Scott Sherman Online

So Funny, They're Tragic

The recent, tragic passing of Tom Davis reminds us of the current drought of comedy duos. Teams like Abbott and Costello, Dean and Lewis and Allen and Burns once dominated American entertainment. 

 Happily, nature abhors a vacuum. The latest writings of Bob Mazzuca and Wayne Perry, respectively the Chief Scout Executive and the national president of the the Boy Scouts of America, hint that we may have found our decades's comic geniuses. 

It is tempting offer a line by line analysis of their recent risible communication with the New York Times. Instead, I'll break down just the first few lines, allowing you the pleasure of discovering the other jokes for yourself. Like burried joy buzzers, they wait hidden to tickle and delight. 

Proving that comedy need not be lengthy, the essay is a mere six paragraphs. Oh, but what fun awaits! 

One needs a bit of background to get the joke. Two years ago, the United States Supreme Court issued a decision granting the Boy Scouts the Constitutional right to ban gays from leadership roles. That our land's highest court declared the Constitution justified discrimination is, in itself, a bit of a knee-slapper. 

Showing the resolve that has made this country great, the Boy Scouts didn't take "yes" for an answer. Which brings us to the farcical stylings of Mazzuca and Perry. 

"This week," their statement to the New York Times begins, "the Boy Scouts of America announced that after a two-year evaluation, it is maintaining its membership policy to allow the organization to most efficiently accomplish its mission of preparing young people for life." We must break that sentence into segments to appreciate its many gags.  

Those of you who grew up in in the eighties may immediately recall the running trope on Saturday Night Live, in which every week a somber newscaster would announce "Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead." What made it funny was the ludicrousness of continually updating a condition for which change was impossible. Likewise, we all know the Boy Scout's passion for discriminating is as implacable as death. 

In fact, the whole idea of releasing a press statement to say that nothing has changed as the result of an evaluation no one knew was occurring is bizarre enough to qualify as performance art.  

The second part of the sentence continues the buffoonery. We are told the organization's mission is to prepare "young people for life," a mission generally ceded to the act of birth or, perhaps, education. As only boys are allowed to join the Boy Scouts during youth (adult women are permitted, I believe, to serve as den mothers) we have an assertion clearly meant to be satirical. The other possibility, that girls are not "people," would be monstrous and thus must be untrue.

How will the Boys Scouts "prepare them for life," anyway? As a father myself, I believe it is my job to expose my children to a wide range of experiences and cultures. Along the way, I hope they learn all forms of prejudice are wrong. Keeping them isolated from and hateful toward others who are not - or, for that matter, who one day may be - like them is a laughably bad approach. While I don't doubt that the Boy Scouts emphasis on such life skills as the correct tying of knots and the proper way to pitch a tent (cheap joke!) is probably useful, I'm not sure it's quite essential in 2012. 

Sentence two: "As a private organization, the Boy Scouts of America may deny membership to anyone whose behavior creates a distraction to its mission." Again, the "mission." This is what comedians refer to as a "call-back" to a previous joke. Then, the boastful assertion that they may merrily kick to the curb anyone whose "behavior creates a distraction…". 

Hmmm….this is an organization that brought their dream of discrimination all the way to the Supreme Court. Still not satisfied, they convened a two-year evaluation to decide if they should agree with themselves. They then sent out press releases trumpeting this startling maintenance of the status quo. 

Seems to me they, their relentless quest to ban the participation of LGBT Americans, created quite the distraction from their mission-centric goals of creating of future bigots. Think of all those untied knots, the tents left unpitched, while various Boy Scout talking heads the appeared on TV shows to reiterate their high-minded stance against Those Not Like Them. 

New paragraph: "Let’s be clear," it begins. I must confess, I laughed so hard I peed myself a little on that one. Perhaps it's generational, but the phrase immediately brought to mind President Richard Nixon, whose "let me make this perfectly clear," became a catch-phrase, often offered to Watergate investigators before Nixon would launch into a particularly egregious lie. It's become a cliché: when someone prefaces a statement with some variant of "let's be clear," you know you are about to be told a whopper.

"Let's be clear. The Boy Scouts of America does not proactively inquire about anyone’s sexual orientation. Nor does it have an agenda when it comes to gay or lesbian issues.  Businesses, government, religious leaders and families will continue to grapple with those complex issues. Scouting will not."

Whopper delivered, with extra cheese to boot. At this point, how can they not be joking? For people with "no agenda," they seem awfully determined to exclude LGBT Americans. They sued for the pleasure of doing so and, even after winning, continued to argue, reinforce and publicly restate their resolve. All of which makes high comedy of their claim that "when it comes to gay or lesbian issues…Scouting will not (grapple with these issues)."  Of course they won't grapple - they made their minds up decades ago. Even their contention that "businesses, government, religious leaders and families must continually struggle over," whether or not to include LGBT people is absurd. Not only has that "struggle" been settled by most, but the suggestion of a "struggle" suggests a combative view of society in which some must lose and other must win mere inclusion to occur. This sounds like a hateful and deeply unhappy worldview; one which I hope doesn't inform how they "prepare young people for life." 

I'm also struck by their pledge not to "proactively inquire" about orientation. Take out the "proactive," and you have free reign to interrogate and punish based on the flimsiest of accusations. Is there a merit bad for witch-hunting? 

I've only reached the second paragraph, but I'm exhausted. What began as amusing is beginning to sicken. I'll leave any further analysis of the Boy Scout's statement to you, except for this one from a few lines on: "Our role is to equip young people with life skills so one day, they can make their own decision about these issues." 

Ignore, for a moment, trying to figure out if their "mission" and their "role" are, in fact, congruent and/or redundant. This is a six paragraph statement written for the most influential publication in the world. It is unfair to expect that Mazzuca and Perry might have given it some thought.

Less unfair is the suggestion that banning discussions of certain topics, and barring the willing and unpaid participation of people Different From You, helps "young people…make their own decisions…" In fact, some might say only a moron would think keeping children ignorant empowers them. 

While I originally read Mazzuca and Perry's statement as a series of in-jokes, I now see it in a differently. Given their complete failure to accomplish any of their self described missions - whether to prepare "young people for life" or to avoid "grappling" with these "complex issues," I now realize this isn't a joke - its either a confession or a letter of resignation. To which I say - "Go with God, my friends." 

