Micahdanielmaxwell's Blog

Fun with Youtube Adsense. (Or how a video created solely by me isn’t being allowed to make money.)

micahdanielmaxwell — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 19:00:00 +0000

Is this about the Youtube monetization thing? Yeah, it is. Will this be an incoherent rant were I begin frothing red-faced while pounding on my keyboard, eyes bulging and veins popping? Not really.

To be honest, I think I’m flattered. Let me explain.

I put up a video on Youtube in response to the Trailer for the Total Recall Trailer that will be coming out this Sunday. Never mind the fact that the first Total Recall movie has only recently reached legal drinking age but a Trailer. . . for a Trailer? What postmodern absurdist Monty Python Sketch reality have we landed in?

So I made a video which I feel accurately projects what movies will end up being in 3 years. (I also made sure to point out that my video is not the actual trailer for the yet-to-be-made movie but a trailer for it’s trailer.) As I usually do, I opted to have Youtube monetize the video because I am a broke bastard.

A few short hours later and I get an email from Youtube stating they weren’t going to approve the monetization of my video, stating: ”we were not able to verify that you have the appropriate commercial use rights for all included content.”

Needless to say, I was a little confused. I made the whole thing myself in 8 hours in my apartment. Everything was shot, edited, music scored for it in less than half a day. They asked for me to send proof (i.e. paperwork from the rights holder showing I was allowed to use the content) if I disagreed with their decision.

I don’t recall giving myself express written consent to use material in that video when I made it so I did the next best thing and sent this reply.

The music used in this was created by me (Micah Maxwell) expressly for this video. The copyright for it would be 2012 Micah Maxwell. There are no lyrics to provide for it and it isn’t a cover of anyone else’s work, although I did ape heavily from styles currently being used in modern movie trailers.

All of the sounds used were generated by Native Instruments software, Vienna Symphonic Sounds and sequenced inside of Sonar. Sounds of note that were used include:

A Wagner tuba run through distortion and two rotary effects
A solo cello with delay and reverb
Artillery fire run through flange, phase, wah and EQ effects.

The only other potential issue you may have had was that I put “Total Recall Trailer response” in the tag. I did this because the video I made is satire, poking fun at the current convention of constant rehashes due to lack of ideas.

I found it absurd enough that a Trailer for a Trailer was being put out, but found it more Absurd that the movie the Trailer was going to be about was yet another reboot of a movie already made.

Yes, I realize that the 1990 Total Recall didn’t do so well sticking with the original Philip K. Dick storyline but there are so many other stories he wrote that haven’t been made into films yet. I personally feel you should exhaust an author’s canon before rehashing one of his works you already made a movie out of.

The only instance where rebooting a movie should be allowed is if it has been greater than 30 years since the first version was made. I know there has been precedent set by “The Last Man on Earth” (Vincent Price 1964) and “The Omega Man” (Charleston Heston 1971) but in that case the story lines were only loosely related and they had the decency to go by different titles.

If the new Total Recall holds to the original novella more than the 1990 version then the name should rightfully be changed to “We can Remember it for you Wholesale.”

Sorry. Didn’t mean to go off on a rant there.

I used the slow motion function on my Sony Handycam and in the background of one of the shots you can see the corner of an early 20th century Martini and Rossi Vermouth poster advertisement.

I’m sorry but that is all I can think of that was in the video that may have been an issue. I filmed everything and scored music to it over an 8 hour bloc yesterday. If you felt the music was too good and must have been nicked from somewhere, I can honestly say I am flattered: it wasn’t my best work.

If you did think the music too good, feel free to point people in my direction who need films scored. I’m sure I could work out a modest pricing schedule. After all, I need money. That is why I clicked to monetize this video in the first place.

Another piece of the Kid’s book I’m writing

micahdanielmaxwell — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 04:20:54 +0000

This would be another of the characters in the Children of Gnollwood stories I am writing. Once again my impatient nature has gotten the best of me so instead of waiting until it’s finished to show it off, I’m posting it for internet perusal. Enjoy.

LYSANDER

Once upon a time (which in itself doesn’t make much sense because you can’t exist on time, only in it) there was a boy who lived on a street called Gnollwood Lane. This boy’s name was Lysander Tuck and having such an unusual name found himself often feeling out of place amongst his peers. His father taught English Literature at the University and like most academics felt the name of his child should show the pedigree of intelligence and upbringing. His father did not think about the consequences of having an odd name for a boy attending public school and Lysander was picked on mercilessly. As with most children who find themselves in a harsh environment, Lysander began to retreat into himself, letting his imagination take him to greener (and wedgiless) pastures.

Lysander’s father had a massive collection of books and since he had access to volumes upon volumes of lore Lysander began to read them in hopes of taking his mind off of the severity of the school term that would start soon. While digging through the mountains of paper, bindings and dust he stumbled upon Shakespeare’s A Midsummer’s Night Dream. The title was interesting and it was the middle of summer so Lysander felt there was no more appropriate time to read it. The speech was hard and the grammar was confusing, things were spelled backwards, abbreviated, or topsy turvy but the way the words seemed to flow and move off the page entranced him. He understood much of what he read by context while the other words needed the dictionary but after a few pages he found himself gliding through without a problem.

