The Opposition Chimes in

Yesterday I posted about Joan of Arc, known as Jean D' Arc to her friends, and how the French seem to disregard her critical contributions to the very survival of their country today. Poor GW, our maligned and bumbling leader, was the subject of a cheap shot, delivered by yours truly. In the interest of fair play, and for your enjoyment--but mostly mine--here is what his opposition would say.

John Kerry: I have been consistent on this since the term consistent was created. Consistently I have said that King Charles should have consistently marched on Rouen and taken Joan by consistent force. I voted for it before I voted against it.

Al Gore: I promised myself I wasn't going to salivate or slobber on the podium, but how dare he? How dare King Charles leave that poor girl to burn at the stake?! Huh?! After all she did for this country. That slag-off, that poor excuse for a man, never mind a King. After she delivered Orleans into his ungrateful hands--HOW DARE HE?!

Howard Dean: Not only are we going to Rouen to take Jean D' Arc back, King Charles, we're going to Brighton and Worthing and Horsham and East Grinstead and Royal Tunbridge Wells, and we're going to Guildford and Redhill and Kingston. And we're going to Merton and Rochester and Bexley and Grays. And then we're going to London baby, to take the Royal Palace! Yeaaaaagggggh!!!

Jean D' Arc

I'm still waiting for my story to be published. This is getting to be a mild form of torture. I'll try to keep my perspective though--they could force me to wear women's underwear and throw my first edition copy of Twain's Joan of Arc in the toilet.

I've never mentioned that before, but that was a great book. Reading it now, it was a bit of a dry read, like reading Shakespeare, only four hundred times more comprehensible. It's the one book that could actually make me believe there is a God. Seriously. I tend to believe science and provable facts, which pretty much has me scanning channels on Sundays.

Back in Jean D' Arc's day, in fourteen hundred-ish (I'm not looking anything up, so sue me), France was at a low point. I would have used the superlative, but France has a long and arduous history. To say this was its lowest is not for me to determine--but let's just say this was among them. Bodies lay in the streets decaying and nobody bothered to bury them up, opting to leave them for the wolves to feast upon in the night. England was winning the war between them, and it was generally accepted that it was just a matter of time. At least to my understanding.

Jean D' Arc lived in a tiny village called Domremy, which still exists today, although I have never seen it. I believe she was sixteen at the time. The story goes that she was visited by an angel that told her to visit the French king and acquire from him an army. No small feat, wouldn't you agree? But she did it. The king was suspect at first, but the angel had told her some secrets about him that only he would know, and those she whispered in his ear. That's the legend anyway. History reads that the king granted her request, that she rode at the army's head and crushed the occupation.

There are many explanations any good fiction writer could propose as to how this came about. Perhaps the king was so desultory that any glimmer of hope, even that sparked by such an unlikely catalyst, was worth a try. Perhaps the king had simply given up, a man with his head clamped a Guillotine, staring wild-eyed at the basket where his head will fall. But this makes me think. She was sixteen. I'm scared when I see a sixteen year old of either sex behind the wheel of a car. But this little girl not only convinced the king, but all of his generals too, who were none too pleased at first. But time after time, she was prescient in her strategies, as if an angel were telling her the enemy's next move.

So grateful was the French king for her country's deliverance that he exempted the village of Domremy of taxation, an exemption that lasted for a couple centuries. He wasn't grateful enough though, to intervene when the English finally captured her and burnt her at the stake.

Read Twain's fictionalized version. First, it's classic Twain, full of colorful characters. He researched the work for seven years before writing a single word. It's obvious that he fell in love with his subject.

One thing I've noticed though. The French could give a shit about her. One reaction I got: "What is it about you and Jean D' Arc?" The other: "France has been on the brink of destruction so many times. That's just one of them."

That goes a long way in explaining why they let her burn.

I think GW would say: "Joan of Arc is... I mean was... I mean, France owes a huge debt to Joan of Arc. Now watch this golf shot."

Inside and Out

I was so flaming mad at my dad when I introduced him to Shelby. She was my first "serious" girlfriend. Oh sure, I had only been with her for a few months, but I was sure she was the one. This is the thought that wakes me in the middle of the night. Are my children going to be as utterly stupid as I was?

Shelby complained afterwards that dad didn't like her. That's ridiculous I said. But it was true.

I called my step-mother Diana and let him have it by proxy.

"I can't believe he was so rude to her," I said. "He knows what she means to me. Why couldn't he at least pretend?"

"Because," Diana said, "he knows that she doesn't care about you the way she should."

Years later, and I mean years later, I introduced him to my fiance. This was different. I knew it. So much so that I never even considered that time before. Why did I punish myself time after time with dead-hearted women? Hands down in the back please. That was rhetorical.

Beth and Diana were happily chatting, looking over knick-knacks at a country store. My dad fell in beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. He was beaming. "She's beautiful Scott--inside and out."

Bad Grades

I actually thought I was tough until eighth grade, where roughly half the class convinced me otherwise. Later I would discover that those same kids in Leavenworth Washington (town, not prison) thought I had come from some correctional facility, or some such place where kids with problems come from. When they found out I hadn't, they didn't like me anyway. How do I know that? That's actually an interesting story. Not now though.

I also thought I was good looking, and charming. Again, I was forced to rethink the issue in the same grade. Actually it was the grade before when the clues trickled in, and maybe even a grade before that. In sixth grade Ohio, I was ok, until we moved to Idaho. In sixth grade Hayden Lake, kids paired off in marriage; but I was never betrothed. Ty Eastman, whom I was destined to fight with on a couple occasions, almost got a divorce once. They were able to work out their problems though, and so they lasted for a couple more weeks. Looking back now, it was kind of cute. We happened upon her on the playground, and he told me, "Hold on, I need to take care of this."

Their hands were waving as they spoke, but gently. I overheard her say, "I don't want a divorce, do you?"

"No, that's silly. Of course I don't."

Then he left her with a smile, walked back to me and we strode away. Ah oui, Lamour!

In seventh grade, Canfield Junior High, I gave Lois O'Hara a Valentines card with the word "love" in it. I didn't really mean for the message to be so strong. Certainly I didn't feel that. She was hot and I wanted her to know I thought it. Taped to the card was a pack of Hubba Bubba--or was it Bubblelicious with the ultimate bubble? I gave it to her after science class. She read it Brett Maverick style, stone cold poker face; coolly thanked me and walked away. Like a puppy I followed while she ignored me, all the way to her boyfriend's locker. Oh, I get it now!

Having moved to Couer d' Alene for the second half of seventh grade, I entered Lakes Junior High in almost complete anonymity. Kristen--I thought I had forgotten her name, but it was Kristen. She gave me a leather wrist band with my name branded in big green letters. I wore it, but I covered it with my jacket sleeve. A nuance not missed by some little tart in a class I shared with her and Kristen. "You wear it to make her feel good, but you hide it because you're ashamed."

Shooting Salmon

There is an excellent book that I read called The Tracker by Tom Brown, in an effort to research a book idea I had about a boy who learns to track from an old Indian. Coincidentally, Tom Brown had nearly that same experience with an old Apache. A particularly interesting passage was about a wild pack of dogs the old Apache called the Guardians, who attacked and killed intruders that happened into their space. As a boy, Brown would occasionally see a tame dog running amongst the wild pack, acting just as vicious as the rest. But that same dog would go home again for a scratch behind the ear, a warm meal and a soft bed.

I don't like fishing, hunting or camping. And let's face it; I don't enjoy getting dirty either. That's not to say I won't do it, but I certainly won't suggest a plan that puts me in a situation where I have to do any of the above. You could say then, that growing up in Juneau was completely wasted on me.

My dad always had a small arsenal of guns--shotguns, handguns and rifles of various calibers. And if I do say so, I'm not a bad shot. Dad (also see, nightmare tenant) once set up targets in our duplex basement. The landlord was apparently out of town that weekend. The backdrop was a stack of plywood several sheets deep, such that a .22 couldn't penetrate. My brother and I dug the lead out and kept the slugs in a bucket.

When I was in high school, Mike Marlin and Chris Clarke talked me into hiking with our guns deep into the woods, where the salmon came to die in a stagnant pool at the end of the river. For those who don't already know, salmon swim upstream from the oceans to lay their eggs and die. Each has a biological program that drives them with eerie ferocity to travel to the end of their known world. And once they've performed that imprinted duty, the light turns out and they simply die in what can be described as a mass grave with a smell to match. We found such a place that day, littered with salmon in various states of repose--floaters in beds of foam, stragglers on the shore like shipwreck survivors, others biding their time below decks, awaiting the inevitable.

Chris had a semi-automatic .22 rifle, most likely illegal at the time. Probably still is. His target was still alive near the opposite shore, just below the surface. I can still see the smile on his face and the gleam in his eyes. I can hear the repeating pop of the gun; see the tiny sprays of water like that of a handful of thrown pebbles. The big fish fled in such a panic that it literally swam up the beach and into the woods while Chris kept pumping the lead into its body, laughing with the glee of a television mad scientist.

The others had shotguns and high caliber rifles, which joined the volley. Fish heads and fish tails flew every which way.

The roar was deafening.

We were killers of the gangland variety--bored kids gone temporarily insane, in the grips of our basest instincts. I'd like to report that I walked away, put my own rifle away, and walked home alone. But I didn't. I'd also like to tell you that I was mortified, that it wasn't in the slightest bit fun. But I have to admit that it was.