OriginalStatement from Boy Scouts: 
http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2012/07/19/why-do-the-boy-scouts-exclude-gays/sexuality-is-not-a-part-of-scouts 

 

 

Amazon, I Can't Quit You

I am flattered beyond words that Amazon chose my book Second You Sin as one of thier top 100 books  $3.99 and under for July, 2012. I THINK it's an editorial choice; not one made by computers. So THANK YOU Amazon for helping bring my book to a wider audience. As a great woman once said, maybe, you really like me.

I just wrote a friend about this, and realized I never mentioned it here. It's important, because even though I don't know I'll ever seem a dime from the increased exposure and sales, I wrote these books not to make money, but to be read and enjoyed. Moreover, while they are fun and entertaining, they all carry a deeper theme - that LGBT people are like everyone else, balancing work, family and the need to be loved. In every one of my Kevin Connor books, it's homophobia that's the real bad guy -whether it's internalized or external. 

So, thanks again Amazon, and to anyone else who has helped spread the word about the Kevin Connner books, First You Fall, Second You Sin and, soon, Third You Die.They won't change the world, but maybe they'll help a little. (You can click on the picture to see it on Amazon - at least through July!)

 

Left Behind, But Not Far Enough

The are bad movies, there are really bad movies, and then, in a category not entirely by itself but rare and with strict entrance requirements, there are movies like Left Behind II: Tribulation Force.

First, a confession: I am not part of the target audience for the movie. The target audience, I believe, would be Christian Fundamentalists or mental deficients. I am not in the first of those categories; the second is a matter of opinion. However, please know I mean no disrespect in the following discussion. I am reviewing a movie, not a religion.

Quick Background: Starting in 1998, Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, began what would end up as a series of sixteen best-selling novels dealing with a Christian interpretation of the End Of Days. Or at least, their interpretation. I'm sure it's a matter of spirited debate among people of faith.

For several reasons, I read the first book years ago. I'm a fan of dystopian science fiction, so even if I didn't follow the religious dogma, I figured I might enjoy the intriguing premise. Also, I like to learn about different ideologies. I was interested in finding out what Christian fundamentalists thought the Bible forecast about the end of the world. Always better to be prepared, no? Lastly, the book was a phenomenal best-seller, In the least, I expected a good read.

I bet you won't be surprised when I say the book failed to meet every one of my expectations. When a book on its first page describes a woman as "attractive and vivacious enough, even at forty," (emphasis added) you know you're in rough waters. Misogyny is never attractive, not, one would think, is it an example of Christian kindness. A few pages later, we learn of a recent invention that "changed the course of history." Since nothing short of time machine could do that, which this invention, sadly, wasn't, you also understand this isn't a book that will labor to make sense. As the story it is about to tell is, literally, incredible, it would be helpful to get the easy parts right. Two paragraphs later, the authors (yes, it took two to write this masterpiece) explain that, because of the signifigance  of this invention, "the walled city of Jerusalem was only a symbol now, welcoming everyone who embraced peace." I'm pretty sure they meant the wall was a symbol, not the city. I wonder who edited this. 

I'll stop the book report there. I could go on, cuz, really, who cares? According to its Wikipedia entry, the book was decried as "an attack on Judaism and liberal secularism." Some Christian's disagreed with the book's Biblical interpretations. Interestingly, the book was even accused of plagiarism, with it's events strongly following those of the previously published 666. I can't speak to that, but I can attest to my realization that the movie Left Behind II struck me as an scene-by-scene recreation of the original V television mini-series, right down to the plucky journalist hero and the rag-tag group who band together against the oppressors. 

And, boy, do they band together. At one of the movie's high points, a character solemnly declares "We must work together to form a…Tribulation Force!" I'm paraphrasing here, but  that was the general idea, and it definitely ended with the vow to form the titular Tribulation Force. I love when a movie references itself like that, as it takes you out of the film entirely and reminds you of the generally more enjoyable marketing campaign. Plus, it echoes countless comic books from the fifties, when characters, without irony, could declare "We will be a true Justice League!" or "We shall call ourselves the Avengers!" 

With some sorrow, I must admit I never had the opportunity to enjoy the first cinematic entry in the Left Behind series. Thus, it was helpful that the film began with an earnest and seemingly tranquilized Kirk Cameron, in his role as the anchorperson of GNN (clever!), explaining, in a mystifying monotone, that only a week ago "hundreds of millions" of people, including every child on Earth disappeared without a trace. 

You'd think this would event would cause some disruption, or perhaps emotion, in the lives of the remaining survivors. Fortunately, it would appear that this significant subtraction of human life interrupts nothing. Electricity still runs, television stations broadcast, planes fly on schedule and cellular and land lines function perfectly. While I know the plot tells us that people disappeared into heaven because they had accepted Jesus into their lives, at times I wondered if it was their lack of meaningful employment that doomed them. If I miss a day of work, the whole office suffers. The absence of these "hundreds of millions" doesn't even shut down a restaurant. 

Think about what an interesting movie you could make about such an cataclysmic event! This is not that movie.

I won't belabor the plot. Not a lot happens. There are some special effects, but a lot fewer than you'd expect in a movie depicting such remarkable developments. The theology is confusing, to say the least. After establishing that one of the reasons most people were "left behind" was a failure to adhere to the Ten Commandments, with lying given as an example, the "heroes" of the movie lie throughout. (Meanwhile, is a prohibition against lying even in the Ten Commandments?) 

Some of these deceptions are  employed to get close to the villain of the film, the presumed Anti-Christ who is played with the kind of exaggeratedly "evil" accent that even Bela Lugosi would have laughed at. I don't know if it's Biblically acceptable to lie for a good cause, so I'll give them a pass on that (although, on several occasions, truthful if evasive answers would have worked just as well). However, other lies are told to advance the plot, most notably the chaste and unconvincing romance between Kirk Cameron and a young woman who gives one of the few performances in the film that has at least a spark of energy to it. Why would those lies be OK? It was clear we were supposed to find these machinations charming, but I was perplexed. 

Ah, Kirk Cameron. What happened to him? I know he became very devout, and recently made anti-gay comments that put him back in the spotlight. Still, he remains a very pretty young man and at one time was an entertaining performer on a situation comedy. In Tribulation Force, he appears determined not to put the slightest effort into his performance. To say he recites his lines stiffly would be an insult to erections.

