I will never forget when the Jews for Jesus people handed me, and a few of my coworkers, a pamphlet that had all of these invented quotes. The best was Einstein talking about how overjoyed he was to have a deep relationship with Jesus. Einstein was, for the record, a Jew by birth and an atheist by disposition. Of course there was no proper citation through which to fact check–that would be too dangerous. Someone might look it up.
All four of my coworkers bought this until I wrote (name changed to protect the innocent, “I’ve always felt Jesus was a fraud, and a curse upon humanity. — Mike Smith” Mike Smith was the most devout Christian in the group. That was the only way to explain what I meant be a false quote, falsely attributed.
Today in the mail, I received a doozy. It’s a book called Pro Evo: Pro Evolution – Guidelines for an Age of Joy written by “the author”, who apparently lived from 1911 to 2001. The author apparently set up a foundation, called, creatively, the Foundation.
Here are the endorsement:
“…an incomparable guide.”
- Prof. Dr. L.K., world-famous scientist. (No one mentioned has full names. It’s harder to check that way.)
“What the author has perceived has the character of natural law.”
- Dr. W.S., university professor (No, it doesn’t say what university. A student or member of the faculty might happen upon the book.)
“The priciple to guise human though and action is convincing.”
-P. H. Chinese scientist (Isn’t it odd that China is the only country named?)
“The author should make the book available everywhere, -so many people would be helped.”
-A large country’s institution for press, books, films, television, and radio (I’m not even sure what this means)
“The book is great.”
-Dr J.H. university professor
“The book may be a catalyst for the process of human renewal.”
-Dr. H.D.W., physics (Wait, he’s not a physicist, he’s physics?)
“I will give the book to my friends, enemies, and politicians” (huh?)
-Dr. B.M.S., university professor (I like how they worked the initials of all three degrees, dr, bs, and ms, into the invented name.)
Do people even fall for this stuff? Is that much gullibility in an adult human being even possible? If so, I have some really great quotes to pitch my Set novel with.
“Brilliant! The best thing mankind ever came up with.”
- Horus, king of the Egyptian Pantheon.
“It’s why I invented writing.”
- Seshat, goddess who invented of writing.
“I will give copies to all of my friends. She has validated my efforts.”
- Thoth, god who taught heiroglyphs to mankind.
December 22nd, 2009
I’m in the process of reading a published technical book right now, and given the proliferation of errors, it’s no wonder people resent having to “read the fine manual”. One error amuses me above all, because it’s not being made consistently—the author gets it right about a third of the time—and that’s the spelling of “its”. Yep, a single, three letter word has been misspelled two times out of three in a published work.
What is so hard about this? You never say “hi’s” for the third person male possessive. You wouldn’t dream of writing “her’s” . If you would, please never tell me; I’d have to cry. So why add the apostrophe to show possessive for it? It follows a nice, simple pattern: his, hers, its.
“It’s” means “it is”. It’s a contraction, and again, it follows a nice little pattern: He’s, she’s, and it’s. Just pretend the thing has a gender, and see which pattern to follow.
And what in the name of all things written is its’ Is that apostrophe at the end a spare that the reader may place where she likes? An extra, dolled out for those who might like to resupply their apostrophe stash? That’s not needed. Those of us who use our apostrophes only where they belong retain an ample supply, even during a recession. It looks like the possessive of a plural it, following the pattern of boys’ and girls’, except that would be “their”.
There is an exception to this. Madeline L’Engel, in her masterwork, A Wrinkle in Time, named the villain It. Since this is being used as a proper noun, it’s fair to refer to It’s voice or It’s intentions. I suppose, if some idiotic parents were to name their child (likely their son) Her, then Her’s would be the possessive as well as the contraction. However, in that case, I advise assigning said miserable child a nickname post haste and using it exclusively.