I started telling this tale a couple of paragraphs ago, but Lysander’s true story doesn’t start until now:

Gripped for a fortnight of reading Fae Lore
Lysander cross onion skinned reams did pour
O’er stories of changelings and fickle Fae money
Off’rings of clothing, of food, milk and honey
Of knights errant bewitched by glamour’d Fae
Whose words feigned love but in time did betray

Of young people stole to attend magic dances
But waste away coughing as consumption advances
Of hunters on horseback force kept saddle set
Lest quick age beset them when ground and foot met
Hobgoblins and Brownies and Spirits of Air
Play mischevious tricks like tying up hair

Ringing of Bells ‘gainst Unseelie protect
While signs of home hearth a threshold will set
A touch of cold iron the Fairies true Bane
By the frost touch of Mab art is made fain
These things and more did Lysander ingest
And practic’d the customs for unseen Fae guests

Through next door’s garden he traced Fairy roads
Heard voices in leaves and wind whispers bode
All but gone vanish’d are the folk Fae
Yet in Gnollwood through leaves and dappled light stay
So gifts were left for the hidden Fae take
Some bread, cups of milk, for appetites’ slake

Lysander found it not odd when cups were drained
The loaves of bread eaten; not a crumb on plates laid
For he knew his gifts taken by the Wee Folk
Were well received, for his luck seemed stoked
But upon checking the plates and cups left one Morn
He was shocked to find a Goodfellow forlorn

With eyes deep and brown like Italian roast brew
The gentleman sighed ‘cross his forehead hand threw
“Oh! It is horrible, your gifts to the Fae!
You’ve made no requests and yet give more each day.
Our debt to you grows without hope of surcease
So we grant you a favor for debtors release”

Though Lysander’s surprise at his shrewd plan’s fruition
Was slapped ‘cross his face he still had some suspicion
Twas true he was seeking some magical assistance
And here was a Puck who gave no resistance
But one does not lightly make deals with the Fae
Their attentions are deadly, their gifts oft dismay.

So warily he circled the Puck perched in chair
Choosing words so concise, no chance for error
“I hoped for a Brownie, please forgive my lax tact,
Robin Goodfellow’s notice I hoped not to attract.”
Puck grinned and replied, “Takes a name to appear,
and thanks to the Bard my name is known here!

Only names of the terrible Fae have survived
you sought lesser evil, I’m the least of the pride.
Your heart shied from Oberon, Titania no canny
Jenny Greenteeth, Peg Powler, in water holes clammy
All the nice Fae who clean and cobble worn shoes
Never had their names broadcast ‘pon stage’s full view

So while I admit that I lack saintly stature
I assure you, your doom is not what I’m after
I’ve enjoyed the buffet of rather bland vittles
You left on your stoop in hopes of Folk Little
So in granting a wish and providing a boon
I may lift debt’s yoke and ease problems soon.”

Lysander considered the words deftly spoke
assured that dual meanings were subtly cloaked
At last he responded, “Knowledge of the Fae,
How you move, be unseen, disappear, and play.
I want to master all the techniques
The Fae use to travel, to run, hide and sneak.”

Goodfellow smiled, a cold razored thing
Waved his hand “Done!” in a blink vanishing.
No puff of smoke, no loud thunder clap
One moment there, now vacant chair sat
Lysander stood in the warm morning light
But no suns ray banished the chill of Puck’s flight.

But discomfort was soon forgot as he found
He had a new way of running around
His movements were nimble, shadow silent and quick
Climb’d tallest trees branches, ‘cross roofs and walls bricked
Such was his stealth and so sure was his cloak
He made his friend jump in surprise when he spoke.

“Athena!” he shouted mere inches away
giving her quite a start, interrupting her play
“Be quiet!” She hissed very clearly upset
“Phineas plots again, his plans can not be kept!”
Lysander raised an eyebrow and peeked where she pointed
At a boy in a tree house, the villian anointed

He strode with malicious intent to and fro
Punctuating his words with goose stepped gusto
His dark silken cape was caught in the breeze
It fluttered and grasped like a wraith ill at ease
“My Minions!” he howled on the chill morning wind
“It is time for our plans to finally begin!”

The world seemed to cool and the sky turned to gray
As the sun hid itself from the terrible day
The boy’s platform was held by gnarled oak limbs
Above a rough sea of things spoke of in Grimm’s
There were trolls and lycan, frost giants and Witches,
goblins and orcs and skeletal Liches.

Most of those things were mere toys, just for show
arrayed ‘neath the platform as Phineas crowed
Action figures and vehicles, Robots beside Dinos
Bristling with armaments astride plastic Rhinos.
But mixed listening intently among quiet dolls
Were real things of nightmare held in the boy’s thrall

With scaled slimy skin and black dagger claws
Amber slit eyes and gaping red maws
Tufted fur bristled down long necks and backs
leather and bones adorned tethered packs
The creatures for whom the street got it’s name
Snuffled and slunk at the edge of the game

With a bellow Athena leaped out of her spot
running down twisted branches, her sword held aloft
“Stop right there evil doer!” A tired cliche
Nimbly dodging his potshots, ducking watergun’s spray
But Lysander’s gut knotted as he crouched on the shingling
When a Gnoll sniffed the air and said “I smell a changeling”

They launched into the bushes, vaulted through branches
Oil slick movements through shadowed advances
Lysander took to the trees, his movement like feathers
Soundlessly bounding o’er planters of heather
“We’ll find you we will!” slithered the call
“The wiles of Faerie can’t help you at all!”

Lysander climbed to his neighbor’s peaked spire
Then dashed ‘cross the tops of taut laundry wires
“We’ll eat you with onions in hot Barley Stew!”
Slobbered and frothed the hideous two
He knew that salvation lie in open street
For hatchet faced Gnolls must stay discreet

So hurdling over the white picket fences
He ran into the cul de sac without defenses
And as spit slathered Gnolls ran onto the road
A truck ran them over, it’s fender unbowed
A hooded man picked them up by their heads
And tossed the late Gnolls into the truck’s bed.

Lysander stood blinking, surprised by his luck
That his neighbor Jack Grim should arrive with his truck
Jack gave a pale smile and said “Many thanks,
But please tell Goodfellow to lay off the pranks.”
As Grim drove away in a westward direction
It dawned on Lysander the unlikely connection.