From what little I know of his personal beliefs, I'd assume he is emotionally and theologically invested in this story. Why, then, this lifeless performance in which he talks about the deaths of millions with all the emotion of a man reading the ingredients of a can of soup? On one or two occasions, his character is called upon to be silly and fun, and at those moments he comes alive. His adorable smile was an oasis in this grim and ugly movie. That these moments made no sense, and were incomprehensible in light of the enormity of human pain and suffering going on, not to mention his own dedication to the Tribulation Force, is supposed to escape our notice.

 Have you figured out yet that I greatly enjoyed this film? As a comedy, it succeeds splendidly. I read somewhere that the film's budget was several million dollars. I can assure you not a dollar of it is visible on screen. Every set looks cheaper than the last, and the only significant special effect, in which two rabbis (I think) open wide their jaws and emit dragon-like flames, was hilarious. The across-the-board bad acting, mostly delivered in a stupefying monotone, so sharply contrasted with the film's events that you have to think the actors were reading off of cue-cards. Far away ones, at that. 

There are classically bad scenes, like one in which a character tells another to "come in," several seconds after she's already entered the room. No attention is paid to believability. While we are instructed that Kirk Cameron's character is the most trusted newscaster in history (sorry, Mr. Cronkite) there are scenes where he works solely as a cameraman. Either the budget at GNN is severely limited or the film's producers didn't want to waste money on another extra. 

The main action of the film is incomprehensible. It appears to revolve around the efforts of the Tribulation Force to stop the world's most respected religious leader from delivering a speech that is billed as "the most momentous occasion in human history!" Considering that hundreds of millions of those humans disappeared not a week earlier, that must be some speech. 

One of the members of the Tribulation Force is a pilot. He lies his way into a job as the captain of the bad guy's plane. This, despite the sensible suggestion of his daughter that "I think you're a really great guy, but I'm having a really hard time with this whole "hanging-out-with-the-devil" thing." Or maybe that's what she said to another member of the Tribulation Force. I forget, but it was funny at the time. 

Annnnyway, while flying the villain around, the lying pilot sneaks around and overhears the Anti-Christ say that someone "really likes" the changes made to "the speech." He then further investigates, and finds a conveniently unprotected laptop with a file titled "Ben Judah Speech - Revised." Luckily, if not through divine intervention, there's a stack of blank recordable CD Roms next to the laptop, to which he copies the ominous file, the whole time doing that movie thing of watching the progress bar and urging "hurry up, hurry up!"  Because, as everyone knows, that makes computers work faster.

 

He escapes with the disc in the nick of time, in a scene of such stunning suspense that I fought to stay awake. He takes the file to Kirk Cameron. He and Kirk discuss what transpired with great seriousness. I believe they open the speech and read it. I confess my mind at times wandered to more entertaining thoughts, like what did I want for lunch? However, I was brought back to attention when Kirk Cameron, in a raised voice (an exciting departure from his usual stupefying drone) exclaims - "That's it - they changed the speech!" His co-conspirator is awed by Kirk's brilliance in cracking this perplexing mystery. Why, this may change everything!

Now, dear reader, it was at this point that I hit "rewind" to make sure I hadn't lost my mind. No, there it was, the overheard scene in which the villain refers to the "changed speech." And yes, sure enough, the file was labeled "revised." That it was several hours later and after an intense discussion that the hero realized THE SPEECH HAD BEEN CHANGED made it clear to me I was watching a farce along the lines of a Pink Panther production. 

The only parts I didn't find funny were the parts I didn't understand. For a movie about theology, I wondered why the theology made no sense. For example, for reasons too tedious to detail, Kirk's journey requires him to interview the two fire-breathing rabbis who are capable of revealing the villain as a false messiah. The rabbis are standing by the Wailing Wall, which measures 1,600 feet across. The villain, in an attempt to prevent anyone from hearing the rabbi's devastating message, forbids entry to the wall. Anyone trying to reach it will be shot to death, no questions asked.

Still with me? OK. To enforce this death-threat the villain dispatches armed guards to block entry. Three. Maybe four. The scene was poorly shot, so I wasn't sure. This set in particular resembled an LA backyard. 

Kirk Cameron, his pilot friend, and Ben Judah, the world's foremost religious leader, whom they've convinced to come along for the ride, approach the wall. "No way," say the guards, pointing their guns. I was reminded of the scene in Blazing Saddles, where the bad guys wait on a mile-long line to pass through a toll-booth in the middle of nowhere, rather than simply ride around it. That scene was intended to be funny, though. 

Back to Tribulation Force - What now?! Our heroes MUST reach the fire-breathing rabbis, but how can they possibly get past these three, possibly four, guards? Luckily, as this is a Biblical tale, the authors aren't forced to devise an ingenious solution. A mysterious woman in white appears out of nowhere and sings "Amazing Grace." This has the effect of (temporarily) paralyzing the guards. Whew! The most trusted newsman in the world and the most trusted religious leader in the world are able to reach the fire-breathing rabbis to hear their world-changing revelations at to the identify of the True Messiah. I won't spoil it by revealing who it is, other than to say if you guess his initials are J.C., you are not wrong. 

Kirk has a magical video camera. It will allow him to broadcast the fire-breathing rabbi's vital message LIVE on GNN! In your face, Anti-Christ!

Unfortunately for all involved, not least of whom are the suddenly un-paralyzed guards who rush to Kirk's side, only to be burned to death by the rabbis for the devout audience's entertainment, the villain just happens to be watching GNN at the time. He screams for his people to "stop the presses" so to speak, and thus prevents the truth from being heard on what is apparently not just the nation's, but the world's most trusted news source. This, by the way, is not the first time the network goes blank and announces "technical difficulties" whenever someone is about to disparage the Anti-Chirst. The GNN audience must be very stupid not to notice these coincidences. 

This is where I get mixed up. The movie asks us to accept a God who can make hundreds of millions disappear in a heartbeat. Check. The same God sends an angelic woman to immobilize the guards with her hypnotic song. Got it. So, why can't he arrange for the villain to be watching reruns of Bewitched rather than GNN in time to stop the broadcast?