Soccer Camp

I took part of the day off yesterday to take my son to his first day of Soccer camp, a week long affair that lasts from nine to noon. The coaches are traveling abroad from England, three young guys on a journey through the states, having a good time along the way. There is something about the English accent that lends a fair amount of respect and credibility to the speaker. Kind of a reverse prejudice us Americans have to our country of origin. It's laughable, but when the assembled parents first heard the head coach speak, we all nodded and smiled. Our kids were learning from an authentic soccer player, not some American pretender.

If soccer doesn't work out, they might become a comedy troupe. Coach asked my son his name. My son told him. "I love your work Jackson," he said, "always have." He held out a fist for my son to bash with his own--a bastardized form of high five. Jackson regarded it like a serving of liver and onions. The coach said, "C'mon Jackson, don't leave me hanging." I took Jackson aside and taught him the knuckled-five protocol, practiced it a few times, then took him back to coach for his maiden voyage.

The coaches introduced themselves to the crowd of kids and parents by giving up an interesting personal factoid. One used to play soccer in the UK, another worked for a soccer team, and the other once ate twenty seven peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a row.

My wife picked Jackson up at noon, and got the up and down scope-out from the head coach. She said he barely tried to conceal it. "Dog," is the term I believe she used. But let's face it, she wasn't totally displeased with the affirmation that yes, she still has it.

How many yummy-mummies do you think these guys end up with? This traveling band of boners--young, virile, with English flipping accents. How is a single mom to resist? Or worse, one whose husband doesn't take care of business at home like he should.

Alone

Even my wife, who has seen me go through several inter-personal issues at work with cantankerous co-workers, thinks I played this one just right. Usually I blow my top and the rest of the office wilts. There goes Scott again! Not this time though. My officemate du jour rubbed my fur till it stood on end, crackling with static, but I've kept my mouth shut--mostly. One by one, his attitude has estranged him from the others, in one creeping, slowly expanding concentric circle, the wake of which has finally reached the front office.

It's just a matter of time. Strangely, I feel bad for him. He lost his father when he was a young boy. He talks too much and too loud, sort of like I used to do. Why did I do that? Because I wanted attention I wasn't getting at home. Now he's likely to get canned, and as bad as I feel about that, there's nothing I want to do to stop it. If I were a man of God, I suppose I would talk to him now, give him some clue as to what's in store. Offer some advice, advice that might hurt now, but help him for the next job, or save him in this one. The man lost his father and I can see it in everything he does.

Hard Kisses

On a whim a couple years ago, I took a creative writing course at Solano Community College. The school was right next door to my subdivision. I could practically walk there. My youngest son was still in the womb, due any time soon, so this was my last chance at doing something with my relative free time. I didn't expect much. Boy was I surprised.

In many ways I will always be that small-town boy with a narrow mind. Prejudices creep in, guiding me in small ways. For instance, I used to despise the whole profession of psychology, and regarded anyone who saw a "shrink" as weak. Eventually, personal experience forced me to change my mind. The same prejudice kept me from reading a single line of poetry without dismissing it with a scoff. Dr. Laurie Duesing, my esteemed creative writing professor, blew those doors off the hinges.

Her class put me on the track I'm on today. If she had been anyone different, someone negatively critical for instance, I might not have continued.

Dr D, as her students affectionately call her, is an accomplished poet. She wrote a collection of poems that can be purchased at Amazon called Hard Kisses. I always return to the same piece, again and again. The poem is called Precision, which for me has many meanings. The obvious I will leave for your interpretation. For me, this poem is arrow sharp in delivering pain to my heart, as if for a moment I am behind her eyes feeling the loss of someone who lived fast and hard.

Precision
by Laurie Duesing

The day you flew in perfect arc
from your motorcycle was the same day
I broke the perfect formation of your women
at the railing, leaving behind
your grandmother and mother, to run
and jump the fence. The stop watch hanging
from my neck, suspended between gravity
and momentum, swung its perfect pendulum.
All our motion was brought to conclusion
by your broken body at rest
on the ground. Your breath never rose
to the oxygen placed on your face
and your heart never rallied
to the arms pressing your chest.
You wore the perfect clothes:
the ashy grey of death.

At the hospital they said your failure to survive
was complete. Though I never saw
the neck you perfectly broke or your body
cleanly draped by a sheet, I did see
your dead face bruising up at me
and for lack of something to touch,
I touched the stop watch
which had not died.
If any nurse or doctor had asked,
I could have told, exactly,
to the hundreths of seconds, how long
it had been since I'd seen you alive.

Water Powered Vehicles

I read a long time ago about an engine powered by water. The technology wasn't quite there yet, but its inventor felt he was quite close. The idea, he said, was so simple, on the magnitude possibly, of the Purloined Letter.

Urban Myth? The cynic in me says probably so. Googling around I found an article about a South African inventor who claims to have a vehicle that runs on water and emits steam and oxygen. Say goodbye to the rainforests if that's true. What this story does is claim without any scientific references, anything to make me think this is anything more than just that--a claim. I have my fingers crossed just the same.

Another search result, the first actually, sent me here. Here's an excerpt:

President Bush has made a challenge to the American people to begin running our cars on hydrogen as soon as possible, and has allocated over one billion dollars for research to find out how to do that.

In a suburb of Toronto, Canada, a small company called Rothman Technologies, Inc., has in fact discovered not one but two viable methods for breaking down ordinary water into hydrogen and oxygen. Neither method involves the need to spend a billion dollars. They are simple answers. The existing engines in our automobiles could work with these systems with very little alteration and no need for an external support infrastructure like the one now provided by gas stations, and which would be required by fuel-cell technology.

To understand how these water-fuel systems work, it helps to begin by realizing that ordinary water is actually a "battery" containing vast amounts of energy. Water is H2O--two parts hydrogen combined with one part oxygen. And, as President Bush says, hydrogen is an excellent fuel.

The amount of energy in the water molecule is thus vast, and has absolutely nothing to do with the amount of energy it takes to break down that molecule. This is an extremely important point, as so many people--even scientists--are unclear on this concept. And yet if we can find an economical means to break down the water molecule, our energy problems are over.

Interesting. I've heard a lot of talk in the past about how Big Oil would never let something like this go to market. Imagine how wonderful this would be, if suddenly every car in North America no longer needed gasoline. Oil would still be needed to lube the moving parts, but gasoline would be a thing of the past.

Would the war on terror suddenly find amiable resolution? I don't think oil is the direct reason we are in Iraq, but when you boil it all down, oil is the cause. If we didn't need it anymore, at least not so desperately bad, the price would go down. Depression style. Terrorism wouldn't be so well funded then, would it?

Note that the Rothman information is quite old, and digging around, I see claims that the technology doesn't work. Stands to reason I suppose. Wouldn't this be all over the news? Or is there really a conspiracy by Big Oil to bury this?

The Manchurian Candidate

Looking around in Toyz R Us, I bumped into lady who was browsing the video game section with me. I was thinking about picking up a particular label--I don't remember which--when the lady informed me that video games cause seizures in children.

Just before I wrote this, I researched the subject just a little. Not that I needed to. Call it due diligence. The affliction is called Photosensitive epilepsy. This affects approximately two in every ten thousand children. These odds are five times more unlikely than losing a baby as a result of having amniocentesis, yet women do this almost by rote. People so afflicted are prone to having seizures as a result of flashing lights, or repeating patterns of light--which rules out the old Flintstones cartoon, that scrolled the same background as Fred and Barney cruised down Hollyrock Boulevard. I wonder if my cohabitant at the toy store has a television.

I doubt anyone reading this really believes that the above should be a deterrent, but be aware that the doomsayers exist. Here is my take on video games. If you put me in the cockpit of an airplane today, with a bit of instruction, I could be just a little bit dangerous. Why? Because I've managed complex sets of controls in a variety of games that required me to study and practice in order to manage the chaos of the game. You could say that I have a highly developed sense of hand-eye coordination, and I know this because I have mastered over a hundred different video games in my time.

As for my son, gaming has taught him to read, add, subtract, and to tell the relative difference between numbers. He has a map in his head and can tell me where any building in the game is and how to get there. The sheer volume of information he contains in his head for one game literally fills a book. Not only that, but it has given him the desire to learn more about reading and math, and a possible motivation to create something of its ilk in the future. When he was three years old, he could solve puzzle games like Putt Putt Saves The Zoo.

He still loves to go outside, just in case you may think he only plays video games. At two he was riding a scooter. At four he rode his bicycle without training wheels. For two years now he has been swimming, and can pick objects off the eight foot floor of the pool. I put everything in front of my son, sign him up for every sport and expose him to every craft class available, like art and woodworking. And of course we read together every night.

To me, video games are an important part of his development. I don't have any use for all that psycho-mumbo-jumbo that it stunts a child. The worst case, my son turns out like me, who grew up in a video arcade, Jousting with Eric, playing Loopin', Tron, Space Invaders, Gorf, Millipede, Xevious, Battletank, pinball and a host of others I have forgotten. The last I checked, we were both doing fine.

Neither of us has had a seizure yet, robbed a bank or liquor store, or killed anyone--yet. Perhaps someday we will, once the secret signal--Rosebud?--is sent that hits play on recorder in our heads, planted by the cartoon princess at the climax of Dragon's Lair.