“Could have told me himself, the bag-of-bones man
but he probably knew we’d cross paths again”
Puck crouched on a mailbox shaped like a swan
grinning at Lysander, his newly found pawn
“This was part of your plan, to draw out the Gnolls”
Lysander said angrily scuffing shoe soles

“Well, duh” said Goodfellow, “They like to eat Fae
And I’d rather it were you than me any day.
I spoke the truth that I meant you no ill
But stale vittles alone could not pay for Fae skill.
You’re skilled as we are, and will draw the Gnolls ire
And your neighbor, dear Grim, will toss them to fire

Our deal is now squared, an even trade in the end
Should you need further help, do call on me, Friend.”
Once again Robin vanished without whisper of sound
And Lysander was left the only person around.
He walked back to his home, his eyes catching on shadow
Because two Gnolls were dead, with more sure to follow.

A Bear named SOPA and the Law of Unintended Consequences

micahdanielmaxwell — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 00:02:29 +0000

It’s raining today here in Orlando. Since I am a guy who grew up with the Jurassic Park franchise I immediately assumed it was because a bear took a crap in the woods in Alberta, Canada. The Chaos Effect is thoroughly ingrained into the psyche of my generation and many of us can’t take a look at an action without assuming there will be unintended repercussions down the line.

Let’s say, for grins, a bill is put forward by our illustrious governing body to ban TV commercials. One day Senator Bill Nelson is watching an episode of House and gets fed up with the commercial breaks always popping in right after Hugh Laurie launches into a diatribe about how the diagnosis is wrong and he drafts a bill that says TV commercials must go the way of the dodo.

Hint: It's not Lupis

Now let’s say this Bill became law. All of a sudden advertising revenue for the programming the Senator so enjoys goes down the crapper and the show is cancelled because it’s too expensive to make. The companies that used to advertise on TV lose revenue because now no one knows how badly they need that particular product and those companies are forced to lay off workers, possibly even going bankrupt because you can’t pay a mortgage with a warehouse full of Sham-wows.

Now that all these companies are going bankrupt the Unemployment rate would skyrocket because many of the workers being laid off would have experience in advertising, shipping, manufacturing, retail displays etc. (That’s not including the carpenters, writers, post production editing houses, actors, craft services people etc. that would be laid off from making the various TV shows now deemed “to expensive” to make.) These displaced workers would be unable to find employment in the field they used to occupy and would be forced to find jobs in other fields, displacing more workers. The buying power of the American middle class would tank because A. They don’t know what needless things they need to buy and B. They would likely no longer have a job because a giant wrench would have been tossed into the Economy’s gear box that would gut the system.

And all the Snuggies you didn't sell will be good for is drying your tears as you burn down the warehouse for the insurance money.

Now, if the good Senator were to propose a bill like that there is a good chance he would not be re-elected, or at the very least that he would dragged from his office by angry mobs who decided burning someone in effigy is so passe. A Bill proposal like that would be akin to Economic Terrorism. We’re lucky that many Americans have forgone watching cable TV in favor of watching the shows they enjoy streaming on services like Netflix and Hulu so at the economic impact would at least be offset by advertising on websites and the billions of dollars made every year in the online market place.

E-commerce is a huge source of income for the American economy and helps hundreds of thousands of businesses both large and small sell their wares, promote ideas and innovation, reach a larger market both domestically and world wide and create jobs. If I’m not mistaken, Job Creation is one of those hot button topics right now and anything that would cripple it would be tantamount to political suicide. I guess we’re lucky that politicians aren’t trying to pass any short sighted laws that would destroy American quality of life causing civil unrest that would in all likelihood escalate to violence.

Oh, wait.

It looks like "Redacted Black" will be the fashion color of choice this spring.

SOPA is a poorly thought out Bill that will give power to Intellectual Property Rights Holders to drag the American Court system in to shut down websites with stolen content, websites with links to those websites and force advertisers to stop advertising on all of the aforementioned websites. I want you to stop and think about how interconnected everything online is. (It’s called the web for a reason.) If enacted into law it would give the power to a few people who could abuse this ability to have anything removed they simply don’t like. The websites will be court ordered to shutdown and if I’m not mistaken the only way to reverse a court order is with ANOTHER COURT ORDER turning the internet into a morass of bureaucracy with huge sections closed down for possibly months at a time because someone linked to a Youtube video in the comment section of a forum that had a TV in the background showing the Braves playing the Astros and the video creator forgot to get express written consent from Major League Baseball to use footage from that game.

Pictured above: Something that will get your website taken down faster than sharing State Secrets.

You know how I mentioned in the previous scenario how detrimental sabotaging advertising would be? That scenario will happen if this bill is passed. All of a sudden hundreds of thousands of online retailers, content providers, game creators, and social networking sites will crash into an unforgiving wall of redtape and the economy will tank because those people will no longer be able to provide for their families or pay their bills.

The loss of various forums and social networking sites will harm independent artists, music creators, and small online shop owners who use them to help advertise and peddle their wares. Without those individual groups it will become harder for larger companies to keep track of what current trends in fashion and music are which will prevent them from putting out products people want. (Although if Hot Topic were to go down in flames I wouldn’t cry.) Those larger companies would lose revenue because of it which would also cause the previously mentioned loss of jobs (are you picking up on the trend yet?) which would further hamstring the economy.

I didn’t even mention how destructive this would be to the shipping industry. FedEx, UPS, the United States Postal Service, DHL, any parcel delivery service you can think of will have to lay off thousands of more workers because they won’t be delivering goods people bought online because the websites the people bought from will be shut down.

Guess what's in those boxes? A whole lot of nothing-because-no-one-can-buy-online-anymore-with-everything-being-blacked-out.

Now at this point I am sure that you, gentle reader, feel that I may be overreacting. After all, there must be a system in place to prevent bored teenagers from spamming pirate links into Bestbuy.com’s customer review forums to see if they can bring a huge retailer to it’s knees just because they don’t have anything else to do online with everything blocked out.

