The Numbers Are In

A literary agent reported his/her numbers for this year:

Queries read: 36,000

Sample pages requested: 839

Full manuscripts requested: 98

New clients signed: 9

Holy ass-crap.

Multiply those numbers by the hundreds of agents out there, and that is what I'm up against. Forget the fact that I don't have a MFA degree, a single publishing credit, or someone on the inside who can put in a good word for me. The numbers are ridiculous on their own.

I feel like a contestant on American Idol for writers. Thankfully, there aren't any cameras rolling, and Simon isn't sitting in front of me telling me how bad I suck. Form rejections do that all on their own.

You know what I say? Fuck it. Numbers don't scare me. People have been defying the odds ever since Snooki received a personalized tweet from Senator John McCain regarding the taxation of tanning beds. I feel like I'm only a half-step behind. This agent may not represent my genre, but somewhere out there I am one of the "98 manuscripts requested."

Numbers, schnumbers. I'm making 2011 my bitch.

Something Different

Today, I feel like I want to do something different. But that is easier said than done. As long as I write as me, my voice will always be the same. And yet, I'm getting bored with myself.

Why can't I be like Michael Chabon or Zadie Smith, both of whom never seem to run out of clever shit to say.  (Please don't think this to mean that I believe myself to be incredibly clever most of the time. If that were the case, I wouldn't bother trying to make a connection to you, the audience. My ego and I would simply jump on the next plane to Las Vegas and get married.) Why can't writing everyday be easier? Why can't ideas come to me like an obedient dog?

I thought about writing a whimsical recipe, but I hate to cook. Besides, Amy Sedaris is far better at it than I would ever be. I thought about writing a clever manual on how to change a flat tire. But, there again is the word "clever", and that poses a problem. When you don't feel anything but an overwhelming urge to please your readership, you're in big trouble.

Aka, I'm in big trouble.

I can't think about what you, the reader, want to read about. When I do, I betray the best part of myself. I have to face it: not all my posts will be hilarious or insightful or even entertaining. But I promise they will always come from an honest place: my heart.

Hump-day Haiku: New Year's Eve

Those waiting to change
For a specific, set date
Have already failed.

Fuck you, restaurants.
I could have gotten this meal
Yesterday, half-priced.

Watching the ball drop
Would be more interesting
If it crushed something.

We Love Our Mediocrity

I am growing tired of watching futuristic, end-of-days, only-a-handful-of-people-survive movies. However, as long as they keep being made, I will continue to be subjected to them: my wife is a big fan.

That being said, I can give science fiction its due. The ideas, oftentimes, sound intriguing, but our current technological limitations weave their way into the plot and ruin everything. Remember when we were attacked by aliens, and we destroyed their technological prowess with a laptop? A laptop!? And it wasn't even a Mac! Remember when weather patterns changed so dramatically one could freeze to death in a matter of seconds, but somehow, someway, a pickup truck was able to make its way from Washington, D.C. to New York? That's reasonable in an unreasonable situation.

I'm all for the suspension of disbelief when it comes to watching something fictitious, but I am so bored with everything being so convenient. I don't like convenience in the books I read or the movies I watch. It's too easy (I'm talking to you, Twilight.)

My mind likes to be challenged. When I watch a movie that takes place thirty years after a post-apocalyptic event, where water is scarce, the last thing I want to see is incredibly clean actors wearing incredibly clean clothes. I know actors get paid a lot of money to look pretty, but if they are the star of a shit-is-fucked-up movie, they need to look the part.

I can handle actors I like getting dirty. I can handle actors I like not being the superior species. I can even handle actors I like dying. What I cannot handle is actors I like getting out of impossible situations via mediocrity.

If Only For a Moment

Seven days ago, the agent that is reviewing my manuscript tweeted that it had been a long time since she read a manuscript she loved and was happy to report she found one.

Yep. I sure did. I allowed myself to think it was my manuscript.

My insides went from feeling like a calm lake to a hurricane over an ocean. My body shook from the inside out. I, along with the other authors who have manuscripts submitted to this agent, believed.

Twenty minutes was all I could handle. With nothing but my own hope--so little to go on, really--assuring me it was my manuscript, I had to stop. That level of emotion was proving to be dangerous. What if it wasn't my manuscript? At the height my emotions were flying, finding out it wasn't me would have been the equivalent of dropping a plane, cruising at 30,000 feet, out of the sky.

It's been seven days. All I hear are crickets. My email inbox is empty. The phone hasn't rang. But it was pure elation to know that a stranger--a stranger that can make things happen--loved my manuscript, if only for a moment.

Incidents of Extreme Affection

With the exception of her wonderful mother, my wife has spared me from the rest of her family. She says it is for good reason. I always wonder how true the "good reason" defense is since I've only seen glimpses into her family:

Family Member     # of Meetings     Overall Impression

Grandmother         One                    Unmemorable
Grandfather           One                    Adorable
Uncle                      Two                   Charming/Funny
Aunt/Cousin          Two                   Flakey

This holiday season, I met the grandmother a second time and started to understand the "good reason" defense a little better.

Lunch with the grandmother, an aunt I'd never met, and my wife's mother sprung up like a weed in a perfectly tended-to garden. My wife and I arrived first. The longer we waited, the more the dread collected in my chest (I knew I would get through it, I just wasn't looking forward to it.) And then there they were, the immediate family, walking through the door. They wore their stress and weirdness with each other on their faces, it was clinging to their clothes. Introductions were made. It was awkward. Conversation was strained. It felt like everyone needed to take a collected deep breath in and let all the shit they were carrying with them out.

Our table was ready. We sat down. And then came laughter. Sarcasm (my favorite!). Kindness...? My wife's grandmother even asked if we could send her a picture of us since she does not have any. Cool.

And then the check came.

Talk about awkward.

For a family that doesn't hurt for money (I mean that in a way few of us will truly understand,) the discussion around the check was weird. As my wife's mother recounted the discussion they had had earlier regarding who would pay for lunch--she was paying--and how the grandmother had checked out during that conversation, she also checked out during the retelling. It was obvious that as the matriarch of the family and the one with the most money, nothing in her was going to consider paying. I got it that money was a sore subject for the family. I thought that was the weirdest part of lunch.

