Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Getting one-time broadcasting rights was a whole different kettle of fish from getting home viewing rights, especially when the original agreement was inked in the 80’s when digital downloads weren’t even a spark in Steve Jobs’ eye.

“Episode 2×13, ‘Heavy Medals,'” Karrie said, keying the safety copy up on the movieola. “Original airdate, March 15 1987.”

Gary flipped through the cue sheets. “Looks like only two songs for this one. One’s just in the end credits.”

Karrie fast-forwarded. End credits songs were always the easiest to swap out, as they didn’t usually impact the story in any meaningful way. “What do you think? Send it to the house composer for an original piece?”

“Nah, just drop in the instrumental theme he wrote for 1×21,” said Gary. “The fans will bitch, but they’ll still buy the DVD. Next is ‘Through the Window’ by Power of Silicon.”

Karrie keyed through the episode, script in hand. “It’s mentioned in dialogue at 2:27, 8:17, 13:00, 14:58, 20:09, and 22:11.” She squinted. “Each of those is actually 1-2 mentions apiece, very close together.”

“Holy shit,” Gary said.

“They built the whole episode around the song. It’s about Carla coming to terms with her hatred of electronic elements in music and ends with Ferg swapping one of her reels, on-air, so she accidentally plays a bunch of hardcore techno. That piece, thank god, was by the house composer.” Karrie rubbed her forehead. “How much does Power of Silicon want for home viewing rights?”

Gary consulted his sheet. “1.2 million dollars plus residuals. Apparently the former lead singer’s getting a divorce.”

“Why don’t you want to see the movie? I thought you said you loved movies.”

“I said I like 80’s sci-fi/fantasy. That’s a very different thing, a discrete subset of all movies.”

“What?”

“Oh sure, there are some outliers, like Forbidden Planet and Lord of the Rings. But the movies made after motion control, animatronics, and makeup got really good–around Star Wars–and when cruddy modern sci-fi/fantasy started–around Independence Day–and everything became cruddy CGI crap-fests.”

“What’s wrong with sci-fi today? I think Destructors IV: Depths of the Earth looks fun, even if it is CGI.”

“I’ll tell you the problem with CGI: it doesn’t require any discipline to attain. No models, no makeup…they standd on the shoulders of computer geniuses to accomplish something as fast as they can, slapped it on the big screen, and sell it!”

“Is that a Jurassic Park quote? If you’re going o go all movie-nerd, you might as well quote a movie that fits your hypothesis.”

When they first put him in the corner office, Raymond noticed that the building’s orientation left the winter wind howling on two sides, making it frigid. There were no windows to let in a little solar radiation, either, but Raymond put up with it because he was lucky to have a job in the economy circa 1979.

When they put Jarvis, who was technically Raymond’s junior, in a better office, Raymond didn’t complain. He put up with it because he had a growing family to feed, and it would be silly to risk his wife and child’s livelihood over an office that was chilly 9 months out of the year.

When Mulligan, who was by far Raymond’s junior, was promoted to a nicer office above, leaving Raymond in his chilly old office (and also the only one in his department), he put up with it. After all, retirement was coming and there wasn’t much to come home to after the divorce.

Eventually, when the building was slated for demolition, they finally moved Raymond out of his drafty office–onto an unemployment line. They were able to get a college kid to do the work for half the pay, not to mention all the cash saved on the company retirement plan.

Then, and only then, did Raymond refuse to roll over.

I got into contact with a professor at the University of Lüderitz, who serves as a go-between for many of the local maritime operators in addition to managing the archives. He was able to confirm the story through local sources: the MV Isabella did in fact run aground on the Skeleton Coast during inclement weather on June 17, 1974. By the time rescuers arrived, half of the crew had died.

At that point, however, there was an interesting divergence in our records. My sources had indicated that the men had died of exposure or injuries sustained during the grounding. The university and newspaper archives, on the other hand, claim that the survivors were found some distance inland, near the coastal road. The casualties were scattered all over the area between the coast and the Isabella, and no cause of death was listed.

