tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23838343731039179942024-03-06T02:59:36.560-06:00...And Another Thing!The official blog of stand-up comedienne, tv/stage/film actor, author and artist, Carla RenéOpushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-70835616597895718272015-02-27T20:09:00.000-06:002015-02-27T20:13:42.089-06:00Star Trek: The Lost Episodes with the Ridiculous Cast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We couldn't get the channel from Pittsburgh that always broadcast the original Star Trek with our cheap antenna, but as I watched the show in bits & pieces over time, I learned the show's backstory, who the characters were and became absolutely fascinated by the obvious disconnect of traveling millions of light-years (knowing this word would certainly make me SO cool, the kids in class would have to stop calling me computer brain and then quit beating on me), and how the doorknobs and hinges on alien worlds had an eery resemblance to the ones we used on Earth.<br />
<br />
Each year, my mother had inservice meetings at the school where she worked as a Title I Teacher's Aide every summer in the 2 weeks just before school began, so my sister and I were always treated to a mini-vacation of going 4 miles out the road from our farm and into "the 'burbs"to spend every day from 7:00 to 4:00 with Aunt Betty, my mother's sister, and our first cousin, Wray.<br />
<br />
Since he was a huge Star Trek fan and had babbled incessantly about the show, we decided to watch it and see what all the fuss was about.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHFeeEcTQsKpz6GEGXpGG3iXemrtl92NmgzP98EP8NTjCuMa301lwvcQBUR2xJN26J_AZNUFQcJglRqM4qsImbw9uspn0ZTbk4BCtMxefFMbh8xXAMCMy18gmNhyphenhyphenu8hBwxA0f05w-SpI/s1600/ST_TOS_Cast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHFeeEcTQsKpz6GEGXpGG3iXemrtl92NmgzP98EP8NTjCuMa301lwvcQBUR2xJN26J_AZNUFQcJglRqM4qsImbw9uspn0ZTbk4BCtMxefFMbh8xXAMCMy18gmNhyphenhyphenu8hBwxA0f05w-SpI/s1600/ST_TOS_Cast.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Star Trek, the original cast on the Bridge of the Enterprise, NC-1701 </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After one episode, we were hooked, so each day after the show was over, we'd all go out into their big yard beneath the beautiful, old sweeping Maple tree, with the <i><b>humongous</b></i> flat, round rock that was about a foot off the ground, enabling us to stealthily warp through space without the neighbours being any the wiser, and we'd reenact all the episodes with Wray as Captain Kirk, natch, my sister Jeri as Chekhov, and myself as First Officer Spock. Mostly because I could do the cool hand thing if I taped my fingers together.<br />
<br />
The problem came, however, in choosing our missions. We quickly learned the logistical nightmare of picking a mission whose bad guys posed the biggest threat to the existence of all mankind, and in one that had minimal violence so we could dock in the Shuttle Bay and still get back to Earth in time for the afternoon snack and <i>The Munsters</i> at 3:30.<br />
<br />
My uncle did carpentry (he'd built their gorgeous home that had natural hardwood floors in every room) along with being an electrician, so was always building things in his abnormally-clean basement, and therefore a supply of the soft, White Pine 2x4s were always plentiful. We'd take the hacksaw and cut the scraps down to about 4-6" in length, then draw the dials on them with black and red magic markers, always complaining that if it hadn't been for the ridges in the wood blocks, that artwork would have been worthy of hanging in a museum, so accurate was it.<br />
<br />
Yeah, you know where I'm going with this: after the artwork and embellishments, we had our own personal, functioning <b>phasors</b>!! Of course, we'd have to make our own sound effect noises, but since we'd smartly drawn on a volume knob, this meant we could then manually adjust the volume (even then we didn't fully trust technology)--a feature we knew none of the other imaginary space explorers had. And in spite of them being horribly accurate, Captain Kirk always seemed to die numerous times in each episode by getting himself shot, then falling out the windows of the Bridge, which would fling him into space where we'd inevitably have to beam his pathetic ass back to the Bridge. And this always happened because Chekov and I never could seem to kill the Klingon bastards before they shot first.<br />
<br />
This ineptitude usually garnered us a stern lecture from the Captain, followed by a temper tantrum that required interjection from the Director, resulting in an afternoon nap (it must have been more stressful than we knew to be the Captain).<br />
<br />
When his diva-ness had awakened and the crew fortified with Mayonnaise, Cheeze and Pickle sammiches on white Wonderbread, we'd all suit up again by taping on our paper communicators, crying, "Once more unto the breach!", the director slash producer being heard to screech out the door behind us, "And don't get your pants dirty!"<br />
<br />
We learned one of life's harshest realities that summer: Some people just have no appreciation for true space exploration.<br />
<br />
We lost an icon today. And while the show aired long before I was born, I can still feel its effects on my life.<br />
<br />
Nimoy, you and Roddenberry were responsible for an entire generation of dreamers, some of us going on to careers in which we get to reach for and touch the stars daily. THANK-YOU, sirs, for trailblazing a path into the Heavens, helping others, if I may borrow the phrase, boldly go where they've never gone before.<br />
<br />
It mattered not that you weren't a real Astronaut by vocation or training--you traveled; met new alien races; fought many-faced and silver-jumpsuited creatures; held your logic and diplomacy intact in some of the most harrowing situations; had your mettle tested regularly and always passed; went through the lives and deaths of probably 75 red-shirted ensigns per year and still never saw the next one coming; worked best under stress; loved your ship and her crew; were loyal to the Prime Directive with your life; had your atoms disassembled and reassembled in the transporter, and lived anew each day enough for all the Astronauts and those like me who only dreamed of becoming one.<br />
<br />
This might have been a heavy burden, had it been a lesser Human/Vulcan hybrid, but you handled it with Grace, and of course, logic, in that beauteous and stoic way that somehow managed to still pull us in and melt us with admiration, empathy, and yes...even love. You made it seem as if you were born to it all along. And in some ways, I guess you were.<br />
<br />
Your presence here will be sorely missed, but we can take joy in knowing that another star will shine with a lot more energy and apparent magnitude tonight in the Universe.</div>
Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-75829030791876196542013-09-24T16:44:00.000-05:002013-09-24T16:47:01.357-05:00Raising the Roof on Raising Arizona<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4j6oRyQj40c9CLRnI3a1-cG_oiO13FLJxHAWF2WcXCitSGmXyB_DHLLrvnhTAsctFgtmsk7oUEOwN-LR4n-Xcy8TN4Ls3UZ7ro8zW1Yvlw1clWA0Mr2LnZm9rYCVHha7fZHOpzXWoRY/s1600/raising+arizona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4j6oRyQj40c9CLRnI3a1-cG_oiO13FLJxHAWF2WcXCitSGmXyB_DHLLrvnhTAsctFgtmsk7oUEOwN-LR4n-Xcy8TN4Ls3UZ7ro8zW1Yvlw1clWA0Mr2LnZm9rYCVHha7fZHOpzXWoRY/s1600/raising+arizona.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"; font-size: 36.0pt;">RAISING ARIZONA</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Directed by:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joel
Coen, Ethan Coen</div>
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<br /></div>
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Written by: </div>
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Ethan Coen, Joel Coen</div>
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<br /></div>
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Starring:</div>
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Nicolas Cage</div>
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Holly Hunter</div>
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Trey Wilson</div>
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John Goodman</div>
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William Forsythe</div>
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Tex
Cobb</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Synopsis and Review:</div>
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<br /></div>
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I vaguely remember seeing this film ages ago (probably just
a few years after its release), but couldn’t remember much about it, other than
it was hilarious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After viewing it again
Wednesday evening, my hunch was right.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ve always loved Nicolas Cage in everything he’s ever been
in, except for his recent string of bad movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I used to consider him to be one of the most versatile actors of our
day, but sadly, like John Cleese and Katherine Heigl, he’s now become a
caricature of himself.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Normally, I’m not a person who goes for baby movies, but
this script was just so well-done, that I found myself pulling for the
baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess that speaks to the talent
of the Coen Brothers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I adored <b><i>O
Brother, Where Art Thou?</i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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The premise was that Nicolas Cage’s character, Hi, was a
repeat offender, and on his first visit to the jail, he meets Holly Hunter, who
plays Ed, who is the officer who fingerprints him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he finally realises he could have a
happy life with her, this is his impetus for staying out of prison, having to
listen to the boring stories of his bunkmate.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Once he and Ed are married for a time, she realises that she
can’t be happy without a baby, so they begin trying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And miserably failing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once they hear that the local unpainted
furniture celebrity and his wife just had quintuplets and they joke in the
paper that they have more than they can handle, that’s when Ed and Hi hatch a
most ridiculous plan to steal one of the quints, and then deduce that since
they had more than they could handle anyway, the parents wouldn’t notice.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This might have worked, if Hi’s former prison buddies,
Wilson and Forsythe, Gale and Evelle, hadn’t broken out of prison and decided
they would stay with Hi and Ed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually, Gale notices that the unpainted furniture guy has offered a
reward for their missing baby, and that Ed’s baby looks suspiciously like the
missing child.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Hilarity ensues when they take the baby to claim the reward
for themselves.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My favourite scene is probably the one when Hi is on the run
for holding up a convenience store for a package of Huggies, and then drops
them while he’s running from the police during the huge chase scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as we notice Hi running, and the Huggies
still in the middle of the road, Ed screeches in to pick up Hi, and before he
closes the door, he scoops up the package of Huggies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed well into the next scene.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Unfortunately, I have nothing to nitpick about this
movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was well-acted (and you’d need
a huge crowbar to pry Holly Hunter’s technique away from her), and certainly
well-written.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some favourite scenes:</div>
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<br /></div>
<br /><i><br />Ed McDonnough: You mean you busted out of jail.<br /><br />Evelle: No, ma’am. We released ourselves on our own recognisance.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Gale: What Evelle here is trying to say is that we felt that the institution no longer had anything to offer us.<br /><br /> </i><br />
<i>Prison Counselor: Why do you say you feel “trapped” in a man’s body?<br /><br /> “Trapped” Convict: Well, sometimes I get them menstrual cramps real hard.</i><br /><br /><br />
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<br /></div>
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It was also nice seeing Tex Cobb in this movie, which I
believe, if I’m not disremembering, was one of the first films he did just
before reaching the height of his popularity in a string of similar character
roles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m also partial to his
performances, because he’s also from Nashville.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from Reese Witherspoon and Jamie Denton
(Desperate Housewives), it’s nice to see Nashville
actors make good.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you haven’t had a chance to see this very awesome movie,
then take a trip to Netflix and watch it right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, right NOW.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>GO!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Did I give you permission to get a snack??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>GO RENT THE MOVIE NOW! </div>
</div>
Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-52664455045278326172013-09-17T08:00:00.000-05:002013-09-19T16:58:00.638-05:00My Man Gilbert Gottfried. Wait....OH, OKAY!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJNpkEuxeGS_UpsLOrIGz4NBrtROMZz9tIHgY-H3BDBzvoSxgrJ3VBWN-V2_qLFvr0g-U8UU7DG7VltgtZqq-XanaEbmHKAArx12JLjshyphenhyphenw9UrWHM-axGAB4zFse0BvOvf50hAZ1gDTA/s1600/my+man+godfrey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJNpkEuxeGS_UpsLOrIGz4NBrtROMZz9tIHgY-H3BDBzvoSxgrJ3VBWN-V2_qLFvr0g-U8UU7DG7VltgtZqq-XanaEbmHKAArx12JLjshyphenhyphenw9UrWHM-axGAB4zFse0BvOvf50hAZ1gDTA/s1600/my+man+godfrey.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Gill Sans MT Condensed"; font-size: 36.0pt;">My Man Godfrey</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Another</i> black and
white film?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’MON! There are so many
great films from today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Words that flashed through my mind as I sat there plotting
creative ways to kill the class instructor with a butter knife and a shoe, but
let’s save that for another talk show and move on.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The opening scene immediately got my attention: it was a
dreary city dump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while this film
came from the same era as the two before it, I noticed that when the leading
man spoke, he was completely captivating:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>no affected speech and no overacting for the sake of indication; just
simple reaction to the other actors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d
never heard of Powell before (and we later learned that he never really took
off as a leading man), but he was amazing in this role.</div>
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<br /></div>
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After we see the men living at the dump, we see a limousine
pull up and two couples of rich people approach the men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They apparently were on a scavenger hunt, and
their task at hand was to find a “forgotten man” and return with him to the
hotel where the scavenger hunt is headquartered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The script handled this very offensive
situation with grace and wit, and Powell’s character had quite a few zingers
for the snobby and clueless socialites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was homeless for two-and-a-half years before getting accepted to Tech,
so I did my share of living in my car, in a crack house and on sofas with my
two cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know what it’s like to be
judged for your unfortunate situation, and I watched some of my so-called
friends drop like flies once my social status also dropped.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time we see Carole Lombard is when she and her
sister are fighting over Powell, but Lombard
eventually wins him over when she takes herself out of the hunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her rambling and dizzy-headedness was
portrayed to perfection, and she was immediately likable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Powell agrees to go with Lombard
to the hotel, and as he’s being shown off on the table, he lobs a few more
zingers to the rich and clueless snobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s then that Lombard invites him to
become their new butler the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s when the real comedy ensues, as pretty much the entire family is
bat-shit crazy, and Lombard herself doesn’t remember hiring him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, later in the movie, we find out
Powell’s character really isn’t a street bum, but a Harvard-educated
philanthropist who fell on temporary hard times.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had one major problem with this movie, and that was with
the script.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very day Powell’s
character starts working as a butler, he’s given many tasks to do, and he does
them without question, as if he’d been a butler his entire life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t hear if he worked previously as a
butler, so how exactly, did he come by the information of social etiquette?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one scene, Lombard
follows him into his butler quarters, and he says directly to her, “The family
is not to be in here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who told him the
family was bound by propriety to not socialise with the hired help or be seen
in their private quarters?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Why does Powell not show
any confusion about how to behave around the family?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems logical to conclude that if he had
never been a butler before, then he would at least show a level of being
uncomfortable at certain times, and yet, in every single instance, Powell is
cool as a cucumber; he doesn’t drop drinks, he doesn’t scorch pants, he doesn’t
screw up at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor do we ever see him
actually beginning to fall in love with Lombard,
and yet, we’re supposed to believe that he eventually leaves their employ
because she got to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even in an oxygen-deprived atmosphere
would I begin to make that leap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why the
director did not have Powell portray that emotional sky dive is beyond me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other than that, I had no problem with this delightful
movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably wouldn’t watch it again,
but it was a nice film.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBedM4XhU4BpWkB_Gsq1fswcSG404PwtwYWuBGBDOzSRB5bFJ-fM6BxcDs7XbI22mfSSUvl3en7-ZtrP3wDqx76cWWrMFjd7s3PjGLstHPKVC2gVA58KCv4Ax89OKb33XwR7Ix1CbFmk/s1600/I+Love+Lucy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBedM4XhU4BpWkB_Gsq1fswcSG404PwtwYWuBGBDOzSRB5bFJ-fM6BxcDs7XbI22mfSSUvl3en7-ZtrP3wDqx76cWWrMFjd7s3PjGLstHPKVC2gVA58KCv4Ax89OKb33XwR7Ix1CbFmk/s1600/I+Love+Lucy.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We then watched a short episode of The Three Stooges<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(whose information I was unable to locate in
the imdb), and finally, the famous Vitameatavegimin episode of I Love Lucy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed until I gave myself an asthma
attack, which in my world, means two lungs up!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BRILLIANT!</div>
</div>
Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-46493335639321879682013-09-06T20:07:00.001-05:002013-09-06T20:10:52.782-05:00Hope springs eternal in "It Happened One Night"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7u9jvrxMFGOnD13WVpOfSFvzbGwsUQAIUvdsxIKRxHF24QK4roqJq4dfUD2t0JrAOreOiivkxoLnZuZd3_hicK-vpQ4u_wTaRw6lxDcofwwNQIBlywfgAdJbyJmCFyOOwF67oifKufH0/s1600/it+happened+one+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7u9jvrxMFGOnD13WVpOfSFvzbGwsUQAIUvdsxIKRxHF24QK4roqJq4dfUD2t0JrAOreOiivkxoLnZuZd3_hicK-vpQ4u_wTaRw6lxDcofwwNQIBlywfgAdJbyJmCFyOOwF67oifKufH0/s320/it+happened+one+night.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the first few minutes of this film, I was certain it
was going to be no more impressive than <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Duck Soup</i></b>, and God help me if I had
to sit through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> hot mess again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t have hesitated to shove a fork
through my eye; or anyone else’s that happened to be laughing nearby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Claudette Colbert’s first appearance on
screen, with her thirties glamour make-up and affected, over-enunciated
Standard American Stage Dialect, reinforced my initial feelings that she was
going to be no better an actress than Margaret Dumont in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Duck Soup</i></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did
every single film that came out of this time period produce such
indication-driven overacting and barely-believable storylines?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After waiting it out for another ten minutes, I decided: I
couldn’t have been more wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like many others, I was familiar with Clark Gable by