**** Update ****

A friend who shall be unnamed has just alerted me to studies indicating that surgeons have better eye-hand coordination because of their experience with video games. A quick google search yielded this article. Here's an excerpt:

All those years on the couch playing Nintendo and PlayStation appear to be paying off for surgeons. Researchers found that doctors who spent at least three hours a week playing video games made about 37 percent fewer mistakes in laparoscopic surgery and performed the task 27 percent faster than their counterparts who did not play video games.

The Warrior

My son and I became the Pokemon champions of the entire Hoehn region this weekend. We raised Flygon to level 60 and ripped through the Elite Four like a hot knife through butter. Wallace was a little tougher, but we came equipped with a level 59 Raichu, a few Revives and Hyperpotions. The rest, as they say, is history.

You may kiss my toes.

Coming into work this morning, I played an 80's compilation I made from old Napster downloads. My wife liked Scandal and Patty Smyth, so I included two of their songs: Goodbye To You and The Warrior. The lady can reach.

Patty was good friends with Valerie Bertinelli and Eddie Van Halen when David Lee Roth left the band, so Eddie offered Patty the vacated post. Patty turned it down. She had just married John McEnroe, and decided to stay home and be a mother instead.

In an interview around that time, she said, "You should have seen their jaws drop when I turned them down." I would have been shocked too. Supposedly she has admitted to eventually regret that decision. Was it noble? Or did she just know too much about the internal workings of the band to put herself in that position. I don't know.

But my goodness, she would be a legend today. Now people are wondering who she is, and if her last name is a typo. As for me, my hat is tipped in her general direction. She's got brass ovaries, and should be immortalized upon the altar of motherhood. She turned down the rock and roll dream for a higher calling.

But after all she has achieved, can she claim to be the Pokemon champion?

That's right baby, you keep dreaming.

Spotty At Best

I just got an email from the editor of Deathlings. My story will be up sometime next week. I wasn't sure when it was slotted to be up, but apparently their web master is on an organic farm in Iowa--I hate it when that happens--so they are struggling with getting the issue up themselves. So, an announcement is forthcoming.

Meanwhile I am attempting another story, or three. Now there are fragments laying about my hard drive. This is harder than it should be.

My jeans are all in the laundry, so I'm reduced to wearing khakis to work. Which looks nicer I'll admit. After the deluge, New England is finally enjoying a sunny morning. For some reason, after every rain, there are a dozen or so frogs in my pool, when the season is in bloom. Which apparently it is. I pulled out a bunch--herd, gaggle, pack, pride?--this morning and restarted the pool filter. But since it hadn't been running in a couple days--rain always flips the power breaker--I poured liquid burn-out around the edges, which is basically a bleach that kills germs. Sitting here at work, I just realized that my previously flawless khakis have splattered bleach spots all over.

I'm such a farm boy. I swear. The day before I wore jeans with a hole in the rear, and a disgusting blotch on the knee where I knelt in a puddle of rust. Note to self: stop getting dressed in the dark, and throw those damn things away.

Message In A Bottle

Ok, now I'm totally convinced of it--the internet is another of my guardian angels, the central nervous system of God. When I first started this blog, almost a year ago to date, I was literally talking to myself. Back then I read instapundit everyday, a political blog that probably got 100K hits an hour. There was no way I was ever going to reach that kind of notoriety, and nor did I try. Actually, that isn't totally true. I launched another blog simultaneously to opine on my political observations, but that died after one post. Boooring! So I turned inward and talked about the thoughts that swam through my head from time to time. Old flames, exciting times, troubled times, funerals, road trips, fights, victories, defeats. I made a connection with a handful of readers--and so we swapped stories and encouraged each other to keep going.

Then came Jason's Two Lights contest, then Ann Maries, then my connection with Flood, a suggestion to submit my story to Deathlings, and bada-bing! I'm getting published. How divine.

Meanwhile, my old college stories are floating out there still, alone, like a message in a bottle. And like that stranded castaway who watches its pitifully small splash, I never thought it would ever actually reach the intended recipient. But this one did.

This morning, after snoozing the alarm three times, I stumbled out of bed, stepped into my flops, crept past the kids--skillfully avoiding the creaky floorboards--then snuck into the office to check my email before walking the dog. I was greeted by the following (edited slightly to remove personal information--and read the post if you really want to understand):

Scott,

I found the blog about Jason and his wonderful stage performances. He's my dad! I shared your blog with my dad and he couldn't believe it! He was amazed at how you captured the memory of those times so precisely. He also wanted me to pass along that he is very flattered that you found his performances so engaging. He spent a lot of time practicing his acts but more for fun than striving for perfection. But, to know today that all that made such an impression warms my dad's heart. Thanks so much for painting a picture of my dad when he was younger so that the both of us could relive the memories, me for the first time, and my dad for the hundredth!

(Chuck Berry's daughter!)

Where do I even begin! I wrote her back of course. This is just too exciting. To think I provided such a candid and flattering account of her father, and that they would actually find it. Can you even imagine how that must feel? I told her that I can't, but the reality is that I can imagine it, and imagine it well.

I've lamented in the past that the times I spent in school may as well have never happened, because nobody remembers. It was an entirely unique universe composed of all our personalities, one that will never be reconstructed or appreciated.

Washington State University, 1984.

A small part of it came back to life today.

Back Then

I love Sitemeter. This is a recent discovery for me. I've read several blog entries over the last year, people talking about the search terms used to find their blog. How do they do that? Answer: digging around in Sitemeter. How cool.

Back on October of '05, I wrote a couple posts about pledging the Fiji fraternity. I broke several rules by doing so. They fancy themselves as being super duper trifecta top secret, but it's all a bunch of bull, even to those who eventually come to embrace it. But now my blog, having been around for so long I suppose, gets top billing sometimes for Google searches, Yahoo and Ask.com too. Two days ago, I got an email from a young man thinking about pledging Fiji as WSU. He was concerned about joining. To him, the guys at the fraternity today seem like a bunch of cool guys, but my stories were unflattering. How long ago did you attend, he asked me.

Back when I was at WSU, David Lee Roth was still the lead singer of Van Halen. Jump was number one. I know, Van who? It's embarrassing to admit, but we danced in basements to Karma Chameleon Time after Time. I was the Owner of a Lonely Heart, but What's Love Got To Do With It anyway? But Let's Hear it for the Boy, because Against All Odds I made it through.

An unknown actor called Kevin Bacon starred in his first role called Footloose. Ever even heard of it? Eddie Murphy was actually funny back then. I know, I know, but it's true. He could do no wrong after his smash success that year with Beverly Hills Cop. Harrison Ford was in his prime in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. And who could forget Dr. Venkman who never studied in Ghostbusters? Ralph Machio was a household name, as was Mr. Miagi. Back then Police Academy needed no suffix.

People were watching Dynasty and Dallas, The Cosby Show and Family Ties. A lot of shooting and explosions rocked the world of A-Team, but nobody got killed. The shows we watched can only be found in obscure DVD collections and Nick at Nite.

What am I trying to say? Things change. Like I told him, these are the best years of your life. Live them to the fullest.

Drop It Already

I really need to carry either a notepad or a tape recorder with me at all times. Several ideas, either for stories or posts, crossed my mind then washed down the stream. But that's alright mama, any way you do. My philosophy has always been, if I did it once, I can do it again.

Saturday morning started badly. My wife asked me how I liked the pancakes, and I did the unholiest of unholies and told the truth. Why not? Usually she is spot on. And besides, what if this was a test? It happens. But not this time. This time she really thought they rocked. So I stomped through a couple chores, gathering the garbage for the dump, mowing the pool area to bag the shavings, muttering all the while. This is usually my reaction to marital fights--extreme housework. She knows it too. If she wants something done, all she has to do is cop an attitude with me and away I go.

Anyway, she apologized to me later, right when I was thinking about doing the same. That always feels good. There is a fine line between ingratitude and constructive criticism. Alright ladies, let me have it.

My sixer stumbled into our room Saturday night holding his belly, keeled over and crying. The location of his pain scared us half to death. One thought froze our hearts--appendix. We propped his knees and probed the area, but he wouldn't let us touch. When we mentioned the emergency room, his pain did not miraculously disappear, but his complaining did. We gave him Tylenol and he fell asleep. The phone doctor told us to press the spot. If he wakes up, take him to emergency.

A half hour later he was in the back seat and I had a bag packed with toothbrushes, snacks and waters. It was just past midnight, and not a soul was parked in the hospital lot. Emergency was empty but for a single moaning grandma surrounded by family and nurses. The doctor made me feel better at once. The appendix, he said, is on the right side. Your son's pain is on the left.

Listen, he said. He placed two fingers flat against my son's liver and rapped against them with two fingers of the other hand. A dull thud. He moved to the stomach and rapped again. Hollow. Now over the afflicted area. Somewhere between dull and hollow. On the compass that would read dull by dull hollow. His intestines are full. An x-ray ruled out blockage. Little man has been holding it too long.

I told poop jokes all the way home.

Pig in a Dress

I pay an embarrassing amount of money for a membership at a local health club called the Thoreau Club. Last night they sponsored a barbeque that I was lead to believe was complimentary to pool members. Twenty bucks later, we were enjoying a cheeseburger apiece. The bathroom floors were awash in urine, so my wife inquired to maintenance. She was told that those bathrooms are cleaned every day.

