I Want to Believe

At the risk of hanging my gomer side out, I must confess how the prospect of a new X-files morsel leaves me tingly and channeling my inner pocket protector diva. Not enough to pick up and trek to the movie alone tonight, as I reside on a disturbing island of people who only recognize reality and all things grounded, but enough to gorge on 2 am re-runs until my CP finishes going all Pro-Liason on me in San Fran next week.

I want to believe that this stand-alone theatrical attempt to recapture the Mulder-Scully magic hasn't become a casualty of its own warped loss of time--much longer than the nine minutes they lost on a vacant New Mexico highway. That special freakishness that catapulted the series to cult status is the very thing that has become distilled over a decade, the weird in pop-culture now a rule rather than the exception.

I want to believe that my preoccupation with David Duchovny wasn't simply a by-product of the sparse inspirational landscape that was the early 90's.

I want to believe it's possible to sustain a storyline's sexual tension over fifteen years without the characters realizing that sleeping on the couch and watching porn during non-working hours has dimmed the romance.

I want to believe it's possible for beautiful nerd chicks to become even more stunning with time.

I want to believe that someday when I show my children the donated X-files memorabilia in the Smithsonian, they'll not take one look at me, roll their eyes and suggest their father's Snoopy dance would be far more entertaining.

I want to believe that shining a bulb beneath my blinds at night will bring elderly, smoking men who will cryptically foretell of a great list in the New York Times that will contain the name L.A. Mitchell.

I want to believe a bee sting will not get in the way this time.

I want to believe the wild-haired self-published author I met at the Weatherford booksigning spouting a conspiracy theory about Wal-mart is NOT Max Fenig.

If you're a Phile, own it here so you can inhabit my island for a bit. We'll sustain on a steady diet of obscure, random trivia and sunflower seeds.

Dear Mr. Extrovert,

A healthy understanding of the dynamics of an introvert is in order. You know us as the ones you must drag to social engagements. We're the first to try on invisibility at the room's periphery and the first who want to leave. You label us shy and loner, words as dispensable and empty as the heat shields on a Starbucks cup. There is more percolating beneath the surface than you think.

That awkward pause in small talk or the fact that we'd rather engage in solitary activities such as reading or writing than enter a tight jeans contest at a biker bar does not mean we are anti-social. While your brain is engaged in back lobe activity, seeking out the rich, sensory stimuli of interacting with others and your environment, we are firmly engaged in frontal lobe processes such as problem solving, introspection and complex thinking. Participating in a robust debate on the merits of professional wrestling may energize you, but we're contemplating the physics of spandex and the crippling effect of such a "sport" on your maturity.

While you thrive on small talk and would engage a willow tree in conversation if you could, we abhor it. Give us something deep and you'll find out our conversational preferences lie firmly in meaningful exchanges. Watch us grow animated discussing things we're passionate about and then try to label us shy. We can be the life of the party, engaging strangers with a charm that seems to come out of nowhere, but be warned. This social glimmer is fleeting. Our recharge time is precious. What you may view as isolated or arrogant is how we rediscover the essence of who we are.

We know why society values social skills. Our patterns of human behavior are firmly entrenched in tribal mentality. Trying to draw us out into an extroverted reflection of yourself suggests there is something wrong with the way we are when, in fact, our kind are predominately responsible for most of the advancements in civilization. If Albert Einstein or Issac Newton don't convince you of the merits of being an introvert, what about Steven Spielberg or Michael Jordan?

We connect the dots. Notice things others miss. Our focus is precision; our imagination active. We are exceptional listeners. Were it not for us, you'd join your own kind around that willow tree, shouting above each other to be heard. We are the quiet minds who see and accept your loose tongue and impulsive behavior. Appreciate us for all that you can't see.

Respectfully,

The Introverts

Subterranean Inspiration

A huge thanks to everyone who took the time to send their characters to the weekend party. Turned out more like a dysfunctional dinner party, but a success, nevertheless.

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As tempting as it was to concoct a Vortex 10 list that included the perks of last week's expedition to the Texas hill country, rife with references to bat guano, Pocahontas-style canoeing and peaches straight from the orchard, I'm firmly tapped into my serious side this week. I've surpassed the distracting phase of summer and curled back into the routine I've longed for for six weeks. Mind-bending, page-counting productivity. So, for now, I offer a small installment of there's-a-story-there-somewhere:

Make a Free Flash Slideshow

The Longhorn Cavern State Park represents only five percent of cave formations found on earth, those carved by underground rivers. Similar to Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, you’ll not find stalactites and stalagmites, but an intricate system of limestone carved away much as the Colorado river shaped the Grand Canyon.