reputation as the dashing epitome of the quintessential Hollywood
leading man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved his performance in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gone
with the Wind</i></b>, but not enough to become a die-hard fan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I wasn’t expecting him to be just so
darned good in a romantic comedy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think I, along with every other female audience member was in love with him by
the end of the movie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the film progressed, I’m happy to say that Colbert’s
acting seemed to relax—she didn’t force feelings or reactions to situations as
she did in the first scenes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this
regard, I’m guessing that Capra filmed the first few scenes in sequence, which
is usually not done in film or episodic television.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Later, in a scene extra on the DVD, we learn
from Frank Capra, Jr., that Colbert had originally considered this film the
worst of her career and bitched nearly every day on set about something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps in these first few scenes, she wasn’t
fully able to keep her private disdain for the project out of her character,
but I’m just surmising at this point.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps it was that the chemistry between herself and Gable also began
to grow, and this relaxed her a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
just know that for me, there was a marked difference between her acting in the
first scenes, and her acting in the later scenes in which she and Gable are on
the road, running from her father’s henchmen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, once her acting improved to the point where it no longer
took me out of the story, I began to settle down and enjoy the story and
characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea of a road trip for
a story that early in the 1930s was revolutionary, and it was during Capra,
Jr.’s interview that we learned why: his father had put this film together from
script to editing in just four weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hotel or Hostel rooms doubled for each other with minor set changes, car
rides were nothing more than a half-car on a sound stage with a backdrop, a
boat in the beginning, a newspaper room, and a hotel and extravagant yard for
the wedding setting at the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
wardrobe was sparse: Colbert had a total of just three costume changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know nothing of movies from the 1930s in
general, but even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> could tell this
was an unusual set-up for a movie at this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I knew there had to be a reason why it won five Academy Awards, other
than its two major stars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I said in my previous review, a strong cast cannot exist
apart from an equally-strong ensemble cast, and Capra shined in his casting in
that regard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each minor character held
their own against the film’s two stars, creating believable atmosphere and in some
cases, stand-out scenes: I was struck by the scene with Gable on the bus with
the ticket agent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the first time
I’d ever seen the Rule of Threes used, and to great effect at that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another memorable device they used was called the “running
gag”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gable strung a blanket between
beds each time that he and Colbert were in yet another hotel room, and he
called it “The walls of Jericho”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t expect another device in comedy to
be used, referred to as the “call-back”, in which a stand-up comic, who’s
usually beat a bit to death by repeating it until the audience slashes his
tires in the parking lot, refers back to it one last time at the end of his act,
much to the unexpected delight of that same audience (they LOVE it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the final scene of the movie, after
Colbert and Gable’s characters are finally wed (and they played the constant
growing sexual tension to perfection all throughout), they spend their wedding
night in one of the run-down hotel rooms similar to the ones already used in
the movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The aging owner and his wife are
standing outside, commenting on why Gable insisted on stringing a blanket
between their beds when they were on their Honeymoon, and then the man commented
to his wife that he was then instructed to go out and purchase a toy
trumpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the final seconds, we see
the hotel room from the perspective of the owner and his wife, curtains pulled,
but lights on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a second later, the
lights go out and we hear a toy trumpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Best. gag. ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fact that this whole project was based solely on a
short-story surprised me, but also gave me hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own short-stories have been published in
national comedy magazines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And not just
for pizza coupons and a cookie: for real money, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps hope does spring eternal, and if one wishes, they,
too, can knock down the walls of Jericho.</div>
</div>
Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-83498730185065170642013-08-31T19:42:00.000-05:002013-08-31T19:42:33.196-05:00It's all just Duck Soup wrapped about The Bellboy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wha??<br />
<br />
Follow along--you'll figure it out.<br />
<br />
Last week I announced that for one of my fun classes this semester, I am enrolled in a class called "The Art of Comedy". I was hoping there might be some performing, analysing of comedic plays, but alas, it is a horrible, relaxing evening, complete with popcorn and laughter, watching...COMEDIC FILMS. Yes, I know--I live a rough life.<br />
<br />
Below are my reviews of both films as I submitted them. If you agree, if you don't agree, kindly comment on your thoughts and feelings on these two films. That way I can learn more. (And to submit a comment, just click on "Snarks" and that will open the comment window.)<br />
<br />
And now, sit back, don't spill soda on the floor (or I'll make you lick it up), no sharing of popcorn, and enjoy the show!<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCoB22t26iET0GUhyUTcxETMTmI2rlo-myB0LXtIMr6W9VIW2VAx68iNeBt_0evDEQ_5bYMvv1nCvUw8xmH5VV973XItCUdxt6r3g9u8zPQ-pW1qveGS7cOkouwFDL0ksJiuA0Lhrvzs/s1600/duck+soup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCoB22t26iET0GUhyUTcxETMTmI2rlo-myB0LXtIMr6W9VIW2VAx68iNeBt_0evDEQ_5bYMvv1nCvUw8xmH5VV973XItCUdxt6r3g9u8zPQ-pW1qveGS7cOkouwFDL0ksJiuA0Lhrvzs/s320/duck+soup.JPG" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DVD cover for Duck Soup. Courtesy: Universal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<strong><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Duck Soup</span></strong><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 18.0pt;"></span><br />
Directed by: Leo McCarey<br />
<br />
Written by: <br />
Bert Kalmar--(story)<br />
Harry Ruby--(story)<br />
Arthur Sheekman--(additional dialogue) and<br />
Nat Perrin--(additional dialogue)<br />
<br />
Starring:<br />
The Marx Brothers<br />
Margaret Dumont--Mrs. Teasdale<br />
Raquel Torres--Very Marcal<br />
Edgar Kennedy--The street Vendor<br />
<br />
<br />
Synopsis and Review:<br />
I have been studying comedy for probably over twenty years. I've
studied stand-up comedy with some of the best punch-up men working in Hollywood
today; I have friends on speed-dial who are A-list, working comedians; I've
studied improvisation with Second City in Chicago; have studied and honed my
craft of physical comedy; even began writing my own one-woman shows since
character roles in my type were scarce in my area, and the one consistent
comment when someone brings up this film is "You've <em>got</em> to see
the Marx Brothers if you're into physical comedy."<br />
<br />
So, I <em>had</em> to see the Marx Brothers. I had no preconceived
notions about this film, except for my own expectation. And sadly, I was
let down. With a name like Duck Soup, I didn't even know what the plot
was, so when it later developed to be the title for a war breaking out between
Freedonia and Sylvania
over money, I was lost. <em>Was</em> that a common idiom used in the
thirties for war? I must confess, if I had known that small
colloquialism, I think my mind would've been better receptive<br />
.<br />
I was immediately put off right away with the actress, Margaret Dumont as
the social-climbing Mrs. Teasdale. I kept having to remind myself that
this was the early 30s--not many actors at this time had been trained by
Konstantin Stanislavski himself, so I had to sit in a pointed
"cringe" all during the film (and you know what they say about
cringing--if you're not careful you'll be cramping), watching her use the same
embarrassing tricks of pure indication that <em>I</em> used to do as a
beginning comedic actress: the wild eyes for surprise, or "don't look over
there"; the over-enunciation in an attempt to be exaggeratedly-funny; the
fake anger when at least an attempt at real anger might have sufficed,
etc. Yes, I have five years of strict Meisner training under my belt,
along with two in Stanislavski from a private tutor, and a theatre arts minor,
so I had to constantly remind myself not to compare everything I saw on the
screen to the polished and mellifluous actors we are privileged to see today.<br />
<br />
Groucho, eh. All I could see once he popped on screen was Alan Alda
from an episode of M*A*S*H NAILING an impersonation of him, and that made me
increase my respect for Alan, not Groucho. I know the film was supposed
to be a vehicle for this comedy team, but after a little while, the tricks and
one-off-one-liners became old and fast. But, I couldn't take my eyes away
from Harpo. To me, HE was the truly gifted comic--having to convey so much
of his intention and story with no words at all. Viola Spolin from Second City
created a language of just gibberish for that very reason: because actors
tend to rely too much on their dialogue, instead of what they should be feeling
in the scene.<br />
<br />
Yes, the scenes were childish and had no point (in fact, I still don't know
the point of the entire film except to showcase the Marx comedy team), and I
think I'd rather shove a fork through my eye than to have to sit through it
again, but during the scenes in which there was no dialogue and only physical
comedy, were the moments of sheer brilliance that came out and made this film salvageable.<br />
I would never recommend this movie to anyone I considered to be a
friend. I just really hated it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I really wanted to like it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1ddN_lex08XOo9iqWV7V1RSopuKrqcanQtbo5eA-t7ZHRCFUpoh6R39Nezg5X9NJwRfmHYQ3ZXbp77BSq-fsuvVMFnft9ZdaJntVi4_GDydlYc2zHFc7uf7Xx8VHX7XETb99WPhRdWc/s1600/the+bellboy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1ddN_lex08XOo9iqWV7V1RSopuKrqcanQtbo5eA-t7ZHRCFUpoh6R39Nezg5X9NJwRfmHYQ3ZXbp77BSq-fsuvVMFnft9ZdaJntVi4_GDydlYc2zHFc7uf7Xx8VHX7XETb99WPhRdWc/s320/the+bellboy.JPG" width="244" /></a></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #ffff99; font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 18.0pt;">The
Bellboy</span></b><br />
<br />
Directed by: Jerry Lewis<br />
<br />
Written by: <br />
Jerry Lewis<br />
<br />
Produced by: <br />
Jerry Lewis<br />
<br />
Starring:<br />
Jerry Lewis<br />
Alex Gerry<br />
Bob Clayton<br />
Cary Middlecoff – Himself<br />
Art Terry – Himself<br />
Frankie Carr – Himself<br />
Joe Mayer – Himself <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Synopsis and Review:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I had seen this delightful film many years ago on a lazy,
too-hot Saturday afternoon on some local station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no idea what the film was about (yes,
I’d already heard of Jerry Lewis and his comedic genius for years), but since I
had nothing better to do, decided to watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the moment he came on the screen, I.
was. hooked.
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As with the Marx Brothers, Lewis came a bit before my time
in his real heyday, but (and I’m pretty sure I’m not part French), I love be a
good absurdist comedy sometimes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing I think he did that was brilliant was in
giving poor Stanley,
his bellboy character, no lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then,
the “poor, put-upon, over-worked” bellboy nearly has carte blanche for his
comedic reactions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was listening
closely to the reactions of the other students in the audience as we all viewed
both films together, and I was shocked, really:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>those that rolled out loud at Duck Soup, barely even gave a titter for
The Bellboy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that one still puzzles
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s usually the same reaction when
they see my idol, Tim Conway, working his sketches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t aware physical comedy had
delineations of age differences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
I was wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, nonetheless, they come right out and say this film has
no plot, so in this regard it was the same absurdism as Duck Soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both were vehicles for their very popular
comedic genius stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since there
was no plot, in both, you could pretty much stop it anywhere you wanted and you
wouldn’t lose a thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But to me, the crucial difference is Lewis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Groucho would enter a scene and drop a
one-liner bomb just for the sake of doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whereas with Lewis, at least he stayed connected and tied to the scene
and the characters surrounding him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
made not one extraneous and unmotivated movement unless it was tied and in
reaction to a real scene happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Groucho
almost reminded me of a “Sarah Bernhardt” whose only objection in the scene was
to move downstage centre to the apron and deliver her soliloquy, apart from her
fellow characters in the scene, never let anyone interact with her, and then
when she was done, she would step back upstage to her original spot, and allow
the other actors to work; he would simply prance around the stage in a crouch
for the sake of preening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this was definitely not Lewis’ way of working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reacted to nearly everything around him—he
pretty much had to, because he had no dialogue until the last twenty-seconds of
the film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, he deftly told his
own story—representing “the every man” who works a menial job for bosses who
take credit for their work, and some who even mock him because he’s different.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what do we find out in the end?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s just like everyone else—he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> have a voice and he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i> use it, but no one asked him to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could be digging levels deeper than I was supposed to, but
that’s part of the reason I love this film so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard the French love absurdist plays
and comedies, and that’s why they’ve been such a huge fan of his for as long as
he’s been performing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’ve also
heard that’s why many people didn’t like him—my dad, included (he’s just being
stupid; makes no sense).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had to
look to a comedic hero upon whom to base and learn my physical comedy skills,
Lewis would be in at least one of the top two spots.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, I’ll make the point that in those rare few scenes
when Lewis was appearing as himself, the audience laughed even harder at his
comedic moments—times when he was in no, way, shape or form, being
absurdist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we just don’t have as many fans of
adsurdism as I had thought—or hoped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did believe everything that was happening to him and
around him (one reason a top-notch ensemble cast is key), but not so much with
the Marx Brothers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though Lewis
used no words, and went over-the-top with his comedic reactions/actions, yes, I
did believe he was being truthful, which I guess is why I was one of only few
in the audience who really had a good belly laugh, and fell in love with poor
Stanley, the Bell Boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLI6CJIrZumWv6X6hCKmTAD-MJG6xJFy816AnN9g_DBqEQl5fVoB9GRC4LnESJpuqAUeCTKdj_6JAX4Fk1OJ0G483LwXZI41ItWkr6k0FGrisqBvDKvStDTbDVFLEqUhB8w4ki-Zi-9Wo/s1600/martin+and+lewis+with+Hayes.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLI6CJIrZumWv6X6hCKmTAD-MJG6xJFy816AnN9g_DBqEQl5fVoB9GRC4LnESJpuqAUeCTKdj_6JAX4Fk1OJ0G483LwXZI41ItWkr6k0FGrisqBvDKvStDTbDVFLEqUhB8w4ki-Zi-9Wo/s320/martin+and+lewis+with+Hayes.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And yes, that is HAYES!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In conclusion, I will make one suggestion:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’ve never had the chance to see Sean
Hayes (Jack McFarland of Will & Grace) in his ah-MAZ-ing performance of the
life of Jerry Lewis in the film for CBS entitled, “Martin and Lewis”, then you
are truly depriving yourself of something special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been a fan of Hayes’ because of W&G,
but because he was portraying Jerry Lewis, I was doubly-excited, and I was NOT
disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, in some spots of
The Bellboy, the performance given by Hayes of Lewis, and Lewis as Stanley
began to blur—they all became one person/actor/character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how good Sean was in this film, and I
believe it was nominated for a SAG award for best male actor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just because I like you, I'll add a cherry on top for you: This October 3, again on NBC, Hayes returns to episodic comedy with his new show, <i><b>Sean Saves the World</b></i>. 9/8C. Can't wait! </div>
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Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-37022799029484397302013-08-23T23:06:00.000-05:002013-08-23T23:06:19.970-05:00Just an Elaborate Hazing Ritual<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
That's what a friend called it when I asked him what the point was of Tennessee Tech's "shove it up your butt" method of learning.<br />
<br />
"Just think of it as an elaborate hazing ritual that you must survive."<br />
<br />
HA! There it is. The magic word: <b>SURVIVAL</b>.<br />
<br />
The reason I've been so conspicuously absent from this homey place is because I was accepted to Tennessee Tech University and began class on June 6, 2011 (as most of you already know). That's when life as I knew it disappeared forever.<br />
<br />
Since that time, I've been involved in a personal struggle for survival; I lost my financial aid thanks to the wise old owl, Obama, and am now working as a Teaching Assistant in both the Physics and Mathematics departments, since stupidly, that was in which fields I chose to double major. I work about 30 hours per week, in addition to a full-time schedule of classes. I've had TWO brand new laptop computers simply demagnetise and die on me within the same year I purchased them (which happens--the factories always ship to the distributor with a few bad sectors, and they have no way of knowing which ones are about to go bad, so it's a crap shoot as to how long it will last when you purchase any computer, really), and am now forced to use a computer donated to me by one of the professors for which I TA; I sweet talk the landlords, begging them for more time and flashing them from time-to-time with my incredibly awesome and powerful boobs; I am now on a first-name/bribery basis with the head supervisor at the electric company (and even know the names of her children); and I've even slept with a professor or three for an A. It made me nostalgic for the two-and-a-half years I was homeless.<br />
<br />
And you thought I was simply memorising formulas and learning how to calculate and integrate the area under the curve on a graph. Stupid human. <br />
<br />
But that's not the kind of survival I'm talking about, cheekily. <br />
<br />
In reality and all seriousness (something you will hardly ever see me be on this blog), no one really knows what we go through--those of us who attend a science/tech-intensive school, such as Tennessee Tech, MIT, CalTech and CalSci, Georgia Tech, and I could go on. They are now calling us the MIT of the South--that, from an MIT professor. <i>We</i> are now the go-to Engineering school, and not Georgia Tech. And with that reputation comes a <i>lot</i> of responsibility, preconceptions and, wait for it...<b>PRESSURE</b>.<br />
<br />