For that matter, the entire story depends on the belief that these events are foretold in the Bible and are occurring as ordained. So, why is the Tribulation Force standing in the way of God's will? There MUST be an Anti-Christ and there WILL be an Anti-Christ, so why are these bozos getting in his way? Are they hoping for a BETTER Anti-Christ? I goes the only reason is because a movie about people doing nothing while waiting for the unavoidable end of the world would be even more boring than this one. Not to mention it would negate the need for those sixteen bestselling novels. 

It's hard to construct a suspenseful plot when there is no self-determination. That the character's actions are not only pointless but, maybe, against God's will, is beside the point. I just wish I knew what the point was. I suppose it may be to make money. TB looks like it cost $200 to film and, according to IMDB, it made almost $4M. There is also a rumor that the whole series is going to be remade, with, I assume, better production values. Worse ones would be hard to obtain in these times when you phone shoots better video.  

From an evangelical point of view, maybe the point is to spread the word, but what word? That we're supposed to subvert God's will? That it's OK to lie and kill if you're doing it for good intentions and/or to get Kirk Cameron laid (after a church wedding, I'd assume)? 

Oh, I forgot to mention this. At some point, a member of the Tribulation Force bemoans that most people accept the villain's explanation that the disappearance of hundreds of millions of people, including every child in the world was the result of a radiation leak. I laughed out loud. I really don't think the writer's put much effort into this. 

I watched Tribulation Force on Netflix while on the treadmill. If you have the opportunity to see it while simultaneously doing something productive, or, perhaps, in the company of friends and with appropriate libations, you might enjoy it. Certainly, the discussion afterwards will be fun.  

BTW: There is a fascinating, brilliant and thought-provoking movie called The Rapture that looks at these same events. Try and find it. There's also IS a movie about the end of the world in which the characters do nothing. Well, nothing extraordinary. (It's not Melancholia; I haven't seen that.) I can't remember its name, but it's better than this one, too. 

 

The Shocking True Life Story of Why I Was Arrested and the Importance (or Lack of Importance) of Tattoos in the Process.

This is the story of how I spent the morning in jail and my observations thereof. Before today, I would have told you to read it as it may be entertaining, but now I think I'd also advise you that it might come in helpful. I couldn't say "it'll never happen to you." 

 It started innocently enough (I'm pretty sure every story that ends in an arrest starts like that). I was driving to work, to perform the productive service that helps millions of low-income families across this great nation of ours (I say this to establish sympathy for the protagonist, who is me). 

I became aware of the flashing lights of a police car behind me. This being Washington, DC, this is not an infrequent occurrence. As always, I pulled to the right so that the proud officers in blue could pursue whatever dastardly miscreant they were chasing.

The first bad sign was when the police car pulled behind me and seemed to amp up the strobe of its lights. Or maybe it just seemed that way because the car was closer. I don't recall sirens. 

I've never been stopped for a moving violation before, but I knew I was supposed to stay in the car, roll down the window, and produce my license. Which I did. 

"Do you realize," the admittedly attractive young police officer asked me, "you're driving with expired plates?"

"No, sir, I did not." I thought the "sir" was an appropriate appellation. One should always be respectful to police officers. Their jobs are not easy. 

"Can you explain why you are driving with expired plates?"

"Honestly? It's been a rough year and half," I offered. He seemed unmoved.  "But I'm sorry," I added quickly. "I'm sure I should have, uh, renewed them." I can admit when I wrong. 

"License, please," the office asked flatly.

I gave it to him with equal flatness. He took it to his car and remained there for five minutes. I knew that he was checking to make sure it was valid and that the car wasn't stolen.

He returned with a stoic expression. In fairness, his expression had been stoic the whole time. I didn't expect anything was amiss.

"Could you please step out of your car?" 

"Excuse me?"

"Could you please step out of your car, stand with your legs spread and your back to me, arms raised over your head and with your hands pressed against the windshield."

Normally, I think I could have followed those instructions. However, I was beginning to think this was no longer a routine traffic stop. Had I stolen my minivan and forgotten about it? Nervousness impaired my higher brain functions. 

I stepped out of the car. 

"Please turn with your back to me, spread your legs, raise your arms above your head and place your hands against the glass" he repeated.

Four steps. Let's see. Turn - got it. Spread your legs - not the first time I've heard it, although usually under friendlier circumstances. Raise your hands - like when you really know the answer in class and really want the teacher to call on you. I resisted shouting "ooh-ohh, pick me!" 

The last part proved the stopper. "Er, sir. I lowered the window to speak to you and didn't raise it again. I can't press against it." I did, however, hold my hands up and flat as if against an imaginary surface, like a bad mime.

"Use the windshield," he instructed politely, although I imagined he affixed "idiot" to the sentence in his mind.

So, there I stood, legs spread, torso arched in a "C" so I could place my hands against the front windshield, one atop the other. I wished I hadn't given up those Yoga classes. 

The officer patted me down with a thoroughness that surprised me. Here I was, a middle-aged guy in shirt and tie driving a minivan. I didn't imagine I presented a particularly threatening appearance. Still, the inspection lasted a full minute or two. It might have proven helpful as, at times, he was in a position where he could have  diagnosed testicular cancer.

"Put your arms behind your back, please."

This wasn't good. I've watched enough TV to know what that meant. 

"Really?" Maybe I'd heard wrong. It was noisy on the side of the road at rush hour.

"Please." I had to give him points for politeness. 

I put my hands behind my back. Sure enough, handcuffs. I thought telling him the handcuffs were OK, but we should really agree on a safeword. I didn't think he'd appreciate the humor.

The right cuff was tight and hurt.

"Do you know why you're being arrested?" he asked.

"I'm being arrested?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm being arrested?" 

"Yes, sir. Do you know why you're being arrested?"

Seeing as how I didn't even realize I was being arrested, it seemed unlikely I'd know why. I sensed a "who's on first" moment coming. 

"No."

"You're being arrested because your plates are expired."

"I'm being arrested for that?" 

"Yes, sir."

In all fairness, my driver's license was also expired. By two months. I hadn't realized. How would I have? I didn't receive a warning in the mail. If they can make devices that beep and flash when your table at a restaurant is ready, why can't they make a driver's license that fades to white or falls apart when it's done?  It's 2012, people. 