Sadly, there is not. The wording of the law makes it “guilty until proven innocent,” giving a new tool for online bullies everywhere to cripple websites and people they just don’t like. If I were to do a movie review on youtube of some recent release that portrayed the movie in a negative light then that movie studio could have my youtube account banned and my videos pulled with no review until I could successfully prove that I did not use any of their intellectual property. The problem is I would be unable to do so since I would have been talking about their creation and the law is so nebulously written that if I were to mention anything some one else had a hand in creating then it would be grounds for censorship. Even if I did prove my innocence eventually it could take months for me to get back up and running after which I would have to start from scratch generating traffic on my videos.

Never mind the actual pirates would find some new way around the law, as they always do while the existing law would stamp out any creativity or flow of ideas from the internet, turning it into the intellectually desolate and barren wasteland TV has become. Not that anyone will notice because they would have long since sold their computer and tv for food since the economy will have tanked and America will become a post Apocalyptic Mad Max Hellscape.

All this because a bear crapped in the woods.

Concerning the Cleaning of Dishes, Bawdy Romance, and Cruel Jokes.

micahdanielmaxwell — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 07:06:01 +0000

So today was yet another day of being free of the yoke of an oppressive office atmosphere, also known as being without a steady pay check. While I have spent the past few weeks narrating bawdy romance stories for pay (I will be paid royalties as the audio books are sold) I have also spent the past few weeks going slowly insane. Due to the ever-frowning gods of Fate, my girlfriend and I have but a single car. This isn’t an issue since I don’t have any where to be during the day but it does get tedious when the walls of the apartment begin staring through me, judging my every deed and finding me wanting.

I assure you, I’m not one to add anthropomorphic qualities to things in my apartment, but the walls can be a bit catty. ”Oh,” the walls say, “You’re going to interpret the line that way? Nice read, Keanu.” Then the couch starts harping on my smoking habits and the whole thing gets shot to hell.

Don't get me started on the Wing Back Chair. Damn thing had the nerve to criticize my choice of tea blends.

It would be nice to leave the apartment now and then. That’s pretty much the message here.

So during daylight hours I spend my time either narrating people doing naughty things in naughtier positions in the naughtiest of places or trying to maintain a modicum of order a midst the chaos that is my kitchen. Dirty dishes are (as I am sure you are aware, dear reader) part of the original curse of Adam and Eve. In later versions of the Bible it was omitted but originally Genesis 3:19 went something like this:

In the sweat of thy face though shalt eat bread, and cleaning the pans thy bread was cooked in will be a royal pain akin to stabbings of the nettles and thistles I mentioned previously. Holy crap thou hast pissed me right off and because of this the more delicious and healthful the food, the more tortuous the cleaning of the dish. Seriously, I had Satan set aside a whole department in Hell dedicated to figuring out how to turn chicken and beef fat left in the pan into a horrible black tar that will be harder than diamonds when it cools and won’t come off even if thou try various remedies thy friends advise you, but will squat in the pan like a bloated frog, stubbornly clinging as does the spider monkey, staring thou back in the face like the cold gaze of the Abyss until thou eventually give up cleaning it or blow thy brains out with a shotgun.

Oh, what’s a shotgun? It’s a device you will invent to get out of cleaning dishes.

Later versions were edited for brevity and to get rid of confusion when trying to translate "Boom Stick" into Aramaic.

Where was I? Oh yes; cleaning the dishes.

So this afternoon was spent doing laundry, cleaning the rest of the kitchen, and trying to scrub a pan clean that had once held Cornish hens but now held the droppings of Hell Fiends. After posting a status update on Facebook about my impotent rage in cleaning the damned thing several friends posted helpful suggestions on how best to clean it ranging from “deglazing with wine or vinegar” to “call it day and get drunk”. After trying the wine and vinegar thing and making my apartment reek like an Easter Egg dyeing kit I eventually gave up on the pan deciding that if anyone asks, the mess in the bottom is a Jackson Pollock original.

While toiling on the pan I listened to various standup comedians on Netflix which not only lightened my mood, but provided me with a flash of insight.

My significant other and I don’t really argue that much.

Now, this isn’t to say we don’t have arguments. We argue just like every other couple over the same stupid things other couples argue about (I don’t care if you don’t think it’s a necessity but we are NOT going another week without some goddamn ice cream sandwiches!) but we don’t argue with the frequency of my (ahem) previous relationships. The more I thought about it, the more I realized just how nice that is.

If it comes down to potable water or the sandwich, the sandwich is going to win by a country mile.

Everything doesn’t have to be a battle, we don’t need a conflict of wills to determine what will be cooked for dinner that night, we don’t lock horns over movies (we’ve agreed that we don’t have to see every movie with each other and ditching the other person in favor of overpriced popcorn and a darkened theater is perfectly kosher) and we don’t feel the need to argue whose taste in (fill in the blank) is the correct taste to have.

Makes me happy she doesn’t mind putting up with me.

I informed her of the internal monologue I had while cleaning when she got home and after committing the disgusting and horrible sin of telling each other that we love the other more than the other loves us for twenty minutes she informed me she wants to change her phone number because she has had the same one for five years. My response was a measured and polite “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I finally managed to memorize her number a month ago after dating her for two and a half years and I will be damned if she changes the bloody thing.

She pointed out that she has had the same phone number during previous relationships and those previous boyfriends will text her time to time asking if she is single again. I’ m not privy to the content of the conversations but I imagine they go something like this:

Dude who is Trying to Hook Up with My Lady Friend: So, you still dating that hairy guy that does music and probably isn’t nearly as witty or cool as I am?

My Lady Friend: Yep. You can go drunk text your other exes now.