Think about that. There were probably three hundred people in the pool area, roughly two thirds little kids. And they clean the bathroom every day. Have you ever seen a McDonald's bathroom when it isn't maintained every hour?

The condiments bar, stocked with lettuce, tomato, ketchup and the like, didn't have tongs to pick anything out with. My wife watched a man dig through the lettuce, like an eager child up to his elbow in Cap'n Crunch rummaging for the toy surprise, until he found just the right piece. All we could think was does this man wash his hands after he wipes--if he even wipes?

The club pretends to have class, but they could take a few plays from the Four Seasons handbook. You can adorn a pig in a dress, perfume and lipstick, but you still have a hairy hog that rolls in its own shit.

Next year it's the Y.

****

Update : I need a cool name for a crime family. Anyone want to try? Namely (ha ha ha) I would like a first name for the father and the underachieving son, and maybe a name for the son who is most like father. The older son is next in line, smarter, but not ruthless enough)

Autopsy Room Four

I read the first short story by Stephen King in the Everything's Eventual collection, and was reminded how a professional writer does it. Jaye wrote yesterday about research. I'm sure Mr. King has anyone available to him that he needs. Who wouldn't be more than happy to tell him everything he needs to know about their business?

Thank goodness for the afterward. King admits to making up a few facts. So seamless did he do this that I assumed the existence of an entire species of poisonous snake.

The story was called Autopsy Room Four. It wasn't entirely original, rather a twist on an old TV show I had seen before, to which King pays homage. The man protagonist has been bitten by a poisonous snake and is dead by most standards, but is completely aware of his situation as he lies on the autopsy table. Did that just give you a cold chill? It did me. But just as Wesley was in Princess Bride, our man was only mostly dead, and only needed to recover from the poison to wake up again. King teases us the whole time as the coroner toys with the meat clippers that will open his chest while he is fully aware.

What impressed me, and thus the reason I am writing this post, is the technical jargon King employed. I don't have the book in front of me or I would reproduce some of the language. The doctor turns on a tape recorder and dictates his observations. King has done some research, unless he moonlights as a coroner, or actually spent time on the battlefield as his paralyzed character has.

So I have an idea right now to rewrite a short story I wrote in college, but with more detail and character development. I need to know something about heart transplants, and how one person can know if another is a viable donor. My friend got married to a woman whose brother is a heart surgeon in New Orleans. For three days he and I hung out maybe ten years ago. The chances of being remembered are slim. And what would I say anyway?

How could I interview a heart surgeon? How would you go about this?

Happy Fourth

Man are we stupid. I'm pretty sure that we will never quite get the concept of time and how long it takes. Last night was quite spectacular, even if our youngest passed out during the extravagant fireworks display. These were the coolest I'd ever seen. They pulled out some new rabbits from the hat. The best was a bit understated--just a splash of green dots that spread randomly, first slow, then fast, then slow again. It reminded me of the old Star Castle game, or Tempest. In fact, the whole fireworks display bordered on screen saver quality, as if the pyro-zen-technicians had achieved wizard-like mastery of the craft. Thank goodness I wasn't smoking pot. It would have freaked me out real bad. I would have seen a disembodied head commanding us to kneel.

I surprised myself by knowing the lyrics to all the patriotic songs. Missing however were the voices of the crowd. Perhaps the inclusion of God would have been too offensive to our Muslim neighbors. I was saddened a bit that we weren't all singing at the top of our lungs, proud for just one night of what we have achieved. More people knew the fight song at Washington State University. Flag-waving has achieved dubious status, associated with right-wing nutters, pick up trucks, and six-pack totin' good ole boys with no front teefas. We can't be associated with them there types here in Boston. Thems the ones as voted dubya inta orifice.

For a Dog She Speaks

Our new puppy is quite the attention grabber from strangers. At dinner tonight, we sat outside with her on a leash. A woman stepped out from the passenger side of a minivan and asked if it would be rude to have a look at our little cutie.

"Of course you can," I said.

"You never know," she said, "I saw a news report where some people have puppies in training, and people like myself could be intruding."

"Intruding is sticking your finger in the mouth of my newborn baby and saying goochie-goochie-goo, ok?"

She laughed and pet the dog. "I couldn't resist. My mother said, 'Look at the dog!', so I had to come out. Those are her first words in two months." She looked down and said, "She has Alzheimer's."

"Does she want to see the dog?" I said.

"You wouldn't mind?"

When the side door slid open, her mother sat there cradling a baby doll that was swaddled tight. I held out the dog and said, "This is Roxie."

Her daughter repeated loudly, "Her name is Roxie."

"I know that," she replied sternly. A man beside her took the doll as I placed Roxie in her lap. She pet her for a moment, then her eyes went sort of dull, as if focusing on a distant object over the horizon.

This was my first experience with someone so afflicted. Only a glimpse. Have a good holiday Eve. I still don't know what it's like, but I thought of you today.

Odds and Ends II

I reused an old title for lack of serious inspiration. I've update my links to include a few new bloggers I have been visiting lately. I also linked my interview at Flood's site, and my guest blogger spot on Fringes.

A belated congrats to all the winners and honorable mentions of the flash fiction contest at Jason's place. Some of my new friends made top honors. Elisha's story, Jimmy Crick, was a clear winner. You won't find a single one of us that disagrees.

So now that I have an article on the way, I am getting serious about a repeat performance. A special thanks to my new friend Anthony, who inspired me to look around for places to submit. Also to Toni, my writer's group companion and friend from California, who provided me with several sources to consider. See my sidebar for my list as it grows.

Crazy Ants

The ants turned out to be what the exterminator affectionately refers to as crazy ants, which look a whole lot like carpenter ants, only with longer antennae and a gimpy gait. He blew the fog of death into the walls, which spewed into our cabinets, covering plates, glasses and food alike. The wife however is quite pleased, even as she washes and I dry, that our house may yet stand for another thirty years.

This whole publishing business has thrown me off my stride. Now I care--really care. Before it was just a dream, something that would happen someday. Work is harder to concentrate on. I keep checking my email, making lame excuses to go upstairs. Still no verdict from deathlings, just chill silence. It could mean anything, but my imagination doesn't have to stretch taut to find a plausible explanation. My wife says that no news is good news, but I say they could just forget they ever knew me. Nothing is signed. All I have is a congratulatory email.

Of course I'll update when I hear back--if I hear back that is.

*** Update ***

I heard back. In the words of the immortal Todd Beamer: Let's roll!

You Guys are the Best

It's days like yesterday that make me realize how much support I really have. Thank you all so very much for stopping by to remind me. There was a theme across the comments: don't forget the little people. How can one little person forget the people he looks up to anyway? If I do make it someday, it will be because of the support I got right here.

Totally unrelated, a deer just walked across my front yard, but was gone before the kids flattened their little faces to the windows. Add that to the ever growing list of wildlife we live amongst.

So, get this. The contest I entered that is yielding my first publishing credit--I asked the editor via email what place I took, since the acceptance letter indicated that my story was to be featured. That could mean anything. The reply was this:

There were 80 submissions; you received First Place and "The Big Show" Second Place.

I had a hard time getting to sleep last night.

**** Update ****

I've contacted Deathlings and let them know that the story has been up on this blog. Thank you for the advice everyone. My fate is in their hands right now. This isn't exactly an online publication, but I will respect their decision when it comes. If I did it once, I can do it again.

Great News!

The editors at deathlings.com are going to feature my short story Damned Carnival in their Summer/Fall 2006 "Funhouse Mirror" issue. After two or three times reading the email, I finally understood. I am going to be published.

This is a great first step. And what sweet validation for all my efforts. This is a gentle pat on the back, like the "good job" I would get from my father that puffed me up so.

At times like this, I swear I have a guardian angel.

I've said it before, but thanks again Flood. You know what for.

Oh, and get this. I get paid three cents a word, which amounts to just under a hundred bucks. Now I can build that addition--not. Seriously, though, how cool is that? The first time I got paid to wear a loud cowboy shirt, play my guitar and croon to a scattering of farmers and crop dusters, I didn't cash the check. It lives behind glass surrounded by wood borders and hangs on my wall. But that was only twenty five bucks. With this I'll treat the family to a day of food and fun.

Always Bugs

We live in the country. This means wildlife of many sorts--snakes, mice, foxes, coyotes, rabbits, opossums, moles, skunks, squirrels, chipmunks. But for the first two, my wife is ok. Bugs however are unacceptable. This morning there is a lumpy pile of carpenter ants swarming on a tray of ant poison, so I just let it be. I forgot to leave a warning note.

I just got the call. To her credit though, she is maintaining her nerve. Just let them take the poison back to the nest. It will be over soon.

If you haven't done so already, check out Jason's contest. Today is the last day. There are some pretty disturbing stories there, so if you are faint of heart... Good stuff there. Check out Flood, Toast, Jaye and Schprock's entries. And of course my own! Jamie Ford, the winner of Jason's previous contest, has a late entry that impressed me too.

** Update **

This is funny. An old post of mine was just viewed by someone who searched google with the terms: Shit where you eat office romance. The very end of the resulting post ends with almost those exact terms. The post is called office romance, and the ending says:

My dad always said, don't take a shit where you eat, the wise old sage that he is, but I prefer something with a little subtext: never dip your pen in company ink.