Let's take a moment. At any given moment in Washington, DC, some very serious crimes are being committed. The papers are constantly running stories about how overcrowded the prisons are. This is one of the reasons many advocate the decriminalization of marijuana - because we are filling our correctional institutions with people who've  committed victimless crimes. Failing to renew a license plate or driver's license is wrong, but it reflects bad planning, not the mentality of a serial killer. In fact, I understand serial killers tend to be over-organized. Surely, this was not an infraction that required arrest.  A warning would have been appreciated, a ticket seemed fair. But handcuffs? Arrest? 

"In DC," the officer added, "driving with an expired tags requires arrest." Maybe he was reading my mind. My guess was I wasn't the first person to be surprised to be arrested for this. MIght as well answer the question before I asked it.

It has been my experience that in situations like this, a Zen approach is helpful. I was being arrested. It was an experience that was happening to me. No point in putting up a fight or arguing. I respected the officer's authority. It would do neither of us any good to explain that the policy seemed stupid to me.  

The office escorted me to the back of his patrol car. Now, let me tell you some things about a patrol car which I hope you haven't had reason to know. 

The back seat has no cushion. It is fashioned out of what I assumed to be plastic, but it had the hardness and discomfort of steel. At the edge, it came to a sharp corner that felt like a razor beneath my knee. The front seats are pushed way back, so the back seat is cramped. I'm about six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds. Tall but not heavy. Yet I could barely fit. My knees were pressed against my chin. My back was pushed against the ballistic-grade seat, further driving the too-tight cuffs into my wrist, and the whole mess dug into my sacrum. I vowed never to complain about an airline seat again. 

It seemed in my interest to stay quiet. But I couldn't resist asking, through gritted teeth, how long the ride to the station was. 

"A few minutes," the officer answered, with the only hint of sympathy I'd hear from him. 

"It's kind of a tight fit back here," I said. "I can't imagine how you fit heavier…people in." I was going to say "perps," impressing him with my knowledge of the lingo. 

"We just kind of…slide them in," he answered. 

That was pretty much it for conversation.

After a few minutes that flew by like hours, we reached our destination. Holding me by the elbow, the officer instructed "we go through the blue doors."

With the skills of a true comedian, the building designer had placed two sets of blue doors thirty or forty feet apart at each end of the facing wall. "Uh, which blue doors?" It seemed like a reasonable question. 

The office guided me to the left with what I thought was more force than required. My right, handcuffed wrist resented this bitterly. 

Once inside, the officer uncuffed me. Whew. He produced a plastic bag for my possessions. Phone, wallet, keys, change. 

"Remove your tie and belt please." They joined their companions in the bag.

"Spread your legs, please." The officer repeated the thorough patdown he's performed by the car. i wasn't sure what he imagined I'd pocketed with my arms cuffed behind me in the patrol car, but I complied. Remember: Zen. 

He held the plastic back up to me. "Is that all?" 

I turned my pockets inside out. I found an errant penny and dutifully handed it to him. 

Incredibly, he conducted a third careful patdown. I can't stress enough the thoroughness of his inspection. Was it the penny that triggered his suspicion? I didn't know. Satisfied that I wasn't I hiding a dime or dustball, he instructed me to sit.

"Remove your shoes," he said. I did. "Your socks, too."

"My socks?" I was playing the repeating game again. Still, I was genuinely surprised. Was it possible I had planned on being pulled over, arrested for a minor infraction and with foresight tucked a shiv into my Goldtoes? 

I removed my socks, grateful they were clean and that I had taken a shower that morning. The officer's comfort was a concern of mine. 

"OK," he said. 

"OK?"

"You can put your shoes and socks back on."

I don't remember the officer looking at my feet or sox. Who can blame him? The exercise didn't seem to accomplish anything. I suspected it was Standard Practice. 

"Are you wearing any jewelry?" the officer asked me. 

"No."

He tugged my shirt collar down anyway. No necklace made a liar of me.

"Do you have any tattoos?" he asked. That seemed random. I couldn't imagine the significance of the question. It wasn't something I could remove and put in the bag. 

"Yes," I wanted to answer. "I have an arrow pointing to my ass with the words 'Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here' written above." But this didn't seem like the time to crack wise. 

"No," I answered, adding "I'm Jewish" in a nervous babble. I don't know if the officer knew Jews believe tattoos are blasphemous, or if he disregarded the reference as irrelevant as it was. 

Shoed again, it was time to go to the Holding Cell. That sounded ominous. Would I be forced to join the Aryan Nation to defend my honor? If so, my mention of my Jewishness  was a bad move. 

Luckily, I had the Holding Cell to myself. I wasn't confined with someone who had committed a more violent crime than Driving Under the Influence of an Expired License. Lucky, too, because the space was small. I know because I paced it. Four feet by six. About the size of a burial plot.

With perhaps the first example of humor, or as a polite fib, the office told me it would be a short stay. In truth, I wound up in there for over three hours. Without a phone or watch, time was difficult to measure. But I knew when I’d been pulled over, and what time I left, so that's pretty close to accurate. 

Every subsequent encounter with a law officer ended with the assurance that I was "almost out of here." "Almost" is a subjective measure, but I don't think anyone would have considered those statements truthful. I suppose they're useful though - had I been told "it'll be a long time before we're done with you," my mood and cooperation might have suffered. 

So, I had a lot of time to study the holding cell. The walls were painted sky blue and, judging by their appearance, not recently. Sky blue. Was that irony? The floors were the speckled tile familiar to public school students everywhere. They slanted slightly, to the middle, where a two-inch circular drain rested. It is my sad duty to report that the floor was extraordinarily sticky. I leave it to you to speculate why. I was grateful my shoes had been returned.

Various graffiti decorated my cell. I wondered how it got there. I had been frisked in as frisky a manner possible. Who could have snuck in a pen? Later, an officer explained to me that detainees scratched their messages into the walls using their fingernails. 

If so, it didn't seem worth the effort. One person wrote "Fu." I figured he sensibly spared himself the trouble of finishing a word we could probably all guess. Someone else wrote, unnecessarily, "in prison." This I knew.

What fascinated me most was this. In exaggeratedly huge letters, someone etched "Shame on UTube." In the most boring setting possible, I spent some time trying to intuit his or her intent. Had it read "Shame on U," I'd have figured it a condemnation of the police who put him or her there. But the "Tube" belied that interpretation. I'd suffered excessive buffering times, but that hardly seemed the place to register that complaint. Did he or she think YouTube was responsible for his or her incarceration? if so, how? It was as close to an entertaining diversion as I was going to get.