The report came back from my wife's mother. The grandmother experienced a completely different lunch than I did. Because the grandmother witnessed, between my wife and me, <cue deep, scary voice with reverberation> incidents of extreme affection!

Dun, dun, dun-dun!

Oh my god. What did we do? I didn't recall sticking my hand up her shirt. Did I french kiss her before our meals arrived? No. Did I run my hand through her hair, down the back of her neck, and across her cheek? Don't think so. The only "incidents of extreme affection" either of us can conjure is when I offered her a bite of my meal off my fork and vice versa. Oh, and we helped each other put on our coats when it was time to go. You don't have to be gay, or even a couple, to do shit like that. We didn't even hold hands!

I call bullshit.

"She was born in 1923" is the defense surrounding the grandmother's words. My grandmother is only five years younger, and she wouldn't have thought twice about it. This isn't a generational thing--although many want to boil it down to such simplistic terms--but a stick-up-the-ass thing.

I said Fuck it! a long time ago to making others feel comfortable with my relationship. When I act like my relationship is something that should be tamed in certain situations, I do me, my wife, and gays and lesbians everywhere a disservice. I will not poison my life to make sure grandmothers, or anyone else for that matter, maintain comfortability in their bigotry.

Ode to a Douche Bag

You sit behind us,
All loud and proud,
Wanting everyone to know
You're something special in the crowd.

Your girlfriend sits beside you,
Hardly, nary a word,
As you continue to make sure
Your teenage voice is loud and heard.

We all start to get it,
That you're one of those guys:
Two inches of dangling fury
Hangs between your thighs.

Please do us all a favor,
Because the movie is about to start,
Shut your fucking mouth
Before the theater gets dark.

One more thing while we're at it,
Get your feet off the back of my chair:
Hot women are on the screen,
And I don't care what's in your underwear.

The truth of the matter is
You're just a douche bag at heart.
I feel sorry for your girlfriend
Who can't tell a gentleman and a douche bag apart.

Hump-day Haiku: Santa

Santa takes prozac,

As he is conveniently 

Forgotten for months.

Deceived small children

Think Santa grants their wishes.

Suck on that, parents.

Part-time mall Santas
Only make minumum wage.

Santa smells like beer. 

Who's the Dude?

If I had a quarter for every time someone asked me which one of us--my wife or I--was the man, it wouldn't amount to much, but it would be enough to go to Starbucks for a week.

The only response I have ever had to this question is neither of us is the man; hence, the reason we are lesbians.

I don't know why it is so hard for the straight community to understand that same sex relationships are just that: same sex. Believe me, no one needs to have a penis to make it work. And no one needs to be classified as the male role.

It's unfortunate that roles in the straight community haven't changed much in the last sixty-plus years. Some straight women have no idea what would happen if they got a flat tire and their only resource was to call a woman. It takes a man to change a flat tire! Who would take out the trash? Mow the yard? Wash the car? Change the oil? Chase off intruders? Oh, the anarchy of it all!

My wife and I share the roles that are divied up in a straight relationship. I wield a mightier shovel while she can carry a shit-load of wood. As far as the bedroom is concerned, one of us being the man would only make sex disgusting.

If you're still wondering which one of us is the man, there's nothing more I can do to help you. It's a shame, really, if you take the time to think about why it is you're asking in the first place.

Open Letter: Michael Vick, P.S.

Dear Michael,

Pardon my familiarity, but since we've done this before I feel like I can call you Michael.

So, Michael. You want a dog.

You had a good thing going. You really did. You should have kept your head down and continued your successful rise from dog-killing bastard to respectable human being. But your ego just had to go and do something stupid. I imagine your PR machine did everything it possibly could to keep you from saying something so completely asinine. People were starting to forget your crimes against the animal community. They were starting to see you in a different light.

Thank you for reminding us that you suck.

Much like it is not permissible for a pedophile to adopt a child, you should not be permitted to own a dog. My apologies if that sounds harsh, but come on. I mean, you didn't think you could actually say something like that and there wouldn't be backlash, did you? Oh, you did? Yeah, I guess I understand. You're starting to think you're something special again. Makes sense because a lot of people are telling you that very thing.

It's too soon, fucking asshole.

Whack-A-Muse

Nine Really Good Reasons

I am not the kind of person that watches as a disaster unfolds and thinks that will never happen to me. (Although, I can safely say getting trapped in a mine will never happen to me because fuck going into a mine.) In no way do I think I am exempt from experiencing any natural or man-made distaster. And because of this, I like knowing I am in shape. A healthy lifestyle isn't always about looking and feeling better. Sometimes, it's about the bigger picture.

For instance:

If I'm in a building that's collapsing, the odds that I can wiggle out from under something improve if my  muscles are strong, and I am smaller in size.

If someone comes into my place of work, guns blazing, there will be a lot of out of shape people behind me, acting as a bullet buffer, as I swiftly run away.

If I'm in a building that's on fire, and it's between saving me or someone twice my size, rescue workers will have an easier time getting me out. (I like those odds!)

If I lose my job and after months of trying to find another with no success I have to resort to joining the military, I will be a shoe-in.

If a superbug spreads throughout the land, my immune system, already functioning on a strong foundation, will be less susceptible to contracting any organ-eating, people-killing diseases.

If there is ever medical rationing, like in South Africa, being thinner and in good shape improves my chances for getting dialysis or other serious rationed treatment.

If I'm on a cruise ship, and it decides to hit an iceberg and sink, the life vests will fit me.

If I'm in a plane crash, I can easily make my way down the isle, quickly climb over seats (if I have to), burst through the exit door, and slide my way down to safety like I won first place in a really fucked up obstacle course.

If an end-of-the-world event takes place, my strong legs and lungs will get me to the ark on time.

If, right about now, you're thinking, 'Fuck you, asshole!' remember, no one is making you eat those donuts. I'm just making a case for you to put them down.

