Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does

It isn’t every day you wake up to suddenly realize you’re related to a cartoon. Every time I see Dale Gribble on King of the Hill, I swear Mike Judge had actually crawled inside my head and put my uncle Bob in his show.

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.

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:

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 what we were looking at, we just weren’t sure what we were looking at. I think the bigger question for me was, when do you get it to look and act like that? 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.

But, back to the book.

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.

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.

“Um...er...where’d you get that?”

Roger said, “’Neath the chair cushion. What’s it doing there, dad?”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Thanks, Mike Judge.

Howard and Mona

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

My mother said, “What are you talking about?”

“They’re here! Howard and Mona just pulled into the driveway.”

“WHAT?” I’d never heard my mother quack like a duck before. “What are we going to do?”

“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.”

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.

“Great. They’re leaving,” dad said.

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.

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.

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.

The next morning, my dad, never a dancer before, was tap-dancing like he was Savion Glover's understudy in Bring In ‘Da Noise 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.

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.

Just about the time my dad started selling Amway.

Johnny and Roy

"51, start an IV with D5W, ringers lactate and transport as soon as possible."

"10-4."

"What did he say?" asked my six-year-old sister, who wasn’t half paying attention. That annoyed the heck out of me.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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:

Tiger Beat.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

"You’ve been kissing your posters again, haven’t you?"

I wheeled around as if I’d been shot in the back. How did she know?

"Because I’m psychic."

Man, sometimes she just freaked me out.

"And you have paper cuts all over your lips."

Crap. Note to self: buy more Chapstick during next visit to The Dairy Mart.

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.

I'm still addicted to Randolph Mantooth and Kevin Tighe--who's with me?

Will Work For Unemployment

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.

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.

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.

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 A Christmas Story.

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?

Man's voice:  "Number 51."
You:  "Oh, that's me!  But can you call my number again in about an hour?  That's when I get back from lunch."

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.

Is nothing safe in this economy?

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:

Pardon me, Miss, but are those your knickers in the sink?

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.

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.

But follow along.

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.

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.
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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

But Dollar General? That’s like getting thrown out of a soup kitchen for not busing your own table.

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.

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.

I Shouldn't Be Alive. (Finally, something on which we agree.)

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.

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.

And, I will admit that I’ve caught myself crying with joy near the end of one or two episodes.

However, I’ve recently learned something of value that they don't 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.

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.

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.

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.”

What the hell? Don’t these idiots ever 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?

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.

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.”

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.”

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!”

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.

5-Hour Cocaine, more like it

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.

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 really a successful marketing ploy?

Let's break them down, shall we?

The first disclaimer is this: 

Contains caffeine comparable to the leading premium coffee.

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?

Moving on.

Limit caffeine products to avoid nervousness, sleeplessness, and occasional rapid heartbeat.


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.

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.

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 best 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. 

Or some estrogen on a stick.

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).

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.

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.

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.

But, nothing.

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.

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.

So, honestly, I have no idea just what they were on about with their "scary" symptoms. 

But I can't wait to buy more.

A Little Merry for You

I LOVE CHRISTMAS!

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.

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.

Blessings from the insane one,
Carla

You Have a Thumb On Your Nose




The day after Thanksgiving



“Trust me, it’ll be great. What have you got to lose?”

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.

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.

But, being a modern-day woman, wife and mother, she loved a challenge.

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.

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.

Which left Christmas day, breakfast, the main 2 p.m. dinner, and mandatory caroling.

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.

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.

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.

God, if I could only get them arrested, then I wouldn’t need to worry where they slept.

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.

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.

Why was I worried?



The day before Christmas Eve



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).

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.

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.”

Regina knew she’d be having sex that night as a thank-you, but it was a small price to pay.

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.

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.



Christmas Day



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.

Not more than ten minutes later, she heard excited screams coming from the living room. God, how she loved her family.

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.

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Why is my stove as dead as your mother’s eyes?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, fix it!”

“I’m an attorney, not a caveman. Call someone.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Ruby entered. “What’s wrong?”

“Dinner’s ruined! And I blame you, Jim, just as I did at the birth of our children.”

