In 1895 Kentucky State Senator William Goebel shot John Sanford in broad daylight. Five years later he was being sworn in as the Governor of Kentucky while lying on his death bed with an assassin’s bullet in his chest. He remains the only sitting governor of a U.S. state to die by an assassin’s hand.

At the dawn of the twentieth century his will brought the Commonwealth of Kentucky to the edge of civil war. He was a man unafraid to turn the Bluegrass blood red in pursuit of his ideals and personal power.

Politicians don’t need guns to bully their citizens into compliance, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have one handy. In the case of Goebel and Sanford it is interesting to note that Sanford (while a fellow Democrat) was a banker, not a man of the people. As every good Occupy Wall Street student knows, bankers get what is coming to them. No need to mourn their passing.

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“We’re out of cranberry sauce,” I might say.

Three hours later: “Whew. Sorry, guys, you wouldn’t believe it. I had to go to twelve stores to find it!”

Would they really miss me? Wife and mother of two… probably. Alas.

I am one of those boring domestic types who typically watches movies on Netflix when they are at least two years old. I see less than ten movies a year in the real cinema and almost never on opening day (don’t tell anyone at Big Hollywood; that might be a serious deal breaker).

But director Steven Spielberg’s “War Horse” has me very intrigued. I’ve viewed the trailer more times than I care to admit. I will tell you that this is because I’m using it as an example of a kick-ass movie trailer for my daughter’s Destination Imagination team, but that would not be entirely honest (and don’t worry, I didn’t use the word kick-ass with the middle schoolers).

The truth is I’ve been nurturing a hope that “War Horse” may be one of those epic films that stirs your soul and lives in your heart long after you leave the theater.

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Thank you to everyone who participated in the informal have you been ostracized? poll. The results were interesting. More “in the closets” than I expected, and as I read the words, “just keep my mouth shut,” I became rather angry that my fellow Big Hollywood readers feel bullied in the workplace. Because that is what it is: bullying. When a human being fears that he may lose his job if he has the wrong thoughts, he is being bullied. Period. It doesn’t matter if the taunts are in your face or hovering unannounced in the air, only a bully uses his size and power to intimidate others into toeing the line.

Several of you indicated that you have lost your job, left your career or been blacklisted, which is even more disheartening.

Graphic designers and people in advertising, according to the comments, feel compelled to keep a very low profile. It makes sense, because this is an industry where the work must be commissioned. In order to stay employed, the artist needs to stay in the good graces of the powers that be. (more…)

Every time I speak about my experiences with the publishing industry, someone taps me on the shoulder, eager to share a story of their own. It should not surprise me – Big Hollywood is a site dedicated to the biases of the entertainment industry – but I am moved by the instant camaraderie I feel for the individual standing before me. It is as if we carry wounds that only fellow political outcasts could possibly understand, and when one of us emerges from beneath the cone of silence, there is hope that another may do so at any moment.

I thought that perhaps it would be an interesting project to take an informal poll of Big Hollywood readers – conservatives, libertarians, and individuals who subscribe to other improper schools of thought – who work in the entertainment industry and feel out of sorts. We should keep it simple, so let’s start with something like this:

——

Industry: Publishing

Position: Author

Status: Just keep my mouth shut

——

Industry: Music

Position: Mixer

Status: Out of the closet and out of work (more…)

Leonard Tramer’s time machine takes him nowhere near the past, but meddling with time destroys his future. When he steps out of the defective machine, he enters a totalitarian state which resembles East Germany more than the free world he left behind.

Alina put her arm out to prevent Leonard from stepping forward. “The kitchen light is on.” She grabbed an umbrella by the door and tiptoed slowly and purposefully toward the kitchen. She continued to hold one arm out to protect Leonard, which had the effect of making him feel emasculated. Irritated, he snatched the umbrella out of her hand just before they reached the kitchen.

“Garrett,” Alina cried, sounding both relieved and concerned.

The teenager stood over the sink, a muffin in one hand and a carton of milk in the other. He spoke without looking at them. “Kind of an odd time for a walk.”

“Where did you get that muffin?” Alina asked.

“None of your business.” He tossed back a swig of milk directly from the carton.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

Garrett slammed the carton of milk on the counter. “Shut up, old man.”