Mouse Attack

When you live in the mountains, you assume certain risks: back-breaking snow, long drive times, gasping for air when you climb the stairs, and providing a safe haven for various critters.

I'm not afraid of mice, but I do not care for their dodginess. They jump out as if from nowhere, and I don't like those kind of surprises. Sure, they are cute, but their poop trails completely disgust me. So, my wife and I formulated an arrangement: I handle all pertinent spider issues, and my wife deals with all mice matters.

It's an arrangement that suits us very well.

Usually.

When you have two dogs and a cat, you don't expect anything to penetrate their border. The dogs sleep next to our bed, so if anything wants to come to the bed it has to get by the dogs first. Add in the cat, who loves to kill things, and one's peace of mind increases.

That's what I told myself for a long time.

Until one night...

My eye flipped open. I had just been sleeping so why was I suddenly awake? My heart was flittering, trying to clue me into something, but my brain had yet to catch up. The bedroom was dark. The dogs and my wife were present, but I felt eerily alone.

And then I heard it.

The squeaking of a mouse, in the house, in the bedroom. Somewhere. Near me.

Okay. Calm down. The dogs will handle it.

Or not, as I heard the snort-snort-snort of their breathing in and the aaaahhhhh of their breathing out. Snoring. Figures. My wife wasn't moving. How was it that I was the only one who heard the squeaking and was awake!

I lay so still that my legs started to cramp, my lungs begged for oxygen, and saliva filled my mouth for fear the swallowing would alert the mouse to my presence.

The mouse squeaked again. Its location changed. That little bitch was on the move!

Terror moved through me like water through a cracked dam. I said, out of the side of my mouth in a barely audible whisper, "_____? Are you awake?"

No answer.

I willed my wife to wake up. I sent brain waves to the dogs to snap to attention. My amateur techniques didn't work.

I was still laying still. On my side. My ear pressed into the pillow as I swore I could hear the mouse's little feet shuffling across the floor, assessing which one of us it was going to torture. I didn't want to hint it had already chosen me.

Then...

Oh.

My.

God.

I heard muffled shuffling through my pillow.

The little fucker was climbing up the side of the bed!

I glimpsed how heart attacks feel in the onset. Please, Baby Jesus, don't let it be true. My eyelids were closed so tightly they felt like black holes, swallowing everything inside them.

The muffled shuffling stopped. I didn't want to face what I knew was true. But I had to. I opened my eyes. The moonlight that had hinted its way through the curtains illuminated a tiny mouse body, inches from my face. I couldn't see its mouth, but I knew its teeth were bared and there was blood dripping from them. I couldn't breathe.

I screamed like a twelve-year-old girl and slapped the mouse off the bed with the back of my hand.

Finally! Household awake.

Movie Scripts

Say someone has know you for ten years.

And say this someone has not only known you for ten years, but has been married to you for those ten years.

Now, let's say you go to this person, and you tell them something like, oh, I don't know, something like someone is trying to erase your identity, or you're seeing people do some really weird shit (like turning into zombies or vampires), or someone is trying to kill you. Because, well, they are.

This person, who has known you for ten years, looks at you like you're confused. You're mistaken. Couldn't possibly be. No way, no how. This person tries to calm you. Tries to sooth you by insisting you're imagining things. Seventy minutes later, as your situation really ramps up, it's to the point where this person tries to get you committed or arrested or wants you to take drugs. Because, well, you're fucking crazy.

(Movies insist on using this stale, ridiculous model for building suspense; insist on putting someone in an absurd situation and have everyone they know and love disbelieve everything they're saying.)

But ninety to one-hundred minutes later, what do you know? It is revealed to this person that you were right all along. This person who you have shared a large part of your life with, who you have trusted and loved, is now on the same page because the computer is acting crazy, or they found a body in the freezer, or they watched as someone narrowly missed stabbing you in the face. Whew. What a relief. This person finally believes you. Arms are wrapped around you. Kisses land on your forehead. Let's go home is spoken.

Cue music. Credits roll.

Are you kidding me? Oh, hell no, mother fucker! For sixty to seventy minutes I told you shit was messed up and you kept giving me you're honey-you're-not-right-in-the-head look, so you know what? You can suck it, jackass. I want a divorce. No, you don't get to keep the house. And you are so out of my will. You ruined us when it took you watching someone almost kill me to believe me.

Movies never take this likely response into consideration.

If someone in my life didn't believe me when I tearfully and hysterically told them I saw an old man run down a car and eat everyone inside, I would be pissed. It would not be the time to try and convince me I'm crazy. It would be the time to take up arms and band together.

Whatever, Hollywood. Keep giving us excuses not to believe or trust one another.

Hump-day Haiku: Christmas

Adult Jesus said,
When I am gone, remember:
Buy gifts from China.

You can keep staring,
But nothing's going to change.
That's my parking space.

Festive and merry,
Egg nog and brandy flowing.
Grandpa lost his pants.

Making It Okay

In 1986, I bought a diary (they weren't called journals just yet.) It was purple with lines of small flowers running perpendicular down the front and back cover. The pages inside were cream colored with lines that were meant to keep the writing tidy. (I didn't do anything tidily at the age of fourteen.)

I wrote about boring details I thought I would care about later: went over to so-and-so's house and blahdity blah. Hello, Snoozefest '86.

Towards the end of the diary, things took an interesting turn. I started writing as if I were a boy.

Huh?

As a fourteen-year-old, I didn't have an Ellen, a Melissa, The L Word, or pop songs (Katy Perry might have kissed a girl, but she didn't like it enough to do anything besides write a song about it) letting me know it was okay for girls to kiss other girls. The only logical thing my mind could come up with at the time was to write like I was a boy. Boys could kiss girls.

Elaborate plan followed elaborate plan as my mind conjured different ways to get Andy (Kerri Green) from The Goonies into dark, private places with me. Even then, I knew writing had to be more intricate than just putting down your desires. Desires had to be delivered delicately, in a package that suggested there was a lot more to it than just kissing.