Jeez, I wonder if I've been found out!

I Finally Entered

I posted my story today on Jason's blog. Get ready to check it out when he puts it up later today. I'll update when he does.

*** Update ***

Here it is!

Got Me Thinking

I saw two movies this weekend, but I'll leave the most recent for another post. Both made me question the foundation on which I have built my beliefs. Suddenly I feel like I may have to start over. Am I becoming like my father, someone to be labeled a conspiracy theorist, easily disregarded by people like myself, people who haven't figured it out yet?

I have a very serious job. Not the bullshit I do from 7 to 4. No. The job I speak of is the one I do at night when I set the table, clean up after dinner, run the bath, read stories, rush between tee-ball and soccer. To do that job properly is to acquaint myself with the reality of life, how things are run, how things get done. I'm starting to realize that I don't know a thing, and neither does the media--not the media I listen to, not the media that I read.

George Clooney has not been my favorite person. Like most conservatives, I pretty much had him pegged as a looney leftist, who should just shut the cake hole, look pretty and yell "Roll 'em!" Syriana changed that for me.

I'm definitely not going to be running with Cindy Sheehan anytime soon, and I'm not ready to declare Iraq a quagmire or another Vietnam. But let this be my notice to the world: I will be looking real close at the whole situation in the Middle East with a different set of glasses than I have been wearing. And before you think my polarity has been totally switched, just know this: I can't think of a single politician of either party that I believe in my heart prioritizes the concerns of every-day Americans.

One of these days I'll have it figured out. A Eureka! moment just before I flatline perhaps, but there has to be a solution. How is it that we are all screaming No Amnesty and Enforce the Borders, and yet, bills in congress are poised to actually pass? Can you tell me how this is even possible?

Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage. I didn't write that, in case you're wondering.

Can the internet solve this somehow? By circumventing the bottleneck that keeps valuable information from us. Syriana is basically saying that we kill foreign leaders that don't agree with our demands until one is left standing that plays ball with our government. Not so hard to imagine really. I begrudgingly admit that this sounds and awful lot like, you are either with us or against us.

I'm pissed and tired, and feeling helpless. Perhaps tomorrow I will play the glad game. Until then, well, see you then.

Lost Nail

My youngest son had his finger shut in a door yesterday and lost the whole nail. The part under the skin too. He was calm when I met up with the family in the emergency room, but when he saw me he reached out and sniffled.

The beotch doctor told me that it may never grow back with a stone face, then lingered with the is-there-anything-else look. I felt like punching her for her worn out apathy. We might be cattle to you bitch, but that's my son you are regarding like bacteria in a petrie dish. Three hours and they sent us home with a bandaid.

I finished my Midnight Road entry for Jason's short short contest, but I want to look it over before submitting. The deadline is the 28th, so what's the hurry? Maybe I'll write a few more and pick from my favorites. I liked my second entry in the Two Lights contest better than my official entry anyway.

Have a good weekend all.

His Latest Addiction

In short, my brother almost went to jail for ten years but for the grace of God. It all hinges upon the mood of the judge, and a host of other factors, but the former trumps all the latter. He got 90 days in rehab, but after 30 they let him go to work during the days. Now he is on anti-depressants to keep him more even, which takes the place, hopefully, of the drugs, which were needed before to bypass the extreme lows.

Now he has a new addiction. The Gym. I work out too. Once or twice a week, sometimes none. I won't be competing anytime soon. My bro however is going five times a week, and according to him, is getting "ripped." I just hope he forgives me for all those merciless tickle sessions. Piano. That was the biggie. Oh, and Wonder Punch. Piano involved pinning him on his back, straddling his chest so that his arms were trapped at his sides, then poking at his chest like piano keys, while merrily singing the Meow Mix commercial jingle. Wonder Punch was a clever derivative of a cartoon that nobody has heard of called Wonder Bug. I do this to my children today actually. It's a fancy name for a twisty fist in the belly.

But I digress. My brother told me to go to a health store for "herbal supplements", which he claims will help me along quicker. I'm reminded of one of my new expressions from Madagascar: Smile and wave boys, smile and wave.

Well, at least it's legal.

Inhibitors

I'm surrounded by Chuck's Rhode Island friends. Robert is a future political hopeful, and I'm intimidated because I couldn't tell you who the secretary of state is, or even the vice president, who I think is named for a game bird. Newspapers are boring, and I'd rather spend my time memorizing lyrics to my favorite country songs. He looks at me as if he were standing upon a rampart and I were a peasant with a grievance for the king.

I'm different than most people, I say as if to explain--perhaps to apologize.

We are lounging about in the sparse living room. Robert is sitting on the floor across the room from me. Chuck and Tracy are on the couch. I don't remember the names of the other two. I could care less. They are a couple with strange ideas. The man has curly black mop like a Brillo pad. He's short and hairy and reminds me of a Gibbon. He's fasting to purge himself of carcinogens. She thinks I'm an apathetic scumbag for not caring about the plight of peoples on the other side of the globe. She waxes poetic on serotonin and neuro-inhibitors.

Here's a funny story, I inject when the opportunity presents itself.

***

I called Dad a half hour later than I should have.

"Where the fuck are you," he politely asked. I could almost smell the alcohol on his breath. His words were slurred.

"I'm over at Mikes. Can I stay longer?"

"I want the fucking car, and you were supposed to be home an hour ago."

I knew better than to argue. "So I'll just come home now then." I said this almost like a question, splattered with guilt, just in case there was a slight chance.

"Get your ass home, now."

We rented the upper half of a split level duplex. I wasn't particularly quiet about coming through the front door, but ever since I read the Lord of the Rings, I had developed a habit of walking silently like Aragorn. My feet made no sound on the carpeted stairs as I climbed. I rounded the corner at the top and froze like a bank teller at a hold up.

My step mother used to be a dancer in Vegas. She had long brown hair with blonde highlights, and a voluptuous body reminiscent of the Marilyn Monroe era. She and dad must have had a fight one night, because she was on the couch the next morning. Her flannel shirt was unbuttoned. One side hung open and hugged the contour of her breast, exposing her stomach and the narrow valley between her breasts. I must have stared for five minutes, toying with the idea of helping it the rest of the way open, simultaneously disgusted with myself for such a thought, yet ionized by hormones I was only beginning to understand.

Standing atop the stairs, I saw her once again in a compromising position, this time on the floor of my living room, with Dad on top of her, his big white ass moving slowly up and down in the valley of her open legs. Neither was aware of me. He was mumbling and she was moaning. I turned around and hid at the bottom of the stairs, cursing myself for not going to my room. I toyed with the idea of leaving, but my dad would kill me. In the end, I tiptoed back upstairs, risked another look, then went to my room.

They never saw me.

***

Robert is staring at me with amusement. You're right Scott. You are different.

They're all laughing at me now. Cruel faces. Even Chuck and Tracy, who are my friends, are enjoying my humiliation. Their eyes are searching my reaction, which is cold appraisal. They are wondering whose side to be on. I know now that I don't have a friend in the room.

Thanks Flood

A special thanks to Flood once again for taking the time to interview me. I feel like I'm turning a corner. There are several ideas that I have floating in my head for novel length stories, so maybe it's time to start one. For the past couple weeks I've been tapping away at a short story, but the characters are becoming quite developed, and I'm at a loss to even introduce the antagonist yet. I've only written two thousand words, but it seems to be building instead of concluding.

By the way, I have to quote Mr. Schprock's comment to my interview. He really should have a column in the newspaper:

This is one of the best damn interviews I have ever read--and I include the legendary 1970 Tiger Beat interview of David Cassidy when I say this. Flood, you didn't ask Scott what kind of tree he would be, but I consider that only a minor slip. If I wasn't already a loyal reader of Scott's blog, I would be now.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: he's the best damn commenter in the blogosphere.

Janey suggests that I just forget about genre and never consider it again. Funny, that seems to go against everything I've read. It sounds good though, liberating actually. Don't worry about it. Write it down. See where it goes. Do not be shackled by the rules of the chosen genre. Just do it. Nike.

Tomorrow I am going to talk about the time I caught my dad and mom having sex. Wednesday is my highest traffic day, so I’ll try to make it a good one. And don't forget to look in on Jason, who is sponsoring another writing contest. The Two Lights contest was a screaming success, not only for Jason, whose statistics spiked through the clouds, but for everyone involved. I met some great people and made great connections.

I've Been Interviewed

Want the straight scoop on the man behind the blog? Check out my interview on Flood's blog today. I am quite pleased with it actually. And what a break from blogging it gives me today. Now I can cruise around and visit you all instead!

Please Write Back

This is exciting. I contacted Washington State University via email, asking if they have information on the whereabouts of some of my old college buddies. I received a reply a week later, indicating that it isn't their policy to give out that information, but I could send a letter that they will forward. I had given a list of names. One of them was Jeff's, another Jennifer's, and another Megan's, who married Jeff out of college. They couldn't find Jeff, which I expected, but they found all the others.

I'm going to write a long letter to each, with pictures of my family. It's too bad that I didn't maintain any sort of contact with anyone. In Jennifer's case, I never even considered it. She dated the most popular and beautiful men at school, and I couldn't bear to think of myself as a "friend." But that's what I was, and what a foolish stance to take. It's a lot easier to think clearly when you're married, after the testosterone cloud parts and seeing is actually possible.