Leonard rushed at the insolent teenager. Alina grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back to no avail. Inches from Garrett’s face Leonard snarled, “Show some respect, young man.”

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Leonard Tramer’s time machine takes him nowhere near the past, but meddling with time destroys his future. When he steps out of the defective machine, he enters a totalitarian state which resembles East Germany more than the free world he left behind.

Impassive and appearing to have all the time in the world, Carlyle merely stared, making Leonard more uncomfortable by the minute. Eventually, Leonard concluded that silence was just another game – a game of intimidation. Focusing on the absurdity of the strategy, he resolved to wait it out and remain aloof. If Carlyle wants to play, let’s play, he thought as he adjusted his posture to mirror the commander’s – arms folded, left foot on the right knee. Leonard hardened his face and glared.

After several minutes, Carlyle smirked. He tipped his head to one side and regarded Leonard with a hint of amusement. “Kind of cocky for a son-of-a-bitch who’s locked in a room with the most powerful man at this base.”

Speaking as dispassionately as possible, Leonard replied, “You summoned me. I presume you have something you wish to discuss?”

“I do.”

“Then please, go ahead. I can’t read your mind.”

The commander stood and took a step forward. Leonard craned his neck to maintain eye contact while projecting a sense of detachment. Unable to rile Leonard, Carlyle commenced pacing slowly and confidently.

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I loved Veronica Roth’s “Divergent”… and I hated it. Before you dust off the psychiatric hospital recommendations, let me explain.

“Divergent” is a young adult dystopian science fiction novel, one of my favorite genres. Roth builds a world where citizens are divided based on their primary personality traits. A child of age may choose to join a different faction or remain with his or her family. Each tribe offers societal services compatible with their unique talents. The members of the Abnegation are selfless and modest. The people of Candor are honest and love to debate. Scholarly individuals go into Erudite. Hospitable, social members of the community are found in Amity.

The most intriguing faction, the Dauntless, crave danger and adventure.

The gaps between the buildings narrow and the roads are smoother as we near the heart of the city. The building that was once called the Sears Tower—we call it the Hub—emerges from the fog, a black pillar in the skyline. The bus passes under the elevated tracks. I have never been on a train, though they never stop running and there are tracks everywhere. Only the Dauntless ride them.

In a spellbinding story of action and adventure, Roth takes the reader on a train ride with the Dauntless, hand-in-hand with a girl from Abnegation struggling to find her place in society. “Divergent” examines the little boxes into which we organize ourselves and others, illuminating the young adult’s persistent dilemma of who am I? and where do I belong?

Today is the day before Visiting Day. I think of Visiting Day like I think of the world ending: Nothing after it matters. Everything I do builds up to it. I might see my parents again. I might not. Which is worse? I don’t know.

In spite of the narrow nature of each faction’s primary attribute, the characters are multifaceted and complicated. They surprise you. Themes of self-discovery and courage make the story a satisfying read.

So what’s my problem?

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I love art fairs and street markets, spending the day wandering from booth to booth, catching photographers, painters, glassblowers, and sculptors arranging their pieces in aesthetic displays, hoping to catch the eye of a spontaneous shopper. I admire artists who choose this venue. It is raw and vulnerable. Anything can happen. Petty words might be tossed around carelessly as if the artist was not within earshot, making the compliments of true admirers all the more valuable.

In addition to street markets, artists have other options. Small galleries, coffee shops, restaurants and even hair salons display art for sale. For the rare few, a weekend exhibit in a prestigious gallery can turn a passion into a career. The Internet explodes with opportunity for artists who build clever websites and take advantage of social networking. Even animals are staking a claim in the world of art – elephants, horses, and dogs.

The doors are open to artists of all species who use a variety of mediums – paint, clay, bronze, glass, charcoal pencil and animation – to create, display and sell their art. We don’t even question the legitimacy of the concept. I would be appalled if a small enclave of people appointed themselves to review and reject or accept each piece submitted by an artist.

Yet that is what we have come to expect of the literary community (I ought to be ashamed of starting that sentence with yet, but I relish the freedom of breaking the rules).

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If you want to publish a book in print and have it appear in any credible catalogue, you will need an ISBN number – a unique 13-digit code that identifies your book from other books in the marketplace (including different formats of the same book in large print or in another language).