At the age of fifteen, I stopped writing from the perspective of a boy and wrote a horrible "novel" about two girls who were orphaned and refused to be separated if adoption presented itself. One of the girls ended up killing herself because the other girl was going to be adopted and, thus, they would be separated.

Huh?

Good grief. Wake up and build a float already. The pride parade is only days away.

When we can step away from it, the things we tell ourselves in order to make everything okay are often times hilarious.

Tears, Running Down My Face

I don't look ahead in books for fear that my eyes will land on an important sentence that will ruin the experience leading up to said sentence. I just don't do it. My wife, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. She flips through the pages, not concerned with knowing what's coming in the journey.

Last night, as I read Portia de Rossi's biography, Unbearable Lightness, I turned the final pages to find pictures. There weren't very many, maybe three or four, but after reading about her struggles and suffering and then seeing it, right in front of me, proved too much.

My wife had already looked at the pictures. They came as no surprise to her.

I sat there, on the sofa, and tried to keep reading to my wife. I couldn't do it. The pictures were unbelievable. But the last picture. The last picture where her body said, "I am dying a slow and painful death," while her face said, "I'm having the time of my life!" sent me into a depressive tailspin.

I looked at my wife, cooking dinner in the kitchen, and tried to tell her that I might start crying, but my tears beat me to it. My wife soon joined in. We were both distressed by Ms. de Rossi's honest account on how she came to be knocking on death's door.

Ms. de Rossi's book was well written, candid; a cautionary tale of how food and weight fucks us up. But that's not what got me. It was the way she presented the material. It slowly unfolded, bided its time, shrugged its shoulders along the way. It eased me into her diet, her excercise routine, her craziness. She said anorexia snuck up on her and that's how I felt about how she wrote her story. It snuck up on me too.

Reading about her weighing 82 pounds and how she got there was shocking on it's own. But manageable. Once I saw the pictures, and my mind wrapped around what truly went on, I couldn't get a grip on myself. It was heartbreaking.

Thankfully, Ms. de Rossi is better now. But if I weren't at work, the tears could still easily fall down my face.

Metamorphosis

About six years ago, I returned to my hometown to visit my family. Cigarettes were smoked. Home cooked meals were eaten. Pictures were taken. Overall, it was a pleasant and fun experience with my family.

Several weeks later, my mom sent me the highlights of the pictures taken. I was excited. Now I could share my experience with my wife and have images to back up the stories.

I ripped the manilla envelope open. My tiny hand reached inside and pulled out the pile of pictures like I had found buried treasure. 

I looked at the pictures. My mouth dropped open. I almost shit my pants.

There I was, standing next to my grammy, looking like I had been inflated like a Macy's Day Parade balloon. My face equaled two of my grandmother's. I looked like I could have swallowed her whole. I could see the fat spilling from my back as my shirt tried desperately to hold it all in. 

I asked my wife, Is that what I look like!?

What could she say? Of course that's what I looked like. It wasn't the humidity that made me look like a puffy lesbian. 

In all fairness, I knew I had gained some weight, but I had no idea, until I saw those pictures, that I was on the road to pushing for maximum density.

In that moment, seeing myself so unhealthy, so beefy, so unlike the me I used to be, I told my wife it was time for a change. No more buying cases of soda. No more eating whatever the hell I wanted whenever I wanted. Just no more. I could not allow myself to be that woman I was looking at.

With my wife's help and my own determination, I started my transformation. 

<Play upbeat, inspirational song while you watch as the food on my plate goes from cheeseburgers and milkshakes, to chicken and potatoes, to pasta and cheese, to whole grains and non-animal proteins. While you watch as I walk on the treadmill, and then jog on the treadmill, and then run on the treadmill, and then run up and down mountainous roads and trails.>

Ta-da!

I was an overweight, stagnant, food-addicted slug. And now I'm a nonsmoking, yoga-doing vegan and a runner. Me. A runner! I used to curse running, pointing out people who I saw running as insane. I can only hope that when you pass me by, you say I'm crazy too.

Enough (Not in a JLo Kind of Way)

The grocery store is one of the least threatening place to be.

Or, is it?

The electric doors slide open; my wife heads through another set of doors while I head left to grab a cart. I haven't noticed, but there is a disagreement developing between two men.

I start to head through the second set of doors and hear the man behind me say:

FAGGOT!

The word, dripping with disdain, not directed at me, creepy-crawls its way up my spine, swings from my brain stem like it's playing a cruel game of keep away, and finally lands on my head like a large piece of excrement. Just as it was intended for the other man who kept walking.

I can feel the rush of blood in my veins. I hear this shit all the time on television, in movies, from religious followers, in politics (though politicians never use derogatory terms so blatantly; they are far more underhanded when it comes to insulting gays and lesbians). I need to make a decision. I can either be the change I want to see in the world, or I can keep walking.

I turn around to find an older white male, his black hair thick on his head, his stomach rotund, wearing a dirty t-shirt tucked into his large pants. I say, very calmly (I'm not kidding: I am quite calm,) "Faggot? Really?"

He is not amused. His nostrils flare. He face reddens. The look on his face suggests he would kill me if there weren't witnesses. The silence becomes more and more awkward. The wife at his side keeps looking down at the ground. She will play no part.

Okay. I guess we are done here.

I walk through the second set of doors and he tells me to mind my own business, calls me a bitch. A bitch? No, no. Anything but that. Why can't I be a faggot, too?

"Okay. Whatever you say, big man."

My wife is standing there, looking puzzled. And then he really let's me have it. "Oh, are you a dyke? Fucking dykes!"

Now, that's more like it.

Unlike his wife, my wife does get involved. "Proud dykes, thank you!" she announces as she takes my arm.

We are too far away from him to reach out and strangle us, so instead, he turns his hand into an imaginary gun, aims, and fires at us both.

Someone forgot to take their Zoloft.

Despite the round of fire we have just taken, my wife and I laugh all the way to the fresh vegetables.