I spoke with Megan years after I left WSU, right after I graduated Potsdam and had my first programming job. As I am so inclined with all the people that knew me back then, I told her that I had turned out ok after all. To that she replied, "I always knew you would. It was either that, or crash and burn. How it played out is no surprise to me."

Thanks Megan. As hopeless as I was, you still believed in me.

No Reply

Every once in a while I get the urge to get in touch with my old college roommates and friends, to let them know I turned out ok. I get so wrapped up in this single-minded purpose that I forget to wonder how they are doing. My living has afforded me a wonderful home and a family well provided for.

When I left school, I hardly had a friend left. My money and luck had run out. I'd dropped out of my second fraternity and had nowhere to live. I was sneaking into the dining hall and using anyone's guest pass that had any left, and was sleeping on the floor underneath the bed in Kevin's dorm room. I couldn't give up. To do so would mean going home to Dad again. That I couldn't have. But finally there was no choice.

I found Kevin on classmates.com and wrote him a message. He wrote back a couple weeks later and gave me his number. When I called, nobody answered. I tried again. And again. Finally I was forced to accept that he changed his mind, and so I stopped trying.

But I did write one more email.

I want to thank you Kevin for taking me under your wing at college. Mostly though, I just wanted the chance to say I'm sorry. Sorry for taking advantage of my friends, for being a drunk, a bull in a china shop. It's embarrassing to think back on the person that I was. But I was a boy, much younger than my years. I've come a long way, and have made something of myself. You won't see my face on the cover of Forbes--more likely on Better Homes and Gardens perhaps--but I'm happy and living responsibly. Thanks for helping me through that rough transitional patch of life. You will always be fondly remembered as a part of the solution.

Match Point

I saw an excellent movie this weekend, from writer and director Woody Allen called Match Point. If you are at all like me, then I'm surprised that you made it this far. How many times do we need to see the Woodster stutter and moan about his latest neurosis? Right? The good news is: he tastefully left himself out of this one, choosing instead to sit in the director's chair where he belongs.

Match Point is a brilliant piece of work. I don't claim to have seen all of his previous works, but I've seen more than my share. This movie is nothing like anything I've seen of his before. As the credits rolled, my wife and I looked at one another, totally stunned. That was a great movie, we kept saying, as if we didn't believe it. We didn't. The ending was outstanding, right up there in my book with the Sixth Sense. You might laugh after seeing it for this comparison, but I stand by it.

The theme of the movie--yes, I said theme, and yes I actually identified it--was luck, and its unheralded role in prosperity and despair. You see this theme at play throughout, in conversations and in action.

You may think, after watching the first half hour that you know how it will play out; but that is the power this picture holds over you. It denies what you know, defies your expectation, and keeps doing so until the end.

The characters defy modern stereotypes as well. It seems that in today's world, everyone has to be depraved in some fashion, that nobody can just be who they seem to be. Gone are the Capra days of the well-intended, the happy, the polite. Allen again breaks new ground, or old ground if you will. Of course, not all the players fit expectations, but who's who is part of the fun.

From a writer's standpoint, this is one of those head slappers. How in the hell did he do that? This is the best movie I've seen since, since... I can't remember.

A Day At The Zoo

Not much time. I'll visit as I'm able.

Yesterday I was at the zoo with my son's Kindergarten class as a chaperone. Each volunteer got his or her own kid, and one other for good measure. We sat together on a school bus. While I read a book (Old School--again), Jackson and his little friend wrestled, screamed, spat and burped all the way there. Of course I did my part as a responsible adult. When his friend burped the alphabet, I was very complimentary.

Chaperones were to worry only about their chargees. Is that a word? Or am I just integrating Smokey and the Bandit into my lexicon? I saw her before we got on the bus, and I just knew. Knowing this, I took my chargees and sprinted into the zoo before it was too late. It always happens to me, because I am so nice and unpretentious, that the freakiest moms tune into my frequency and stick like flies to a sticky ribbon trap. Then I bumped into her. From them on, I had my very own remora. "Hey, we've seen the lions and the tigers already. But no bears yet! Oh my. Bwa-ha-ha-ha haaaaaa!


Ok, I'd love to chat, but I have to get some work done. For real.

World Cup Day

Tee-ball got rained out, but the sun came out on Sunday. It was World Cup day. My team represented Italy in the parade. The Jamaicans actually wore Marley dreadlock wigs. I did indeed step in as coach for three twenty minute games. The first game was against what I have considered the best team in our league. They have one kid who plays two years ahead of his age. Once he gets in the open you can just add one to their score. We lost five to two. The kids were disappointed, but I told them honestly that I was very proud of them. They played so hard that the ball was mostly lingering on the other side of the field. Were it not for their star player and his breakaways, it would at least been close. I could have made it closer by playing one of the kids back as a preventative measure. Ooops. Forgot.

The next game we won and the kids loved it. For some reason, one of the girls on our team became inspired by the soccer spirit and scored three goals all on her own. The last game was a tie. We had it wrapped, but some kid that was no bigger than my two year old ran circles around everyone and rifled the tying shot into the net.

Not a bad way to end the season. I don't want to brag, but here I go. The only other game we've won all season was the one I coached. The team that beat us five to two this weekend was the team that earlier in the season completely dominated, scoring in the teens, prompting the coaches to add another player to our side in the hopes of slowing them down, which it didn't. That's why I told the kids that I was proud of them. They played tough and made a great team work for it.

My son was a whiz on defense.

Today I am chaperone to Jackson's kindergarten class at the zoo. Tomorrow I'm a full-timer.

Coming Up

Next week is my first days of full time. The people around me have changed, now that I've been pulled into the fold, the erstwhile hired gun finally convinced to don the badge. A certain easiness has developed, a smile, a pat on the back, lunch inquiries. People are seeing me for the first time, through sleepy eyes. I'm different too, and find that the meetings are actually fun, a chance to sharpen my wit--and be involved and take ownership of my work.

My officemate Dave, the one I've had trouble with in the past, congratulated me on taking the post. He had trouble hiding his disappointment. When I told him, I could see that invisible inner-eyelid shut and his eyes flutter, even as the words came from his mouth. Later he admitted that he had hoped to take over for me when I left. I can appreciate the sentiment, and his honesty in telling me.

He talks too loud, and too much. Not a good combination. The fact that he responds to criticism, deftly given of course, is a good sign. He has a good heart--I think. I wonder if he was raised by his mother.

At a meeting yesterday, our manager mentioned another Dave at our company. My Dave said, "I'm assuming you are not talking about me, right?"

"No, the other Dave," Ted said, "Sorry, I know it's confusing. There's another Ted at this company too, and I never know if they're talking about me."

I added, "I know. Everytime I hear someone yell, 'Hey Asshole!'..." I did a pantomime, jerked my head around, searching for the unseen caller. Then I threw my hands out, palms up, with a lost look on my face. Mike was also in the meeting, who has shared some of that guy talk with me (remember, physics, the properties of physics?), repeated everything I said and broke into hysterics. Ted grinned at me like a proud father, and Dave looked, shall we say, unamused.

That's why I like it here.

I'll be coaching tee ball on Saturday if it dries up, as the regular coach is out of town. I also get another crack at coaching my son's soccer team for three mini-games on Sunday, as the real coach has other responsibilities surrounding related events. Cool. Let's see if I can't squeeze our second victory out of these little tykes, the first coming the last time I subbed.


I will build an army, and rule the vorld!

Love Is In The Air

You have to stop by MagnetBabe's blog and read her engagement story (Scroll back down a post to see the ring.) That's right, I said engagement. So congratulations are in order.

Miranda is also getting married, and has a baby on the way. She has been so kind as to show us some pictures of herself in the full bloom of her pregnancy.

Welcome to the club you two!

Wow, huh?

Puppy Poo

If you are here from blogexplosion--scroll down.

Sorry Kat, but I still don't have any pictures. I'm too busy cleaning up her shit to feel all warm and gushy to take a picture. Too bad, because she has already grown a bit.

Oh, what am I talking about? Read the title.

I once posted that having a puppy was in no way comparable to having a new baby. Is it too late to take it back? In a lot of ways, it's worse. At least with a baby you can strap a diaper on and do the sniff test. She has to be taken out every hour in this pouring New England rain, and even that is no guarantee. Sometimes she just holds out to come back in a lay a lunker in her favorite spot--a little patch of rug with her smell molecularly fused into the fibers.

There is a fourteen day return policy...

*** For all surfers from blogexplosion. ***

What kind of blog entry would inspire you to leave a comment? What are you looking for? You probably don't want to hear some geezer complain about cleaning up dog shit. But I am assuming you are here to draw traffic to your own blog. So far this is what I've noticed: out of 90 expended blogexplosion credits, I've gotten only zero comments. I realize what that looks like, but I'm not boring--er, at least I think not. If I had to guess, my blog requires more than just a cursory glance to be interesting to someone, and even then would only appeal to an older audience. I'm going to experiment with different kinds of posts, so your opinion would be helpful. What if I posted a picture of bare breasts, so that there would be a little tit for tat?