Dude who Should Know Better than to Try and Poach when the Hairy Guy in Question Watches a lot of Procedural Police Dramas and has a Some Pretty Good Ideas on How to Dispose of a Body: Oh. Ok.

The dramatic removal of shades and a screaming Rock-and-Roll intro won't save you now.

I actually think the drunken text messages are good thing. After any break up a guy will often have feelings of inadequacy, finding himself trapped in an ebon spiral of self loathing and doubt, second guessing everything he ever said and did, scrutinizing the minutia of the relationship in hopes of finding the one thing that went wrong.

Now, if the gentleman in question decides to message his ex who is currently (I hope happily) in another relationship then he should be considered fair game for what ever torture or trick is deemed necessary. (Or funny prank. Let’s not kid ourselves, funny is a definite plus.)

So I told her that the next time he text messages her, she should launch into horrifyingly raunchy details about my love making technique and how much better I am than him. In fact I’ve even given her license to be creative and embellish, to make up moves that have no chance of working, or just constructing madlib sentences which will leave him perplexed.

My Girlfriend: He’s amazing. When he does that thing where he whispers into the back of my knee like he’s sound checking a mic while making armpit fart noises and shrugging his shoulders in time to Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King I hit a Nirvana level of ecstasy, riding tingling lightening in the Rainbow Wake of Narwhals in a Technicolor Sea of Sensual Bliss.

Dude Who had it Coming: . . .

Kind of like this but with more cowbell.

All in all, it hasn’t been too shabby a day. The kitchen looks a lot nicer than it did, a sizable dent has been made in the mound of laundry I had to do and I made my girlfriend laugh until she got the hiccups while discussing fictitious sexual techniques.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to finish explaining to the toaster why I haven’t bothered to shave in the past few days and why it’s none of his business if I grow out my beard.

Guess Who’s Been Working on Children’s Stories? This guy.

micahdanielmaxwell — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 20:04:59 +0000

I’ve been working on a few ideas for children’s stories for some time now and I felt it long overdue unleash one of the ideas onto the interweb for comments. This story is the first of a series of five I have been working on that all interconnect, making one larger story. The series is tentatively named The Children of Knollwood but I might change my mind, for I am a fickle man. The eventual plan is to find a way to get them published and put out for everyone (after my illustrator finishes with the lovely artwork) but until then my impatient nature got the best of me and I was itching for some opinions. Feel free to comment below, send the link to your friends, or shower me with money. In fact, if you could do all three, that would be awesome.

Although if you read and like it, that would be ample reward. My ego always needs the boost.

Victoria Annabel Cavendish was born late. I don’t mean her mother had a long pregnancy; when Victoria showed signs of missing her due date her mother had labor induced, making sure to evict Victoria in a timely fashion. This sense of promptness and need to show proper manners apparently imbued Victoria from that day forward. Her cries as an infant sounded less like the usual beating-a-cat-with-a-bullhorn and more like a firm “Excuse me, something is amiss. I require assistance.” She made for quite an odd baby.

When I say she was born late, I mean she was merely born in the wrong time period. It happens all the time. You’ll meet some one whose manner and look would be better suited to some archaic era, like the fellow you sit near on the bus each day who looks like Eric the Red, or your dear aunt who loves going to Renaissance Fairs. Victoria’s manners and sense of occasion hearkened to a time when woman were expected to be stately, understated, and statuesque.

While her friends chased after teenie bopper idols, dressing in bright pink clothing, oohing and ahhing over the flavor of the month at the mall boutiques they frequented, Victoria was donning outfits in gray fabric, white lace, and a splash of red. She did not read the magazines her friends read and didn’t bother with the books they enjoyed but instead found the mystery section in the book store more to her liking. She began with Poe, moving to Agatha Christie, Lord Byron, and Doyle.

She became fascinated by the grisly, inured to the macabre and obsessed with murder and intrigue. In common every day circumstances she would catch a whiff of mystery, the subtle rustling of cloak and dagger. Although her clothing was covered in frills, skirts bussled and floor length, she was not what you would consider prissy. “Prissy” denotes a squeemish demeanor that she lacked which caused her mother much dismay.

In an effort to help her daughter gain a sunnier disposition, Victoria’s mother introduced her to the works of Jane Austin. It was a laudable attempt but unfortunately the light reading did anything but captivate Victoria’s imagination. She found herself interjecting her own devices and subplots into polite English Society. Mr. Darcy was fond of hemlock, Emma should have kept her nose in her own business with all that piano wire lying around, and while no one heard Fannie’s screams they did find her swinging from the church parapet like a tasteless bonfire night effigy. Needless to say, Victoria’s mother was horrified.

So it came to pass that Victoria spent her days petting her gray tabby (named Miss Marple) reading mysteries, and wondering if the acoustics of floor boards really do amplify heart beats.

On one such day, while trying to get Miss Marple out of a tree she had been chased into by the dreadful boy next door, Victoria’s eye was caught by color that didn’t belong. Across the cul de sac, in a quiet yard, an oak tree was bleeding. Victoria quickly walked down the sidewalk, completely entranced by the prospect of foul play. Had some one been killed beneath the tree? Was some one on her street a fiend, attacking victims in the shade and leaving his signature splashed across bushes? Maybe her neighbors were ghouls, tearing into the recently deceased like piranha and the poor tree was sole witness the terrifying display.