The stress that we are under is incredible, and if you've never been in such an intensive environment, it would be difficult to grasp. I wasn't aware, and in a lot of ways, wasn't prepared for it when I began. Having one degree in music, I thought, well, I aced that, how hard can <i>this</i> be? Naivety: the last bastion of the ignorant. It took me about a year-and-a-half to realise just what was happening to me: how I had to abandon old study techniques that had worked for me in the past and up my game just to keep pace; how suddenly, I needed to attend study groups--something I laughed at before; how I needed to memorise office hours, since I would be in there 1/3 of the time now, begging professors to drop extra gems of knowledge on my head, hoping it would soak in; how my "free time" would now be spent in homework, my house strewn with notebooks and textbooks; how it would be days before I could locate my three cats <i>beneath</i> those notebooks and textbooks. <br />
<br />
And forget being sick: there is no room (or compassion) for those who miss even a day; you are still expected to keep pace with the material and take exams on their scheduled days. My question was, who the hell reads a textbook in between bouts of horking and fevered-chills?? I finally had to mount a book stand above my toilet. <br />
<br />
And yet, that's what's expected of us.<br />
<br />
With this esteemed reputation also comes the preconceived notion that you <i>will</i> perform to national standards with grades. Do you know the average Calculus student ends up retaking one of the three in the sequence (usually Calculus II--the most difficult) at <i>least</i> three times? Why? It's certainly not because we're stupid (a fact that my closest friends have had to remind me of several times when I failed an exam and automatically went to the "I'm too stupid to live" dark place). I mean, we needed the requisite ACT scores to get accepted, so stupidity isn't it. One of my professors said once that we <i>should</i> be required to retake it at least twice, since the material moves so quickly and this subject is so packed with information.<br />
<br />
But do you know the dark reality of attending one of these schools? You're expected to be <i>good</i> in math. When you're accepted, the professors already expect you to know this stuff (isn't that why we're there--to <i>learn</i> it, for crap's sake?).<br />
<br />
So why are so many engineering majors dropping out or changing their majors in droves, without a viable reason? The math. In the freshman math courses that I am a TA, I will ask the students in the beginning what their major is, and they will invariably say "engineering" of some kind. And yet, by the end of the semester, their answer has changed to something like "business" or "criminal justice"--something without math.<br />
<br />
I think this is sad, because the dark reality is that no one really teaches you how to study math; you're not taught how to study for a math exam (what? you can study for a math exam??).<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREeJZRcZzzpZgoNGyv7T-PotExBYa8b9Jkx0YK9iDFUhIXLN_6FNdtFsZQp9n6GjOwZvJzdO1hjOsNmxJEQnxqZzUJzkj2oZXsO66_iH_c3MYblDqhy4XOcGzMs577i5gc9uYCmKeO3s/s1600/arithmophobia1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREeJZRcZzzpZgoNGyv7T-PotExBYa8b9Jkx0YK9iDFUhIXLN_6FNdtFsZQp9n6GjOwZvJzdO1hjOsNmxJEQnxqZzUJzkj2oZXsO66_iH_c3MYblDqhy4XOcGzMs577i5gc9uYCmKeO3s/s320/arithmophobia1.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
This summer I just finished retaking a Calculus course that I failed previously because of the cervical radiculopathy (pinched nerve in my neck), and the professor I had was. simply. amazing. I would worship at her feet for years to come if I could. She is originally from India, and her father, a <b>FAMOUS</b> Indian physicist, was great in math. She shared with me that in the 70s, NASA sought him out, due to his reputation, to work on the Saturn rocket programme, but because some of his friends passed on misinformation about NASA, stating it wasn't a reputable agency, he turned down the position--something he regretted until his dying day. But she shared with the class that he put so much pressure on her to be good at math, too, that it created in her an intense test anxiety that included diarrhea, high fever, chills, and the wonderful vomiting. I was mesmerised at her story, because I suffer extreme math test anxiety, too--something I was ashamed to admit or even share with anyone. (My high-school algebra teacher was a pimple. All he wanted to do was be outside, coaching the girls' softball team, since he was their coach and they met during our 7th period class, so needless to say, I barely made it out of there with a D.)<br />
<br />
But because of this woman sharing her story at how she had to develop skills to overcome that anxiety if she was to pass any math courses and graduate at all, I now have a clear set of skills and a logical, step-by-step way to approach my math-intensive courses: physics, math and chemistry, with the confidence that I CAN conquer this anxiety and make great grades. If I follow this paradigm, then I will be prepared for exams from day one and will never have to study for another math-intensive exam.<br />
<br />
Sadly, however, not all professors share this bit of wisdom, or else they simply don't know about it. A lot of our math professors are former Tech grads themselves, and for most, it simply came easy. They can't relate to the fear of math or the severe test anxiety that makes me cry through most of my exams. (Yes, sadly, that's true--my panic overtakes me so badly that I begin to cry, and then waste most of my time calming my ass down just so I can finish.)<br />
<br />
And I know what you're thinking: doesn't that school come equipped with a counseling centre? Of course we do. But the sad reality there is that when I sought them out my first summer to conquer my test anxiety, I knew more about it than they did, from simply Googling the subject and reading everything I could about it. Do these counselors know anything about the intensive pressure we go through? Nope, because they have counseling or psychology degrees, and those Humanities departments at other schools are nothing even remotely close to the difficulty of Bruner and Foster Halls (Physics/Math and Chemistry buildings) at Tn Tech. They have not been through the "Elaborate Hazing Ritual" that those of us here must survive.<br />
<br />
How do we stop the cycle, then? I intend to begin by letting these <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/arithmophobia" target="_blank">arithmophobic</a> students air those grievances in a support group, called "I 8-A pi"--the first official, "I hate math" support group. Because, how can we begin to heal something if we don't acknowledge that it's broken first? It will be a group where students can bitch about their high-school algebra teachers without fear of retribution or judgement, but at the same time, a place where I can then attempt to equip them with the tools I'm learning and developing for conquering test/math anxiety.<br />
<br />
And in the wake of such math-intensive courses each semester (since I long-since completed my core curriculum and humanities requirements), next week I begin a course entitled, "The Art of Comedy". I am going to attempt to blog about that class and my experiences in it each week, if the rest of the crap I'm taking doesn't kill me. So stay tuned.<br />
<br />
And in the meantime, the elaborate hazing ritual continues.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(I would love to hear your thoughts about your own experiences with math in the comments section. The more data I get on varied experiences, the more it will help me with this new group. Thank-you for reading!)</span></div>
Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-90417376163214463382011-09-23T05:02:00.000-05:002011-09-23T05:02:11.732-05:00The Wright Brothers Never Invented the Airplane--Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDDY1R52nIkTjW5UJOKAxu4xiUfYcZ6QtJ540COqxKzycftSpdOlFGJdNh15vgbHAtYR6_srQ-HPnjJ8aPeyqo2Kn3UIr5jaRmmZS7rPXLGo4yThNHKyf-nLBvbSgy291Mc2Kg2S3iXA/s1600/air+france+airbus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Yes, I know I owe you an update from last week, but my homework started to get the best of me so I needed to put this on hold temporarily, so I'll combine two weeks' class updates into one post.<br />
<br />
I've always joked my end would be death by homework. Now it's not so funny. Well, okay, maybe it's just a <i>little </i>funny.<br />
<br />
But not to me. Okay, so I've laughed about it.<br />
<br />
Can we move on?<br />
<br />
Did you know the Wright Brothers never really invented the airplane? They get all the credit for doing so because they were savvy enough to get to the patent office first. The actual inventor of the airplane was Glenn Curtis (unless you're a die-hard Brazilian and then it's Dumont). <br />
<br />
Curtis was commissioned by Alexander Graham Bell to create an engine for a "heavier-than-air" machine, thanks to his stupendous reputation for inventing and working with machinery. When the private pilots' licenses were issued, he received his first. Orville Wright received license number five, because at that time, the licenses were issued in alphabetical order. And then there was that whole Patent Office snafu that any idiot with a finger can Google.<br />
<br />
I eagerly awaited last week's class. I'd often wondered just how a ground school flight instructor would begin explaining such a complex machine. How did one begin explaining how to navigate and manoeuvre an aircraft through three-dimensional space? Thankfully, our cars operate on two axes in the Cartesian plane (that diagram you've seen of two lines that intersect): x and y. But now we suddenly have z with which to contend. It almost seems like God gave the morons who can't drive an extra dimension in which to screw up.<br />
<br />
So we started the meat of the lecture with a basic diagram of a plane. Seemed a likely place to start. Then we immediately began discussing the aerodynamics.<br />
<br />
There are four forces that act upon the aircraft: <i>Gravity (weight)</i>, <i>Lift, Drag</i> and <i>Thrust</i>. Weight is pretty self-explanatory, especially to a woman. Lift is the interesting one because it's created out of a combination of airfoil surfaces, thrust, and low/high-pressure spots on the wing. Actually, lift is created out of a difference in pressure between these forces. Drag is a difficult one to explain because why it occurs is very tricky (aside from the fact that there are many varying types of drag a pilot needs to know), and thrust is comprised of juicy things like the slipstream (the phenomenon of air created by a propeller that wraps around the body of the plane causing it to yaw), torque, another natural phenomenon that pushes the airplane to the left to counteract the yaw, load factors and finally the gyroscopic effect (the phenomenon that causes the plane to respond to a command 90% later than it's given).<br />
<br />
NOW we were talking. This was the physics' portion and I was in heaven. Although my Russian flight instructor (who also happens to be my math advisor) goes so fast I'm certain there will be a lot of out-of-class study in order to grasp all of it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBG6CGUqu88GlIZoHtChCf288cJfakBy2NZAtPGkRw7kkuRNsuM1Ehk535PsDab4uAB0cgq_HBkg6adYaeb1N2rhLz5uDjrWmWdO7cHZKZNib4Dfv0x8r8nLisH_i2tMtTWLeIVhatXfQ/s1600/220px-Vulcan.delta.arp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBG6CGUqu88GlIZoHtChCf288cJfakBy2NZAtPGkRw7kkuRNsuM1Ehk535PsDab4uAB0cgq_HBkg6adYaeb1N2rhLz5uDjrWmWdO7cHZKZNib4Dfv0x8r8nLisH_i2tMtTWLeIVhatXfQ/s1600/220px-Vulcan.delta.arp.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBG6CGUqu88GlIZoHtChCf288cJfakBy2NZAtPGkRw7kkuRNsuM1Ehk535PsDab4uAB0cgq_HBkg6adYaeb1N2rhLz5uDjrWmWdO7cHZKZNib4Dfv0x8r8nLisH_i2tMtTWLeIVhatXfQ/s200/220px-Vulcan.delta.arp.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avro Vulcan Bomber </td></tr>
</tbody></table>The <i>angle of attack (AOA)</i> is very important in flying because it affects the amount of lift that acts on the aircraft. Most standard airfoils (wings) on modern planes have a general AOA of about fifteen percent to the relative wind. This means the wings are angled at fifteen-degrees to the ground. (Model airplanes, however, don't have camber wings, they have delta wings, much like most fighter jets, thus, they don't operate under the same laws of general aerodynamics). <br />
<br />
Flaps and ailerons are two control surfaces that deflect air flow and change the camber of the wing (camber, being the general curvature on top of the wing). The only thing you use a flap for is to steepen your approach on landing. Remember, I said from last week that a landing is a controlled crash (stall)? This is why. Reduce the amount of air flowing over the wing, and your airplane will be heading for a swift landing while you're still trying to see Sarah Palin's house in Russia. <br />
<br />
And you've all heard of <b><i>Bernoulli's Theorem</i></b> where flight is concerned. It's not magical or mystical, or even difficult. It just states, in a nutshell, that the faster an object moves through a liquid (air), the lower the pressure it creates. The Theorem was created for fluid dynamics, but one can think of air as a type of fluid which carries similar characteristics, thus the theorem can be applied to aerodynamics. <br />
<br />
Fast forward to this week.<br />
<br />
After learning the external forces that act on the aircraft, we then turned our attentions inward to the instruments.<br />
<br />
Compass: this points to magnetic north but the north on aviation charts is true north. This produces a phenomenon known as the <i>Turning Error</i>, where the centre of gravity tilts south of the compass heading during a turn. So you must compensate for it before the turn. (Briefly, while we're on turning, it isn't the rudder that turns the plane. The rudder simply tilts the plane, and the natural forces turn the plane. Try this on your bicycle--you don't first turn your wheel to turn, you first lean into the turn. It's the same idea.)<br />
<br />
The compass suffers from something called <i>Magnetic Deviation</i>, meaning, other metallic objects in the cockpit affect its reading.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDDY1R52nIkTjW5UJOKAxu4xiUfYcZ6QtJ540COqxKzycftSpdOlFGJdNh15vgbHAtYR6_srQ-HPnjJ8aPeyqo2Kn3UIr5jaRmmZS7rPXLGo4yThNHKyf-nLBvbSgy291Mc2Kg2S3iXA/s1600/air+france+airbus.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDDY1R52nIkTjW5UJOKAxu4xiUfYcZ6QtJ540COqxKzycftSpdOlFGJdNh15vgbHAtYR6_srQ-HPnjJ8aPeyqo2Kn3UIr5jaRmmZS7rPXLGo4yThNHKyf-nLBvbSgy291Mc2Kg2S3iXA/s1600/air+france+airbus.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Air France Airbus A330 </td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDDY1R52nIkTjW5UJOKAxu4xiUfYcZ6QtJ540COqxKzycftSpdOlFGJdNh15vgbHAtYR6_srQ-HPnjJ8aPeyqo2Kn3UIr5jaRmmZS7rPXLGo4yThNHKyf-nLBvbSgy291Mc2Kg2S3iXA/s1600/air+france+airbus.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"></a>Does anyone remember that horrible <i><b>Air France flight 447</b></i> jumbo jet accident in June 2009? For the longest time, the BEA (the French version of our NTSB) was unable to determine what caused this Airbus A330 to simply fall out of the sky and crash, killing all 228 people on board. In fact, the investigation is still on-going. And it's now labeled as the worst aviation accident to occur since the American Airlines Flight 587 accident in 2001, and it was the first deadly accident to happen to an Airbus A330 while in passenger service.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
The most apparent and largest cause was due to this next instrument: the <i>Pitot Tube</i>. In layman's terms, it's an airspeed indicator. It's a small blade-like tube mounted on the outside of the aircraft. The Altimeter and the Airspeed Indicator take their input from the Pitot Tube. On this particular Air France Airbus, the Pitot Tubes had become iced over from lack of a working heating apparatus, thus giving inexact readings on the instruments in the cockpit. The Pitot Tubes measure constant fluctuations in air-pressure readings, because <i>that</i> is what the instruments measure. An altimeter is the best example of this, because it doesn't measure height off the ground, it measures the difference in air pressure from one altitude to another as compared to the air pressure on the ground; one reason a pilot must check the daily atmospheric pressure before take-off.<br />
<br />
So, that was the gist of the lectures. But I have a delicious surprise for you. Next Saturday, October 1, I will be in the cockpit for my first flight lesson, and I will try to get live photos and maybe even some video for you. This won't be my first flight lesson or first time flying a plane, but it will be for this excursion into my pilot's license.<br />
<br />
And now, please place your seats in their upright position, grab your gear and deplane. We'll see you next week, from the cockpit.</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-61950419053037832772011-09-07T20:18:00.000-05:002011-09-07T20:18:49.665-05:00The Penguin Finally Earns Her Wings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirPT-ZqpzzT99qJ832dX3mJLRk7O1GdlYujACByhxsmjpxSYCiTWEA73Xogm91sRHaj1CowCFK4bjdyMI6Ho-eez2mfPdlXxUOlXoNzfGC22cUDghhht9Dpy01OfjyqpnaOc48-3O3Ho/s1600/planeweb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirPT-ZqpzzT99qJ832dX3mJLRk7O1GdlYujACByhxsmjpxSYCiTWEA73Xogm91sRHaj1CowCFK4bjdyMI6Ho-eez2mfPdlXxUOlXoNzfGC22cUDghhht9Dpy01OfjyqpnaOc48-3O3Ho/s320/planeweb.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TTU Plane at Sparta Airport, TN</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>"Stall an airplane at the wrong time, and it's a crash. Stall it at the right time, and it's a safe landing."</b><br />
<br />
This is how my FAA ground school instructor opened today's inaugural ground school class. One of the perks of TTU Aviation membership is free ground school instruction, so two minutes later I was reaching for my credit card (Membership also included the 2012 FAA manual for ground school, my first empty log book, and a really snazzy cool yellow membership card without lamination with my name in red marker). <br />
<br />
I already had hours from flying years ago, but since I was grounded due to an inner-ear problem and then ran out of funds, and regulations have changed so quickly along with the planes themselves, I decided to start from the beginning again, and one of the perks of being one of my Twits is that you get to read about every hair-raising, joy-inducing and mind-numbingly-boring moment as they happen.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcZ0hEN-Vz6IxOOvqq3gAjwLm1Pwe8L05tAD0kgq2V5Ht-DsGnvUbJGjBggWfnIKv6BR9Wt1Rxl2O1QNCt5JxI-_i71p1mJ5RRlkDk4DWfwCLNfbSFiECmTGWKlVaopmyoGfZmKITxU8/s1600/atlantisrollout_sts135_1800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcZ0hEN-Vz6IxOOvqq3gAjwLm1Pwe8L05tAD0kgq2V5Ht-DsGnvUbJGjBggWfnIKv6BR9Wt1Rxl2O1QNCt5JxI-_i71p1mJ5RRlkDk4DWfwCLNfbSFiECmTGWKlVaopmyoGfZmKITxU8/s320/atlantisrollout_sts135_1800.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Space Shuttle Atlantis in its final rollout to launch pad<br />
at Kennedy Space Center, July 2011<br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I guess my love of flying came from my dad and his side of the family. Our cousin Gary was an air-traffic controller for the Navy and then the private sector for twenty years (he refers to the both of us as "a couple of fixed-wing nuts" since he has his private pilot certification, too), eventually becoming a supervisor. My great Uncle Elmer (now deceased) was head mechanic for San Francisco Int'l airport, and his son retired from the same position. Then I've bored everyone with tales of my great Uncle Keith (also deceased) who worked at McDonnell-Douglas in Saint Louis, on the team of aerospace engineers who designed the original Space Shuttle.<br />
<br />
Then there's my dad. Poor eyesight precluded his fulfilling his dream of flying rotary-wing aircraft (helicopters), but an insatiable love of them didn't preclude his talking about them incessantly, and I think it sort of rubbed off. (Psst: Don't tell him, but I plan to surprise him next October 4 on his birthday by chartering a plane, landing on the hill of a nearby farm and then taking him up and letting him fly again. That's been another little bucket list item of mine and I can't wait. I'll post later where to send flowers.)<br />
<br />
If you've never been at the controls of a fixed-wing aircraft, flying is like a secret no one else knows. Feeling the G-forces as you manoeuver, knowing the risks of flying beyond the specifications and limitations of the craft (just because you've always wanted to know what it's like to fly through a Cumulus cloud and feel alive when that lightning strikes your head), being fully prepared for what to do if you lose an engine on your twin-engine Cessna, while losing attitude control, while you're low on fuel, and all while discovering that you've suddenly run out of Twinkies.<br />
<br />
It's. a. rush. Well, not the Twinkie part, but follow along.<br />
<br />
I was under the impression that there were five classificatons of pilot licenses: Private without instruments (single-engine), private with instruments (single-engine), private double-engine land, private double-engine water, and commercial (where you could fly for a major carrier like American Airlines).<br />
<br />
Man, I hate to be wrong. Classes are: <br />
<br />
<ul><li><b><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/#Grade">Grade</a></b> - determines the kinds of flying a pilot can do <ul style="list-style-type: square;"><li><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/student.html" title="Student Pilot. 0+ flying hours. 16 or older.">Student Pilot</a> - local solo training flights without passengers (I will have this as soon as next week)</li>
<li><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/recreational.html" title="Recreational Pilot. 30+ flying hours.">Recreational Pilot</a> - local uncontrolled day flights 1 passenger</li>
<li><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/private.html" title="Private Pilot. 40+ flying hours.">Private Pilot</a> - flights worldwide with passengers, non-profit (I will have this after my first solo flight in eight-ten hours from now of in-plane time with my instructor)</li>