He merely shrugged.

“That’s it. Everyone in the car.”

“Honey, calm down.”

“Nope. This was the stupidest idea you’ve had, and I went along when you decided to quit law school and sell fake vomit.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“SCREW CHRISTMAS!” She picked up a butcher knife, and said, “MOVE!”

4 minutes later, they were on their way to Denny’s. Ruby leaned up to Jim in the front and said, “Is she okay?”

Jim shushed her. “I don’t think we’re allowed to talk until the festivities begin.”

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.

While telling his parents good-bye, he said, “Well, I had fun. Let’s have you here again next year!”

Suddenly from behind, Regina charged at him with an uncooked turkey.
 
 

A Sleep to Startle Us




"Do go on, mama!" said Monica, clapping her hands. "You never finish your stories."

"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?"

"You were about to tell me the manner in which grandfather happened upon the idea for his now famous story."

"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.

"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.

"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 . . . ."

"Mama! Please! Do not torture me further by prolonging the tale!"

"Alright, done. It began on an unusually frigid night in November . . . ."




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.

"Will you spend yet another evening in thought," she asked, "deserting your one true passion, which is to write?"

He said nothing, but continued to stare.

"It happens to everyone, I am sure," she continued.

"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."

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.

"I am sure you do not mean this, Charles. It will pass. You must give yourself time."

"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."

"That visit to Field Lane ragged school in Saffron Hill in September really rent your heart," Catherine said, almost in a whisper.

"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.

"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."

He sat in silence.

Catherine kissed his cheek, and said, "Dearest, retire. Rest will relieve your suffering's severity in the light of morning."

He merely patted her hand and let his eyes stray back to the fire.

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?

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.

But spirits, being as they are, heard his thoughts and said, "No, Charles, you are not dreaming."

"H-h-how did you know my name?"

The spirit beckoned him with a boney finger. "Come."

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.

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."

"I am the Spirit of Regret."

"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?"

"You have a heavy heart.

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."

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.

"Spirit, what is the meaning of this?"

"Listen further," the spirit commanded.

"But daddy, how will St. Nick find us here? We do not have a chimney like we did at our house."
The father looked into his daughter's sweet face. "Do not worry, dearest, he will surely find us. He always does."

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.

The father looked at this wife imploringly.

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?"

"The Church?" said Charles. "What does the Church have to do with it?"

"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?"

"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?"

"All in good time," said the spirit. He waved the scene away with his hand.

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.

"Again, spirit, I implore you: what is the meaning of this?"

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.

"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.

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!

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?"

"It is what you have not done that seals your fate."

"Then reveal to me what I have yet to do--and I will but do it, posthaste."

"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."

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."

"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!"

"I still fail to see what I have neglected to do that would cause this to pass."

"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."

"Nonesense. I am only a writer. What can my pen surely do that my radicalism has not?"

"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?"

"I do."

"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.

"The second scene was of the future streets of London, again--abiding in desolation because no story gave them hope.

"Now listen once more to the scene in your own drawing room."

A young girl approached Catherine, and with tears streaming down her face, she said, "Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die, too?"

The spirit wiped the scene away and stood silent.

After a long moment, Charles said, "Spirit, will my work have that large an affect on the people of London?"

"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."

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.

"Catherine!" he bellowed. "Do you know not to where my quill and ink have retreated?"

"No, sir, and I assure you that waking the dead will have no more effect," she said, exiting her bedchambres.

"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.

"What has you in such good spirits, pray?" she asked.

"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."

"Know you what you shall call it, yet?" Catherine said.

"Aye. It will be A Christmas Carol to those with no song in their hearts."

*****

"And that, dear Monica, is how your grandfather wrote his famous story. Now, time for sleep."

"Mama? Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"

"What is that, dearest?"

"A writer, just like grandfather, for it was he who kept the spirit of Christmas alive for all of us."
 

 

A Politically-Correct Thanksgiving Wish

I've decided to wish everyone a Politically Correct Thanksgiving, in only a style unique to me. So here goes.