*** For everyone ***

For that matter, what makes great blogs great? Crisp evocative writing for sure. Eye-catching theme. Witty repartee. Maybe something interactive, that involves the readers more. Focused subject matter, such as politics, entertainment, one that bashes an officemate, or follows the antics of a promiscuous woman. What is your absolute favorite blog and why?

Finally

Jeff. The reason I understand resentment and envy. I'm no hypocrite. Not about this.

College was my escape. More than this, I was reborn. Not in the religious sense. I was seeing the world with my own eyes, taking my first awkward steps, stumbling gratefully alone. I was eighteen going on twelve, resentful of my lack of maturity, angry at its consequence.

Jeff was twenty five with a world of experience behind him. He spent summers fishing in Alaska, working on oil rigs, and had a pilot's license. If I dreamt of doing it, he already had. He had the perfect GQ look of the time. His roguish red hair was perfect, and his smile and easy laugh was a reward for a joke well told. And was he ever cocky. There wasn't a girl on campus that he couldn't have, according to him. Rejection to him was simply repartee, a provocative feint.

Jeff created his own terms, and had a quick wit. Once he said good morning to a young dining hall serving girl. Her features froze. She took a sharp intake of breath as she stared back at him, past him perhaps, as if something important had just occurred to her, and dropped the glass she was holding. The shattering of the glass snapped her out of her trance. Jeff turned to me and said, "I have that effect on women."

And he did.

I didn't just worship Jeff. I wanted to be Jeff. Where I was awkward and shy, he was sure footed and brash. In order to absorb his power, I started competing for the same women, and lost every time. The worst part was, I didn't know when I was beat. As in this excruciatingly embarrassing tale.

I don't remember her name, and that should tell you all you need to know about my motivations. She was tall, probably half a head taller than Jeff, but still shorter than me. She dressed like Joan Jett, black makeup and painted on jeans. For someone so tall, she had an amazingly full body, the kind you would expect on someone more compact. I met her first, which gave me a sense of propriety, although I never actually said it out loud. It was just understood between guys. But when she saw Jeff, there was a palpable change in her demeanor. We all knew it was there. Jeff did of course. But me, I tried to ignore it, as if it would go away by sheer force of will.

She invited us up to her room. Jose was another friend of mine living on our dormitory floor. We were a temporary trio, thrown together by circumstance, and would remain so for the year. The three of us accepted her invitation. Jeff sat next to her on her bed without hesitation. This pissed me off, but I was helpless to intervene. I took a seat with Jose on the bed opposite theirs.

They talked only to one another, their eyes locked and faces pulling closer. I kept interjecting myself into the conversation, ignoring Jeff's annoyed glances. Jose said, "Dude, let's get out of here."

"No," I said.

Then they kissed. "Dude, it's time to go!"

"No!"

She pulled away from Jeff and said, "I have to go to the bathroom." Then she left the room. Jose gave me an imploring look and finally my obstinacy broke. We slipped into the hall and towards the elevator. I couldn't even look at Jeff.

I heard her voice as the elevator doors shut me out. "Where's Scott," she asked in a tone that I did not mistake for avarice.

"He's gone," said Jeff. He didn't say it, but it dangled in the air.

Finally.

Full Time

I just accepted a full time job at my company this morning. Maybe now they'll give me a flat-screen monitor. No more worries about impending contract end dates. I've grown accustomed to being here, and there are some good people whose company I enjoy.

Just last week I took a walk with a few co-workers and enjoyed a concentrated bout of guy talk. Believe me girls, you don't want to know. I will say that it takes a long time to reach the level of comfort needed to partake in such banter.

Gotta get some work done. I've been slacking, and now is not the time for the malaise to catch up with me.

The Music's Over

No pun intended, but the rollercoaster ride is finally over. I should partition the story to give you some idea of just how clueless I was staring at the periodic blankness beyond. That was a challenge, but one that I am happy to have overcome.

So now it has been submitted to the editor of deathlings.com--thank you very much Ms. Flood--and I'm waiting for a reply. I've started another short story so as not to lose momentum, even if I have lost enthusiasm. Maybe my best is yet to come.

Interesting thing though. I used 45 of my blogexplosion credits to attract readers to read my story. Not a single one of them stayed. Of course I understand it was very long. Most visitors probably paged down two or three times and said no way! Still, I was disappointed. There probably needs to be service for writers that want the critique of other writers, similar to blogexplosion, where each critique you give guarantees one in return. I really appreciate everyone who took the time to read my treatise. We are all busy people after all.

So, it's Friday already. Wow. This week has flown by. I'm looking at a pretty nice offer to work full time at the company I'm contracting to. If the boss, I mean, uh, if my wife likes the health plan, I'd like to accept. All things taken into consideration, I'll take home more money than I am today. More than that though, I enjoy some of the people I work with. Not everyone, but I'm not foolish enough to think there isn't an asshole in every shop. Once you start running... Well, you know the old adage. Except I have been running--my whole life. It's time to turn around and face the phantom menace.

Have a good weekend!

Soon Come Mon

I'll probably post the story later today. I made a few hard cuts based on my wife's feedback. I liked some of what she didn't, but hey, I asked for help and got it. I only argued on a few points. What most had me concerned was her impending judgement on the ending, but she liked it. Not love mind you. She can say enough about it, if you know what I mean. That's a good thing. I wouldn't have a chance otherwise.

My wife is adjusting amazingly well to the new puppy. She's never had one before, which has lead to some misunderstandings. For instance, she thought we would drop the puppy at obedience school for potty training. Well, now she knows different.

But she finally has her little girl.

More later...

Hopefully.

Late to Work

I was extremely late for work this morning, which puts me in just before everyone gets here. No time to play. So quickly, my step mom is engaged, we got a puppy, I decided to take the pool cover off myself instead of paying someone else. I am on the last couple lines of my story and Thursday it must be submitted. I have fought, kicked and scratched my way through this. It's been a great learning experience. So if for no other reason it will have been worth it.

** Update **

I finished the first draft. My editor, aka my wife, will read it through tonight. She likes the idea of the ending, and helped give it shape.

Hooray!

Ode To Happy Friday

I remember when when Friday had such significance to me. The weekend was almost upon me like a father's promise of future prosperity. In high school it meant no more classes, possibly a movie, and two nights and two six packs of beer. Hanging out with Heather and Paula, with the sex-starved gang that was slowly degrading into a nudist camp, with George, Danny and Tex. In college almost anything could happen, and often did. We were all living in the moment when we weren't cramming for an exam. Girls everywhere on a campus of thirty thousand, more people than in my home town; all young and looking for thrills. Even the socially challenged had a shot. That was a good thing for me.

Out of school and into the real world, living in a house with three guys from college. We had better parties than either of my fraternities. We were a fraternity, and the au pairs were our sister sorority.

Now I look forward to chores and yard work. Now I am RESPONSIBLE. Sometimes I miss the old life; but the old life is as dead for me as the frogs I sometimes find in the catch basket of my pool filter. Even if I went out and had a few beers, it wouldn't be the same. If I hold the door for a young woman today, she says, "Thank you sir." The kids in my son's kindergarten class call me Mister, even though I tell them to call me Scott. I bitch about the music of today, and think teenagers are going to hell in a hand basket. In other words, I'm getting older folks.

I used to turn on my favorite radio station and listen to the montage of songs in tribute to Friday. My heart raced. Now it's just another day--almost.

***

I've decided that Tobias Wolff is my favorite author. I started the audio book over and am going to get more of his work. After choice passages, I rewound and listened as if it were a sweet melody. "It was as if some subliminal sense of cause and effect had taken hold..."

***

Have a great weekend!

Old School and Fountainhead

I finished the Tobias Wolff story. That man is an author and a reader. As an author he is a student of life, able to bring his characters to life by recounting the subtle thoughts and actions we do without thinking. The way he described for instance how an old professor missed the way his students looked at him when he walked down the hall, how they parted to let him pass, how they would forget themselves when excited over a piece of writing, or how they broke out in song with little provocation. Wolff gives you the sense that he is not only a writer, but a master observer of life. He doesn't tell us anything we don't already know. It's that he points out what we do know but never speak of--not just the dirty secrets, although there are some. He draws astute conclusions as to the nature of his characters.

The section on Ayn Rand was especially grand, because his main character may as well have been me during the time he discovers and becomes enamored with her philosophy. He starts seeing the world as populated with weaklings, and himself as superior. But after hearing her speak, and listening to her shrill disdain for the world, he is no longer able to read a word without hearing her voice.

Rand makes no compromise for the folks who are unable to fend for themselves, such that a handicapped person I suspect she would just as soon push in front of a bus, and feel it her moral responsibility. I admire that she is strong, but she is like an embittered general who has witnessed the death of too many of those he was sworn to protect.

Still, I will be ever grateful to Rand for spreading her word. She represents an ideal of strength, of standing on ones own, doing a job, however menial, to the best of ones ability. To be selfish, and we all are to varying degrees, is not a bad thing--in fact, she postulates (as if it were fact) that you must be. It helped me to release a large burden of guilt, allowed me to pursue my life on my own track. It helped me in no uncertain terms to be a man in the classic sense, such that nobody could question otherwise. But Rand would still not be satisfied with the man that I am, because I still have a conscience. I am able to take from her what I need and leave the rest.

I highly recommend reading the Wolff book if only for that section, especially if you are a Rand enthusiast, or even an apostate.