If you are looking for an ISBN number, go no further than R.R. Bowker for all your ISBN needs. Well, actually, you can’t go any further. Bowker is the only company allowed to sell ISBN numbers in the United States. The going rate for an ISBN at Bowker is $125, while the competition sells ISBNs for… wait a minute. There is no competition.

In addition to selling ISBN numbers, Bowker provides a variety of data services, including a yearly (public) report on the number of books published divided into a small list of categories. As is typical with a government-sanctioned monopoly, there is no motivation to produce a meaningful (public) report with useful categories. A pathetic category like home economics appears on the list but not politics. Juvenile literature isn’t even divided up into children’s, middle grade, and young adult. Both computers and technology are on the list separately, while sociology and economics are tallied together.

If you wish to see more detailed categories for books in print, you must buy directories from Grey House Publishing, a partner company and the only publisher allowed to print Bowker’s directories. Since the average person does not want to buy a monopoly-printed directory based on monopoly-gathered data, we’ll look at the report Bowker makes available to the public: (more…)

Tune in for the next installment of Kyle Andrews’ Starlette – a satirical, dystopian thriller that pulls the red carpet out from under Hollywood’s stylish stilettos.

Hollywood. The glitz and glamour of movie stars, shining down upon the world from giant two-dimensional thrones. Projections of majesty. Icons. Myths. For years, they told us how to dress; how to speak; how to feel; how to think… And in one night, they were gone…

Andrews has woven together such an original mixture of satire, suspense, and drama it is hard to compare it to other novels. With subtle wit and gorgeous prose he paints an ominous world where a mass murderer commits genocide on the entertainment industry and Hollywood hopefuls go underground – literally.

Before the Hollywood Apocalypse, entertainers went about their daily business. Attending the Golden Me Awards was just another obligation for the elite members of the community.

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Judge Hollywood not only by what it spits out, but also by what it chooses to avoid.

I am always surprised when I have to explain to someone who the Stasi were. In fact, as a default I use the-Stasi-East-German-secret-police as one word. Nevertheless, I should admit that it was not so long ago that I didn’t know the meaning of the word Stasi. When did I learn? When I watched the brilliant, award-winning German film, Das Leben Der Anderen (The Lives of Others). That film sparked my unhealthy obsession with the Stasi.

If someone told me they did not know what a Nazi was, I would immediately contact Starfleet to determine the possibility of an intergalactic, hostile spy network on earth. Does such a person even exist? Not unless they have been kept sheltered from all forms of media for the past sixty years.

We are blessed to have many poignant movies about the Nazis and the atrocities committed in concentration camps. As the years tick by and those who lived through those unimaginable experiences slip between the pages of history, I thank God that history has been preserved in books and film.

In contrast, I find the lack of movies about East Germany (or any country behind the Iron Curtain for that matter) rather telling. It is not for absence of living witnesses or data. It is merely a lack of will to even touch the subject. When the president of the United States snubs the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, maybe it is best to just not go there. Encouraging Americans to think about the mind-boggling amount of resources required to maintain the socialist utopia might cause them to question the entire concept of socialism. (more…)

The first time it happened I rolled my eyes. The second time I felt mildly irritated. And the third? Well, I was just plain pissed off.

In a six-month period, while reading novels for my book club, I encountered three instances of an author making some cozy reference to Karl Marx – Marx at the graveyard, Marx on the bookshelf, and fond memories of reading Marx on a carefree summer day.

If one of the characters had been a rabid history professor on a rant, or perhaps a teenage ideologue on a mission to destroy capitalism, then references to Karl Marx would have fleshed out the character and enhanced the story. But no such characters appeared in the three vastly different novels. The Marx references were superfluous. Those brief allusions, dangling mid-paragraph like a turkey’s wattle, seemed more like words meant to appease someone, perhaps to reassure the publisher that the author embraced the correct thoughts.

The prevalence of (what I think is misleadingly called) a progressive ideology within the publishing industry is no secret, but I was not fully aware of the scope and the depth of it until I slipped past a checkpoint and entered the exclusive community.

When a small publisher picked up my mystery novel in 2008, political harmony seemed irrelevant. Shortly after signing the contract, I attended a writers conference in New York and there my naive assumptions met their demise. At a cocktail party, an author made a scathing remark about a conservative politician and everyone clapped and cheered. I didn’t clap, and as I looked around I realized that I was the only one.

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