<li><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/commercial.html" title="Commercial Pilot. 250+ flying hours.">Commercial Pilot</a> - paid flying allowed, can be airline copilot (Think bush pilots of Alaska)</li>
<li><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/ATP.html" title="Airline Transport Pilot. 1500+ flying hours.">Airline Transport Pilot</a> - paid flights, can be airline captain</li>
</ul></li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/#Ratings">Ratings</a></b> - what aircraft a pilot can fly and how - VFR or IFR <ul style="list-style-type: square;"><li><b>Category</b> - Airplane, Glider, Rotorcraft, Lighter Than Air...</li>
<li><b>Class</b> - eg Airplane Single or <a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/multi-engine.html">Multi Engine</a> Land/Sea</li>
<li><b>Type</b> - needed for each turbojet or heavier than 12,500 lbs</li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.pilotratings.com/instrument.html" title="Instrument Rating. 40+ hours of training.">Instrument</a></b> - separate for each Class and Type Rating</li>
</ul></li>
</ul><br />
VFR stands for Visual Flight Rules (Flying only by visual ground cues; something you can't use, for instance, while your city suffers the effects of hurricane Lee [!]), and IFR stands for Instrument Flight Rules (You need to know how to fly by instruments if you wish to fly at night, solo, or even get your water certificate; if you wish to fly into Nashville Airport, you don't need IFR because it's a Class-A airport, but if you wish to fly into Atlanta, then you need to have your instrument rating or else they will deny you permission to land, because they're a Class-B airport.)<br />
<br />
Over the next three or four months, follow my weekly account as I relate to you the struggles of juggling a busy Astrophysics/Applied Mathematics schedule with additional book training for passing my Private Pilot certificate, while dealing with Systemic Lupus and Fibromyalgia and debilitating fatigue sometimes so severe I can't hold a fork.<br />
<br />
And don't forget the Twinkies. Will keep you fully updated on the supply. <br />
<br />
This has been my dream since I was a kid--to hold a Commercial and eventual ATP Certificate. So what's an Astrophysicist who also holds advanced degrees in Applied Mathematics want with a license to fly idiot people on jumbo jets cross-country?<br />
<br />
It's all about the flight, baby.<br />
<br />
And I'll end with my favourite DaVinci quote about flying:<br />
<br />
<b><i>"When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return." </i></b></div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-74633876229757937122011-05-14T18:56:00.001-05:002011-05-14T18:56:40.482-05:00Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbkaBkbj-f1nT5U1YjyOgwJIWJrIPsQkh7KtfnoaIPkaKwMO0OppmHmXBedZRYSgwH58vpsm1XCo77J0SMqoLZzjKsoICaR5AKUtaTJVpLDeessz6NMlHEwJG-4XsnV0x4u8SfHsDll4/s1600/dale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbkaBkbj-f1nT5U1YjyOgwJIWJrIPsQkh7KtfnoaIPkaKwMO0OppmHmXBedZRYSgwH58vpsm1XCo77J0SMqoLZzjKsoICaR5AKUtaTJVpLDeessz6NMlHEwJG-4XsnV0x4u8SfHsDll4/s1600/dale.jpg" /></a></div>It isn’t every day you wake up to suddenly realize you’re related to a cartoon. Every time I see <em>Dale Gribble</em> on <strong><em>King of the Hill</em></strong>, I swear Mike Judge had actually crawled inside my head and put my uncle Bob in his show. <br />
<br />
Bob is my mother’s oldest sibling and only brother. And now that I’m an adult, I understand this was a smart move on God’s part, since I’m convinced that if Bob had been forced to share the testosterone with his brothers, he would’ve eaten them alive in order to preserve the stupidity of the species. You see, Uncle Bob was a shining example of just what a high-functioning degree of stupidity could do for a man.<br />
<br />
My first memory of Bob is one evening at the house, watching him load his dogs into their wire cages to haul us all off to the local 4-H camp. That’s right, folks: Bob had twelve Coon hounds. The truly amazing part wasn’t that he had so many dogs, but that they actually had a Coon hounds club that met once a month (and that they could read a calendar). Aside from a secret handshake that involved the licking of the palms, to this day I still don’t know what they did at these meetings. But he loved it so much they eventually promoted him to President. He’d sit there, just presiding over the meetings in his mirrored sunglasses and green John Deere cap with his Marlboro clenched between his teeth, which he refused to remove even while chugging his beer. And if the man had been a church-goer, that’s the way he would’ve attended church, which was probably why my Aunt stopped inviting him in this manner:<br />
<br />
“Bob, if you’re not going to change out of that get-up for a quick brunch with the Lord Jesus, then I’ll just have to pray you go to hell, because I’m not explaining that mess to God almighty when it’s your time to go.”<br />
<br />
Bob was a walking contradiction. On one hand, he was very political--a devout Democrat for as long as I can remember. He believed in organized government (which was a surprise since he never once balanced his checkbook or carried a calendar to organize his time), and yet he never missed a vote at the polls, or the opportunity to rub my family’s very strict Republican noses in it.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, his conspiracy theories and nut job ideologies tended to force him to lean so far to the left that he could wrap around himself twice and kiss his own right ass-cheek. “Clean air is nothing but a government plot,” he’d say, while coughing up another piece of his lung. It was twenty-three-years later that he finally stopped smoking. “Just seemed like it was time,” was his answer when asked why. Sure. And that six-month long round of radiation therapy was just another extended-stay opportunity to enjoy the Jell-O.<br />
<br />
Since he was a seasoned hypochondriac, for a long while after they finally diagnosed the lung cancer and told him his time was limited, the rest of us could’ve sworn he was happier than he’d ever been in his life. I think it had something to do with the constant Xs he’d mark on the floor, while dramatically stating, “THIS is where I’m going to die. Mark it down on your calendars. The second I hit forty, you can come back to this spot and find me as cold as mom’s gravy.” We got to the point where we were just plain tired of him constantly getting our hopes up. As of right now, he’s seventy-three, has had part of his stomach removed due to cancer, and still draws those Xs on the kitchen floor. I think it was finally some time back in the mid-Eighties that my Aunt switched out the red crayon for a piece of chalk: Just easier for her to clean up when the deadline had passed with yet another disappointment. Much like the Rapture.<br />
<br />
Still, I always liked Bob. Although, the only time he was ever funny was when he told really bad jokes and then laughed his own ass off all by himself, which is really what made him funny. At least he was smart enough to bring his own audience.<br />
<br />
I remember one summer in particular where my sister and I, along with our cousins--Bob’s two sons--decided rather than go outside and play in the heat, we’d stay in to watch TV. Now, I’m not exactly sure who found it first, or why we felt the need to go searching through the couch cushions, but suddenly one of us pulled out a Penthouse from the armchair. At first, no one said much--we just kinda stared in fascination. None of us were older than twelve, so while we knew <em>what </em>we were looking at, we just weren’t sure <em>what</em> we were looking at. I think the bigger question for me was, when do you get it to look and act like <em>that</em>? As we slowly leafed through the pages the one consistent question we kept asking on another was, “This is Bob’s magazine?” It was too weird for any of us to think that Bob owned such a piece of high-brow literature, since none of us had ever seen him read, or even kiss his wife for that matter--which had to be to her relief. There were times you could just tell if given the chance, she’d run him over with her car and then hide the body. To this day, even her sons are convinced Bob could not be their father.<br />
<br />
But, back to the book. <br />
<br />
Everything we saw up to that point was pretty tame. While we liked to think we were experts already, we could only guess. However, as soon as Roger turned the page to the centerfold, he nearly dropped the book, my sister screamed and hid her eyes, Roger’s younger brother passed out and I just couldn’t help myself: I laughed out loud. For there, in all his stapled and glossy glory, was none other than THE Ron Jeremy. While it’s true there isn’t much need for a sixth-grade junior high-school lady to have any working knowledge of who Ron Jeremy is, apparently the rules for boys were very different, for both Bob’s sons yelled, “Hey! It’s Jeremy!” And I just couldn’t stop looking at...his...um.... His nose was just so BIG for his face. It made you wonder how he was ever able to wrap a tissue round that thing when he sneezed. Luckily, though, he had lots of women hovering over him in the photos to help with that.<br />
<br />
Ten-minutes after we had discovered the magazine and its centerfold, Bob came bursting through the living room, searching for something chaste like a flashlight or fan belt, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us with the book.<br />
<br />
“Um...er...where’d you get that?”<br />
<br />
Roger said, “’Neath the chair cushion. What’s it doing there, dad?”<br />
<br />
After watching his face turn eighty-shades of red, he coughed, took a breath, and smoothly replied, “It’s your mother’s. Put it back.”<br />
<br />
I was fairly certain I didn’t buy it, for two reasons. One, wasn’t it usually men who looked at the women? And two, I was pretty sure you didn’t "need" such a magazine in your living room to supplement your nightly television-viewing.<br />
<br />
It’s been probably thirty-years since we first found the book, and I still can’t get the image of that day out of my mind. Bob never mentioned the incident again, and a few weeks later on a return visit to the living room, the book went missing.<br />
<br />
Bob’s mellowed over the years, keeping his NRA rants and trips to the Baptist Gun Show to a minimum, and I can tell you right now, that one day when the Red X finally hits the kitchen floor, the world will mourn one of its most unique characters, who was worthy of his own TV cartoon show.<br />
<br />
Thanks, Mike Judge.</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-4011678754779506612011-05-07T18:15:00.002-05:002011-05-07T19:35:25.602-05:00Howard and Mona<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlkReq13u3rAH5rjB8yFFhV9QbDt_b1WzhBlq1HD51FwDSRskm0K2_tzxG-pAUvwPpC4Ui4Ah84vLCj9Lhf2IJhsY925hX2pLev0GFmdDOJJKnud56jFfASjPFmvNUJfH0zr23Dd-DPcc/s1600/amway_tissuebox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlkReq13u3rAH5rjB8yFFhV9QbDt_b1WzhBlq1HD51FwDSRskm0K2_tzxG-pAUvwPpC4Ui4Ah84vLCj9Lhf2IJhsY925hX2pLev0GFmdDOJJKnud56jFfASjPFmvNUJfH0zr23Dd-DPcc/s1600/amway_tissuebox.jpg" /></a></div>All couples have problems. Live day-in and day-out with a Neanderthal that hasn’t learned after twenty-years of being told to put his knickers in a basket just inches away from where they eventually land on the floor, and you’re either looking for another social circle, or new and creative ways to commit suicide. <br />
<br />
This idea of couples dating has always fascinated me. When I was married, my husband and I did it. It seems that anytime we find someone we want to share our life with, the first thing we do is find people we can ignore them for.<br />
<br />
My parents did the same thing. When I was four and my sister a year-old, I remember this one couple that used to visit my parents regularly. Howard and Mona. Why I remember this from age four, I’ll never know. Perhaps it’s the peculiar way my parents began to behave once they had all become good friends and had a standing weekly “date”. I don’t know--maybe my parents were afraid of commitment.<br />
<br />
Howard had dark hair and wore Buddy Holly glasses and checkered pants--a fashionista apparently light-years ahead of his time. Even at four, I knew that man was just one science experiment away from re-discovering gravity. He worked with my dad in the local machine shop, so it was a natural progression that they would begin to socialise with their wives. And at first, my mother liked Mona.<br />
<br />
She was different. She had masses of dark hair piled on top her head in these neat little adobe mounds. She, too, wore glasses and liked to wear bright red lipstick. I won’t comment on her wardrobe, because...well, this was the sixties. Everyone was always so busy getting cancer, developing a life-long gambling addiction and doing the Twist that they had no time for important social issues like Politics, becoming obscenely wealthy, or how to properly dress themselves.<br />
<br />
My mother loved playing the hostess, because that’s what you did in the sixties, and why not? Dad didn’t want her working. Little did she know this would prepare her for marathon sessions of Oprah thirty-years later. She turned out to be a natural. She’d always start fussing early Monday afternoon about the house. Each time I’d question her on this ritual, she’d say something wise like, “If the Pope were visiting, you wouldn’t want him to see your naked Barbie Doll on the floor, now, would you?” Which was stupid since I was pretty sure we weren’t Catholic. Then after the toys were put away, she’d scurry from the refrigerator to the stove, worrying over what hors d'oeuvres to serve, but not before she’d had my dad’s dinner planned down to the last Brussels sprout. And everyone thinks Martha Stewart invented domestic science. As I look back on it, I thought that’s how all women behaved. But years later, it would again be my mother who would prove me wrong. In the sixties she cooked dinner, vacuumed the house in heels, and obeyed my dad. In the seventies, she found women’s lib, discovered the joys of TV dinners and you were lucky if she ever put on her pants to answer the door.<br />
<br />
But back to Howard and Mona. They loved to come over each Monday night and play Rook and Canasta--games I would later learn were the favourites of people who were generally just one day from death. I guess it’s some unwritten requisite of God’s: If you’re over sixty, then you must learn Canasta. Saint Peter mans the Pearly-Gates with a list of our running scores, according to my grandmother.<br />
<br />
My parents gladly invited them each week. I guess it gave dad something to look forward to other than my mother’s bitching about diapers and laundry, and it gave her something to look forward to other than dad’s belching and scratching.<br />
<br />
Howard would tell really stupid jokes in between trying to sell my dad Amway, and Mona had a very theatrical laugh--the one that reaches the back balcony even when you’re in a closet. It took the hair off a couple of my sweaters. For the most part, these two twenty-somethings were pretty cool. <br />
<br />
But in all this bliss, Howard and Mona had a dark side. After months of dating, my parents began acting strange when Howard dropped hints for their weekly cards invitation.<br />
<br />
I remember one time in particular, my parents had decided they didn’t want to see them anymore. When I asked them why, I was met with stutters, grunts and whistles to the effect of, “Well, it has to do with the mean, not average, vis-a-vis the vagaries and political curves of the gross national product and what time it was yesterday over the international dateline, but not what time yesterday’s time was, what it will be during tomorrow’s yesterday.” I was four. I just sucked my thumb and made a mental note to short-sheet God’s bed for dumping me into this family. And to seal the deal that we wouldn’t “be home” that night, dad pulled our Dodge Dart (yes, I’m serious) to the back of the house and parked it in the garage, which at four, I thought absolutely genius. However, in all my dad’s dazzling spy-brilliance, he forgot this particular garage door had a row of square windows--anyone could see in.<br />
<br />
My parents's feelings must have had something to do with the fact that every time she was in my mother’s living room, Mona would sit and rip up tissues, then toss them on the floor. They weren’t used tissue--all the time--just tissue. She never apologised for this peculiar habit, and as far as I can remember, she never once offered to help my mother clean them up before they left. At the end of the night that living room floor rivaled DC’s cherry blossoms in spring.<br />
<br />
Everything came to a ridiculous head one night at six-thirty. Thinking we wouldn’t be dealing with Howard and Mona that week, we were sitting at the kitchen table finishing dinner, when suddenly dad slammed down his fork and said, “Oh my God, they’re here.”<br />
<br />
My mother said, “What are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
“They’re here! Howard and Mona just pulled into the driveway.”<br />
<br />
“WHAT?” I’d never heard my mother quack like a duck before. “What are we going to do?”<br />
<br />
“Well, let’s just sit here and let them knock. When they don’t see the car in the driveway, they’ll realise we’re not at home and leave.”<br />
<br />
I’ll say one thing: Howard and Mona were tenacious little buggers. He knocked on that front door like he had a hammer and a license to mine for diamonds. Finally after five-minutes of pounding, we collectively breathed a sigh of relief when their car door slammed. <br />
<br />
“Great. They’re leaving,” dad said.<br />
<br />
Oh, but life is cruel. Instead of leaving, they got into the car and pulled it round back. Dad was peeking out the kitchen window, overlooking the back driveway and saw Howard walk to the garage door where he then saw the car. I remember feeling like Jason Bourne, because dad had shushed the lot of us so Howard wouldn’t hear us from the garage door.<br />
<br />
This time Howard got into his car to leave, but with my dad being a sharp one, anticipated Howard’s next move. Since Howard knew we were home, dad ordered us into the bathroom down the hall. It was a good thing, too, because just a few minutes later, I developed a good case of the trots (my Gerber, you see) and needed to avail myself of my training chair. As my parents were cursing the broken condom that had created me--their little bundle of...joy, Howard AND Mona were on the back porch, peeking into the kitchen window. We could hear them from our stake-out post in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Why is it you go by for months, then suddenly get the urge to laugh at the most inopportune time? Like during a gynecological exam? Once I started to giggle, it spread like a virus and soon both my parents were cackling like idiots, but in hushed tones. Suddenly we were a room full of Muttleys.<br />
<br />
The next morning, my dad, never a dancer before, was tap-dancing like he was Savion Glover's understudy in <em>Bring In ‘Da Noise</em> when he told Howard I had become ill and needed the hospital, and instead of driving he called one of our friends to drive us over. Yeah, Howard bought it. Desperation will do strange things to your mind when you’re being dumped.<br />
<br />
Howard and Mona never wanted to play cards much again after that, and my parents did eventually get back into another relationship, but it was years later before they were ready to open up their hearts again. <br />
<br />
Just about the time my dad started selling Amway.</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-86811031512459417202011-03-25T16:55:00.001-05:002011-03-25T16:56:56.215-05:00Johnny and Roy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybGdp2L17Epb_q97-AI4P6NbvJN-NAn3In-l3Zpg-nqrEsgrkGIMg6S_9KS4G_1nxHDuuxan9bc36EBW0btGcZsjeXO38ZJPwVJGTD639rKa3aEi5nscc8KtAgqmrLOVFe2BHL4hDzkE/s1600/johnny+and+roy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybGdp2L17Epb_q97-AI4P6NbvJN-NAn3In-l3Zpg-nqrEsgrkGIMg6S_9KS4G_1nxHDuuxan9bc36EBW0btGcZsjeXO38ZJPwVJGTD639rKa3aEi5nscc8KtAgqmrLOVFe2BHL4hDzkE/s1600/johnny+and+roy.jpg" /></a></div>"51, start an IV with D5W, ringers lactate and transport as soon as possible."<br />
<br />
"10-4."<br />
<br />
"What did he say?" asked my six-year-old sister, who wasn’t half paying attention. That annoyed the heck out of me.<br />
<br />
"You annoy the heck out of me," I’d say with as much indignity as a brainy geek with glasses and Cherokee/German nose could muster, then go back to my living fantasy, watching two unknown men save lives, and dreaming of the day (hopefully soon) when I would fall mysteriously ill and be so close to death that no one would be able to figure out my ailment, and they’d have to call in these mysterious new breed of men, these paramedics. "Paramedics." I would say it over and over, and feel a pre-pubescent thrill attack my spine each time. It just sounded so...official, and bigger than anything I’d experienced in my little life so far.<br />
<br />
Emergency! was our family’s way of pretending we liked each other and wanted to spend quality time together, and soon it was the show's TV stars to which I'd become addicted.<br />
<br />
Randolph Mantooth played Firefighter/Paramedic John Gage. He was dark-haired, dark-skinned and had a deliciously crooked smile. Where had he been my entire nine-year-old life?? Now that I look back on it, he was a chauvinistic pig of the highest magnitude; making fun of "fatties" and always referring to women as some sort of sex object ("Mom? What’s a sex object?" "Er, erm, nothing--be quiet and eat your cake."), but not then; you couldn’t convince me this man could ever do anything wrong.<br />
<br />
Then there was his gorgeous and slightly-shy red-headed partner, Firefighter/Paramedic Roy DeSoto, played skillfully by actor Kevin Tighe. Roy DeSoto was married, and while we as an audience never got to see "JoAnn," I was jealous of her.<br />
<br />
"I’ll bet she’s fat," I said one afternoon during mine and my sister’s make-shift fan club meeting, beneath the little tree in our front yard. My sister and I were always coming up with hair-brained schemes to figure out how to get accepted into the fake paramedics’ fan club. If only we’d figured out all we had to do was send in the form, it would’ve saved us a lot of torment and bitching during club meetings. There were never any other fans except the two of us. But that was okay, because we didn’t need the competition.<br />