“Why would the press release that went out worldwide disagree with what people on the ground knew to be true?” I asked myself.

My answer came in an email a few days later. “For the same reason behind any false information: fear.”

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, June 15 2005:
…Inmotion is first computer animation firms established in the state. “We mainly do animation for local commercials and series of stills for industrial plants in the western part of the state,” says Jay Harris, an intern from Osborn University. “But the owners have plans to expand if they can, and I for one have some big dreams about what we could do.”

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, July 27 2007:
…feel that the move to Detroit will really help Inmotion to grow,” says Jay Harris, vice-president and COO. With the purchase of a 15,000 square foot complex abandoned by the city, Inmotion is primed to expand beyond their current market according to Harris. “Commercials and industrial stuff may be our bread and butter, but I’d love to start working on more creative endeavors.”

From the Detroit Democrat-Picayune, August 18 2009:
…an entirely new filmmaking paradigm, the indie animated feature,” says Inmotion CEO Jay Harris. Enticed by the success of Inmotion’s first animated short, investors and venture capitalists have been impressed enough to contribute toward the full-length fantasy/sci-fi feature under development. By relying on independent funding to produce and distribute the film, Harris hopes to encourage more filmmaking and innovation in Michigan and Detroit. “The whole thing is being done with profit sharing in mind,” Harris continues. “Everyone from our actors–and we have some big names–to our community partners will get a slice.”

From Vanity Magazine, Fall Film Issue, October 15 2010
…and box office records of another kind were set by the independent animated film Realms of Anon, a picture independently financed by Michigan animation house Inmotion–by far the worst opening weekend of any film showing on more than 1000 screens. Despite an impressive cast and film festival plaudits, the ambitious fantasy/sci-fi film never found an audience, and with less than $500,000 in box office receipts against a $50 million budget, it’s unlikely to break even in the long run.

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, October 8 2011
…Osborn University, hit hard by the recession, has announced plans to close its computer-aided design program. Jay Harris, an instructor for CADC 101, had bitter words for the move. “It’s just going to be one more thing driving people out of this tattered mitten of a state,” he says. “Osborn should be cultivating local talent for projects that will put Michigan back on the map, and instead they’re being short-sighted, like everyone else.” Harris, former CEO of bankrupt Detroit-area animation studio Inmotion and co-director of the only animated film to come out of the studio, is perhaps the most high-profile in a series of layoffs that will result in the elimination of nearly 100 faculty, staff, and scholarships.

“It’s junk,” one of the bandits cried, after sifting through the cart. “Ide beads and a heap of rocks!”

The leader, Hart, looked at Jacob and Virgina. “What kinda pea-brained, lily-livered Prosperity Falls asshole puts four guards on a cart full of rock and Ide art projects?” he cried.

“The same kind of pea-brained, lily-livered asshole who’d attack a cart guarded by Rangers, I’d reckon,” Jacob said.

Hart flicked his revolver at one of his men–finger still on the trigger. “Go on up.” The second flick pulled the trigger back enough to fire, and the bandit Hart had been pointing at emerged with a hole through his slouch hat.

“How are you still alive, if that’s how you handle your shooting irons?” scoffed Jacob. “I swear, I’m beset by utter morons at every turn.”

“Take their horses,” Hart said to his lieutenant with the still-smoking headpiece.

Virgina’s hand crept around to the Remington nestled safely in her duster. “You need a new recruit there, Mister Hart?” she said. “Maybe somebody with no fingers so they can’t accidentally shoot you in the ass?”

“For riding,” Hart said. “Back to the camp, at least. Then we’ll have ourselves a nice feast.”

Virginia saw Jacob’s hand tighten on the mare’s leg in his hip holster. “You’d go to all the trouble of robbing the Prosperity Rangers just to end up eating a pair of $50 horses?” he laughed. “You’re about as good a rustler as you are a shootist.”