For the record, technical writing is supposed to be formal writing. Therefore, can computer books please abstain from using the word “alright”? I acknowledge that it, like “ain’t” will someday find its way into the dictionary, and most word processors aren’t flagging it as an error any longer, but for the moment it’s not officially an English word. The term is “all right”. All right?
May 19th, 2009
I’ve been doing audiobook reviews for SFSite, and my latest, a review of Green Lantern: Hero’s Quest, is up at http://sfsite.com/05a/gr295.htm.
Here’s another story I wrote, didn’t think I’d place, and decided to post here .
Andre Sterling went to my school. Yes, the Andre Sterling of Sterling Software. The guy who bought every porn store and peep show in a twenty mile radius and turned them into arcades, pizza parlors, and movie theaters. The guy who started his own game company and took it global while he was still in junior high was in my class, only I didn’t know we were supposed to be impressed at the time. He wore jeans and sneakers like everyone else. He didn’t have a bodyguard. Frankly, I don’t think I’d have noticed if he’d ridden an elephant to school. I had my hands full just trying to survive.
I’d get to school early and try to snag breakfast. I ran from table to table, asking, “Are you gonna eat that?” and pointing to whatever looked unwanted on their plates. I usually got fruit or vegetables for breakfast and lunch. It was food; I wasn’t picky. After classes, I’d run over to the Y to do my homework, then go out on the street, collecting bottles and cans for money for dinner.
It was the middle of October, but still so warm that the trees hadn’t started changing color yet. I needed a mild winter. A pack of dogs tore my coat to shreds last year. At least the school was warm. I’d have dropped out, but that would have cost me my last reprieve from the cold.
I was in the back behind Sal’s pizzeria on 58th Street. In Bensonhurst, there’s a Sal’s pizzeria on almost every street.
Anyway, I was behind Sal’s, absolutely starving and looking though the garbage for cans. Sal makes a great pizza and you could smell the cheese and tomatoes and garlic from the back. I love garlic. Sal’s never smelled greasy like most pizzerias. So there I was, smelling that garlic and digging through the trash when who walks up but Andre Sterling. Who thinks a multi-billionaire eats pizza? But that was Andre.
“What are you doing, Joe?” he asked.
“I work here.” I pretended I’d been taking out the garbage, not rooting through it.
“I don’t remember hiring you.”
Figured he’d own the place. That’s just my luck. “You know every peon who works for you?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him. Between the corporation and all the small companies he owned, there must be tens of thousands of employees. He had to be pulling my leg. “I started yesterday.”
But he wouldn’t let it go. He knocked on the back door, and when Sal answered, Andre asked if I worked there.
“No,” Sal said. “Sorry. We sometimes get punks hanging out back here. I’ll call the cops.”
“No need,” Andre said. “Thank you.” He turned to me. “Joey, what’s going on?”
I hated when anyone called me Joey. It sounded so childish. “I’m…”
“You’re gathering cans.”
I slammed down the lid. “Can’t you just mind your own business? I’m not hurting anyone.”
“If your family is strapped for cash, I can help. Is your father working?”
“He’s…well, he’s…” I kicked a rock and watched it bounce down the alley.
Andre put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you a runaway?”
“No. I wasn’t the one who ran.”
“Your parents abandoned you?”
I stared at my feet. “It’s okay. I don’t need them. I can take care of myself.”
He sat on one of the cans. “What happened?”
“Why do you care?”
He splayed his hands. “I think I can help.”
”I don’t need your help.”
“Maybe not. But I need to help.”
I blinked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Someone showed me a grace once. I need to repay it.”
I sighed, took a deep breath, and finally spoke. “The bum and my mom took off last year. One day I came home and the apartment was empty. They never came back.”
“And child services couldn’t help you?”
“It’s not hard to fall through the cracks. I don’t want a foster family. I can take care of myself.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re staying with me.”
“Do you always take in strays?”
“No.” He smiled. “Just the ones I like. C’mon.” He turned and walked out of the yard. He didn’t bother looking back over his shoulder, like he knew I’d follow him. I followed.