<br />
I remember our little worlds opening up, however, on a Saturday night trip for ice-cream, after Emergency!. As we walked into The Dairy Mart, I noticed a magazine stand on the right wall--the one where my dad always found the newest Popular Mechanics and where my mother always got herself a new crossword puzzle book. As soon as I started browsing the selections, I saw it. There, standing upright on the shelf with the glossy paper shining back at me, was the Holy Grail of teenage angst everywhere:<br />
<br />
Tiger Beat.<br />
<br />
And guess whose faces were gracing the cover? Yup--the object of my very first stalking case, Johnny and Roy. While inside I was thanking the Heavens that they had blessed me and my lust, outside I wasn’t stupid. I knew the least sudden movement would signal to my dad, standing just feet away, that something was askew in the universe. I moved slowly toward the book, not wanting to draw attention to myself (I needn’t have worried. My red-checkered pants were doing that enough), and casually picked it up.<br />
<br />
"Hunh. Wonder what this is?" I was one, cool cucumber. I figured by deliberately stressing the word this, I would appear unconcerned, as if merely possessing a healthy curiosity.<br />
<br />
Again, I needn’t have worried. Dad was so engrossed in his article on the advances of hot locations for refrigeration repair schematics, that he scarcely noticed his nine-year-old daughter licking the pages of Tiger Beat and moaning.<br />
<br />
Soon I was rolling in paramedic. I had collected every article with both Randolph and Kevin. I would read headlines like, "10 Ways to Capture Randolph’s Heart," and immediately tear into it as if it were a sandwich. And each time there was an interview and article about Randolph, there was usually one about Kevin, so I’d devour it, too. "What Kind of Girl Does Kevin Want to Date?" was always a big attention-grabber for me. It would also give my sister and I something of import to discuss at the next club meeting.<br />
<br />
In fact, that’s when my mother began to suspect my addiction was interfering with my life. Each night before I’d go to bed, I’d kneel down to say my prayers that God, in his infinite wisdom, would allow me to meet these two men so we could all get married. Then before turning out my light, I would pucker up and kiss both Johnny and Roy’s posters. Oh, and sometimes before dinner I’d sneak a peck, just to brighten an otherwise tedious day. Then I’d go downstairs and enter the kitchen very nonchalantly, knowing exactly how to work that room. Yup--no one was going to discover my secret--I was too slick.<br />
<br />
"You’ve been kissing your posters again, haven’t you?"<br />
<br />
I wheeled around as if I’d been shot in the back. How did she know?<br />
<br />
"Because I’m psychic."<br />
<br />
Man, sometimes she just freaked me out.<br />
<br />
"And you have paper cuts all over your lips."<br />
<br />
Crap. Note to self: buy more Chapstick during next visit to The Dairy Mart.<br />
<br />
Years later when I finally took the posters down, I noticed the lips had been worn off Randolph’s photo. He looked like one of those comic sketches from SNL where the guy cuts the lips out and uses his own through the hole to mock the country’s current presidency.<br />
<br />
I'm still addicted to Randolph Mantooth and Kevin Tighe--who's with me?</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-55167274981260876992011-03-16T12:34:00.001-05:002011-03-16T12:35:33.133-05:00Will Work For Unemployment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We've all seen them: Beggars along the side of a highway at a popular intersection holding signs that say something stupidly profound like, "Will work for food," or my favourite, "Will work for cable." And when I lived in DC, it was "Will work for you if your windscreen is dirty." They loved to stand at the corner while you were waiting to merge onto the Beltway at Crystal City. They never allowed you to decide if your windscreen was dirty, they simply started to clean it, and then subjected you to a verbal onslaught if you didn't want to pay them for their unwarranted service. Bureaucrats.<br />
<br />
After losing both my jobs in December of 2008 due to illness, I was forced to resort to applying for unemployment. Thankfully, this ritual isn't as complicated as it once was the last time I needed to apply back in 1985. Then, you were forced to stand in long and tiring lines with the dregs of humanity that you usually only bumped into at the DMV, in which case it wasn't so much a waiting game as a reunion.<br />
<br />
Now, they've removed the human element by allowing us to apply online. For which I was thankful. But it's not all roses and tea parties. Having to wait constantly for that next cheque to come in is hard. In fact, I'm the reason my mailman carries a gun.<br />
<br />
The really stupid thing about being on unemployment (besides the mind-numbing 1/4 of your original salary they expect you to live on), is you spend more time fighting for your benefits than you ever did on a real job. If there's ever a problem (and there usually is), then you must haul your angry ass down to an office that doesn't even have GPS coordinates and can only be entered with a password found on the inside of a cereal box and a decoder ring worn by the kid from <em>A Christmas Story</em>.<br />
<br />
I spent three hours one day waiting to see an unemployment agent. Dealing with these kinds of issues are hard because you're always at the mercy of someone else. Just once, don't you wish things were different?<br />
<br />
Man's voice: "Number 51."<br />
You: "Oh, that's me! But can you call my number again in about an hour? That's when <em>I</em> get back from lunch."<br />
<br />
At least being unemployed allows me to have an imaginary day job. However, with the state of this economy, I've now given myself an imaginary raise. But then my imaginary boss called me into his imaginary office one day and complained that I was now breaking the imaginary budget, and that there may be an imaginary company-wide layoff, and that now my imaginary day job may be in imaginary jeopardy.<br />
<br />
Is <em>nothing</em> safe in this economy?<br />
<br />
So, after two years of fighting to keep benefits I earned and paid for, I'm not ashamed (okay, maybe just a little) to say that I've learned how the game is to be played. I've now been forced to resort to the same exercise in futility. Except my sign reads a little differently:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNpUxcZ4OrXEFNQDBew1-0NveoOC-arL0JSuGdZp8JV1yAuncEUzNTWcViT_8IBajHToTlWzZqWFr9985l5ULhtex3Wn9wdHcatnmyvdTYTH-9LKxo_advjuPqfuJLkiDwuyrpvGbvLc/s1600/unemployment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNpUxcZ4OrXEFNQDBew1-0NveoOC-arL0JSuGdZp8JV1yAuncEUzNTWcViT_8IBajHToTlWzZqWFr9985l5ULhtex3Wn9wdHcatnmyvdTYTH-9LKxo_advjuPqfuJLkiDwuyrpvGbvLc/s1600/unemployment.jpg" /></a></div></div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-21206477701408243412011-03-09T08:11:00.000-06:002011-03-09T08:11:04.393-06:00Pardon me, Miss, but are those your knickers in the sink?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lxyt07HG8whqVC-OEviTNEae6leFjBZws1hiUN_qpOXA5kxf6QegevJQLjXQvY-SNpp6qFVh0QuTh35Wsc5FejI8Ot70lwb-ak_Rc45_D4fQoZHHPYUzT7IMBQo9kJQ3YWJmxoR3ZjU/s1600/beating+clothing+on+a+rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lxyt07HG8whqVC-OEviTNEae6leFjBZws1hiUN_qpOXA5kxf6QegevJQLjXQvY-SNpp6qFVh0QuTh35Wsc5FejI8Ot70lwb-ak_Rc45_D4fQoZHHPYUzT7IMBQo9kJQ3YWJmxoR3ZjU/s1600/beating+clothing+on+a+rock.jpg" /></a></div>I don’t know if most of you realise this or not, but I was once homeless. And it wasn’t at all like I expected.<br />
<br />
On Monday morning, January 9, 2009, I officially moved from my quaint little apartment with the neat washer and dryer in my closet that smelled of cheeze, into my very spacious Volvo, that also smelled of cheeze. I never thought I’d be in such a situation, but then again, I always thought Charlie Sheen would stay sane forever, too. <br />
<br />
But follow along.<br />
<br />
I got to thinking about how we view this phenomenon of being without a home. It’s SUCH a social club. It’s real estate snobbery in its purest form. If you have no home, then you’re suddenly asked to leave the imaginary clique, and that hurts. People begin treating you differently. If you have no money and nowhere to be for the day, it’s called being homeless. But if you have money and nowhere to be, it’s called Society. The only difference between myself and someone from Beverly Hills is where we wash out our underwear.<br />
<br />
I was at least lucky enough to have had my car. There are some advantages to it: First, it’s private. Second, you have a kick-ass stereo system, and third, you’re not expected to clean up after yourself.<br />
The worst part about it, though, was not having cable. You thought I was going to say stinky clothes or not being able to brush my teeth. Well, think again. It was not being able to keep up with new episodes of Burn Notice. At first it’s fun, but soon the novelty wears off and then it’s just like any other life: Begging for food, begging for change, begging for televisions....<br />
<br />
The hard part was in knowing my cats didn’t have a home. I would’ve much rather they had a place to sleep than myself. And I hated having to run down to the local fast food place to pee. I had their litter box on the front passenger floorboard, and I tell ya by day two I was eye-balling that litterbox in a whole new way.<br />
<br />
Everyone gets so serious when you tell them you’re now homeless. These same people that, before, couldn’t get their considerable asses blown off sofas with C-4, suddenly turn into mini-Houdinis and make one hell of an exit. They want you to know they seem sympathetic to your plight, but any more expended energy on your situation would remove the attention from theirs, and God knows when you’re busy spending money you need all the concentration you can muster. Empathy is as far as it goes, too. That exit usually comes long before you’ve had the chance to ask if you can use one of their twelve spare bedrooms in their guesthouse on the back 40-acres over in the next county. However, that doesn’t matter. You could be deaf, dumb and have lost your fingerprints in a horrible Sudoku accident, and no one wants to be troubled.<br />
<br />
Fact is, people can be selfish, fully satisfied in the knowledge that giving that one last old can of last year’s leftover Cranberry Sauce when the post office leaves that Second Harvest food bag on your mailbox is a good enough act of charity, without being bothered with someone having to dodge bullets in between dreams while snoozing under the nearest interstate overpass.<br />
<br />
I even found myself doing things I would never do, like begging strangers for cat food. I once got thrown out of a Dollar General. Dollar General! It’s a toilet with a place to swipe a credit card. Macy’s I can understand. Dillard’s? Oh, hell yeah, any day of the week. And on days when I’ve done too many Benadryl shooters and need to cash my economic stimulus cheque of $12.50, K-Mart.<br />
<br />
But Dollar General? That’s like getting thrown out of a soup kitchen for not busing your own table.<br />
<br />
Since mine was a forced eviction, I also had the privilege of watching the Sheriff toss my crap out into the yard, which is humiliating, because anyone can just walk up and take it. But, I learned something valuable from that experience, and walked away with a bit of street-smart savvy: Forget going to yard sales. Just go to evictions. There, you don’t have to haggle. I learned that there were so many forced evictions happening in our neighbourhood, that eventually I went to enough and was able to get every bit of my crap back.<br />
<br />
So. The next time we bump into each other on the street and you begin asking me how many square feet my car has and if I have room in my spare backseat, don’t be surprised if I have to make a hasty exit because I need to be at an “appointment” at the nearest shopping mall.</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-45010253877503070042011-02-27T03:12:00.000-06:002011-02-27T03:12:41.416-06:00I Shouldn't Be Alive. (Finally, something on which we agree.)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigc_Puj-s_T5z2sk3Lbd6iqc2K6w6B3yeo5XM21hNo2C6Y2VF7ONJmAVpCp6mTkYLI0iuYz11zy3aCR_OoF9SCX_UGTRW3ffGbG9OyZxAzm6hqKnulNSXu6Jr2fZGbzMZofI-XckhDyI/s1600/isba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigc_Puj-s_T5z2sk3Lbd6iqc2K6w6B3yeo5XM21hNo2C6Y2VF7ONJmAVpCp6mTkYLI0iuYz11zy3aCR_OoF9SCX_UGTRW3ffGbG9OyZxAzm6hqKnulNSXu6Jr2fZGbzMZofI-XckhDyI/s400/isba.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Lately, I've been interested in a show on Animal Planet called, "I Shouldn't Be Alive." And oddly enough, it has absolutely nothing to do with animals.<br />
<br />
The premise is simple: Pay the producers boucoup bucks to scour the Earth (read=Google) to find people who, due to their bravery and penchant for adrenaline, have found themselves in inexplicable situations in which all the odds point to the fact that they simply will not live through the event long enough to be rescued. And once they have clearly established just how dire the situation is, they proceed to weave snippets of interviews with the actual victims into reenactments of the event, and all so they can lead up to the triumphant conclusion that yes, you may be a loser of a human being with advanced hypothermia and a peg leg, but if you have the will power, you WILL be able to climb down that mountain and be reunited with your mail-order bride and adopted children from the Ukraine.<br />
<br />
And, I will admit that I’ve caught myself crying with joy near the end of one or two episodes.<br />
<br />
However, I’ve recently learned something of value that they <strong>don't</strong> tell you: In nearly every instance, the reason this person found themselves to be a victim of circumstance was due to nothing but their own bad judgment; it was all their own fault. Which made me quickly relinquish those tears of joy in favour of a blistering fax to The Discovery Channel.<br />
<br />
Now. I’ve never considered myself to be a particularly unsympathetic sort of person. I mean, I do my part each Christmas by crying when I see those commercials that beg you to send in money to support the local Mission. I nearly reach for my checkbook each time that Father Christmas guy comes on begging for money to feed the children; the same children who are obviously slackasses and too self-absorbed to get jobs. Seriously. What ever happened to setting up roadside stands and selling lemonade? Or, if you’re in Africa, rocks? It was good enough for me and my sister, and we did quite well in our Bel Air neighbourhood.<br />
<br />
And please...I’m no hero, so don’t flood me with e-mail asking for interviews. I'm just an average girl, happy to do my part to make life on Earth better for everyone.<br />
<br />
But after about ten episodes, I realised there was a disturbing pattern began to develop as each one drew to a close. When they showed the clip from the final interview with the victim who was relating his story in his own words, each person said the same thing. “I’m so grateful to be alive and would do it all again if given the chance.”<br />
<br />
What the hell? Don’t these idiots <strong>ever</strong> learn a lesson from 48-hour exposure and dehydration-induced delirium from being stranded in the Amazon jungle because they were much too stupid to stay on the public trail? You mean if given the chance, you’d get lost at sea in the Atlantic ocean and sit adrift for 73-days without food or a way to poop? Apparently the lobe of the brain that controls even-tempered judgment was chewed off by some rabid wild dog. Are they really so determined to prove they’re not stupid that they put the snow mobile in the ravine and break a pelvis 65-miles from nowhere?<br />
<br />
Have you heard of the mid-point principle? For pilots, it means that if we’re having engine trouble and we’ve not yet passed the point midway between take-off and landing, we must turn around and fly back to the original airport. It’s there for our protection, and removes the temptation for pilots to fly further than they can safely travel.<br />
<br />
Just once I’d like to see someone realise they went further than was safe. Just once, I’d like to hear someone say, “Y’know, I learned my lesson; it was entirely my fault. I am too much of a moron to ever leave my house, and if I ever mention climbing Everest again at the age of 72 with no shins, I’ve instructed my wife to bust out the .38 in the nightstand and blow my brains all over the kitchen ceiling.”<br />
<br />
But no. Instead, we’re treated to idiotic statements from the guy doing the voice over, like, “Tim was hospitalised for 8-weeks and suffered exposure so severe that he had to have all his limbs and colon amputated. But, he’s not let this stop him from living his life.”<br />
<br />
And then you see Tim respond: “I love mountain climbing too much to give it up. Yep--my wife and I talked it over, and she’s supporting my decision to climb again. I may not have a torso, but I’m not going to let that keep me from doing what I love!”<br />
<br />
Oh really. Well then don’t let me keep you. I’m sure there’s a German POW camp left over from WWII that needs a pizza delivered somewhere. Why don’t you volunteer? Maybe they’ll create a reality show about it.</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-24621333182378832362011-02-04T19:41:00.007-06:002011-02-05T00:12:57.840-06:005-Hour Cocaine, more like it<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceCySqlNzzyaVr1u_wgR4aMARTqRux3aNnpAVqa3iED1rLM31mRKICMlVEUvfCsqFM_7szOSqRsoah3GuNYb7W0x1r1j0IKLQfj2Yb429d8frnUb-ld83Cz_rfmYF3IGJhFp50sUFOAI/s1600/5-hour+energy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceCySqlNzzyaVr1u_wgR4aMARTqRux3aNnpAVqa3iED1rLM31mRKICMlVEUvfCsqFM_7szOSqRsoah3GuNYb7W0x1r1j0IKLQfj2Yb429d8frnUb-ld83Cz_rfmYF3IGJhFp50sUFOAI/s1600/5-hour+energy.jpg" /></a></div>Yesterday I decided to be brave, jump on the sheep bandwagon, and try 5-Hour Energy. Normally I resist the mob mentality when hearing super-hyped products such as this, but, seeing as how I sometimes suffer with debilitating fatigue from my Fibromyalgia and Systemic Lupus, I tossed caution and five bucks to the wind, and leapt.<br />
<br />
I had no idea what to expect, but was not heartened merely by reading the myriad of warnings printed on the label. These are meant to be an enticement? Is this <em>really</em> a successful marketing ploy?<br />
<br />
Let's break them down, shall we?<br />
<br />
The first disclaimer is this: <br />
<br />
<em><strong><span style="color: purple;">Contains caffeine comparable to the leading premium coffee.</span></strong></em><br />
<br />
<em></em>Hmmn. The first acerbic witticism that comes to mind is, then why hasn't Starbucks jumped on this bit of street-smart savvy promotion and pegged their morning cup for what it really is: Jet fuel?<br />
<br />
Moving on.<br />
<br />
<em><strong><span style="color: purple;">Limit caffeine products to avoid nervousness, sleeplessness, and occasional rapid heartbeat.</span></strong></em><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
And? I think the American buying public has been more than aware of these side-effects since we began drinking coffee in our sipper cups as an aperitif for the strained peas and smooshed apricots.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="color: purple;">You may experience a Niacin flush (hot feeling, skin redness), that lasts a few minutes. This is caused by increased blood flow near the skin.</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
<em></em>Oh really. Trust me when I say females in their mid-forties to late-fifties have been experiencing this feeling since women first blew a Saint Bernard out their ass and deigned call it childbirth: It's called MEN-O-PAUSE, and trust me when I say we will go to ANY lengths available, including some that are illegal, to avoid the modern, less clinical term for this: Hot flashes. Why the Living Essentials Company decided this would be the <em>best </em>possible way to market their product is beyond me, and every other peri- and menopausal woman I know. Perhaps a better idea would've been if they had decided to include a personal fan within the packaging. <br />
<br />
Or some estrogen on a stick.<br />
<br />
But, be that as it may, I was so completely exhausted from merely getting out of bed and needing some focus to write, that I decided with much trepidation and cursing, to down the entire bottle (another small statement says you can take only half the bottle if needed).<br />
<br />
Now. I've always considered myself to be a pretty trusting person, so when the label is marketed as being "GRAPE FLAVOURED", then hell: Call me old-fashioned, but that's what I think the product should taste like.<br />
<br />
But instead of a scrumptious hint of berry, I became nostalgic for the time when I had the flu for three days and kept tasting the bile from my fourteen-hour ordeal of projectile vomiting. I think I've tasted piss that had me gagging less.<br />
<br />
But, after getting past the bitter taste, I'm very glad to say that I didn't notice when the product finally kicked in. Nor did I suffer the onslaught of a "Niacin Flush", and believe you me I was ready: I had the air-conditioner cranked down to 52 (we're currently enjoying 23-degree winter weather), two fans, and I'd just shaved my armpits so as to clear the way.<br />
<br />
But, nothing.<br />
<br />
Twenty-minutes later after I'd gotten dressed and was sitting at the computer, already involved in paragraph one of whatever I was penning, I noticed that I had more energy, wasn't feeling jittery, and was able to concentrate for at least another paragraph. The product's effects were very non-intrusive, and hopefully I wasn't the anomaly in not experiencing those heinous list of symptoms.<br />
<br />
Two days later and I'm still cheery. Was feeling so good last night that I saw absolutely no need to even sleep, so I sat up all night and made gum-wrapper necklaces, while cleaning the garage and doing a re-write on my entire thirty-five chapters of my new novel in one sitting.<br />
<br />
So, honestly, I have no idea just what they were on about with their "scary" symptoms. <br />
<br />