My wife says she is proud of me. I am proud of me too. Whether or not he thinks twice about calling someone a faggot again is out of my control. I just couldn't let him simply get away with it. It was one more thing that felt like enough.

What's Next?

When I get comfortable with the idea that there couldn't be any weird ingredients or strange processes involved with a certain type of food, I give said food no further consideration. I ask no questions. I ingest it without a second thought.

I'm sorry? What's that you say? Come again? I don't think I heard you correctly. It what now? No. No way. You're mistaken. Pssh...that can't be true. <Waving my hand in the air like I'm swating away a swarm of insects.> What happens before it hits my lips? It goes through what? Egg whites? Fish gills? You're joking. You're telling me that wine goes through a filtration process that involves fish gills or egg whites?

Gross.

I have heard of vegan wine, and no, it's not me saying in a high pitched voice, I'm out of tre-e ba-ark. When is it going to be da-ande-elion season again? Blame it on my own ignorance, but I thought vegan wine simply meant it contained no honey.

Should I have know better? Perhaps. But seriously, when it comes to grapes and sugar, I just never thought there was a place for animal by-products. I'm already "that girl" who asks those questions before ordering in a restaurant--to be clear, I don't give a shit about being that girl--and now I have to ask about the wine too?

Fuck it. I can go my whole life without another glass of wine. In fact, I can go my whole life without another sip of alcohol. But if I find out root beer goes through a similar process, I'm going to slap somebody.

Oh, Oprah

As God himself hangs upon the word of Oprah, she names Charles Dickens' classic, A Tale of Two Cities, as her book of the month.

Come on, Oprah.

I'm not saying Charles doesn't deserve his due. He's classic. He's world renowned. But he's no big secret. Oprah had a chance to change an author's life, to take something obscure and brilliant and make it huge. And the chances are running out. And she picks a dead guy who needs no help in getting people to read his book?

Last month it was Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, and he didn't need any help either.

I'm disappointed. It's difficult to find the diamond in the rough, the needle in the haystack, the holy-shit-this-book-is-utterly-fantastic! among all the spines on a bookstore's shelves. And I know there are greatly written, brilliantly wonderful books out there. Oprah can be a compass to help find them.

Oprah didn't need to tell us what we already knew.

If I had my own talk show, I would feature new authors; new authors who wrote a book that I didn't want to finish for fear the characters would leave me. New authors who deserve to be distinguished from the other spines. New authors who want a private jet and an indoor swimming pool and a financial advisor and a walk in closet full of designer clothes and bath salts and a butler and a private chef and a lawyer and a garden and a library and a...

Hump-day Haiku: Lady Gaga

She said stop calling
She's busy on the dance floor.
Go home, Beyonce'.

The local Goodwill
Featured a meat dress for sale.
It never caught on.

Talented and fun.
Don't ask don't tell advocate.
She just wants to dance.

Better Than Macy's Day

Over the weekend, my wife let out the dogs and came back to bed to report the wild turkeys were in our yard. I couldn't believe it. In our yard! But once they saw the dogs, they flew, ran, and hightailed it the hell out of there. On the drive in and out of our neighborhood, I know where to look for the turkeys. They have their own specific turf. Our yard is not it. So when she reported the news, I felt like I had really missed something. I had been left out.

This morning, on the way to work, my wife and I stopped to check the mail.

I got out of the car.

Put the key in the box.

Movement. On my right.

OMG. I inhaled sharply.

Two turkeys, crossing the street. Less than ten feet away from me.

I stood perfectly still.

And then there were five turkeys. And then three. Two. One. Four. Six. Three. Two. Eight. Two. One. Two. Big ones. Little ones. Their little necks bobbing back and forth as their little legs did their best to keep up with their counterparts. Their turkey "feet" crunching the dirt, snow, and road beneath them, the sound echoing in my ears. Just when I thought they were done, there were more. I stood there like I was staring at the real-life Santa. My eyes were wide, staring in disbelief. The smile on my face could be seen from space. A turkey parade, all for me!

It was turkey perfection.

I know the turkeys don't care about me. There is no place for me in their world. They were just going about their turkey business. But if they knew how much I cared about them and how they fit into my world, they would have invited me to go with them.

What is Wrong With Me?

Now, before you start compiling a list that takes up the next hour of your life, I mean regarding the fact that I've been staring at this blank page for thirty plus minutes and can come up with nothing to write about.

For you dedicated readers, it comes as no surprise to hear that yesterday was an unpleasant day. Thankfully, it is over.

Today, I feel so much better. I even sent a query to a Super Agent. (Super Agent: An agent whose client list is far superior to my no-credential-having ass.) I was able to work, albeit briefly, on my next novel, and I can feel the hope welling inside me again. But for whatever reason, this blogging business isn't coming as easily.

Is it possible that I have actually run out of topics to discuss?

As if.

There's always Don't Ask Don't Tell, the Bush tax cuts, queries, McDonalds, Nineteenth Century irrigation, mail-order brides, reality TV, Peyton Manning's meltdown, books, but not one of these topics wants to come to the forefront and make a spectacle of themselves.

Fine. I don't need them to make a spectacle. I can manage that damn well on my own. All I need is a pair of tights and a purse.

Blocked

I do a really good job staying positive, especially with my writing. However, I have hit a wall, and thus, I am blocked and have been for several days.

If only I could see a doctor. It does feel like being sick without visible symptoms. There is a pill for restless legs, broken hearts, short eyelashes, and flaccid penises, so why can't I take a pill for writer's block? If I explained that the light bulb of my soul has temporarily burnt out, that it's a struggle just to breathe, that if I were to walk it would be in circles, surely the doctor would have some kind of solution besides me feeling around in the darkness of my mind, trying to find that harmonious place where I belong.

My characters can't help me. They are too busy hiding behind thick, dark redwoods. And unless someone has experienced blockage of their own, there is no making anyone else understand. Writing is a lonely profession. And the struggles that come with it are faced alone.

This isn't the first time I haven't felt myself. It will not be the last. When I think about all the other writers out there who go through the same struggles, I think I just might belong here after all.