As exciting and potentially lethal as the physical science of it all was--hundred foot plunges, scorpions and my complete lack of outdoorsy-foresight to wear something besides beaded flip-flops--the human element is what captured my interest most.

In an area known as the Subterranean Ballroom, a rich and varied history unfolded. The Civilian Conservation Corp of the 1930s cleared away debris and found the remains of a confederate stronghold, including weapons, dynamite and some unfortunate souls still in uniform. During Prohibition, industrious locals crafted a raised wooden floor and stocked a limestone bar with the county’s finest bootlegged whiskey. Free drinks to the sheriffs from nearby Marble Falls and Burnet ensured everyone present had immunity from the law. The perfect irony of small-town justice.

A nearby ante-chamber known as The Church attracted the fervent Christians of the area, who felt closer to God in sixty-eight degree comfort. Ballroom stragglers who never quite made it out the night before found that closeness in slumber, laid out on the back pews.

Legend has it, Sam Bass, the notorious outlaw responsible for the Union Pacific gold train robbery in 1877, hid his stash from the Pinkerton Agents and the Texas Rangers in these vast caverns. The fortune he amassed during his short, but lucrative train and stagecoach-robbing career remains a secret of the caves.

Thankfully, the only snakes I tripped over happened to be the industrial cords to the cave's mood lighting. I left with only a fleeting sensation of white crickets in my hair as an afterburn of the adventure.

Party Time

Drinks are on the house for our first ever Character Party, lasting all weekend long. If yours wants to mingle, email me your character's name, photo you use for inspiration and a line of dialogue overheard at the party (la-mitchell@la-mitchell.com). A click on the (...) will take you to the character's creator.


"This 'rusty nail' concoction is proving stronger than Dr. Morton's Ether Dome at Massachusetts General." ~Michael Koristiaan (...)











"Ah might could have another one of those crab cake Hors d'oeuvres. Now, you want my opinion? Invest your stimulus package deal into waste management. Garbage is always a growth industry." ~Curtis Waggstaff (...)







"Gimme a fast car, a woman who isn't a witch from hell and a good burger--not necessarily in that order." ~Dean Winchester (...)











"My current project is like Blair Witch meets the original Friday the 13th, except not so funny. And with zombies. I'm opposed to all traditional distribution. We'll be leaving bits of the 16 millimeter out-takes in bus stations to create a grassroots following. Where's the restroom?" ~Roz Denks (...)






"Even teaching can be outsourced. Kids get tutored online via Bangalore. Summer classes, college prep: all online. I have to bring
added value to the classroom to stay relevant. By the way, this Pinot Noir is excellent." ~Esteban Quiroga (...)




"A man could lose himself out west. Disappear, if he wanted." ~Chester A. Farr (...)












"You got a beer?" ~Chaz Trahan (...)

Your Villian is Invited, Too

We're going to try an experiment here next Friday, a mixer of sorts for the characters populating our current novels. Scan photos or send me links (la-mitchell@la-mitchell.com) to those people who inspire you as you're writing a scene. If you're a reader, send who your mind's eye pictured for a character. Include the name of the character and one line of dialogue they're most likely to be overheard speaking at a party. Let's see what kind of crowd we can gather.

Night Language of the Body

In junior high, I found a library book on sleep positions that fascinated me. I can't remember the title, and an internet search on the subject found few leads except SIDS research and positions of the karma sutra. Maybe the "night language of the body" is a dying art.

The non-verbal communication we dispense during waking hours can be a powerful road map to our personalities, our beliefs, our dreams. Even during waking hours, subconscious behavior is filtered through the lens of our experiences. So what happens when the awareness of our own bodies slips away in sleep? Can the sleep position our bodies gravitate to be as telling as words spoken during the dream state?

Professor Chris Idzikowski, director of the Sleep Assessment and Advisory Service began an analysis of sleep positions while studying five distinctive types of snoring. His research focuses on the six most common sleep positions and the links to particular personality types.