But I can't wait to buy more.</div>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-16370777674356242122011-01-12T19:54:00.000-06:002011-01-12T19:54:20.054-06:00Holiday RehabWhat is it about spending that "can't ever get it back again" quality time with family during Holiday that always makes us feel the need to bathe when it's over?<br />
<br />
Don't you <strong>so</strong> wish it were a reality show on VH-1 where Dr. Drew offers free counseling and copious amounts of alcohol for those who survive it?<br />
<br />
I can see it now: <strong><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;">H</span><span style="color: #274e13;">O</span><span style="color: blue;">L</span><span style="color: yellow;">I</span><span style="color: purple;">D</span><span style="color: #660000;">A</span><span style="color: magenta;">Y</span> REHAB WITH DR. DREW (Viewer discretion from your children is advised)</span></strong><br />
<br />
If it were a single, isolated incident that occurred once within a ten-year period, then I could understand it: A good shot of Jack Daniels and it would be done.<br />
<br />
But, that's never the case. Nope. By the time you pile the 4.7 children and the dog and the goat and the nanny and the hamster into your '67 AMC Pacer with the break-away read-end, and peel away from your parents, the first thought that crosses your mind is how quickly you can file an order of emancipation to keep this from ever happening again.<br />
<br />
When you weigh the sleepless nights, the arguing, the crying, the excessive drinking...and then the pain your wife must be feeling, is it all worth it?<br />
<br />
I posit it is not.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WLIcLCMA3dz7nk7YUzPyxvKIIHCU0jLEsL4He9mCgrEDK_ojfgjS-1cftodTkmWE9kGMr2EilMuHFeSYJ5ehhvn0guXnGRVzdo3GvijFTTAOmOa-L_ag7QIp73clNku9JZNGO6mos6s/s1600/santa+flat+tire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WLIcLCMA3dz7nk7YUzPyxvKIIHCU0jLEsL4He9mCgrEDK_ojfgjS-1cftodTkmWE9kGMr2EilMuHFeSYJ5ehhvn0guXnGRVzdo3GvijFTTAOmOa-L_ag7QIp73clNku9JZNGO6mos6s/s1600/santa+flat+tire.jpg" /></a></div>And yet, countless millions across the world repeat this form of measured masochism every year. In fact, one of last year's biggest tabloid headlines was how families of third-world countries handle traveling cross-country in their Hummers just to visit the in-laws for Thanksgiving in their mountaintop chalets. I'd wager a guess that if it were up to these unsuspecting adult children of insane, even less-mature parents, they'd sooner put out a hit on them than have to go through this unnecessary and humiliating ritual year-after-year.<br />
<br />
I will say it: Going home for Holiday is not for the squeamish. Or for those with pacemakers. Visiting and spending time with "loved ones" is nothing but an exercise in fortitude; a way to separate the men from the women, the women from the children and the children from the clutches of the grandparents. It is the quickest way for you to gain the title, "Camp Self-Abusement Director" with all the rights and bequeathments included therein.<br />
<br />
I am happy to announce that I've found a cure for the on-going madness.<br />
<br />
I don't go.<br />
<br />
Sure, I get so lonely I could chew off my own foot without removing my shoe, and yeah, maybe I cry a little too much at cat food commercials because I don't have Christmas presents or anything to eat for my celebratory dinner but the "I-can't-believe-I'm-eating-packing-materials" Rice Cakes, but at least the cats don't fight me for complete control of my remote, I don't come away from an argument with my mum wondering just what the hell the colour of the sky really is, and if I had strong views on politics and religion, then they certainly would remain intact.<br />
<br />
So. Now that it's over, do you feel better? Or has the combination of Excedrin and Crack worn off yet?Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-83088151547547119012010-12-23T01:47:00.001-06:002010-12-23T14:52:43.618-06:00A Little Merry for YouI LOVE CHRISTMAS!<br />
<br />
And to celebrate, I've changed things up a little for you. Below are two very different short-stories that I've written with a Christmas theme. I hope you enjoy them.<br />
<br />
I've also included just a few of the digital snapshots I took of the tree I designed and decorated for my friend this past Saturday. The full array will be posted to Facebook.<br />
<br />
Blessings from the insane one,<br />
Carla<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrWQotzDW31pRyry2Je1yjo374I7ETcw70H8dG6RjP_pXrh96EPAcJvZ2hHdkm7lkWo4gSDy-NtRp7eobcxbY1qJHU2FVFR75SW-QqbCmXWMZLpciUepvNkUPJN_2UTvkwf2wbr2U15E/s1600/joeltree03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrWQotzDW31pRyry2Je1yjo374I7ETcw70H8dG6RjP_pXrh96EPAcJvZ2hHdkm7lkWo4gSDy-NtRp7eobcxbY1qJHU2FVFR75SW-QqbCmXWMZLpciUepvNkUPJN_2UTvkwf2wbr2U15E/s320/joeltree03.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-size: large;">You Have a Thumb On Your Nose</span></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The day after Thanksgiving<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Trust me, it’ll be great. What have you got to lose?”<br />
<br />
As Regina remembered these words spoken by her husband, she was finding it hard to control the urge to shove the remote control up his ass, thus forcing him to change channels only when he had cramps.<br />
<br />
Jim had brilliantly talked her into hosting Christmas at their house rather than pile the kids, the dog, and the Iguana into the car and subject everyone to ten straight hours of “Who-Gives-A-Damn How Many Beers’re on the Wall?” Had the law recognised drinking and driving as a viable form of family therapy, the song would’ve gone down much smoother.<br />
<br />
But, being a modern-day woman, wife and mother, she loved a challenge.<br />
<br />
The first thing she did was organise the celebration, from the time the out-laws arrived, to the heavy drinking that would ensue once they left. With Christmas being on a Saturday, she would invite them to drive in on Thursday. Very wise: By the time they arrived, half the day would be gone, and then bed early. <br />
<br />
Friday, they’d all be busy with preparing last-minute packages, leaving little time for curses and reminders of what happened during the great religious debate of 1967. <br />
<br />
Which left Christmas day, breakfast, the main 2 p.m. dinner, and mandatory caroling.<br />
<br />
Sunday they would voluntarily leave, as Jim’s father needed to be at work the next morning at 7. She’d always found it funny that while he’d been retired for years, that had never stopped him from showing up at his old job anyway.<br />
<br />
Next, it was on to sleeping arrangements. They had 4 bedrooms and 5 children, and as she had finalised a plan, she said, “Crap!” She’d just remembered that the last time his parents had visited, Jim’s mother ended up looped like a gymnast on muscle relaxers because of the back spasms.<br />
<br />
Onto plan B. If they moved Christina, their teenager into the baby’s room and put her on a cot, then Jim’s folks could move into her room, but that would mean Lizzy would end up having to sleep on the sofa. Yes, that might work.<br />
<br />
<em>God, if I could only get them arrested, then I wouldn’t need to worry where they slept.</em><br />
<br />
She then realised it was time to pick up the kids, so grabbed her keys and headed out the door, putting her West Point manoeuvrers on hold. <br />
<br />
During her drive to the school, she began running over a possible menu, and by the time the last child was strapped into the backseat, she had chosen full menus for two meals.<br />
<br />
<em>Why was I worried?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The day before Christmas Eve<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
With the children dressed in the hideous matching orange sweaters Jim’s parents had given them for Christmas last year, and promissory notes signed by the children vowing never to disclose what they thought of them except by penalty of a fiery death that would keep them from ever seeing middle school, the grandparents were welcomed into the home with hugs, giggles and much cheek-pinching (this action alone, forced an addendum that promised no artificial or live reptile would be placed between anyone’s sheets without their express written permission).<br />
<br />
Jim’s mother spoke first. “Regina! Your home...well, you’ve almost got it. Thank goodness I’ve arrived,” she said, while kissing Regina’s cheek.<br />
<br />
Just as Regina moved both hands toward Ruby’s neck in order to choke her, Jim saw it and grabbed his mother away. “C’mere, you sexy thing, I haven’t hugged you all year.”<br />
<br />
Regina knew she’d be having sex that night as a thank-you, but it was a small price to pay.<br />
<br />
The rest of the evening was fairly civil, with the next day’s itinerary going surprisingly according to schedule, although Ruby couldn’t help but criticise every little thing Regina’d done. <br />
<br />
That evening, as Regina sipped her GF International Coffee and celebrated the moments of her life, she felt uneasy, wondering when it would happen, how, and *who* would end up being responsible for screwing up her perfect Christmas. Well, besides Jim. He was always a contender.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Christmas Day<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At 5 the next morning, she arose and stuffed the turkey, and put it in the oven for 6 hours. Then concentrated on breakfast, as no doubt, the children would be up at any moment to see Santa’s offerings.<br />
<br />
Not more than ten minutes later, she heard excited screams coming from the living room. God, how she loved her family.<br />
<br />
At 11, after presents and breakfast dishes, she butter-basted the turkey, now beginning to turn golden brown. However, when she returned for a final baste at 1, she noticed the oven had no heat. Beginning to panic, she checked the burners, but the stove was ice-cold. “JIM!” she shrieked.<br />
<br />
“Yes, pumpkin?”<br />
<br />
“Why is my stove as dead as your mother’s eyes?”<br />
<br />
“How am I supposed to know?”<br />
<br />
“Well, fix it!”<br />
<br />
“I’m an attorney, not a caveman. Call someone.”<br />
<br />
“Have you been drinking?”<br />
<br />
Ruby entered. “What’s wrong?”<br />
<br />
“Dinner’s ruined! And I blame you, Jim, just as I did at the birth of our children.”<br />
<br />
He merely shrugged.<br />
<br />
“That’s it. Everyone in the car.”<br />
<br />
“Honey, calm down.”<br />
<br />
“Nope. This was the stupidest idea you’ve had, and I went along when you decided to quit law school and sell fake vomit.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not so bad.”<br />
<br />
“SCREW CHRISTMAS!” She picked up a butcher knife, and said, “MOVE!”<br />
<br />
4 minutes later, they were on their way to Denny’s. Ruby leaned up to Jim in the front and said, “Is she okay?”<br />
<br />
Jim shushed her. “I don’t think we’re allowed to talk until the festivities begin.”<br />
<br />
After a dinner of Rootie-Tootie Fresh ‘n Fruity, and a solemn ride home, Regina was in such a state that Jim put her to bed.<br />
<br />
While telling his parents good-bye, he said, “Well, I had fun. Let’s have you here again next year!”<br />
<br />
Suddenly from behind, Regina charged at him with an uncooked turkey. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3ASTPgpog80terAeqQY0frjAumjiYOAKr9a2CQjjU_aBwGPoMV5Bjv1um1ykSk_4oBYEuB24HJLjQ-EmVQE2dvRImuVXFyCPKSd9nL1-S4Try0o_TW9FoQwW5fAulW_fNXFNa1LWrwI/s1600/joeltree07_smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3ASTPgpog80terAeqQY0frjAumjiYOAKr9a2CQjjU_aBwGPoMV5Bjv1um1ykSk_4oBYEuB24HJLjQ-EmVQE2dvRImuVXFyCPKSd9nL1-S4Try0o_TW9FoQwW5fAulW_fNXFNa1LWrwI/s1600/joeltree07_smaller.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>A Sleep to Startle Us</strong></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Do go on, mama!" said Monica, clapping her hands. "You never finish your stories."<br />
<br />
"Very well," said Mrs. Dickens. She tucked the blanket tighter around her daughter's rosy cheeks, for their old chambers, while the envy of many, carried winter's drafts in its cracks and sills. "Do you remember where I left off?"<br />
<br />
"You were about to tell me the manner in which grandfather happened upon the idea for his now famous story."<br />
<br />
"Ah yes, and here we go. Mind! This is the way it was relayed to me by my father, and you, should you have need, shall, hand it down by rote with much the same façon de parler.<br />
<br />
"By the year of our Lord,1843, your grandfather's fame had spread throughout Europe and the Americas, his articles and essays appearing weekly in London's periodicals. He was never in want of a story idea, for he loved to take long walks through the city streets, and one would never need ask what it was his eyes saw during those walks, for the details would appear in print in his next work.<br />
<br />
"However, just before putting his pen to paper to write his now famous story, a period of time in which no ideas came almost finished him. Nothing flowed; nothing sparked inspiration; no muse touched his shoulder lightly in honour of a fresh scheme. For many months this artistic vaccuum continued, nearly sending your poor grandmother to take spirits, which, she could never do since the Dickens family had long been people of temperance . . . ."<br />
<br />
"Mama! Please! Do not torture me further by prolonging the tale!"<br />
<br />
"Alright, done. It began on an unusually frigid night in November . . . ."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Charles Dickens sat alone in his drawing room, staring transfixed into the flames, as if, by sheer force of his gaze, maintaining eye contact could draw the warmth from the grate. So caught up in his own thoughts, was he, that his wife's entry behind him went unnoticed.<br />
<br />
"Will you spend yet another evening in thought," she asked, "deserting your one true passion, which is to write?"<br />
<br />
He said nothing, but continued to stare.<br />
<br />
"It happens to everyone, I am sure," she continued.<br />
<br />
"Never to me," he said, with much melancholy. "I have made a decision: I will never put pen to paper again for as long as my days on this Earth remain."<br />
<br />
Catherine had never heard such lecture from him before, and this news, while possibly nothing more than a plea for sympathy--even though her husband was not prone to it--rattled each sense to her marrow, and she decided it serious.<br />
<br />
"I am sure you do not mean this, Charles. It will pass. You must give yourself time."<br />
<br />
"Time? One word I have written not these past eight months. I feel as if the well of my very soul has been emptied, for I have nothing left. I have stood idly by, helpless as a newborn, watching the hearts of the thousands of homeless children, wanting for shelter as well as mercy, while many of them remain disabled from ordinary life, who seem to drift across the landscape of the nineteenth century, discarded and forgotten."<br />
<br />
"That visit to Field Lane ragged school in Saffron Hill in September really rent your heart," Catherine said, almost in a whisper.<br />
<br />
"And did it not yours as well? Pray tell me, why, in God's infinite wisdom, does He allow such rapacity--at the cost of such undeserved suffering? I tell you, I cannot bear it further." He returned his gaze to the fire once more.<br />
<br />
"Are you unwilling to allow your pen to feel what your heart is incapable of articulating at the moment? The Charles I married was a radical to the marrow, and oh, my, what power that pen, which you are unwilling to wield, doth possess."<br />
<br />
He sat in silence.<br />
<br />
Catherine kissed his cheek, and said, "Dearest, retire. Rest will relieve your suffering's severity in the light of morning."<br />
<br />
He merely patted her hand and let his eyes stray back to the fire.<br />
<br />
Now it is to be said, as you have probably well guessed by now, that Charles did not have fitful repose that night, as he drifted off in that very armchair, and who of us can rest easy in a chair?<br />
<br />
He had been asleep not one hour and twenty, when a loud thud startled him to an upright position. He looked around, but finding the drawing room empty of inhabitants other than himself, drifted off again, when a second thud interrupted. Again, a cursory examination of the room yielded nothing but Porkchop, the family tabby, who appeared unaffected by the sound, as cats have never been a worthy barometer for much, other than an empty food pan. Convincing himself that the wind had blown a shutter from the chambres loose, he again stared into the fire. A full five minutes passed before the thud sounded again, and this time, as it did, the flames of the fire rose to a height of three feet and their volume increased two-fold. Charles was unsure if he should run for water, but just as he decided to do so, a strange, ghostlike and grotesque face appeared among the roaring flames, freezing Charles in his seat. As he stared at the face, which was now staring back at him, he realised that perhaps he was still in his dream.<br />
<br />
But spirits, being as they are, heard his thoughts and said, "No, Charles, you are not dreaming."<br />
<br />
"H-h-how did you know my name?"<br />
<br />
The spirit beckoned him with a boney finger. "Come."<br />
<br />
Returning to his senses, he replied, "No. Whoever you are, I will not come with you, not for your whim or mine." But as he finished, his body was pulled toward the flames and he could do nothing to stop it. He could feel the heat enveloping him and finding his voice, began to scream, which seemed to amuse Porkchop, as she had never liked her master.<br />
<br />
Just as Charles was certain that he would be cremated alive, he heard a whooshing sound, and felt himself falling; falling down a cold dark tunnel, with the spirit flying at breakneck speed in front of him. After what seemed like several minutes, he landed on a pile of straw in a strange field. Pulling straw from his hair, he rose to his feet and said, "And now that I resemble the family ox, I demand that you tell me where you have taken me."<br />
<br />
"I am the Spirit of Regret."<br />
<br />
"And I am Charles Dickens. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now what in the name of Victoria are we doing here in the dead of this wintry night?"<br />
<br />
"You have a heavy heart.<br />
<br />
Startled by this oblique response, Charles said, "Why, yes, I suppose I do. But did you really have to remind me of it in a deserted field? Surely my armchair would have sufficed."<br />
<br />
Without another word, the spirit pointed directly ahead of them, and a barn suddenly appeared where there was none before. Intrigued, Charles walked through its open door and espied the scene. A young family--mother, father, and two small girls--were huddled in the corner of a cow's stall. They had no heat, no food, and wore only thread-bare coats.<br />
<br />
"Spirit, what is the meaning of this?"<br />
<br />
"Listen further," the spirit commanded.<br />
<br />
"But daddy, how will St. Nick find us here? We do not have a chimney like we did at our house."<br />
The father looked into his daughter's sweet face. "Do not worry, dearest, he will surely find us. He always does."<br />
<br />
This seemed to content his daughter, and she curled her head on his shoulder, shutting her eyes and the cold of the world out with them.<br />
<br />
The father looked at this wife imploringly. <br />
<br />
She said in a whisper, loud enough for Charles and the spirit to hear, "Dear, you know how the Church feels about Christmas. Why must you continue to placate her fantasies?"<br />
<br />
"The Church?" said Charles. "What does the Church have to do with it?"<br />
<br />
"You have a deep heart for people in this most dead, most uncomfortable time of year, when they would suffer greatly from their poverty and the cold, yes?"<br />
<br />
"Rightly so. If they have not hope, good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas Gambols to support them, they have lost the race entirely. Now, pray tell, what part does the Church play in this poor family's welfare?"<br />
<br />
"All in good time," said the spirit. He waved the scene away with his hand.<br />
<br />
Next, the spirit showed him a crowded street in downtown London, and this warmed Charles's heart, for he would never live anywhere else. But this London looked vastly different from the one he knew; there were no holly sprigs, no chestnut vendors, no shoppers crowding stores in hopes of finding the perfect gift, no fires for the homeless by which to warm themselves. In fact, it was a desolate and depressing place; the people in the scene appeared to carry nothing but contempt for their neighbor.<br />
<br />
"Again, spirit, I implore you: what is the meaning of this?"<br />
<br />
The spirit said nothing, but washed the image away, immediately replacing it with a new one. This was of his own drawing room. In the corner was a coffin, and standing over it, a much older Catherine.<br />
<br />
"Spirit? Who is she mourning?" said Charles, his breath catching in his throat. A strangled cry escaped him as he realised who lay in the coffin.<br />
<br />
The spirit pushed him toward the coffin, and the corpse that awaited him was more horrific than anything he could have dreamed to write about. For inside, staring back at him, was himself! <br />
<br />
He let out a startled yelp and stepped back. "That cannot be me, spirit. Oh please tell me it is not. Importune and torture me no more. What have I done to set this course?"<br />
<br />
"It is what you have not done that seals your fate."<br />
<br />
"Then reveal to me what I have yet to do--and I will but do it, posthaste."<br />
<br />
"It was your destiny from birth that you should be a great writer, but more than your amusing anecdotes and stories, that you should champion the less fortunate and indigent against the tyranny of avarice that runs so rampant in society today."<br />
<br />
Charles steeled his eyes and refused to be swayed. "Did Catherine pay you to do this? I am not sure how you achieved it, but I know you must be one of her friends. Reveal yourself. I demand it."<br />
<br />
"Numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment.... How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies does Christmas time awaken!"<br />
<br />
"I still fail to see what I have neglected to do that would cause this to pass."<br />
<br />