Victoria stood beneath the tree, pondering what horrifying act had transformed it into an abattoir, when a head covered in curly brown hair with twigs and leaves sticking out of it popped out of the bushes. “Do you like my work?” asked the boy in the hedge. Victoria looked at the curious boy who grinned impishly at her and then back at the dripping tree. “You did this, Lysander? Who did you kill? Did you use razor wire? Maybe a pearl handled fillet knife? Was it some one you didn’t like? Aren’t you supposed to do a better job of cleaning up the crime scene so no one can find you?” Victoria could barely pause for breath as she found herself asking question after question to a now thoroughly confused Lysander. “You think I killed some one? I hope I didn’t murder anyone. I may have caused a few artists to roll over in their grave with my work though. I painted the tree leaves red. It will be fall soon and I thought I would help it along. Mother Nature seems to be falling down on the job this year so I was helping her out.” Victoria was disappointed. She waved good bye to the strange child in the bushes and ambled back to her yard with her head hanging low.

On her way back to her yard she noticed a dark shape on the ground at the far end of her house that looked like someone laying face down in the grass. Barely able to keep herself from running she began to briskly walk towards the shape on the ground. Finally, something exciting was happening and there was a stiff involved to boot! “I wonder who did it?” She thought as she swiftly moved down the side walk. The mail man did have shifty eyes and walked with the stooped posture of a man of low character. Perhaps he had offed one of the neighbors in a spat over a torn letter. Maybe he had hit some one with his mail truck and hidden the body in her garden to try and cover up his crime? Maybe the body was the mailman, having been garroted for dropping packages one time to many.

“A lady must always be reserved,” she thought to her self as she came closer to the shape on the ground. At last, she was upon it and once again disappointed. There was no body caught in it’s finally throes of agony, no grinning cadaver beneath the willow tree. It was simply a pile of leaves her father had raked under the tree that sort of looked like a person if you squinted, crossed your eyes and stood on your head while looking at it through a smudgy mirror.

Victoria said some very unladylike things.

Victoria was beginning to think that nothing exciting would ever happen in her neighborhood. The stories she read all had intrigue and murder, you couldn’t take three steps without tripping over a prostrate body left by a cackling villain. The sun was beginning to set, throwing crimson and orange light over her street. The houses stood like head stones bathed in firelight; quiet, reserved, with stories to tell but no way to tell them. Victoria heard rustling in the tree above her but didn’t bother turning her head. She knew who it would be.

“So why do you go looking for bodies?” asked Lysander, hanging by his knees from a lower branch. Victoria shrugged and laid down on the leaves, looking up at him. “I don’t know. All the stories I read are so exciting. There is always something happening and the people aren’t bored. I’m bored here. Nothing ever happens. I want something exciting to happen, I want signs of foul play so I can help solve the mystery. I want to use deductive skills and help the local Inspector find the killer. I want people to speak to me with respect and manners.” Lysander pondered this for a bit, crossing his arms and tapping one finger against his chin. “I think they’re called detectives here. An inspector is the kind of person who checks to make sure my underwear doesn’t have holes in it before my mom buys them from the store.” Victoria shot Lysander a icy look. “See? That’s my point. Even law enforcement is boring here. I bet they don’t even use proper grammar when searching the scene of a crime” Lysander dropped out of the tree giggling, rolling for a bit on the leaves next to her before springing back up on his feet. “The grammar police solving crimes? Now that is funny.”

Victoria sighed, “I guess I won’t get mystery until I’m older.” Just as she finished the last word, a blood curdling scream broke from next door. Lysander stumbled backwards, falling flat on his bottom. “Okay, I think that merits an investigation,” he said with wide eyes. Victoria shrugged her shoulders and said, “No need. The boy next door throws a tantrum every day when his dad takes him back inside. “Really?” asked Lysander. “You would think that after a while he would get bored with it and realize he can’t stay out all night. Night time is when things come in the dark. Night is the realm of ghosts and ghouls. We are the children of the sun and have to go inside when the shadows fall.” Victoria quirked an eyebrow at the smaller boy. “So you are afraid of the dark?”

Lysander puffed himself up a bit. “Certainly not. The dark doesn’t do anything but make it hard to see. It’s the things that lurk in the dark that scare me. Go looking for monsters and mayhem for too long and they might find you. I think it’s best to be behind doors when the sun dips behind the trees. We are kids and kids need light to grow and play. Our season of frolicking and living care free will end soon enough. You should enjoy the time you are given now.” Lysander shot her another impish grin. “You should try to wear more color. Gray doesn’t suit you. Your eyes are too pretty for it. You should try green. I’m sure even great detectives need color now and then to brighten their lives.”

It was at that point that Victoria yelped in surprise as Miss Marple jumped into her lap. When she turned back Lysander had vanished. Dangling from the branch he had been standing beneath was a piece of green ribbon. Victoria smiled to herself as she took it down from the tree, tying her hair back with it. Still smiling she picked up Miss Marple and walked back into her home for dinner.

A Rather Late Book Review: American Gods by Neil Gaiman

micahdanielmaxwell — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 20:38:39 +0000

I tend to think of myself on the cusp of culture, riding the crest of the zeitgeist and setting trends that most people won’t catch onto for a few years. Please consider the Newsie Cap, also known as exhibit A:

I've been wearing these since the mid Nineties until, Lo and behold! They've come into their own again during the early to mid Naughts.

I’m afraid I will have to forego my usual cutting edge rhetoric and observation in favor of something a little out of date in this post. A recent twitter update by Neil Gaiman linked to a page showing that Tor Press had put one of his earlier short stories up for free on the interwebs. I made sure to post it to the various social media I have at my disposal only to find out many people don’t know who he is. Well, for starters, the man is a damn genius. I could list his resume here but, alas, I am lazy and you have access to Wikipedia. What I will do is write a belated review of a book that was published about ten years ago.

This would be the book I am referring to.

The hard part about writing book reviews is making sure to limit the spoilers (or thspoilerth, as they are colloquially known) to a minimum. This book has been out for a decade so it is safe to assume you’ve had ample time to read it. Continue reading at your own peril, having been warned.