At one point, a younger, friendlier, officer arrived to take my fingerprints and mug shot. That experience was surreal. Again, I was there for an EXPIRED PLATE! Granted, I was in the wrong, but really? This was costing the city and me a lot of time and money. I couldn't see the point. In Singapore, you can be arrested for chewing gum. That is one of the many reason I choose not to live in Singapore. 

It was the fingerprinter who told me about the scratching of the walls. He took my fingerprints with a computerized scanner - it was kind of cool. My mug-shots were more ordinary, although he preceded it  with the promise that  "it's not like what you see on TV." 

In fact, it was exactly like you see on TV. Look at the camera. Now to the left. Now to the right. Done. Based on his declaration, I was expecting more. Mood lighting or fun costumes. Anything. I've heard it's the monotony of prison life that is most wearing - I was ready to confess to grand larceny after only three hours. Wimp. 

Midway through my stay, an officer opened my cell to ask for my phone number. I recited it. He also asked, bizarrely. for a second time, if I had any tattoos. Was this information of vital importance in the service of Justice? I stuck with my true story. Although, maybe I was supposed to "yes" to get out of there. Maybe there was a rule at the station - every other prisoner needed to have a tattoo. If I was asked a third time, I might go rogue. 

Since I had the opportunity, I mentioned that my stay seemed longer than I'd anticipated. "We just have to make sure you are who you say you are," he explained. 

I don't remember saying I was anyone, although my name and picture were on my (expired) driver's license and the government-issued ID I'd given them. Plus, if you Google "Scott Sherman," my picture appears three times in the first row of the images page. Bing is better, placing my picture right there on the first results page. Even Yahoo has my picture on the first line of results. If establishing my identify was the work of ninety minutes, something is amiss. I see a business opportunity for a clever consultant. 

The end of my stay, like most things in life, was both anticlimactic and tedious. The arresting officer arrived to take my fingerprints again - this time the old fashioned way, with black ink and paper. The redundancy was lost on me. He gave me something to sign - an agreement to appear at a hearing someday in July. Without my phone, I didn't have a calendar, so whether I'd even be in town on that day was a mystery to me. But, again, I'd have signed anything to get out of there. 

I did not get out of there. As he escorted me back to my cell, I asked "again?" 

"I just have to make some copies," he said. "I'll be back in a minute."

Twenty minutes later, he was back. He unlocked the door. Asking me to put my hands behind my back, he handcuffed me again as he led me out of the station. He didn't explain this to me, but earlier, I heard another officer tell his prisoner that handcuffs were required for all escorts. Like you have to ride a wheelchair out of a hospital even if you're ambulatory, I guess. 

With a no-nonsense attitude. he handed me the clear plastic bag containing my belongings. "I'm sure this wasn't fun for you either," I told him, "but I appreciate your efficiency and courtesy." He nodded so slightly that I couldn't swear he nodded at all. He did not say goodbye or wish me luck. He disappeared behind glass doors that locked behind him. I wondered if my politeness appeared foolish. 

Walking the mile and a half back to my car, which I couldn't drive but from which I wanted to retrieve a few things, I never did see a point to the arrest. My experience wasn't pleasant, nor was it abusive, It was…mystifying. I wondered about the role of authority in our lives. Who decided an arrest is mandatory in the instance of an expired license plate? I wasn't even sure it was. 

But, more importantly, I wasn't even sure I was arrested. Had I "just" been "detained"? I wasn't informed of my Miranda rights. Isn't that required in an arrest? The officer who pulled me over seemed very efficient; I doubt he'd overlook something so basic. 

I almost asked him about it, but I'll save it to for the judge. Still, something had happened. It wasn't pleasant. It seemed to me an overreaction, and just don't know what it was. I don't feel guilty - yes, I'd failed to renew my paperwork, but that seemed a minor infraction. I mostly felt confused by a process in which I had no agency and was frightened to ask questions about what was happening. I was aware that if, for any reason, someone took a dislike to me my stay could have been more disagreeable. The copies that took twenty minutes to make could have taken two hours. I had no power, other to observe and report. Which is what I'm doing here.

I'll ask around. Was my arrest really required? If so, should I have been informed of my Miranda rights? Were the handcuffs, the three hours of confinement, the fingerprinting, the mug shots, necessary? What was the point? In retrospect, it was Kafkaesque. 

I don't feel at the moment traumatized by the experience, but I wouldn't be surprised if I had trouble falling asleep or bad dreams. I respect police officers and appreciate their service. I don't assume what they did was unwarranted or mean spirited. But I also don't understand its necessity or usefulness to society. If you know something about this that I don't, clue me in. I write mysteries, but they're resolved by the end of the book. This one isn't. I'd like it to be. 

THE NEXT DAY

As predicted, I didn't sleep well and was plagued by bad dreams. I guess being arrested has an effect on a guy.

Troubled, I turned to Google. Turns out, I wasn't the only person arrested for this. A local news station reported: "District of Columbia police records show that in the past two years officers have arrested more than 3,400 drivers for expired tags or unregistered cars." http://www.wjla.com/articles/2011/11/d-c-expired-tags-arrests-total-3-400-over-past-two-years-68953.html

Fox News, bless their hearts, had this to say: "In a city that hosts its fair share of murders and terror plots, police are cracking down on another threat to the nation's capital -- expired vehicle registrations. To the frustration of forgetful drivers, Metropolitan Police Department officers are throwing people in jail for letting their tag renewals lapse. The practice provoked somewhat of a backlash last year after a local mother from Maryland was jailed for what in many places would be a routine traffic offense punishable by fine. But the department continues to reserve and exercise the right to throw drivers in the clink for missing the DMV deadline."

The resulting publicity led to an "emergency meeting” in which "the D.C. Council unanimously changed a law that had allowed police officers to arrest motorists for driving with expired tags." http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2011/oct/18/dc-council-ends-arrests-expired-car-tags/

A couple of things here. You may have noticed the paper said the law "allowed" police to arrest motorists for driving with expired tags. I was told it was required. More importantly, since it made no sense and was a waste of time and money, THE LAW WAS CHANGED TO PROHIBIT THESE ARRESTS! 