"You revealed to your wife, only hours ago, that you would never pen another story so long as you lived. I am here to show you, that the very next story you write, shall be the greatest champion for the cause you hold so dear to your heart."<br />
<br />
"Nonesense. I am only a writer. What can my pen surely do that my radicalism has not?"<br />
<br />
"Your pen can do exactly what your radicalism cannot, and that is bind the two together. Remember when your first manuscript was dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letter box, in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet Street?"<br />
<br />
"I do."<br />
<br />
"That young master Dickens wrote with zeal and passion. It was that passion that got your book into the hands of a publisher. And now that same passion shall be a voice for the voiceless; a bludgeon against the rich man's hobby, greed. The first scene you saw this eve was of a typical English family whose Christmas had been removed by the dogma of the Church. Without your story fueling men's holiday hearts, there was nothing to stop it from happening.<br />
<br />
"The second scene was of the future streets of London, again--abiding in desolation because no story gave them hope.<br />
<br />
"Now listen once more to the scene in your own drawing room."<br />
<br />
A young girl approached Catherine, and with tears streaming down her face, she said, "Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die, too?"<br />
<br />
The spirit wiped the scene away and stood silent.<br />
<br />
After a long moment, Charles said, "Spirit, will my work have that large an affect on the people of London?"<br />
<br />
"Sir, Dickens, your work will have that large an affect on the people of the world. Happy, Happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveler, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home! But it will never happen, unless you write the story that has been stewing in your breast since September."<br />
<br />
At that, the spirit transported Charles back through the tunnel, depositing him in the armchair from whence he had come. Charles opened his eyes. The hands on the clock showed him to be gone a mere five minutes.<br />
<br />
"Catherine!" he bellowed. "Do you know not to where my quill and ink have retreated?"<br />
<br />
"No, sir, and I assure you that waking the dead will have no more effect," she said, exiting her bedchambres.<br />
<br />
"Come here, you saucy wench," Charles said as he hooked an arm around his wife's waist, pulling her to his lap. Catherine shreiked and they both dissolved into peals of laughter. <br />
<br />
"What has you in such good spirits, pray?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"The world, my sweet; mankind, Christmastide, my ability to write. All of it. For a fire is burning in my belly, and I must needs quench it with ink. I must fulfill my destiny with paper. Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, I will not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in my Christmas heart, and by my Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, I will shut out nothing."<br />
<br />
"Know you what you shall call it, yet?" Catherine said.<br />
<br />
"Aye. It will be <em>A Christmas Carol</em> to those with no song in their hearts."<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
"And that, dear Monica, is how your grandfather wrote his famous story. Now, time for sleep."<br />
<br />
"Mama? Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"<br />
<br />
"What is that, dearest?"<br />
<br />
"A writer, just like grandfather, for it was he who kept the spirit of Christmas alive for all of us." <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELs-1-cWZA-3ciIDcZCinPNqBnR58gddCN_SCBp_x-JJdyuxBiK4Lcx4qNMPMmUE2lDcIpk5AFH5ZwuS3d3f6i3Zcit-L6HfdtB4grFNvx9v4sbhvj_pGhMR9J89Qf4-m0U_Tvm3LVhM/s1600/joeltree01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELs-1-cWZA-3ciIDcZCinPNqBnR58gddCN_SCBp_x-JJdyuxBiK4Lcx4qNMPMmUE2lDcIpk5AFH5ZwuS3d3f6i3Zcit-L6HfdtB4grFNvx9v4sbhvj_pGhMR9J89Qf4-m0U_Tvm3LVhM/s320/joeltree01.jpg" width="228" /></a></div> <br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span>Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-16084116270571866682010-11-27T21:24:00.000-06:002010-11-27T21:24:41.647-06:00NaNoWriMo--Day Twenty-Seven, and I'm a Winner, along with first chapter free<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9GE9rCoILBhvvKz3l5krusOJKx23LMtk0LsZYAiHyJC_0WYYeqHfv5Fafw-PxgZNRlc62yo9SI3bI6hHF6yJ_NxKG5ppYBZFIbzpRfzzLv7_qh0gf1DjD25jWs0t5wNmNAV3rHW7ELg/s1600/nano_10_winner_120x240-4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9GE9rCoILBhvvKz3l5krusOJKx23LMtk0LsZYAiHyJC_0WYYeqHfv5Fafw-PxgZNRlc62yo9SI3bI6hHF6yJ_NxKG5ppYBZFIbzpRfzzLv7_qh0gf1DjD25jWs0t5wNmNAV3rHW7ELg/s1600/nano_10_winner_120x240-4.png" /></a></div>Just about one hour ago, I crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line with a validated 51,625 words.<br />
<br />
This has been an incredibly weird journey, to say the least. But one that I'm very pleased I took. I've learned a lot about myself as a writer, as well as writing a novel and the approach to that process that works best for me. I've also learned that if I participate next year, then I will have a better detailed outline from which to work instead of merely a detailed plot. <br />
<br />
By working so fast and forcing myself to keep pace, I've realised that with my last novel (<a href="http://amzn.to/gaslightjournal">The Gaslight Journal</a>--what? You don't own it yet? Stop reading and go buy it: NOW!) there were some passages that needed more thought in order to make them better, and that was something I did not allow myself to do on this one, and for good reason: I am too much of a perfectionist, and spend far too much money on lavish luncheons with my nasty bitch-ass critic.<br />
<br />
I must say, that writing a novel in this fashion was very different. I know in my head it works as well for approaching comedy, with everything I know about comedy, but in my heart I SO wanted to go back and edit/pick/re-write, and that's not necessarily a good thing.<br />
<br />
Thanks to all who told me I could do this, and encouraged me without abandon. And special thanks to my word-war buddy, Kevin, who assured me he would continue to stay on my ass until all of Father Jack's story was told (I have another 20,000 words to finish the book). He beat me to 50,000 words, but in a very sweet letter, he credited me as the reason.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixCxlYkRYj9Cz465Rkw-CbfpTeut5rqTGJpAce32MpGOrkmAZ4JsLk0-mkojP6e6Dxn6kCovUSMrO_NRglarPAjRtM0exrGEZ_PusiFM3AyAh2Km02dowsatvSG8Vmac7I55GhhGep9Fg/s1600/nanowinnercertificate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixCxlYkRYj9Cz465Rkw-CbfpTeut5rqTGJpAce32MpGOrkmAZ4JsLk0-mkojP6e6Dxn6kCovUSMrO_NRglarPAjRtM0exrGEZ_PusiFM3AyAh2Km02dowsatvSG8Vmac7I55GhhGep9Fg/s400/nanowinnercertificate.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
And now, for your amusement, chapter one.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4DLUIA8SEcMWthqxPZR7Z-SyNSyenEQamCZVixXyKiO3inmeLVWPOZvxasY4Axy6qKItw31ipb-Uc5xCeuNGqYlTc1rpKcSb5_3C7nJ65WCACnkIxN2hcXkd8Ctx-Ss2IUTfijtXdio/s1600/devout+coward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4DLUIA8SEcMWthqxPZR7Z-SyNSyenEQamCZVixXyKiO3inmeLVWPOZvxasY4Axy6qKItw31ipb-Uc5xCeuNGqYlTc1rpKcSb5_3C7nJ65WCACnkIxN2hcXkd8Ctx-Ss2IUTfijtXdio/s320/devout+coward.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A Most Devout Coward</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">by</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Carla René</div><br />
<br />
Copyright (c) 2010.<br />
<br />
<strong>Chapter One</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Jack Ryan O’Donnell had sat down to a nice, quiet lunch of steamed organic broccoli and distilled hot water; his usual. As he was about to send the broccoli back a third time, a bullet went whizzing by his right ear. Not hearing the actual shot and thinking it was just a fly, he swatted it away when another came very close to shaving his sideburns. This time he looked up from his meal.<br />
<br />
Directly across from him at the farthest table with his back to Jack, sat a burly-looking man who was now slumped over his sweet potato pie, and a second who faced the sweet potato-man; leaning back against the wall with his chest contents now being used as a garnish for the pie.<br />
<br />
Without registering what had just occurred, Jack noticed a waitress hovering beneath the edge of the lunch counter. “Excuse me, miss!” What an odd time for this woman to be on break.<br />
<br />
She yelled back, not daring to leave her spot. “What is it, sir? Kinda busy here.”<br />
<br />
“I believe that gentleman over there has spilled all over the table. Would you kindly clean it?”<br />
<br />
She could hardly believe what she’d heard. “You have got to be kidding!”<br />
<br />
“Miss, I don’t have to tell you how quickly a health inspector will shut you down for this sort of code violation.”<br />
<br />
As the waitress was about to rip him a new one, a third shot sent her diving behind the counter. The shooter had turned toward Carlos, the chef, now hiding behind the counter, and put the third slug into his head.<br />
<br />
This time, Jack noticed the shooter.<br />
<br />
As he turned to make his getaway, he saw Jack staring at him and froze as if contemplating whether to put a .9mm round into him.<br />
<br />
Jack noticed every detail of his face: ugly red scar on his left cheek, bulbous blue fish eyes, and black hair with that ugly David Schwimmer haircut from the first season of Friends. <em>I always hated that haircut.</em> <em>Now Matthew Perry--that guy, had a haircut. </em><br />
<br />
Little did Jack realize, these details would come in very handy in the near future.<br />
<br />
But before the gunman could eliminate Jack as a witness, a voice in the crowd screamed for someone to call 9-1-1, thus jarring the shooter back into reality and out the door.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the events registered with Jack, and he stood at his table and screamed like a pre-pubescent cheerleader, “Oh my God, we’ve been hit!” Certainly not one of his more attractive qualities.<br />
<br />
Slowly, everyone retreated from their positions on the floor, from behind chairs, and lunch counters. As the diner staff made their rounds to see if everyone was okay, the waitress came straight to Jack.<br />
<br />
“Sir, are you hurt?”<br />
<br />
Jack continued to scream.<br />
<br />
This time she shook him. “SIR! Are you hurt? Your screaming is annoying the children.”<br />
<br />
Jack calmed himself and shook his head. “I’m all right. What just happened?”<br />
<br />
“Well, I’m no forensics expert, but I’d say we just had a gunman blow away two of our patrons.”<br />
<br />
“But why? If you’re that unhappy with the food, you don’t blow away the person sitting next to you eating it, you kill the chef.”<br />
<br />
“They got Carlos, too. Is that really what you want to complain about right now? We’ve had two men shot to death and you’re still bitching about your broccoli?”<br />
<br />
“I...”<br />
<br />
But she had already turned to attend to customers who needed serious attention.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, Jack was sitting in the back door of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket, a paramedic taking his vital signs.<br />
<br />
“So, Mr. O’Donnell, let me get this straight. You were just getting ready to return your organic broccoli for a third time, when you noticed bullets flying past your right ear? A person eating in public has a reasonable expectation of peace and quiet. That’s disgraceful.”<br />
<br />
“I know. I never have to send my broccoli back more than twice.”<br />
<br />
The paramedic rolled his eyes, and said, “Okay. You’re fine. I think that detective has some questions for you.”<br />
<br />
Jack walked over to the tall man with the brown tweed jacket and green tie, his gold shield displayed prominently on his lapel. “You wanted to see me?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes, Mr. O’Donnell. Let’s walk over here so we can have some privacy.”<br />
<br />
They strolled over to the other side of the street and sat on the steps to a three-story walk-up.<br />
<br />
After Jack described the events again, the detective questioned him on the man’s physical details.<br />
<br />
“He had this huge, ugly red scar on this face.”<br />
<br />
“Right cheek or left?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, I never saw his butt.”<br />
<br />
After killing his urge to laugh out loud, the detective said, “I mean was it his right cheek or his left on his face?”<br />
<br />
Jack blushed. “Sorry. I’m still in shock.”<br />
<br />
The detective was unconvinced, but played it straight.<br />
<br />
“It was on his left cheek, going down from his cheekbone to his jawbone. About two-inches wide. Looked like somebody got in there with a spoon and...”<br />
<br />
“...that’s fine, Mr. O’Donnell, I think I get the picture. What else?”<br />
<br />
“His eyes. They were ice-blue. Looked like that fellow from that old frankenstein movie.”<br />
<br />
“You mean Marty Feldman?”<br />
<br />
“No, I mean Young Frankenstein. You never saw the movie?”<br />
<br />
Again, the detective had to stifle the urge to laugh. “So you mean he had prominent eyes?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“Good. Anything else you can remember?”<br />
<br />
Jack crinkled his nose in disgust. “Yeah. His hair.”<br />
<br />
“You mean he had some?” The detective now chuckled at his own joke.<br />
<br />
“It looked like Ross from the first season of Friends. Black, combed straight down and very short.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, I hated that haircut, too. Now Matthew Perry--that guy, had a haircut.”<br />
<br />
“Exactly."<br />
<br />
“Can you think of anything else that may help?”<br />
<br />
“Not right now.”<br />
<br />
“Okay. Well, since you seem to be the material witness to this crime, I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”<br />
<br />
“You mean I’m under arrest? All I wanted to do was send the broccoli back! I mean, I wanted to kill Carlos, but I certainly didn’t shoot him!”<br />
<br />
“Calm down, Mr. O’Donnell. You’re not under arrest. I just need you to meet with my Lieutenant. Apparently, no one else but you noticed this man until he had fired 3 shots and was out the door. You’re the only one to get a good look at this hump, and we need you to make a formal statement.”<br />
<br />
Jack thought about this for a second, then said, “Um, no way. Ain’t no way I’m going into that dirty station. Nunh-uh.”<br />
<br />
“Dirty? What are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
“With all due respect, Captain...”<br />
<br />
“...it’s detective.”<br />
<br />
“With all due respect, Captain detective, I’d rather just have an officer come to my house. There are very few places I go in public, and a police station with filthy criminals is not one of them.”<br />
<br />
“Mr. O’Donnell, you’ll be protected--those felons will be behind bars.”<br />
<br />
“No, I mean they’re filthy. All that gun powder residue on their hands, bare feet on their bunks, hookers with who knows what. No sir.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, I get it: germophobe.”<br />
<br />
“And claustrophobe and OCD. What’s your point? Why do you think I drink distilled water? It’s certainly not because it rivals the taste of new Coke.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I do understand, but unfortunately, that’s the place where we keep all the pens and paper.”<br />
<br />
Jack sighed, clueless that he was being mocked. “Oh, alright. But tell me you’ve cleaned that interrogation room within the last six weeks.”<br />
<br />
The detective chuckled. “Not even within the last six months. But I’m certain you’ll survive.”<br />
<br />
After forcing the detective to wipe down the back seat of his car with a stack of wet naps, Jack slowly slid onto the lemon-scented seat, but certainly wasn’t happy about it.<br />
<br />
“I’m certainly not happy about this,” he said to the detective.<br />
<br />
“I’ll make a note of it in your permanent record.”<br />
<br />
“Oh dear Lord,” said Jack, “If this goes on my permanent record, I’ll never be able to show my face at that diner again.”<br />
<br />
Up in the front seat, the detective could only laugh to himself. Was this rube for real?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Boston’s 12th Precinct was everything the detective made it out to be: loud, noisy, and with a smell that rivaled that of a New York cab. He led Jack through the main lobby and down the hall toward a free interrogation room.<br />
<br />
And as Jack had feared, there were no shortage of hookers awaiting their turn for booking. As soon as Jack and the detective walked by, the girls let out cat calls and whistles, with promises of ‘It’s so hot you’ll never go back to your wife.’<br />
<br />
As Jack slowed to eye one shapely blond in particular, the detective pushed him forward. “Forget it: that ones a tranny.”<br />
<br />
“Excuse me?”<br />
<br />
“Tranny. Y’know, a transvestite.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, dear Lord. You mean a...”<br />
<br />
“That’s right, cupcake. She’s a he.”<br />
<br />
“Is that even legal?”<br />
<br />
This time, the detective laughed out loud. “Dorothy, where did you grow up, Kansas?”<br />
<br />
They reached the empty interrogation room, and again, after forcing the detective to clean the table and chair, Jack took a seat, but refused to rest his hands on the table.<br />
<br />
“Would you like something to drink? I’m afraid we don’t have any of that fancy distilled stuff you drink, but I do have some day-old coffee and a doughnut.”<br />
<br />
“No thank-you. I’m fine. But I would like to get on with this, if that’s okay. I have things I need to do this afternoon.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, sure. Wouldn’t want her highness to be late for tea with the Queen.”<br />
<br />
“I’m beginning to think you may be having a laugh at my expense.”<br />
<br />
“Naw, that was just sarcasm for no good reason. Of course I’m having a laugh at your expense. We don’t get too many of you “dainty-men” down here.”<br />
<br />
“I believe I take offense at that. OCD is not something one chooses, like being gay.”<br />
<br />
The detective chuckled. “Well, your sexual proclivities aside, we need to get a formal statement from you about exactly what you saw. I need you to begin writing down everything on this legal pad, and I’ll be back with my Lieutenant and a sketch artist.”<br />
<br />
As the detective was ready to exit, Jack stopped him. “Excuse me, Captain detective. But I need some gloves.”<br />
<br />
The detective turned to face him. “You need what?”<br />
<br />
“Sterile gloves. I’m afraid I just can’t do this without them.”<br />
<br />
The detective let out a low whistle. “You have got to be kidding!”<br />
<br />
“Funny. That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.”<br />
<br />
“Go figure. Look. This is a police station. We don’t have sterile gloves. Just fill out the paper and I’ll be back,” he said while closing the door behind him.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later, Jack, now done recounting his story to paper, used the last of his wet naps to do so.<br />
<br />
The detective entered with a tall, skinny man and the sketch artist.<br />
<br />
“Mr. O’Donnell, I’m Lieutenant Marcus Grey. How do you do?” he said, while holding out his hand.<br />
<br />
“I don’t shake.”<br />
<br />
This caught the Lieutenant off-guard. “I’m sorry?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t shake. More germs are transmitted through someone’s handshake, than if you were to lick the sidewalk.”<br />
<br />
The Lieutenant glanced over at the detective, who simply shrugged his shoulders.<br />
<br />
“Alright then, we’ll forgo the handshake. Do you know why you’re here?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I believe I do. Captain detective mentioned something about being a material witness.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know what that is?”<br />
<br />
“I was the witness to a crime?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, that’s partly true, but there’s more. In this case, not only did you witness a crime, but the perpetrator saw you, plain as day.”<br />
<br />
“That’s how I was able to describe him in such detail. He turned to directly face me, and that’s when I noticed his features.”<br />
<br />
“And that’s very good work. A lot of witnesses are too scared to be able to remember their attacker. But, I don’t think you’re really getting the implications here, and I need to make absolutely sure you know what’s happened.”<br />
<br />
Jack felt tired. “Lieutenant Grey, I am very tired. When can I go home? This place is beginning to make me itch.”<br />
<br />
“Well, Mr. O’Donnell, that’s what we need to discuss. You were clearly able to identify this perp. Do you know what that means?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll have an easy time of it in court?”<br />
<br />
The Lieutenant was incredulous at this man’s dimwittedness. “Well, yeeeeeeeeeees, but it also means that while you saw the perp, the perp also got a very good look at you.” He paused to allow ample time for the truth to sink in.<br />
<br />
It didn’t take long until Jack’s mind had wrapped around the truth of the matter. He felt sick to his stomach, but didn’t want to vomit, because the thoughts of having to clean it up would make him even sicker. “Do you mean...”<br />
<br />
“...that’s right, Mr. O’Donnell.”<br />
<br />
Jack was now screaming again. “THAT GUY KNOWS WHAT I LOOK LIKE!”<br />
<br />
As dim-witted as this guy was, Lieutenant Grey felt a bit of pity for him. He’d always felt genuine pity for witnesses whose lives got turned upside-down by perps.<br />
<br />
“I think I’m going to be sick.”<br />
<br />
“Would you like a glass of water?” said Lieutenant Grey.<br />
<br />
“I'm not going to vomit into a glass of water! But distilled if you've got it, thanks.”<br />
<br />
Again, the Lieutenant looked at the detective for confirmation, and only received a shrug.<br />
<br />
After Jack took a minute to calm down, he said, “So, Lieutenant, what’s going to happen to me? I can’t get killed; I’d die of fright from all the germs before I’d ever die of the wound.”<br />
