/ for £.99 each /end promo) and as paperbacks through Amazon’s CreateSpace.



Saturday, April 22, 2017

An Era of Music

A year ago I wasn’t even in a choir; now I’m running one.

It’s not my fault, really.

I know I have a tendency to want to be out front, and often throw myself into things with misguided enthusiasm, but this time I swore to myself it would be different. I joined a daytime choir, and made myself content with being one of a group, a cog in the wheel, and applied myself to learning to be the best choir member I could.

I liked it so much that, after a few months, I joined a second choir. I was really enjoying myself, singing in the more challenging daytime choir, and having a ball with the evening choir singing show tunes. It was a fun and exciting time.

Then the rumblings began.

Only a few months into the evening choir, it was announced that we were not making enough profit for the company that ran it. We were facing closure, but we were given another chance after the choir leader agreed to take a cut in pay to keep us afloat.

That worked for a while, but then the choir leader had to quit. Not having anyone to replace him, they told us, again, that they were going to close down the choir. The disappointment was palpable and, as we continued to sing for the remainder of the session, and the others came to terms with their loss, a dark thought entered my mind: “I could run this choir.”

The reason I thought something so undeniably insane was that, as a franchise choir, all I would have to do was lead the songs. All the admin, the venue, the bookings, the equipment, the song selections, the harmonies and how the songs were performed were decided by the couple who owned the choir. I knew I didn’t have the talent for that, but I did have a talent for teaching. All I needed to do was learn the songs the way they wanted them done and show the choir how to perform them.

Easy, right? Well, even I’m not that crazy; I knew it would be a challenge, but I was determined to do whatever it took to keep the choir from folding.

So that night I sent them an email volunteering to take on the choir. The next morning they answered and said, “Yes.”

I was equally delighted and terrified, but my wife had a more pragmatic thought: “Didn’t they even want to hear you sing?” she asked.

So, I met with the leaders. They liked me, they liked what I did, they tried me out with some live choirs; they were encouraged and they encouraged me. Then I had an intense session with the leader to go over the finer points of the songs. This, too, went well, and we parted looking forward to the upcoming rehearsal.

Then, at 10:30 that evening, I was fired. By text.

Okay, not exactly that dramatic. I got a text telling me to check my e-mail. I was fired in the e-mail.

This put me in a horrendous position. The choir’s hopes had been dashed, then they had been raised—by me—and now I was going to have to dash them again. It was a prospect I found unacceptable, and so—because I never let lack of qualifications or any relevant experience stand in my way—I decided to run the choir as an independent, community choir instead of a franchise.

This left me less than a week to put an entire choir program together, which is hard enough if you know what you’re doing, which, of course, I did not. Still, I managed to pull something together, and the first rehearsal went about as well as you could expect under the circumstances. But despite the few glitches and hiccups, everyone had fun and the prospects for next week look even better.

So now I’m a choir director, learning as I go, with—I hasten to add—some invaluable help from my daytime choir director, the ex-choir director and even the franchise owners (who have kindly loaned me the equipment I need).


I feel like I’m heading into a new era in my life. It’s rather scary, but as long as there’s music and singing, it should be all right.

This is more an orchestra than a choir joke, but it
sums it up nicely.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

My Final Say on Brexit

Well, we finally did it. David Cameron loaded the gun, and Theresa May has pulled the trigger. Article 50 was delivered to the European Union yesterday (well, a couple of days ago; I did write this the day after, but I was a slacker and didn’t post it until the first of April) and now we are beginning the job of extricating ourselves from the EU. A process that promises to be the most exhaustive and expensive divorce in history.

For people like me, there is nothing left to do but get on with it. Like it or not Brexit is going forward and all we can do is deal with the consequences. However, there is one thing about this whole Brexit deal I would like to get off my chest once and for all. And, hopefully, once I do, I can stop shouting at the telly every time it comes up (it really startles my wife).