As far as the fact that my Miranda rights were never read to me, that's not as clear. Apparently, they are only required when an officer asks questions while the arrestee is "in custody" and if the answers are used in court. I think. Since I had handcuffs on at the time, I'd guess that qualifies as "in custody." I certainly didn't feel free to stop by a Starbucks.

As to whether or not my startling confession I’d made while handcuffed that I didn't know why I was being arrested will be brought up in court, well, I guess we'll see.

Yesterday, when this happened, I never questioned the actions of motivation of the officer who arrested me. He told me the extreme step was required. Today, knowing that not only was it never required but is forbidden, I feel differently about what happened.  My guess is you would, too. 

 

This is what "contentment" looks like.

Being a single parent with primary custody isn't easy. And when I say "isn't easy," I mean, "bone-crushingly hard." There isn't a moment I'm not either taking care of the kids, spending time with them, thinking of them, or missing them. Everyday, I "sacrifice" some aspect of my sanity, time or opportunity for them. 

Still, the rewards are...I can't even think of an adequate word. Endless? Incomparable? Immeasurable? Yes, all of those and more. 

Parenthood is life-defining. Of all the roles I fill on an almost daily basis, my day job,being a son myself, friend, writer, photographer, neighbor...whatever, being a father comes first, second and third.

Of course, all of that is in the abstract. Reality is having to make breakfast, lunch and dinner for three of us almost every day, while maintaining a house that's at least neat and clean enough to avoid being featured on a future episode of "Hoarders," dealing with saved-to-the-last-minute homework, endless visits to the pediatrician, so much laundry that I sometimes imagine my neighbors are sneaking theirs in, too, and two pre-adolescents who, while being, overall, "good" boys, nonetheless have the temerity to act like, well, two pre-adolescent boys. 

Have I mentioned yet how friggin' tired I am? 

Which brings us back to those abstract "rewards." The other day, I sent out a Tweet because I wanted to memorialize the overwhelming love I feel some nights as I put the kids to sleep. (Other nights I'm so exhausted myself, I wouldn't feel the impact of a Mack truck, not to mention sentimentality.) I wanted to put it into words, because while the annoyances and dependencies are daily, the rewards sometimes have to be sought out and remembered. They don't catch our attention the way the negative things do. 

The picture below illustrates the opposite. One morning this week, I thought my little one (David, now seven) looked so cute sleeping I had to grab my camera for a quick snapshot. Unfortunately, as seen below, the sound of of the shutter woke him, and he opened his eyes with a suspicious "who goes there?" glare. 

Seeing it was me, he pulled up the covers, scooted down into them, and grinned so broadly it transformed the countours of his face.

Here's what I imagine: The unfamilair sound awakened him with a start, eliciting a cautious glance to see what was happening. Then, seeing it was me, he knew it was safe to snuggle back in. His sleeply little self settled in with the smile of a boy who knows his father not only loves him, but is there for him, in this case, literally watching over him. His expression is one of pure contentment: a warm bed, time to dawdle, and a dad as dependable and present as his bedside lamp. 

Before he came to me through foster care, David's first year-and-a-half were no picnic. He was the most distrustful, frightened little thing you could imagine. I won't go into details, but he had every reason to think adults were those Big Things that hurt and/or abandoned you. 

I don't think he feels that way anymore. 

LIke I said, the rewards are fleeting. Few are captured in memory, let alone in pictures. But here's one I'll always cherish. I think you can see why. 

 (click to embiggen) 

 

Now I'm a PUBLISHER, too! The new world of the author.

Yes, a lot of my peers have done it already, so I'm hardly a trailblazer. But I just had my first experience writing a book specifically for Kindle, hiring a cover artist, an editor, and posting it for sale through the Kindle Direct Publishing platform.

You can acutally hire an expert who will do all this for you (not the writing part, but, thinking about it, I guess you can contract that out, too), but I decided to be a little more hands-on. The book is a novella, so I don't want to charge more than 99 cents, which means I'll probably wind up losing money on the whole exercise anyway. Might as well keep the costs as low as possible. 

Anywayyy...I hit the "publish" button at about 9am on Sunday, Feb 19, 2012. The process is supposed to take 12 hours - we'll see. In the meantime, there were some annoying glitches. I couldn't get the inside cover to display for the longest time, and the book won't show me as the author in the preview. I'm hoping that gets worked out in Amazon's pubishing process. 

In the meantime, I'm SO excited! If you're interested in self-pubbing, feel free to contact the people who helped me produce that at least looks professional (they're not to blame for the tale, mind you, just the trimmings. Don't blame them if you get too grossed out or scared by the story. That's on me.)

Cover artist: The incredibly talented and prolific Carl Graves.

Copy Editor: Literally, one of the nicest women I've ever had the pleasure with which to work. Plus, she catches everything! The lovely and talent Diana Cox.

UPDATE: Amazon underpromised and overdelivered, making the book available for a sale in about seven hours. you can find it here, and it can be yours for less than a buck! 

Children Will Leave You...But Not Quite Yet

I happened to take picutres of my sons as they left school today and headed for my car. It was only afterwards, loading them onto my computer, that I noticed what the shots said about them. Here's what I mean:

First of all, they're smiling. That's a good sign. When they burst into tears at the sight of me, I worry.

On the left is my 11-year-old, Sasha. Look at what a pre-teen he is. Backpack slung across his shoulders, longish-hair a declaration of independence (he gels it every morning), head thrown back in Jonas-Brother casualness, he's working on advancing his adolecence arrogance. He's still too much of a sweetheart to make for a convincing teenage terrorist, but he's trying cockiness on for size.

On the right is, David, my seven-year-old, literally clinging to his youth. He decorated that stuffed animal in school today, and he holds to his face like a lover he's presenting for my approval. Later, in the car, he'll keep it there, the reassuring softness a security against the trials of another long day. 

Everyday, I see them growing, changing, getting ready to move on. Someday, they'll leave me. But not yet. 

Looking for horror fans to beta test my new book

I’m finalizing my first original piece specifically written for sale on the Kindle - "The High Price of Pest Control." It's a horror novella (roughly 13,00 words, or one fifth full novel length), about a man who thinks he’s buying a new kind of roach-elimination device, and winds up making a whole different kind of deal. 

Today, we might call the protagonist part of the “one-percent.” Kendell Krill is a man who values everything according to its material worth. He doesn't mind bending a few rules, or breaking a few hearts, to get what he wants. But he’s about to find out that while everything might have its price, the cost isn’t always paid in cash. 