<br />
“I want you to meet someone.” He tapped on the glass, and sixty-seconds later, another tall, dark-haired body-builder man entered the interrogation room. He stood at attention with his hands folded in front of him, and waited.<br />
<br />
“Mr. O’Donnell, I want you to meet Special Agent Sharks Avery of the WITSEC program.”<br />
<br />
Jack said, “WITSEC? I don’t understand.”<br />
<br />
Avery spoke. “Witness Security. Most vulgarly refer to it as Witness Relocation. But, the good news is, you’re now my new bitch.”<br />
<br />
Jack could feel the room spinning, and was certain he might pass out, so he made sure to slump his body over the table to keep from falling to the filthy floor. He didn’t need that flesh-eating bacteria in addition to being what most referred to in the hit man business as “next.”<br />
<br />
The detective was at his side in a flash, and offered him one of the station’s wet naps to wipe his forehead. “You alright there, dainty-man?”<br />
<br />
Jack was certain he was dying. He began mumbling.<br />
<br />
“What is it? What’s he saying?” asked the Lieutenant.<br />
<br />
The detective bent closer to Jack, then raised his head in anger. “Oh crap. He’s still bitching about the broccoli.”<br />
<br />
“Mr. O’Donnell, I don’t know anything about broccoli, but I do know that Avery here is an excellent agent and will do everything in his power to make certain you are safe while you await trial.”<br />
<br />
Jack raised his head. “But I didn’t kill that chef! I wanted to, but I didn't! Why am I going to trial?”<br />
<br />
Now, all four men looked at each other. Finally, it was the Lieutenant who spoke. “This is going to be one helluva long case.”Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-76655276464321929872010-11-25T17:11:00.000-06:002010-11-25T17:11:58.591-06:00A Politically-Correct Thanksgiving Wish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEt42GI1qATPIvcyj0_qa6rLmvJ4FOHPU4__LGRQbqK_GyMmIn3xy4FH2VSC4o6qXSjKeBA4xOhyphenhyphenvfoymTec3kD8sjEj1JA6YPPskq8KgJwPkff2B0s_O9sEJA3urTA2zaWarzQ0asK7o/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEt42GI1qATPIvcyj0_qa6rLmvJ4FOHPU4__LGRQbqK_GyMmIn3xy4FH2VSC4o6qXSjKeBA4xOhyphenhyphenvfoymTec3kD8sjEj1JA6YPPskq8KgJwPkff2B0s_O9sEJA3urTA2zaWarzQ0asK7o/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I've decided to wish everyone a Politically Correct Thanksgiving, in only a style unique to me. So here goes.<br />
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I hope your germ-free table is filled this year with the following (you mean besides antibacterial hand sanitiser?):<br />
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A nice, juicy turkey alternative that once assembled clearly resembles a turkey. (And on a bad day, so does my sister.)<br />
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Grandma's "Hearty Stuffing" made with sage, thyme, rosemary, sausage-style meat alternative, egg substitute, greased with the "I NEVER believed this was butter" vegan-appropriate butter-imposter, and bread that contains the following which may or may not be derived from animals: mono and diglycerides, exthoxylated mono and diglycerides, glycerides, sodium stearoyl lactylate, emulsifiers and DATEM (Di-Acetyl Tartrate Ester of Monoglyceride). (WOW. Whose mouth is watering over those diglycerides?? Can't you smell it in the oven NOW?)<br />
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Cranberry salad with oranges, apples and pecans, but jello-free. (Okay, so this one isn't so bad.)<br />
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Top it off with a flourless, eggless, milkless pumpkin pie. (And gutless. Don't forget gutless.)<br />
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Hmmn. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?<br />
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Happy Thanksgiving, my friends, no matter what you eat.Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-82381598917304726492010-11-20T06:33:00.000-06:002010-11-20T06:33:29.149-06:00NaNoWriMo--Day Twenty, and...Cyanide, Anyone?As you will notice, I now have a spiff new NaNoWriMo word war widget in the upper left corner of my screen. WrytingBear is my writing buddy who threw down the gauntlet earlier this week when he realised I was suddenly beginning to catch up to his word count. He may have thrown it down, I simply chose to write about it. "It's ON baby, like mascara on Prince." That's what I told him.<br />
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About an hour ago, as you can see from the real time widget, I hit my 40,000 word mark. My original plan was to push through to 70,000 words. I'd still like to see that happen, but I've been so tired lately, that I'm afraid my first instinct will be to just stop when I hit 50,000 and leave it at that. I can't do that--I've already got folks waiting on the mss.<br />
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During this week when I was churning out word after word, and thus, kicking WrytingBear's arse (and it was gravy, really), I began to realise something about this process: In my zeal to metaphorically give him a beat down as we were running neck and neck in word counts, I ended up writing 15,000 words in 4 days. That's more than twice my regular pace, and besides churning out crap I won't be able to use, I completely fried my brain and I was SO completely worn out yesterday that I refused to write and took the day off.<br />
<br />
But no more marathon sessions for me. There comes a point when it's good to be writing, and then another point when you're doing it for the sake of a word count that won't mean anything if you churn out nothing but a piece of crap. I'm sticking to my normal chapter length of 2,300 words and pushing through even after it's over for my 70,000 words. That way I'll have a rough first draft, AND I won't fry my circuits in the process.Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-37708953181477974322010-11-19T14:16:00.002-06:002010-11-19T14:18:48.155-06:00Today's Featured Author at The Indie Spotlight<a href="http://www.theindiespotlight.com/?p=3475">http://www.theindiespotlight.com/?p=3475</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdbw6Am1MXr_vb15HVfQW8yV7XPm-RGtw5NB2ujhagYIw3ELyL2pBTM-6WbYikxLIEYx2CDHKCL3CtYHcYhVkMbC6MHIV_1WRTDdMf8gjoDExNeKmCnqPA1LzYyunNO-fyEGT0rdfWso/s1600/zen_bookcover_smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdbw6Am1MXr_vb15HVfQW8yV7XPm-RGtw5NB2ujhagYIw3ELyL2pBTM-6WbYikxLIEYx2CDHKCL3CtYHcYhVkMbC6MHIV_1WRTDdMf8gjoDExNeKmCnqPA1LzYyunNO-fyEGT0rdfWso/s320/zen_bookcover_smaller.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>I did a great and funny interview, discussing my short-story collection, Zen In The Art of Absurdity.<br />
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The Indie Spotlight was begun by Edward C. Patterson and Gregory Banks as a completely free way to highlight and showcase independent authors, so please do stop by and drop a comment in thanks for their wonderful efforts. As a thanks, you get treated to one of the collection's stories for FREE!<br />
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And then, get thy butt over to the widget at the right of this screen and purchase the book, already! Momma needs some new cat litter.<br />
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On an unrelated note, today is day 18 of NaNoWriMo, and after doing nearly 15,000 words in under 5 days, I sort of burned out my brain, and yesterday could only get out 2,500. So I took last night off. I caught myself beginning to wonder if I've veered too far off my outline and if my plot is developing right and at the right pace. I wonder if I've been lingering on interesting passages for too long, and skipping over other crucial, yet less interesting ones that are more difficult to develop. I guess time will tell.Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-83378563438942944292010-11-18T05:53:00.002-06:002010-11-18T05:55:35.607-06:00NaNoWriMo--Day Eighteen: cruisin', featured author, and GASLIGHT RELEASE!Just a few minutes ago, I reached 37,178 words. <strong>EPIC, BABY</strong>! Is all of it going to be usable? I doubt it, but at least I've got the basic framework for some great comedy, and that was my only purpose in participating. <br />
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I've also made some <strong><em>fantastic</em></strong> friends--one guy in CA who is a writing buddy, somehow threw down the gauntlet, and now instead of being involved in a race to finish our own novels, we're now in a race to see who finishes their own novels first. Which is spurring me on to write even during the days I'm tired and really wished I could write Father Jack as being electrocuted because I'm simply tired of him.<br />
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On Friday, November 19, I will be the featured author at <a href="http://theindiespotlight.com/">TheIndieSpotlight.com</a> site. Edward C. Patterson and Gregory Banks have devoted their precious time to help the independent author. They feature a different author each day of the week, so please stop by and support their tireless efforts. And read my interview--funniest thing since M*A*S*H.<br />
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As of yesterday, my short-story collection, <strong><em>ZEN IN THE ART OF ABSURDITY</em></strong> (link available to the right of your screen in the Amazon widget) hit #76 in the books > humour > essays category for TOP PAID KINDLE DOWNLOADS, and just a little while ago I, out of curiosity, checked the status of <strong><em>GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE...MY UNCLE DOES</em></strong>, and it is now sitting pretty at #66 in the books > entertainment > humor > crime&mystery category. That is the second time that particular book has cracked the TOP PAID KINDLE DOWNLOADS for that category.<br />
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And finally, exactly one week from today on US Thanksgiving Day, my historical fiction novel, <strong><em>THE GASLIGHT JOURNAL</em></strong>, makes its Amazon Kindle debut, and I couldn't be happier! Again, if you're a beta reader and need a place to slap up your review, simply go to the top of this page, and click on the <strong>GASLIGHT</strong> link. It will take you to a dedicated <strong>GASLIGHT</strong> page that I've set up specifically for your reviews.<br />
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That should do it for now. Keep at it, and remember you CAN do this!Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-55366186785390705162010-11-16T15:40:00.000-06:002010-11-16T15:40:17.288-06:00NaNoWriMo--Day Sixteen, and STILL having to defend it??<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_YTl-h8OcYFDVL-dY-Rmum8PpanRL_ncKH4wyzzedzuBOjKUFhIKMSGD1Oo1Npt9MipKpTcuaWNbOOPalgGX8hLk0nhaAH0m-G3smUeCYAGZFrFWYJNjxWQ3nJHw4KFU57-s0XSzpTw/s1600/magical+christmas+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_YTl-h8OcYFDVL-dY-Rmum8PpanRL_ncKH4wyzzedzuBOjKUFhIKMSGD1Oo1Npt9MipKpTcuaWNbOOPalgGX8hLk0nhaAH0m-G3smUeCYAGZFrFWYJNjxWQ3nJHw4KFU57-s0XSzpTw/s200/magical+christmas+tree.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just because I'm in the Xmas mood</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As we walk along Planet Earth, we do a lot of stupid crap from which obviously no one is exempt. We run out on dates at the last minute because we didn't realise the long line across his forehead was one, big eyebrow, and <strong>not</strong> the shadow from a ball cap. We measure our entire lives in dress sizes: "I'm losing ten to fit into my prom dress." Then, "I'm losing ten to fit into my wedding dress." Me? I'm losing ten to fit into my burial dress. And finally, and this is my favourite, we buy a snack of a Snickers bar and a Diet Coke.<br />
<br />
But the one thing I'm seeing a lot of, and am beginning to get a wee bit hot under my collar about, is that those of us who are participants of this year's NaNoWriMo, are now getting burned for such participation by "real" writers. I've spent two days of this week alone addressing half-considered comments on another forum in which I'm a contributing author, from writers too proud to admit they don't know everything there is to know under the sun about writing. Or, about Nano.<br />
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"Mandatory word counts? Ah--that would then explain the myriad sub-par material lining bookstore shelves." This paraphrased comment from one writer.<br />
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Then another, less-snarky author who genuinely questioned the process said this paraphrased comment: "Seems the only goal of this event is to get 50,000 words in any order saved to a file. Big deal."<br />
<br />
In short, I am a comedy writer. I love writing comedy--it makes me happy. So when I sit down to tackle yet another brilliant comedic essay, or my comedic novel (of which I'm currently writing for Nano), for someone like me who deals with the negative effects of a high-IQ to be able to simply sit and write with the express intent of only getting the story out onto the page is extremely liberating! Comedy writers often employ something I've spoken about before, called a burn draft. You sit and write your story as quickly as you can with no thought for content, or even quality. Then you go back and really work it into something of brilliance when the draft is done. Do you know how often I deal with that bitch editor of mine? Too often to count. So when the chance came to sign up for this event, sure, I had my own questions at first, but decided for once in my life not to over think anything and just jump in with both feet and let 'er rip.<br />
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And I'm SO glad I did! This morning before heading to bed at 4 a.m., I hit the 30,000 word mark. And looking back on it, while there is one scene of dialogue interaction between the two main characters that I've never been so happy with, most of it will remain after the final draft is done, only to be shaped, molded and worked like fine clay into something of brilliance that my readers/fans have come to expect from me (I'm so full of it I sicken myself sometimes).<br />
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So let the LA Times columnists of the world roar, I say. Let those who consider themselves to be NOVELists of LITerature piss all over your efforts. We both know that those who are participating will only take away from the event only what they were meant to: If you're not a serious writer, then come December 1 you'll end up trashing what you've written, and if you are a serious writer, as I am, then come December 1 you'll put the work away, have a cookie, and then a month later let the revisions begin.<br />
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But in the meantime, the next time someone snarks at you for writing a novel that chances are will never see one of those bookstore shelves, just remember this: with your metabolism, YOU will still be able to enjoy that Snickers bar and Diet Coke, and that snarker? In about five years when they're too old to remember their name, they'll be gumming their food.<br />
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Life's good, innit?Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-51741616160809041112010-11-15T07:15:00.003-06:002010-11-15T07:18:31.710-06:00NaNoWriMo--Day Fifteen and Kicking It Up The Arse <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_5dtpoO-zH_pO36KJTYoRNnDs4iyougoVzFNMOquxBQbNl-jn0D91-M93EdmKMRtMp-2QSOTATjBlQktYM9pB1ozVNdua9TDpxHaMZ61cXhMTMyWtmDcw2k3ezIeClp96LcWL2FwoiY/s1600/ted_kicks_bishop_brennan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_5dtpoO-zH_pO36KJTYoRNnDs4iyougoVzFNMOquxBQbNl-jn0D91-M93EdmKMRtMp-2QSOTATjBlQktYM9pB1ozVNdua9TDpxHaMZ61cXhMTMyWtmDcw2k3ezIeClp96LcWL2FwoiY/s200/ted_kicks_bishop_brennan.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Father Ted kicks Bishop Brennan up the Arse</td></tr>
</tbody></table> That's right fans and Twits: I'm kicking bishops and taking names.<br />
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I just LOVE the Britcom <strong><em>Father Ted</em></strong>, and since one of my chapters from this evening introduced my own Bishop Ted Macguire, a MAJOR antagonist to my Father Jack, well, I thought this photo rather fitting.<br />
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By the way, did I tell you I have procured special permission from <strong>the</strong> <em>Graham Linehan</em> to not only reference <strong><em>Father Ted</em></strong> in my novel, but to also quote parts of the series? I never, ever get starry-eyed over famous people. Mostly because to some I am still famous from my television and stage work, but also because the friends I've worked with and are colleagues of, are, to me, simply brilliant and talented friends, but to the rest of the world, they're Kip Wingers, Brett Cullens, James Strausses, and yes...Graham Linehans.<br />
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However, I was so honoured that Graham not only gave me permission, but SPOKE to me, that I nearly fainted when he replied to my Tweet. I felt like I'd just met the Pope himself.<br />
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Days fourteen and fifteen have blissfully blended together, because yesterday at 9:30 p.m., I went on a marathon writing session with the sole purpose of getting caught up.<br />
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As of thirty minutes ago, I had not only accomplished that goal (our cumulative word count up to today was supposed to be 25,000 if we were writing according to their schedule), but surpassed it by 1,063 words (ending up writing a total of 7,605). Well, one of my writing buddies had topped out at 25,139 and I simply could not be outdone.<br />
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So then, what's in store for today?<br />
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More writing, of course. I may now be caught back up with the Nano guidelines, but I'm still sorely behind on my own. For a 70,000 word comedic novel to be written in 30-days, I need to be writing a solid 2,333 each day, which is about the average length of one of my chapters.<br />
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And like the last time the words and story idea simply poured out of me, today's writing was no different because these chapters had little to no research required. And I've realised that since my Father Jack has severe OCD, I need to incorporate some of those details to make him authentic, as well as make the comedy spark.<br />
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However, I've decided to hold off on doing this, until time for the rewrites. In fact, there's a lot of detail that I'm purposely leaving out until the rewrites. I think for a novel to be written at his pace, it's the only way to accomplish that and stay sane at the same time.<br />
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On a related Nano note, one of my writing buddies that I whined to early on during my dark days of not being able to find my way, sent me a sweet, oh-so-sweet note yesterday saying he'd been watching my word count progress, and was proud of me, and wanted to encourage me to keep going. Now THAT, is what I call a writing buddy who knows how to encourage you, even when you didn't ask for it!<br />
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Off to bed. Talk tomorrow. Have a great day, everyone, and keep at it; you can do it!Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2383834373103917994.post-43815530997233305542010-11-13T15:07:00.001-06:002010-11-13T15:08:36.139-06:00NaNoWriMo--Day Thirteen and in LabourWhat do I constantly preach here, other than a story should begin <strong><em>at</em></strong> the story, and there is never enough conflict? That's right--that you should shut up your internal editor until after you've completed your first draft. Engage that sucker too soon and you're setting yourself up for nothing more than a hefty dose of writer's block.<br />
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So, will someone kindly tell me what the hell my problem is, then? Every time I sit down to write another chapter, all I can hear is my mum snarking away at me from my right shoulder: "This is crap. It isn't funny, and <strong><em>you</em></strong> write comedy. What the hell were you thinking? Macy's is hiring; get a <strong><em>real</em></strong> job. You <strong><em>do</em></strong> know, you're a fecking mad eejit, don't you?"<br />
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Well, okay. Mum never used the word fecking and she wasn't Irish, but follow along.<br />
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Usually when I sit down to write comedic essays or short-stories, I make them funny as I go. And they come very easy to me. I don't think I've ever had to go into labour for a joke with such pains it feels as if I'm blowing a Saint Bernard out my ass. Can't remember <strong><em>ever </em></strong>writing a piece in which I needed an epidural.<br />
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But with this novel, I'm trying to just create a good, solid story--get that out of me first, and <strong><em>then</em></strong> go back and add the funny--like John Vorhaus and any good comedy writer will tell you to do.<br />
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So then, why am I <strong><em>not</em></strong> being able to mentally get past the fact that so far, this is nothing but a right piece of shite? I wrote at <strong><em>least</em></strong> 2,600 words every day back in July and August when I finished GASLIGHT, and it pretty much came out close to the way I wanted it.<br />
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But on this, my dialogue sounds forced, the writing seems quite stilted in some places, and there are damned uninvited characters popping up all over the place, wrecking havoc by creating scenes that I haven't even authorised! It's nothing but anarchy in Father Jack's world, and frankly, he's making <strong>mine</strong> a living hell.<br />
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HELP! Tell me how to shut up this urge to want everything to be absolutely perfect before it's time.Opushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00372836062237009021noreply@blogger.com2