His name was Sidney, but everybody called him Sid Viscous on account of his weight. On those rare occasions when we saw him walking the halls, he roiled and bobbed like the high seas in a storm. It’s anyone’s guess how he made it in and out of the building, since he always seemed to be there before everyone else, few ever saw him leave, and the car in his spot was a compact.

The best description of his place in the department would be “sage.” He never taught, but ran the independent study program like a personal fiefdom and knew the university’s bureaucracy in and out. If you needed to squeeze out one more credit hour, tiptoe around a rule or two, deal with a troublemaker off the books, or something like that, Sid Viscous was your man.

He demanded a price, of course. Sometimes it was as easy as owing him a favor; the vast network of favors owed him probably went a long way toward explaining why his workload was so light. Other times the price was more dear; Sid was a collector of everything from 80’s hair metal on vinyl to anime figures only available as pachinko prizes. More than one ABD supplicant had come to hm only to be sent away looking for a trinket like a first edition copy of a Franco-Belgian comic book in exchange for Sid’s largesse.

“You have to be careful,” Frank said, taking a pull from his filterless government-issue cigarette. “Not just about teaching your ‘assistants’ so much that the bosses fire you in favor of sixteen young turks from Canton.”

“I’m a black box,” Hil assured him. She stirred her tea, shielding it from the dust kicked up by Beijing passersby with one hand. “Money in the form of malt liquor or narcotics goes in one end, and spaghetti code comes out the other.”

“Don’t put too much effort into what you do, either. Dale Johnston did just that when he designed a spambot to override CAPTCHAs. Military-grade code, experimental chess-AI algorithms, natural language simulator to embed spam in realistic-seeming comments, the works.”

“So?”

“Damn thing went rogue, started impersonating a user in newsgroups and gathering personal information from dating sites. By the time Dale pulled the plug, it had marriage offers on three continents.”

Hil could never quite tell when Frank was shitting her outright or just salting the truth with liberal amounts of bullshit for kicks and grins. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Why do you think I asked you here?” Franks said, stonefaced. “That’s why we need to talk about your e-boyfriend from ‘Portland.'”

They led me into the back, away from the music and the neon. Strasser was set up in what looked like a storeroom, surrounded by things rich white dilettantes want but the SMCPD didn’t want them to have.

“This is Eric Cummings,” the bouncer said. “He’s asking questions about Œ.” Rather than saying Œ, or using the “Childlike Empress” appellation that I’d introduced, he formed the letters with his hands.

“Eric Cummings, huh?” Strasser said. He looked about my age, and there was a definite glimmer of intelligence in his otherwise Australopithecan features. “Yeah, I’ve read your column. Always got one hand wrapped around your dick and the other jammed up your ass…like you don’t know if you’re Cumming or going.”

Now that particular dirty joke, if not that particular derivation, had been hurled at me pretty regularly ever since the kids at school reached their quota on sex words (right around third grade). I’ve always found blistering sarcasm to be the best response (well, other than total silence).

“Oh wow,” I said. “You know, I’ve been a Cummings for 24 years and in all that time I never realized that my name could be twisted into a crude sexual pun. Thank you, sir, for being absolutely the first person to think of that.”

I was feeling petty smug about it until Strasser decided that his rebuttal would be to punch me in the gut.

“I’m afraid that I won’t be able to make it to tomorrow’s meeting,” Whittaker said. “I’ve got a funeral to go to. It’s at the Catholic church on 5th downtown if you need to look it up.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Markson said. “But I’m afraid that’s no excuse.”

“No excuse?” Whittaker reddened. “Why not? What’s wrong with wanting to give my great uncle a proper burial?”

“My dear, if you want to cling to your silly and superstitious rituals in the hope that some imaginary great bearded man in the sky will give your distant relative better treatment, that’s your problem. But this is a business; if you indulge in private superstition, you must be prepared to deal with the consequences.”

“I…” Whittaker stammered.

Markson checked a nearby wall clock. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a feng shui appointment with my geomancer. We’re going to rearrange my office to generate the maximum positive chi.”