Sadly, “The High Price of Pest Control” won’t be propelling me into the one percent anytime soon. I’m planning to sell it for a whopping ninety-nine cents as a “gateway” into the Kevin Connor books, “First You Fall” and “Second You Sin.”  I’m a little concerned the tone is so different from that funny, sexy, romantic mystery series. There is some humor, but it's more Stephen King than Janet Evanovich. 

Still, I  believe it's worth trying. I think readers are smart. They understand an author may play with different styles and genres, but if you like his or her writing, the ride will always be fun. I’m thinking of inspriations like JA Konrath, Josh Lanyon and Jordan Castillo-Price whom I’ve followed through romances, mysteries, science fiction and various combinations within that have never failed to entertain me. 

In the meantime, I’m looking for interested early readers who would be willing to write an honest review of the story if so moved. I would either use a quote from the review in the product’s description, or ask you to post it as a review on Amazon.com when the book becomes available for purchase. 

The book is currently with the amazing and talented copy editor Diana Cox, who runs “Novel Proofreading.”  So, it is possible (probable) you’ll catch some errors in this early version. 

You will, however, enjoy the final finished cover, designed by the equally gifted Carl Graves of Extended Imagery. Take a look below - it gives you a pretty good idea of the story you'd be in for...

Please note I am only planning on giving out ten or so copies, so if you don’t receive one, it’s probably because you weren’t one of the first to request. Also, please only ask if you enjoy writing reviews - you wouldn't need to write more than a few sentences, but I am looking for your honest reactions.

Since I don’t want you to feel committed to reading something that might not be to your taste, here are the first couple of pages. Fair warning - the story gets a bit yucky at times (man vs roach is never a pretty battle), so if you’re extremely squeamish, you might want to pass. 

But I do hope you enjoy this brief preview and please let me know if you’re interested in the rest of the story through this link. 

 The High Price of Pest Control 

by Scott Sherman 

 DAY ONE AND A FEW RELEVANT FLASHBACKS

"So," the salesman asked me, his deep baritone and precisely clipped diction just two of the impressive, sophisticated traits I couldn’t help but notice as he crossed one absurdly long leg over the other at the ankle, "do we have a deal?"

Were I the kind of person vulnerable to feeling small in the presence of others, I might have felt intimidated by this perplexing figure. 

His voice. The high quality of his designer clothing. The impeccably mirror-bright shine of his shoes. Those were the kinds of details I always noticed on a man. 

Well, there were other details I noticed, too. For those details, the less clothing the object of my attention wore, the better. But this meeting was strictly business. What I needed to focus on in this exchange were signs that’d tell me if my visitor was someone with whom I’d want to do business. 

Yes, my mind wandered. Their suitability for business or sex. I suppose those were the scales on which I measured most men. The vast majority weren’t worth my time for either. The occasional candidate rated highly for both. Those were the men I was most careful to avoid. 

Of course, after what the salesman had just shown me, I believe that distracting myself with these introspective ramblings may have been a kind of defense mechanism. They certainly kept me from asking questions that, in retrospect, I really should have.   

Neither the vendor nor what he was selling were what I'd expected when he’d arrived an hour earlier for his appointment. I’d opened the door and been astounded to see the elegant figure before me. 

He was tall and thin, pale as a corpse, with sharp, hawklike features and a lightning-white cap of closely cropped hair. Startlingly blue eyes met mine with deliberate directness as he stood awaiting entrance. 

"Atrox Pravus," he announced, his voice sonorous and without accent. He looked like he could have come from anywhere. Or nowhere. 

He reached lanky, glossily manicured fingers into the jacket of his expertly fitted black wool suit. Armani, I'd guess. He extracted a smoothly polished silver case. With the casual ease of a magician performing a favorite trick, he slid it open with the same hand, revealing a stack of cream-colored business cards. With his thumb, he pushed one towards me. It’s textured linen finish and raised lettering indicated fine craftsmanship and expensive craftsmanship. 

 "Teremus Exterminators," he continued, as I read. "Guaranteed to remove unwanted pests from your life." 

I stood in the doorway a bit dumbly, stalled by Mr. Pravus's stylish and well-appointed appearance. This was not what I expected. He was not what I expected. Where was the biohazard suit, the mask, the metal canister of insecticide I expected he’d be toting, like a fireman bringing oxygen to the scene of a blaze? I stared at him in confusion. Was he planning to bribe the bugs to leave my apartment? 

Mr. Pravus cleared his throat and the corners of his mouth pulled higher. "Mr. Krill," he asked respectfully, his respectful tone free of impatience or irritation, as if he had not only impeccable manners but all the time in the world, "may I come in?"  

  --- End of First Section -- 

 

 

A Milestone for Me

This is half-brag/half reader-appreciation. Since the latter makes me sound more magnanimous, let's go with that, cool.

For the first time ever, I had BOTH of my books in the top 100 LGBT fiction listing on Amazon.com. I can't tell you how embarrassingly proud and thankful I was. It really was a dream come true. I'm certainly not the first writer to have achieved that, nor the most represented - there are authors with five and six books on the list. 

But it was for me, and you know what they say about the first time - it's hotly anticipated, never forgotten, and over too quickly. 

Thanks to eveyrone who bought, borrowed and enjoyed the book. Special thanks to those of you who took the time to write such unbelievavlly kind and generous reveiws on Amazon.com. I think they really help.

xoxox

 

Scott 

FInally, It's All Available!

I’ve spent the past year tirelessly working to complete Second You Sin and the next book in the series, due out within a year.  

In the meantime, First You Fall went out of print, due to business reasons related to the original publisher (which, to my knowledge, is not reprinting any of its back catalog, or accepting new manuscripts). Since I couldn’t stand the thought of Second You Sin being out there without First You Fall available, I’ve also been trying to get First You Fall back into print and available for e-readers. 

I can’t tell you how difficult and confusing this whole publishing this. Well, I could tell you, but you’d be bored and I’d sound whiny. Charmingly whiny, I'm sure, but still. 

You can get First You Fall on Amazon in here in print or here for Kindle.

Second You Sin, published by Kensington (thanks, guys!) is available on Amazon for print or Kindle, too.

Thanks for waiting and for your support. I hope you enjoy them!