Open Letter: Michael Vick

Dear Michael Vick,

With the exception of an open handed slap across the face, it is rare for me to want to inflict bodily harm on someone. That is, until you.

I see you out there, on the field, smiling, succeeding, making lots of money, and I know that if you hadn't been caught, you would still be treating dogs inhumanely. Yet, everyone wants to tell me you've changed.

You've changed all right. You've changed from a convict into a professional football player. You've changed from a despicable human being into a jersey-selling product. You've changed from a cold-hearted bastard to an apologetic softy.

The hell you have.

Men who get caught doing things they shouldn't be doing always turn to the cameras with tears and "heartfelt" apologies, when what they're really doing is trying to save their asses. If you had never been caught, would you have taken it upon yourself to stop your behavior? I bet you would have. I should really take it easy on you.

It's so sad that you were paid paltrily by the NFL and had to revert to doing something drastic, like fighting dogs and other acts I shall not name. 

You can't start boo-hooing after you've been caught. It seems insincere to stand in front of everyone--cameras rolling, flash bulbs flashing, quotes forthcoming--and say that you knew it was wrong and you're sorry. You didn't know how wrong it was until you got busted. Until it threatened to ruin you; ruin your status and power.

Your PR machine sure is churning out a different version of you. Here, here! Let's raise our glass to American's short term memory and our ability to swallow whatever we're fed.

You are, and will always be, a real piece of shit, Mr. Vick. I hope a linebacker breaks your collarbone and skins you alive.

Sincerely,

Whack-A-Muse

Mistaken Identies

It is rare when my wife gets into bed before me, and I think that is for good reason.

Before walking across the living room, before heading down the stairs, before pulling back the homemade quilt, the feather bed, and the 600 count threaded sheets, my wife takes off her glasses, tucking them safely into the bathroom cabinet. The terrain she must navigate with blurry vision is not dangerous. She has done it many times and knows her way around.

But, as she laid in bed last night, waiting for me to get my affairs in order, she started looking around. She panickly announced, "Is that a spider?" The covers are creeping closer to her chin as the realization that a spider might be sharing her sleeping space sinks in. She is resisting the temptation to cover her head for fear she will lose track of the spider.

Good lord, here we go.

Our bedroom isn't a broom closet. There are all kinds of places a spider can find its way into. Her announcement was so vague I had to ask, "Where?"

"Over there." Her hand comes out of the covers to point slowly and purposefully, like she's the Grim Reaper of insects. "On the wall," she stops to count. "Five bricks down, by the dresser."

I'm already looking at the "spider" before she tells me where it is. I'm standing further away than she is from the "spider" and already know she's mistaken.

"No, it's a spot on the wall."

She was skeptical. I think she thought I was lying so I could just get into bed already.

I sighed knowing that although I let her know it was not, in fact, a spider, the issue was still unresolved. My shoulders sank as I wearily asked, "Do you want me to go over and touch it?"

She nodded her head up and down like an excitedly nervous child.

I walked around our bed, stradled a dog bed, and brought my finger to the spot of mortar she had mistaken for a blood-sucking, human-eating spider.

"Do you feel better now?"

She nodded and said, "When you went to touch it I thought it was going to jump on you and attack your face!"

Yeah, because aside from binding bricks together, mortar is known for that very thing.

Commercials

1. An older gentleman, sitting in an armchair, is explaining how he has missed weddings and babies being born but has never missed a Superbowl.

Wow, Jerry. Good for you, buddy. I'm sure the billion dollar industry that is the NFL really appreciates your loyalty. I bet you're lauded with flowers and poems and hugs and a suite. Oh? You sit out there with all the other faceless fans and throw money at people who have plenty?

I hope your family realizes how wonderfully special you are.

2. A curly-headed child is sitting in the backseat of his father's car. He's explaining what the car needs to have in order for it to be entertaining for him to sit in it (dvd player for sure!), while another little boy is sitting in the backseat of his parents' car while they sing passionately off tune.

Hmm.

Last I checked, nine-year-olds didn't have $25,000 plus to buy a car. The child should be grateful he isn't walking instead of looking at the other little boy like he's living large while the little boy suffers. And the little boy should be grateful his parents are still together, having fun, finding cheaper ways to entertain him, and each other, while driving to Wal-Mart or Chuck E. Cheese.

Let the curly-headed demand maker have all he wants: take it out of his college fund.

3. Women are clustered together. They lose their shit when they find out he went to Jared.

<Silence. Toe tapping.>

Um, shouldn't the big announcement be, The love of my life proposed, and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together? No? I've got it twisted? It is a big deal he went to Jared? My bad.

Morning Snow

How can you live in Colorado yet drive like you're from Florida?

As the traffic crept along this morning, I looked at all the SUVs around me and wondered why they weren't acting the part. Thirty miles-an-hour on the highway is not my idea of getting to the church on time.

But I can cut my fellow drivers a sprout. It was the first snow of the driving season; the roads were snow-packed, the lanes were anyone's guess, and it was still snowing. But when I allow myself an extra twenty minutes and I'm still two minutes late to work, I start looking at everyone else. Yes, I'm looking at you, front-wheel-drive Chrysler that insisted on being in the "fast" lane. And you, cute little something undefinable that was the color of pea soup, chugging along like you had a score to settle.

Everyone used their blinkers. Everyone abided by the adequate spacing rule. There was a real sense we were all in it together.

Once we get a couple more snows under our belt, traffic will return to normal. To be honest, I'd rather be two minutes late.

Guilty Pleasures

I have something to admit.

I am addicted to teenage dramas.

90210. Pretty Little Liars. 10 Things I Hate About You. Make It or Break It. Anyone But Me.

But none compare to Gossip Girl.

I love Gossip Girl!

What? How? Why?