“First,” he said, once we were in the limo, “we stop home so you can wash up. I think I still have something in your size. Then we’ll go to Macy’s to get you some new clothes. After that, we’ll have dinner.” I certainly didn’t mind the idea of dinner. I’d only managed to get two pears and a half a slice of bread that day.
“I still don’t get why you’re doing this.” I fastened my seat belt. “You don’t have to.”
The limo pulled into moderate traffic. “I know,” he said. “I want to and I can.”
“I’m not a charity case.” I stared at the street lamps, watching the beam of light from one grab us, swing us forward, and hand us to the next.
“You can test games for me.”
“But…”
“And I always need help at the shows.”
I turned to face him. “You don’t need me. You’re just doing this because you feel sorry for me.”
He looked down. “It’s not like that. My parents aren’t exactly angels either.”
We pulled into Macy’s and let me tell you something: Andre Sterling shops like a girl. He had me try on so many things: jeans, jackets, pants, polo shirts, suits. I balked at the suits, but Andre said he hosted business dinners and I needed to dress properly for those. My hips chaffed after the first hour and don’t ask me how the chauffer managed to fit all those bags in the trunk. For the first time in months, I had underwear without holes. I’ll admit I was looking forward to a taste of the good life.
Then he took me back to his place. He and his kid brother, Michael, lived in an old-style mansion on Long Island. The kind movie stars live in where you drove through the gate and kept driving to get to the house. He commuted to school in Brooklyn because he wanted to be with his old friends.
I never understood the term “dining hall” until I went down to dinner that night. There was room for fifty people. Two maids set bread, butter, and anti-pasta on the table while Andre picked clumsily through “Tea for Two” on the grand piano in the corner.
An adolescent boy with blond hair and green eyes chased an Irish Setter down the stairs.
“He doesn’t bite.” Andre missed a note.
“The kid or the dog?”
He left the piano and walked over. “Neither. Michael, this is Joey. He’s moving in tonight.”
Michael’s reaction surprised me. I expected resentment, jealousy, or a shy and sullen greeting. He smiled. “Fantastic! Tuesday is game night and you don’t stand a change of beating me at Lily Pad Madness.”
I smiled. “We’ll see about that.”
“We should eat before it gets cold.” I was in my seat before Andre finished speaking. Andre and Michael sat down, but no one else. He said he was on bad terms with his parents, but I didn’t think the two of them lived alone.
After the appetizers, we had New England clam chowder. Then shrimp parmigana served on huge slabs of garlic bread and drizzled with a sauce bursting with real tomatoes. No one has had food like that before or since. When I finished there wasn’t a drop or crumb on my plate, nor an inch of room in my stomach.
The maid came out with an Italian cheese cake.
The next day, he got me up-to-date textbooks, a lunch card for school, and a laptop. He even gave me an e-mail account on his company’s domain: JYodea@SterlingSoftware.com. The catch was that the laptop was loaded with untested games I was supposed to “put through their paces.” I thought that would be fun, but there is nothing more frustrating then finally figuring out that puzzle, jumping across the platforms to get to the next room, or beating the boss monster of the level after days of trying, only to have the entire game crash. Within a week, I started thinking he got the better end of this deal. I played Jungle Inferno so many times—and crashed it so many times—I could probably still do the first few levels in my sleep. If I told you how many nights we worked to get that ready by the holidays, you wouldn’t believe me.
I remember one night in November when we were pulling an all-nighter to put Kingpin to bed. “You told me you were shown a grace once,” I said to Andre. “What happened?”
“My father is a drug dealer,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. “He blames me for making the neighborhood so bad for business, he had to leave. I wanted no part of it. I wanted to design games. One day I met Stephen Wright at a game convention.”
“The head of Comet Games?” I looked up so sharply, I missed a turn and had to start the puzzle again.