The positions:The Foetus: Also known as the fetal position. Forty-one percent of those studied and twice as many women as men fit into this category. This position belongs to individuals who can appear tough on the outside, but have a "big heart" on the inside. Recharging that soft, vulnerable part of themselves during sleep is essential.

The Log: Fifteen percent of sleepers researched slept in this position, characterized by lying on their side, both arms down close to the body. These people are social creatures who often trust strangers, sometimes to the point of being gullible.

The Yearner: Participants who slept on their side with both arms out, around 13 percent, possessed an open, but often cynical or suspicious nature. They may require time to reach decisions, but once made won't change their mind.

The Soldier: Only 8 percent of sleep subjects slept on their back with both arms resting close to the body. Often quiet and reserved people, they avoid loud discussions. They set high standards for themselves and those around them.

The Freefall: In 7 percent of the cases, subjects slept on their stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow, head turned to the side. These people are sociable, but can be interpreted as abrasive or bad-tempered, often rejecting criticism.

The Starfish: Five percent of participants slept on their back with both arms up around the pillow. Trustworthy and good listeners, they dislike being the center of attention.

I want to add my own unscientific category here, namely because my sleep position isn't represented in the above and it's the main reason that jr. high book stuck in my brain:

The Flamingo: A combination of the log and fetal position. One straight leg represents the part of the personality seen by the world; the curled leg is symbolic of the closely guarded, private side few will ever see.

Completely me.

The remaining 5 percent of study participants slept with such variation, they couldn't be matched into any one category.

If you're into the ultra-scientific Cosmo version, you can zoom in on it here along with a lacy boy-shorts model demonstration instead of a cartoonish Wal-mart jammies version.

How accurate is Idzikowski's study? Did you find yourself? Does anyone really want to own the freefall one? Ouch.

More 10 Lists, More Fun

Our characters always say the right thing--that snappy retort those of us in real life think of after the fact and recreate a dozen times to find just the right cadence in what could have been. So in the spirit of what-I-wish-I'd-have-said and because I feel a snarky 10 list coming on, I offer up Six Flag's infamous icy Pink Thing along with ten dialogue bits I could have fired off during Monday's theme park excursion were I a book character:

1. To the studded belt park-goer: The angel wing tattoo covering your back does not inspire divine thoughts for those caught in your sweat-soaked wake. A shirt? That would be heavenly.

2. To the Walmart-esque greeter at front gate security: You, friend, picking through my bag with your long-handled wooden spoon, have restored my faith in homeland security. Consider that stash of confiscated aerosol hairspray you've accumulated your hazard bonus for a job well done.

3. To Avril Lavigne: Your AMA performance piped through on wide screen monitors made the line for the runaway mine train seem longer than an Amtrak route to New York. The 101 degree heat index liquefied my eyeliner. What's your excuse?

4. To the Six Flags corporate guy who took out the bumper car ride: The road rage previously contained and harmlessly diffused in that magnetized rink of hell has now been unleashed on your parking lot at closing time.

5. To the overworked, underpaid sanitation employees: The dust on the runaway mine train's Old West Saloon display is thicker than my living room mid-book. Before the wooden tracks plummet unsuspecting, virgin riders into the unknown, it would be nice if the Mexican gunslinger with his boots up on the table looked more menacing and less powdered-wig geriatric.

6. To the chiseled human specimen in the Green Lantern costume: Thank you for beautifying the park in a way only green spandex can.

7. To the safety engineer that decided the warning placard need only be posted on the Texas Giant's rear seat: You try resting your head back on the seat while being dropped 13 stories at 60 miles per hour. Instead, suggest a last-minute change of heart before the G-forces from your ride jackhammer the last three years of college from your passenger's brain into the ether over Dallas.

8. To the head advertising wanker on the current Six Flags account: the severed head of an exchange student screaming, "More flags, more fun" might be less misleading if you replaced it with one of the following suggestions: "More restrooms, less accidents"; "More money for a Coke; More chance you can't afford the gas to get home."

9. To the mechanic in charge of the old-fashioned cars: Although we love channeling our inner Bo Duke circa 1920's by flooring the gas pedal to make your lawn-mower engines go, the sheer force to sustain the thrill necessitates hazardous Chinese fire drills to restore human power.

10. To the testing team who created OFF! Tropical Fresh Scent: Come to Texas. You have no idea.