The main character is a fellow by the name of Shadow. I’m not going to lie; there is little or nothing of substance to Shadows character. If nothing else, he seems to be the camera through which the reader sees the plot unfold, which would be crappy in other stories but actually is a plot device in this tale. The other characters are gods. Loads of’em. Every god worshipped at any time in mankind’s past made manifest and trying to exist in a world that no longer worships nor needs them. These gods are at odds with a new breed of gods that man now worships. The gods of Information, Television, and Automobiles. Like Bloods and Crips, Sharks and Jets, or Star Wars and Star Trek fans the two groups are spoiling for a fight with each other and the plot rockets towards that inevitable clash of ideas.

Beautifully written, smaller stories interspersed in the larger plot, and a wonderful cast of gods demanding sacrifice and adolation make this book a fine read. There is also a six foot leprechaun. That alone is worth the price of admission.

Hmm, it seems I can’t say much more without crapping on the plot. You should read it (and to steal a line from my childhood) but you don’t have to take my word for it.

A day in the Life of an Unintentionally Independent Contractor.

micahdanielmaxwell — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 20:56:59 +0000

One the amazing things about the internet is it’s uncanny ability to print free money. Of course, that idea was true in 1997, but really doesn’t apply now-a-days. In our wonderfully technologically advanced era, the internet is now used for kitten pictures and to find out what your favorite celebrity had for lunch.

Benedict Cumberbatch had a grilled cheese sandwich today.

Oh, and that one other thing. What’s it called? Oh yes, “social networking.”

I am starting to feel as though social networking may be dead, though. Everyone has a facebook page, or twitter, or tumblr. My grandmother has a facebook page, which means I can’t post nearly as many jokes involving coarse humor or vulgar language. My solution? Jump over to Google+! It’s a new tree fort where the grown ups are not allowed. Or it was, until a couple of weeks ago my Mother added me to her circles and requested I do the same for her.

Which leads me to the terrifying conclusion that social networking is finished. Where I used to get emails of cute stories, jokes, and spam sent to my email by family, now I get it through facebook, along with requests for Farmville and Garden of Time. As with most new and innovative means of communication it was bound to happen. Telephones weren’t around that long before Telemarketing was invented. The internet was around for about 35 seconds before some one realized you could post pictures of boobs on it. Now social media is inundated with all the banners and pop-ups normal websites had begun to shun. (Of course once Facebook started with the tons of ads, normal websites decided it was ok and went back to the terrible Old Ways.)

C'thulhu wants you to join his mob in Mafia Wars.

But then again, conventional wisdom says Social Networking is the best way to get your name out there and be visible in the modern day marketplace. So, I keep using it, like a junkie going back for a fix.

As of Monday, I became unemployed due to a massive layoff of my whole call center. A bit ill timed, but I am making the best of it. I have put in several auditions to narrate audiobooks (two of which I have already finished and will be on itunes and amazon in a couple of weeks) and I am hunting for a day job and/or enough independent projects to keep myself mildly solvent.

So if anyone out there in interweb land needs a voice over or any kind of audio production taken care of, check out my website and feel free to contact me at micahdanielmaxwell@gmail.com

Also, feel free to buy my album and any subsequent audiobooks I finish.

Coffee with Lurch.

micahdanielmaxwell — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 04:16:58 +0000

So, today is my birthday. Like most people on their birthdays I decided to take time out of my busy schedule of being a broke (yet dapper) musician to do something I truly enjoy: read while drinking coffee. There are very few venues in Orlando that cater to that particular vice so I decided to read at the Starbucks I frequently haunt. After taking in my cup from the last time I was there (and paying only fifty-four cents for the refill) I found a nice seat outside near an ashtray in which to enjoy my constitutional.

It was the waning hours of the day, the last rays of the sun streaking the spring sky, muscling it’s way through the low treeline. Soon it would be night and the cool evening air would prove most relaxful as I read Imaginary Weapons, a dreadful tome about failed pseudoscience the Pentagon had sunk untold billions of dollars in researching. (I’m a firm believer in reading through every book I buy and this is the first one I may amend my principles for.) Three people sat to my right speaking in a mix of Portuguese and English. seamlessly switching back and forth without any of the participants appearing to take notice. I rolled a cigarette from the pouch of Bali Shag I always carry and lit it, pouring through the Sahara pages of the book, trying to gain interest.

After half an hour of chain smoking, sipping coffee and half heartedly reading I saw a looming form limp up in my peripheral. A large man sauntered up and sat down in the chair to my left and began staring at me. I concentrated on the space between two words and my mind began to race. I was wearing a pink button up shirt with black paisley vest, pocket watch, khakis and dress shoes. I recently got a hair cut and my glasses were slowly slipping down the bridge of my nose while I read, my cigarette burned hot between my fingers as ash moldered away.

The Leviathan to my left was a stark contrast: he wore a faded Austin 3:16 shirt, dirty jeans and ripped up sneakers. His shaved head was lumpy and bore many scars, like a prize fighter past his prime. He stared at me with the dull gaze of the dead, a Romero parody or Ghost of Starbucks past to haunt my present. Everything about him was an affront to any theory of intelligent design: he looked like the Almighty made him after a night of Bacchus revelry. I put out my cigarette and began to roll another, my mind absorbing as much as it could from my surroundings, checking for obvious escape routes or means to defend myself should my day suddenly turn from Masterpiece Theatre to Road Warrior. As I licked the adhesive to seal the paper Lurch spoke.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He spoke with the slow stilted speak of an eight year old reading aloud. He may have brain damage or be retarded, a small voice in my head chimed. You were getting worked up over a Faulknerian manchild. “I also read Of Mice and Men,” my internal monologue replied. I lit the cigarette and went back to reading, ignoring him, hoping that he would lose interest.

“I said you don’t have to do that.”