To recap: Two posh boys got into a pissing match and one told the other that he didn’t have the cajones to call a referendum. So he called a referendum. And when he lost, he took his ball and ran away.

His unelected successor is determined to see this through, despite the fact that it was merely an Advisory Referendum and the outcome did not have to be implemented. It merely needed to be discussed and voted on in Parliament. She is within her rights to do this, but she wanted to do it all – issue Article 50, negotiate and implement any deals – without any involvement of parliament, and the courts had to step in to remind her she is not a dictator.

She clings to her decision because it is THE WILL OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE, and when Parliament was allowed to debate and vote on it, she warned them not the thwart THE WILL OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE. She has a moral duty to make Brexit happen because it is THE WILL OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE.

I call bullshit.

Yes, the referendum was passed by a slim margin, and yes, that legally entitles the government to enact Brixit, but please stop telling me you’re doing it because everyone wants you to. Because that is patently not true.

Official Chart -- not one I made up
The British people were asked if they wanted to leave the EU, and the British people pretty much said, “Um, we’re not sure.” The 52% of the people who voted Leave weren’t even sure. Some admittedly voted the way they did, not because they wanted to leave the EU, but because they didn’t want to vote for anything David Cameron supported, while others claimed they voted Leave but didn’t know that it meant to leave the EU. I’m not sure how that is even possible, but let’s for the sake of argument, say that all the people who voted Leave were adamantly in favor of it. You still do not have THE VOICE OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE.

You wouldn’t even have THE VOICE OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE if 52% of the entire population voted that way, which, in fact, they did not.

The Leave voters represent only 52% of the electorate who voted. And the electorate represents only a percentage of the population. In total, the people who voted Leave amount to only 27% of the British people.

Therefore: Dear Ms May, you do not have a mandate—THE VOICE OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE is not screaming for you to save us from the EU—so stop saying you do. You’re doing this because…well, I don’t have a faintest idea why you are, but you are, and you have every right to do so, and you are apparently determined to do it, so just get on with it and stop pissing down my back and telling me it’s raining.

And while you’re at it, lay off the Remainers. They have every right to be ticked off, and every right to shout about it. Tell me, if Remain had won by so slim a margin, would the Leave crowd have quietly gone back to their lives and put all this behind them? Would they hell. They’d be screaming blue murder and demanding another referendum.

So just get on with it. If you’ve got the cajones to take us out of the EU, then you’ve got the cajones to stop pretending you’re doing it because everyone wants you to. Admit that you’re doing it because you bloody well want to and don’t care a wit that you are dragging the other 67% of the British people who either voted Remain or didn’t get to vote at all with you.

There. Now maybe I can watch the 6 o’clock news in peace, and not have to scream at the telly every five minutes.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Cyprus and the Lure of War

War is a strong tourist draw. That’s no surprise to me, I’ve toured many a battle field, from Culloden, to Saratoga, to Gettysburg, the Somme and the D-Day beaches. The one I visited today, however, is the most historically recent, and therefore sparks more genuine indignation.

The realities of who did what to whom on a swampy field in Scotland have been softened somewhat by the intervening 271 years, but when your land is still occupied and your house and possessions now belong to some family from the conquering country who moved into it after you were forcibly ejected, well, that can still feel a little raw, even after 43 years.

Our Greek-Cypriot guide started the day with a history lesson to bring us up to date, explaining how Cyprus was, from 1400 BC to 708 BC, under the control of the Greeks, then, from 708 to 333, they were under the control of Assyria, Egypt and Persia before being overrun by Alexander the Great. They were then conquered by the Romans, the Byzantines, the Ottomans, the British, a Girl Guide troop from Milton Keynes and, for a short time, Harry Styles from One Direction.

I was dozing on and off during the lecture, so I’m not clear on a few of those.

What is clear—our Greek-Cypriot guide assured us—is that on 20 July 1974, the Turkish army mounted an unprovoked and totally unjustifiable attack on the northern side of the island.