It's certainly not the story since the writers keep churning out the same plot lines season after season. It's not because it's rich with lesbians, although, I must admit, every time Blair and Serena sit on a bed together I always say, "They should kiss each other!" and it always seems like they could, if only the cameras weren't there. And it's not because I see a younger version of myself in any of the characters. It might come as a surprise, but I never sat at the bar of my father's hotel and ordered one alcoholic beverage after another as a senior in high school. I never owned a burlesque club. I didn't attend a private school where I wore a loose interpretation of the school's uniform. I never had my own driver. I was never on a one-on-one basis with the dean of Columbia. And I never plotted to run someone who had crossed me out of town, but if I could go back and do it again, I would try. Not that anyone crossed me, but knowing the option was there might have changed things.

It's the decadence. The extravagance. The fortress around them that no one can penetrate. The houses, apartments, cars, clothes, vacations, food, beverages, never having to take the subway, all wrapped up in a ridiculous package where the kids are in charge, and the parents are there as a money source. It's the way people come in and try to destroy Serena or Blair and fail because their kind of money always wins. And it could have something to do with Blake Lively's breasts, but I would never admit it.

There is bound to be judgement, I know. But I can't help it. I'm addicted to Gossip Girl. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Whatever. You know you love me. Xoxo...Whack-A-Muse.

Ego Schmego

If egos could power the world, nothing would ever need to be plugged in.

Some people think that because of what they do, or the money they make, or just because they are who they are, they are something special. I don't think there is anything wrong with one recognizing one's talents. We all have specialties we can bring to the table. But that shouldn't be confused with thinking we deserve to be at the table more than someone else.

When it comes to writing, there is an exceptional amount of ego. I have met a few writers who think they are so special that they don't bother to proofread. Or maybe they do proofread but because they are blinded by their ego, they see nothing wrong with their comma spices, misspellings, unintended fragments, and run-on sentences.

I do not write from a place of ego. I write because I have to. Without it, I would suffer. Am I the best writer? Hardly. Is that all right with me? Absolutely. I believe there is room for everyone, and because of that, I don't need to be better than anyone but me.

So then, why blog? Why post it to Facebook? Why do the things that can be construed as egotistical? Because writing is a business. In the same way department stores advertise in newspapers, I advertise by blogging. People need to be attracted to products or they won't sell.

A writer's success has everything to do with connecting to an audience. That is why I do the things I swore I would never do, like blogging. Is it working? If I had an ego, I would think, Yes, it is.

Black Friday

My wife has decided to start off the day by watching a scary movie.

I am doing everything I can to pretend it isn't happening.

When I asked her, fifteen minutes into it, if it was almost over, she laughed and said no. Then she tried to reassure me that it wasn't scary.

Bullshit.

When everyone is screaming like it's the end of days, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.

When nice old ladies turn into flesh-eating evil-doers, blood dripping down their chin, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.

When it's dark outside and the screaming people are running around, trying to save one of their own, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.

My wife insists I can't even see what's going on. She's doing her best to defuse my internal situation.

But she doesn't understand that even though it is bright and sunny outside and the little birds are happily eating from the feeders and the basset is sleeping beside me on the sofa and no one else in the household seems to have an issue with it, there are just some things that I can't get past. People screaming and dying and screaming and dying some more when it's bright and sunny outside, when the little birds are eating, when the basset slumbers beside me, is precisely one of those things.

Trickle Down

The GOP's argument for keeping the Bush tax cuts in place for the wealthiest Americans is because the wealthiest American's money will trickle down.

If that's the case, why is anything open tomorrow? Why do hard working Americans have to work on a holiday that is meant to be spent with family and friends? Gas stations, grocery stores, video stores, restaurants, convenient stores will all be open tomorrow. In a time when the rich keep getting richer, one day of their businesses not being open won't send them into bankruptcy.

I don't call that trickling down. I call that greed, calling its troops into another ridiculous battle.

We all know that the people running these companies will be doing whatever the hell they feel like tomorrow, maybe even spending time with their own family and friends and celebrating all they have.

In this economy I am thankful to have a job. And I'm sure everyone working tomorrow will feel the same way, in a sense. But I certainly don't think they'll feel like they no longer want be treated like a human being with their own families and friends.

So let's use our purchasing power and not buy a damn thing tomorrow. If you forgot it, you don't need it. Come Friday, everything you could buy tomorrow will still be there. Let's send a message and tell these companies that being open on a holiday loses them money. That will surely get their attention.

Naked Truth

Two hours of my morning were spent trying to send out a single query. For some reason, my Mac turned against me. The formatting was all wrong, and I couldn't figure out how to fix it. If only I were technically inclined instead of writing inclined.

Since I couldn't do shit about querying, I decided to get more organized. In doing so, I found numbers that hopefully work in my favor. Up to date, I have sent nineteen queries. I have received eight personalized rejections, four form rejections, two non responses, one yes-send-me-the-manuscript, and the rest are either pending or I won't hear anything. Nineteen queries and one request to see more. 

I stood in the shower and let the numbers sink in. I usually stay so focused on the business I need to tend to, I rarely have time to feel. And, boy, did I feel. Those days when I'm so focused I forget to eat sat at my feet and licked my toes. The feeling of wanting it so bad landed on my chest like a plane making an emergency landing. Tears fell for all the agents who took time out of their busy schedules to personally tell me no. And the agent who currently has my manuscript? My chest fills with bricks when I let myself really think about her. I feel like I could fall down drunk off possibility, my legs no longer able to support how big an event it truly is. 

There is a reason I don't allow myself to feel all the time. The enormity, the sheer magnitude of being one step closer to meeting my dream face to face (which has transformed into a goal), would drive me insane. So I focus on the day to day. After all, the day to day is all I can control.

Sportsmanship is a Four Letter Word

I am growing tired of watching grown men act like Neanderthals.

The right tackle overpowers his man on the offensive line, wraps his arms around the quarterback, slams said quarterback into the ground, and gets up and stomps around like he's summonsing a thunderstorm. A tight end makes a nice catch in the middle of the field and stands up to make an exaggerated first down gesture, like he has forgotten there is a referee standing by to explain it to everyone. A running back finds a nice hole, picks up forty yards, and then beats his chest like he has a little lady he needs to get to holding while climbing a really tall building.