I hope your germ-free table is filled this year with the following (you mean besides antibacterial hand sanitiser?):

A nice, juicy turkey alternative that once assembled clearly resembles a turkey. (And on a bad day, so does my sister.)

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?)

Cranberry salad with oranges, apples and pecans, but jello-free. (Okay, so this one isn't so bad.)

Top it off with a flourless, eggless, milkless pumpkin pie. (And gutless. Don't forget gutless.)

Hmmn. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends, no matter what you eat.

Today's Featured Author at The Indie Spotlight

http://www.theindiespotlight.com/?p=3475

I did a great and funny interview, discussing my short-story collection, Zen In The Art of Absurdity.

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!

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.

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.

NaNoWriMo--Day Eighteen: cruisin', featured author, and GASLIGHT RELEASE!

Just a few minutes ago, I reached 37,178 words.  EPIC, BABY!  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. 

I've also made some fantastic 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.

On Friday, November 19, I will be the featured author at TheIndieSpotlight.com 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.

As of yesterday, my short-story collection, ZEN IN THE ART OF ABSURDITY (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 GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE...MY UNCLE DOES, 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.

And finally, exactly one week from today on US Thanksgiving Day, my historical fiction novel, THE GASLIGHT JOURNAL, 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 GASLIGHT link.  It will take you to a dedicated GASLIGHT page that I've set up specifically for your reviews.

That should do it for now.  Keep at it, and remember you CAN do this!

NaNoWriMo--Day Fifteen and Kicking It Up The Arse




Father Ted kicks Bishop Brennan up the Arse

 That's right fans and Twits:  I'm kicking bishops and taking names.

I just LOVE the Britcom Father Ted, 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.

By the way, did I tell you I have procured special permission from the Graham Linehan to not only reference Father Ted 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.

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.

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.

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.

So then, what's in store for today?

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.

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.

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.

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!

Off to bed.  Talk tomorrow.  Have a great day, everyone, and keep at it; you can do it!

NaNoWriMo--Day Six, just skipped right over day five

Nothing happened yesterday, anyway.  OH, except I put up some new Christmas lights around my desk.  I usually save decorating till my birthday on November 11 (make note:  I like Snickers and Broccoli), but just got hit with the festive mood early.

Anyway, so yes, I spent yesterday goofing off again, and trying to amp myself back up for writing.

And today, I did it.  I finished chapter two, thus writing another 2,400 words, and am now pushing ahead through chapter three, with an attempt to finish by tonight so I'm not too far behind on my NaNo word count.  Instead of NaNo's requisite 50,000 in 30-days, I'm shooting for a complete novel at 80,000.

I've often wondered during the last few days the point of pushing ahead with a novel that obviously isn't very good when you first hork it up.  And then I remembered all the trouble I had with continuity on The Gaslight Journal (Making its Kindle debut on Thanksgiving Day!), and found myself grieving because I hadn't written that in close to one sitting and just kept pushing through with it.

Which is, I guess, the reason the experts tell you to write your essays and spec scripts for sitcoms in what they call the "burn draft" style.  Meaning, you park your ass in the chair, and just write--you "burn" through it.  Then once you're done with your literary projectile vomiting, you go back and employ all the techniques you've learned for revisions and edits--thus, shaping it into a thing of beauty that will obviously be ready for human consumption. 

I never knew if that technique worked for novels, but for me, at least on this one, it sorta does.  I'm finding that I'm having much less trouble with details of specifics in previous chapters, thus, less re-reading involved, because I've got Frank Caravechi's younger brother Vinnie already locked in my short-term memory.  I already know when I delve into chapter three in about ten minutes that Sharks Avery is the US Marshal that will help Jack set up his temporary home in South (And not Southwest) Boston.  I automatically know that if Jack takes a tour of his new city, that his severe OCD and claustrophobia will preclude him from riding in a dirty, smelly cab.  Although, if I want to be a real bastard about it, that might create a nice piece of comedic tension.  We'll see what kind of mood I'm in once I finish my Snickers.

So, yeah--it's got definite advantages.

And now my break is over.  Will check in tomorrow.  And thanks for following this sordid saga.  We'll call it, "As The Colon Churns."