The war was brief, but ugly, and resulted in a cease-fire that allowed the Turks to occupy the northern half of the island, while the Greeks held on to the southern half. A demarcation zone was set up along the Green Line (so named simply because it happened to have been drawn in green pen on the map) and is patrolled, in theory, by the UN, though I didn’t see any UN troops when I was there.


See, it's green.
The DMZ remained tightly guarded, and all but closed, for many years. There was only one checkpoint and the only way to get onto the Turkish side of the island was to go to Turkey and take a flight or boat from there, as Turkey was (and remains, I believe) the only country in the world that recognizes North Cyprus.

Recently, however, realizing the advantages of tourist dollars, more checkpoints were added and the restrictions on travel have been relaxed. So now, for the first time in a generation, Greek-Cypriots can travel to the north to see who is living in their family home. I hasten to add that Turkish-Cypriots can also travel to the south to see the same thing; war is never as black-and-white as our Greek guide wanted us to believe.

At the checkpoint, we acquired a Turkish-Cypriot Guide, who was to remain with us throughout our tour of the North, a requirement I associate with totalitarian regimes. But if the North is under totalitarian control, it is totalitarianism-lite, because our guide simply greeted us with a cheery “Hell-o” then settled down in the front seat of the bus and did sod all for the rest of the trip. Never in my life have I seen anyone with such a cushy job, and I was a New York State Civil Servant for twenty-five years.

One of the most interesting features in the occupied zone was the Ghost City. This is a large area of high rise buildings, the ownership of which has been under dispute since the partition. The whole area is surrounded by fencing and razor wire and no one is allowed in except the Turkish military and UN officials.


That's the Ghost Town side.

This is the opposite side of the road, where people actually live. It doesn't look much better.
So the towers stand empty, displaying the effects of war, and time.

But that’s not the strangest thing about it. The strangest thing is, the Turkish government seems to believe it can be made invisible.

We were told as we approached that taking photos was verboten, and that being caught doing so could result in arrest (and, one must assume, a visit to a Turkish hotel ala “Midnight Express”). We were allowed to walk up to the wire, but not allowed to take photographs. And on the beach, we could only take photographs if we were facing away from the enclosed area.


Uh oh, I better not take any photos!
To enforce this, a secret hut, staffed by Turkish soldiers, is located in one of the towers. These soldiers spend all day spying down on the thousands of people on the beach to be certain none of them faces inland while holding a camera. Good luck with that.

You are not allowed to point a camera this way.

You can, however, point the camera this way. The Ghost Town extends as far as you can see. 
Another special feature of the Turkish side is its hospitality and food service industry. During my brief visit, I had what was most certainly, hands down, the worst meal I have ever been served. And, as a bonus, it came with the most appalling table service I have ever experienced.

Long story short:

I ordered a Corona, my wife ordered orange juice. We were brought a Miller (“It’s the same beer,” the waiter told me) and lemonade (“It’s all we have,” he added).


This is what you get when you order a Corona in North Cyprus.

This is what you get when you order Orange Juice.
I ordered a burger with French fries. What I got was a stale bun with a post-it note sized piece of lettuce and an equally sized slice of tomato, a pickle and a 1/8-inch-thick burger patty that was literally (not “literally” like most people use it, meaning “figuratively,” but literally LITERALLY) raw.

I took one bite, realized how awful it was, and put it aside, focusing instead on my not-quite-done French fries. All 5 of them (yes, literally).

To be fair, the pickle was ok.

All of this for a mere 15 euro. I won’t be frequenting that establishment, I can tell you that.


They have their share of ancient ruins in the north, but they have bullet holes in them.
From there, we regrouped on the bus, exchanged horror stories (some other people from our group had chosen the same restaurant and had similar experiences), collected our Turkish guide (God knows where she went off to every time we stopped, but she never came with us) and headed south, to the land of the free.

Nothing special, just a lovely view.