“That’s him. Officially, we’re competitors, but we’ve been good friends since we met. I pulled him aside—he’s very approachable. I showed him my games and he said they were horrible. But then he told me why they were horrible and how to make them good. He arranged to meet with me after work every other Friday to take a look at my revisions and help me along. He didn’t just tell me what to fix; he taught me how to find the problems.”
He kept playing, but his eyes grew distant. “It took eight months to put the game in shape, but after it was done—this was in late July—he agreed to produce and market it. We released it in mid-November, just before the holiday season. He paid me ten percent of the total profit as royalties.”
“And that’s how you started Sterling Software?”
He finished the level. “That’s how I started. I produced another game after that, under my own label, and then used the profits from that to produce another. We’ve been building ever since. Michael and I moved out as soon as we were able, first to a one-bedroom apartment and ultimately to the mansion.”
I nodded. “And then you chose to clean up the neighborhood?”
“It’s atonement for my father. He caused so much damage. I have to repair as much of it as I can. I’ll never be him. I’ll never drop out of school, never give up on life, and never survive by bringing suffering to others. I guess you can call that my mission statement.”
“How does your mother feel about all this?”
He looked away. “She died giving birth to Michael.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
The weather turned really cold by late November and we spent most of our time indoors. That was the winter we had over two feet of snow in January and the mayor closed down the city for three days. Andre telecommuted and Michael and I threw snowballs at each other in the front yard.
We spent the following week with our noses glued into our books as the teachers rushed the lessons to make up the lost time. Michael liked this because he was too smart for his class. I barely muddled through. I passed my classes—barely—but my grades were good enough to keep me out of summer school.
It’s a good thing too; summer is a busy time for a game company. Right after the end of the school year, the convention circuit started. E3 may be the grand finale of the gaming shows, but the action starts way earlier, back in mid-June in New York, then migrates west to California. I never got to California that first year. Neither did Andre.
We’d just finished packing in the second show of the season, over at the Hilton on Sixth Avenue and 51st Street. Andre did the dog-and-pony show for the big vendors like Game Spot and Toys-R-Us while I demoed the games and handed out t-shirts.
The limo was supposed to swing around just outside the hotel, but it was too crowded. Andre suggested we head to 53rd where it was quieter, and meet the car there.
We’d just gotten to the corner when this kid—and he couldn’t have been much older then me—approached us. I didn’t see him at first, until he stepped away from the shadow of the buildings, and then he was right next to us. He was muscular, but a little ratty. His long hair was styled more by split ends then by design. He wore faded black jeans with holes in both knees and a black T-Shirt that said, “Welcome to New York. Now beat it.”
He pulled a .38. “Wallets. Now.”
I stepped forward. If there had to be a fight, better I should handle it. But Andre put a hand on my shoulder and shook his head. He didn’t look scared, more like he pitied the kid. Andre handed over his wallet and so did I.
“I know you,” he said, coming waving the gun in Andre’s face. “You’re the spoiled dog thinks he’s special because he can play video games, goes ruining all the fun around here. What? You wanna castrate the world or something? You can be my next game.”
Before Andre or I could react, he stepped back and fired. The bullet hit Andre’s shoulder and spun him around before he collapsed.
I tackled the kid and threw him to the ground. The gun skittered away. We were a tangle of arms and legs, flailing, punching and kicking. I wanted to kill him. I wasn’t scared or worried or…I’m not sure I was even sane. I just wanted to shove my hands down his throat and pull out his lungs. I just kept hitting him. I punched him in the stomach, in the face, whatever I could get to. He hit me, but I didn’t feel it. All I felt was the blood pounding in my ears and an overwhelming desire to rip this…thing apart.
When the cop pulled me off, I almost hit him too, but then Andre called my name, “Joey,” in a weak voice, almost a whisper, and I stopped fighting.
The cop let me go and I knelt beside Andre.
He touched my hand with his good one. “That was a brave thing you did. I owe you one.”
“No,” I said, refusing to cry. “It’s just that someone showed me a grace once. I needed to repay it.”
May 11th, 2009