Only a Week Left

I only have a week to finish the carnival story. I've changed it quite a bit, and still, contrary to the advice of my friends, I haven't written the ending yet. After my wife's criticisms, I am having trouble leaving it alone until the end. It's not that she didn't like it. She merely echoed what my conscience was telling me. The changes I'm making are shaping the end anyway, and I think it's a lot more interesting now with some meat packed between the slices.

So, I'm taking a break from the blog rounds until I finish this story. I will commit Hari Kari if I don't finish. This is not going to end up like most of my stories, in the wish basket.

Question: do you think I should change my avatar to something more applicable? Like to the picture above? I found this by searching google images.

Basketball Jones

Remember the old Cheech and Chong skit, Basketball Jones? Starring Tyrone Shoelaces? Those were the days preceding all John Hughes films, when PC meant pretty cute. I was reminded of it yesterday. Emmett is in a throwing stage--balls, stuffed animals, teenaged mutant ninja turtles, Lincoln Logs, Tinkertoys, Mr. Potato Head, Gameboy--you name it. His two year old dexterity defies all prediction. Sometimes I cheer, "Great throw," and other times I wince, like when items go straight up and come down on his head.

Yesterday he threw a stuffed frog across the kitchen. It landed face first into a cup of coffee, as if it were bobbing for apples. Coffee splattered the countertops and cupboards. Mama was none too pleased, unlike Jackson, who wound up with a little "room time" for uncontrollably laughing. I've been there; but that's another story.

After the incident was recounted to me by the wife--son tag team when I got home last night, I said, "That reminds me of the time--"

"Yeah," my wife broke in, "like father like son." It was not a compliment.

It was a one in a million shot--left handed, across the living room. I had no idea I would make it. She had just sat down, newly showered, bright and fresh. Her blouse was downy white. She had coffee in a Styrofoam cup and had taken a couple sips and rested it on her lap. I sat across from her, holding a perfect wadded napkin that was so hard that it felt like a golf ball. It had the perfect heft. You have to understand how rare this is. There is always some slight imperfection, one little fringe that would throw it off course. The rim of her cup called to me. The time clock was ticking down and my team was down one. My right arm was sprained and there was no time to pass. I tossed it with my left hand and watched in fascinated horror as it took the perfect parabolic path and landed square in the middle of the coffee--nothing but net. Coffee splattered all over her blouse.

I tried to explain the situation, but she couldn't appreciate the long odds of making such a shot, that I was a hero.

Dames.

I Forgot

The wife and I sat down last night and made a plan. It's time to turn the television off at night. When the kids are put to bed, at 8PM sharp, we are sitting down with our respective projects--me with my writing and side work, her with crafts and household design, scrapbooks, etc. We need to take control of our life.

I'm listening to Tobias Wolff, Old School. We're all unique musical instruments requiring common techniques to play, but books are living beings that interact with us as individuals. I am enjoying it immensely, but not for any reason I can put my finger on. I suppose on the surface I love its intellect--not pretentious, not shy. Like me if I had followed my true calling instead of stuffing my brains into a construction hard-hat and dragging my knuckles like a cave dweller. The narrator has a row with Ayn Rand's Fountainhead. He undergoes a transformation as a result, just like I did so many years ago, which finally freed me from the grip of my past, giving me the strength to stand on my own, to have confidence in myself. It's too bad I didn't read it in high school. It might have been too soon anyway.

I have to read it again. Wolff's character meets Rand. The infamous author asks a selected group of students, "Who among you are writers?" Nobody moves. "Your meek little hearts stop you from raising your hand. Shame on you. The meek shall inherit nothing but a boot to the head."

Shame on me. I totally forgot.

***

Update: I just listened to the rest of the Ayn Rand section in the car at lunch, and it turns out that Wolff is taking a shot at Rand. Some of the audience members challenged her philosophy. It was a great scene. She apparently was quite full of herself. Someone asked her to name one American Novel that she loved, and she said, "Atlas Shrugged." Asked to name a second, "Fountainhead." She conceded that she really like Mikey Spillane. Mike Hammer, she said, vanquishes evil with clear purpose and conviction. I can't reproduce her words here, but the exchanges were brilliant. She was certainly full of herself.

But she had some points, and that is why so many people feel like she is a hero of sorts.

The Tooth Faggot

Sorry for the incredibly insensitive and polictically incorrect use of the English language, but I'm a redneck country boy and that's the way it's gonna be, so move along little dogey.

But I digress. You will understand when the post is over.

My son lost his first tooth last night. It came out eating a pretzel. So of course we had him put it under his pillow. At dinner he asked us how big the tooth fairy is. "I've never seen the tooth fairy, have you mama?"

"No I haven't," she said. In that we were being completely honest. Again the twinge of guilt for selling a myth. I can't help but think though, that I am discouraging rational thought.

This morning as I was sneaking down the stairs--as part of my normal routine--Jackson appeared like Samantha on Bewitched. You know, suddenly.

"Guess what daddy."

"What." My face was a mask of curiosity.

"The tooth fairy came last night."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, and guess what she left me?"

"What?"

"Five dollars!"

I'm pretty sure that, if he does eventually discover the truth behind the myth, say from one of his friends at school, that he'll allow this to continue.

Sort of unrelated, but connected by a tendril, is an old skit on Saturday Night Live. It turns out it was Dennis Miller's last day as the evening news anchor. Farley played guest speaker Stormin' Norman Schwartzkopf, responding to complaints from the gay and lesbian community in regards to his use of the term 'military fairies', applied to Pentagon insiders criticizing the Army. I leave you with Farley's brilliant retort:

Let me say right off that, when I used the term "fairy", I was speaking colloquially. Where I grew up in New Jersey, the word "fairy" was often substituted for other terms. For instance, on my block, the Staten Island Ferry is called the Statan Island Gay Boy. And, of course, we all believed in the Tooth Faggot!

I'll Try to Remember That

I emailed my manager yesterday. I have a parent-teacher conference in the early afternoon. If it's ok with you I'd like to work at home.

Normally I don't get a reply from him. In such cases I figure he was too busy to grant my request, so I assume the answer I wish to hear. His response this time was immediate. should be a problem. thx for the heads up.

I wrote back: Did you mean--should not be a problem?

Reply: Er, yeah, I typed too fast.

So here I am with an extra hour of sleep and caffeine worming through my bloodstream. In other words: feelin' good.

Originally, both my wife and I were both going to the conference, but we forgot one pesky detail. What to do with the kids? So, I'm babysitting instead. Damn. I love hearing about my son. The last conference was all positive--he's delightful, plays well with the other kids, pays attention, does well academically with a few developmentally predictable exceptions.

But we still don't have any friends that we can dump two kids on for a couple hours. That's not totally true. We don't have any reliable friends. We have a neighbor Tracy that was all over us like peanut butter to the roof of a dry mouth. She invited us to join her church. We finally took her up on that offer three weeks ago and have gone religiously (sorry, couldn't resist) every Sunday since. Tracy invited my wife to join a women's group soon after, and Beth was so excited. We felt like we were starting to make connections. But the group was really a bible study, much more than either of us is ready for. We got an invitation over the phone from another member of the church, who got our number from Tracy, for another bible study group. I called him back and declined. Politely though, I promise.

Here is approximately what I said:

"We haven't gone to church since we've been married, and are starting down this path slowly. We owe it to our children to introduce them to the teachings of the church so that they can make their own decisions. As for us, a bible study group might me a little much for our level of commitment. But I really appreciate your kind offer."

He was very understanding. But after that, our neighbor cancelled a play-date for the kids, and hasn't called since.

One of my readers, Jada's Gigi, told me to remember that people are fallible, not God.

I'll try to remember that.

Love is Alive

It's been said that kids are the death of romance. But I beg to differ. Take this Sunday for instance. For all intents and purposes we were trapped indoors by the onslaught of rain. Entire streets in our town were cut off by flood, some businesses closed. So we stayed home-and the kids went crazy. They ran up and down the hallway screaming; tore cushions from the couch and built forts; dumped bins of toys on the floor to play with a single figurine. When the fun of all that wore off, say, after about fifteen minutes or so, Jackson started into teasing his little brother.

It's quite amusing really. The technique Jackson has mastered is one that marketing people spend four years at college to master. It's called Creating the Need. It goes something like this:

He sneaks a furtive look to see if the we are watching. Ah, the coast is clear. "Hey Emmett, I've got a toy diiinosaurrrrrr, a velociraptor! Isn't it cool?"

Emmett's eyes snap to attention, and his hands reach out. "Let me see."

"Sorry, this is special to me, and I'm not ready to share."

"MINE!!!!"

"It's my turn to play with it Emmett," he says indignantly.

"What is going on here," I say, pretending not to know already. Then I listen as Jackson weaves his tale of misery and woe. I explain about sharing and teasing for the thousandth time, while Jackson hears the blah-blah-blah, and Emmett waits expectantly for deliverance of the raptor that he must have to feel right with the world again.

Back in the kitchen, my wife waits for super dad to return. She puts her arms around me, and whispers in my ear. "You just wait until the kids are in bed."

That got my attention. "Yeah?" I say with a sly smile.

"Tonight is the Sopranos!"

You see? The Judds said it best. Love is alive, and here by me-on the couch.