I continued to smoke and read, praying something shiny would catch his attention but like a antsy toddler he began to say “Sir! Sir!” over and over like the bark of a small dog. I looked up at him and made eye contact. He returned my gaze, his eyes still unfocused as though he was looking past me. “Do you have a cigarette I could have?” My reply was quick and curt:

“No.”

He looked momentarily stunned, like I had hit him between the eyes with a rolled up newspaper. “Why?” he asked. I sighed, “because I smoke expensive tobacco and enjoy rolling my own cigarettes. I tend to not share with other people because my smokes aren’t cheap.” He barely paused before chiming again. “Why?”

“Because they are mine.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He continued to look in my direction, his eyes sliding in and out of focus. “You don’t need to be greedy. It’s rude to be greedy. I want a cigarette.” I pulled a slow drag on it, regarding him coolly as my mind began racing through all the ways this could go wrong. “That’s fine, but I don’t want to give you one. Since I’m the one who bought the tobacco I’m the one who decides what to do with it.” He paused, seemingly mulling it over in his mind. “Well, Jesus said it is better to give than to receive. You should give me a cigarette.” At this point my mind shuddered with cognitive dissonance while the small voice piped actually that was a quote from the book of Acts. He was never directly recorded saying that, never mind the son of God would probably disapprove of smoking. The large man continued, “you should do things for other people. Being greedy is a bad way to lead your life. You should give so that you can please the Lord.”

It was at this point that all previous caution was tossed like molded leftovers and my baser instincts fired up. I can ignore some one begging but I can’t stand a self righteous git misquoting scripture to gain what he wants. My mouth went into razor wit mode before my brain could point out the futility. “I tried being altruistic most of my life. I got nothing in return but gray hairs and headaches. I think being selfish works better for me.”

Lurch stared for a second. “And you’re happy leading your life that way?”

“Of course!” I replied. “It gives me an overwhelming sense of zen.”

The hairless ape’s eyes narrowed and slid into focus on my face. I began to realize how infantry must feel before the Hulk smashes them to powder. “You think you’re better than everyone else don’t you?” he coldly spat. The conversation to my right stopped and I could feel the collective worry of the other people seated outside. Determined not to show fear (that’s usually when animals attack according to the Discovery Channel) I calmly replied “no, I don’t. I simply want to smoke a cigarette and read book.” Lurch continued without listening to me. “You dress and talk like you think you are so much better. You use big words.”

The air began to feel a lot heavier as my hand shook slightly. I stubbed out my cigarette and rolled another one, lit it and then looked back at him. “My IQ is 135. I don’t think I’m better than everyone else. It’s all relative.” He stared at me, his jaw working like he was chewing an imaginary piece of candy. He suddenly quipped “Ok, what’s the reduction of a tangent?” The fearless voice quipped Awe, it’s cute when they string big words together. I replied, “I said I was smart, not omniscient. It doesn’t mean I know every piece of trivia. What if I were to ask you who Decartes was?”

“You answer mine first,” he churlishly responded.

“I’d rather read,” I replied.

“Well, what are you smart in?” He puffed up his chest like silverback issuing a challenge. I went back to reading, glancing up out of the corner of my eye. “I’m good at music and philosophy.” He eyed me warily, “then who sang this?” and began singing brashly with courage of a man gifted with a voice like a wounded jackal. After playing his little trivia game of Top Forty “who sung it” it he seemed to lose interest, but slowly got angrier.

“You know where I come from you would get stabbed for refusing to give up a cigarette.”

The warning klaxon went off in my head and the tiny voice brilliantly retorted: Fuck.

I put down my book slowly and looked up at him, my face dissolving into the cold withering glare I used to give the homeless while walking to class in college. My eyes narrowed and jaw clenched as adrenaline surged, ready to run or kick my foe. “I’ve been shot before,” he continued, lifting his shirt pointing to what appeared to be an appendectomy scar. “I’ve had my throat slashed and my fingers cut off.” A quick glance at his hand revealed all ten digits were present. “I got hit in the head with a bat because I wouldn’t give up a cigarette.” That part I can believe the voice said, calmer now that it was getting obvious Lurch was more talk than action. “Indeed.” I replied through clenched teeth, my voice low and gravelly.

Lurch blinked and stood up, stalking over to the other people outside. “You would give me a cigarette if I asked right?” The two girls told him they didn’t smoke and the guy shakily said in a small voice “I’d give you two.” Lurch turned back towards me.

“Have you ever been in movies?”

I raised an eyebrow to the question, the conversation having managed to dive into a realm beyond bizarre. “No,” I said. “You know Saved by the Bell? You look like Screech,” he tersely spat. I forced a smile “Thank you. I’ve always been a Dustin Diamond fan.”

The shaved yeti stomped off, stopping near a group of teenagers to show off his “mad rapping skills.” I watched him leave before picking up my book and walking to my car, making sure the Missing Link wasn’t hiding the shadows to stab me. I hopped into my beat up Corolla and drove away to pick up my girlfriend.

Happy Birthday to me.

An advent of nothing that hasn’t already been done.

micahdanielmaxwell — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 20:39:59 +0000

Greetings everyone out there on the interweb. This blog, while humble and sparse of useful content, is actually nothing more than an attempt to sell music. I know it’s horrifying to think you clicked the link in hopes of finding some sort of mystic sage or as-of-yet undiscovered humorist only to find a bald faced attempt to get you to buy an album in a style you may have never heard of, but if you give it a listen, you just might like it.

The music on the aforementioned album is in a style called Steampunk. This style is characterized by mixing traditional 19th instruments and concepts with modern ones and gentlemen running about in cravats and goggles while shouting something about airships. The album itself (Music for Pretty Colors) is nearing completion and will be available soon and the single (smartly titled Smexy) is on Itunes in mid February.

It will at the very least give you something new to sing in the shower. Your neighbors find your rendition of Pants on the Ground quite trying on their patience.