Instead of receiving my admiration for making a nice play, they remind me they're just assholes.

I'd like to see a doctor come out of the operating room, beating her chest, because she just saved someone from dying from a heartattack. Saving lives is important. Throwing and catching a ball is not. It is only a sport designed to make a lot of money for entertainment purposes.

The lack of sportsmanship in professional sports is really turning me off. I find myself yelling at the players to get their ego in check more than I yell about a broken play, a dropped pass, or an unexpected score. There was a time when Football Sunday was precisely that: a day where I did little else but watch football. I didn't write. I didn't read. I didn't take phone calls. Yesterday, I spent more time reading than I did watching football. Granted, the book I read--until it was finished--can be described only as phenomenal, but I doubt Ms. Grodstein stomped around her house when she found out her novel, A Friend of the Family, was going to be published. And when Patti Smith won the National Book Award for her memoir, Just Kids, she did not get in the faces of the other nominees and talk shit while beating her chest.

It's called manners. It's called knowing your place. It's called being a decent human being. It's called respecting others. And it seems to be fading into a distant memory.

Straight People

I love straight people because they can hold hands where ever they go. It is their birthright, after all.

I love straight people because they can know each other for a day and get married.

I love straight people because they can get divorced and married in the same day.

I love straight people because when my wife and I are holding hands, it is the most fascinating thing they have ever seen. I know we're not Ellen and Portia, but feel free to take a picture already.

I love straight people because they are constantly reminded that they're not only better than me, but their love is more natural. And they believe it.

I love straight people because they think their relationships hold more weight. The laws are set up for them to think they are something special.

I love straight people because the movies made about them have nothing to do with their sexuality.

I love straight people because they make the laws.

I love straight people because they get to have unplanned pregnancies.

I love straight people because they make better soldiers.

I love straight people because they can check into a hotel and request one bed without an eyebrow being raised.

I love straight people because they can eat off each other's fork in a restaurant without the dining room breaking out in whispers.

I love straight people because they conveniently forget they, too, are revolting to think about.

I love all the straight people in my life. Really. I do. No fooling. The aforementioned examples apply to the straight people I don't know. You know who you are.

Feeling Better

I'm having a hard time coming up with something to blog about. I think it might have something to do with how I feel: like shit.

Being sick sucks.

My brain feels like boiled potatoes. My arms feel like they're putrefying from the inside out. My throat wants to retire. And my eyes feel like Megan Fox: hot. hot. hot.

If I could only latch onto something instead of bumping into random topics, I'm sure today's post would be better. At least it would have a chance to be entertaining. Instead, I'm just spouting off, without direction, without focus, without a point of view.

If I felt better, I might have something to say about all the damn Thanksgiving commercials featuring turkeys, like living turkeys are what Thanksgiving is all about. Yeah, that's a good one. 

If I felt better, I might have something to say about Joe Miller being a flaccid penis when it comes to losing to Lisa Murkowski's write-in campaign. You lost, Joe. Go home and bite your pillow already.

If I felt better, I might have something to say about John McCain and his strong opposition to overturning Don't Ask Don't Tell. What's the matter, John? Did you think when you were serving everyone was straight? Were those the good old days? As an ex-prisoner of war, you should have better manners. Compassion should ooze out of your pores. And you, more than anyone, should understand the desire fellow Americans have for serving their country, despite what happens in their personal, private lives.

If I felt better, I might have something to say about people who make animals wear clothes. There is a reason it's called Baby Gap and not Puppy Gap.

I can't wait to feel better.

Hump-day Haiku: Children

I cannot believe
The things my mother dealt with.
I was disgusting.

I don't want to see
A picture of your child
With food on its face.

Unless your child
Has four legs and is furry,
I really don't care.

Sophie's Choice

If you had to. Just had to. Pick one. Only one. Which one would it be?

Sometimes, it's hard to boil such decisions down to only one. But in this case, it's hard to pick one. I mean, they're fuzzy. Furry. Friendly. And they brighten your day with a song.

But still. I was asked. And still, it feels an impossible question to answer.

But I have to. Pick one. Only one. Which one will it be?

There's Kermit. And there's Miss Piggy. Animal and Fozzie Bear. Gonzo. Scooter. The Swedish Chef. Beaker. Janice. Statler and Waldorf. Sam the Eagle. And just to add more variety, Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Snuffleupagus, Bert and Ernie, Elmo, Grover, Cookie Monster, Curly Bear, The Count. There are more that could be added to the list, but at the time, these were all the Muppets and Sesame Street characters I could think of.

And now, I have to choose.

Miss Piggy was a popular choice, but to be honest, I like her savvy. I like her grit. Her determination. Her bossiness. I don't care for her violence, but she's a pig. I can forgive it. So, no, I can't pick her. And Kermit? Forget about it! Fozzie, Gonzo, Big Bird, Snuffleupagus, and Elmo are all a no-way-in-hell. I thought about Oscar, but he's too easy: he's grouchy. But he lives in a trash can. He seems an unfair choice. Cookie Monster might have it coming because of his nutritional mindset, but still, no. I considered Statler and Waldorf longer than the others. They were never very nice to anyone else. But they're both old. And which one? They cancel each other out.

I gasped when my wife chose Snuffleupagus. I couldn't believe it. He was always my favorite Sesame Streeter. Her rationale revolved around him always disappearing when Big Bird needed him to exist, so Big Bird wouldn't seem crazy in the eyes of his other friends. I say, hogwash.

When it comes right down to it, if I have to punch a Muppet or a Sesame Streeter in the face, I would pick Janice, the guitar playing hippie. Don't take the choice to be a social commentary on how I feel about hippies. It's only because she's always so dopey; not really with it. I choose her because I think she would be the one less likely to feel it. And maybe, just maybe, deep down, I do think she deserves it. Maybe, just maybe, I think she's a little too cool. A little too hip. Maybe she always tested my mettle. Tested my self esteem. And I failed every time.

When impossible choices must be made, they should not be made fool-heartedly. If a fist has to fly, make sure it lands on the candidate you can live with.

Decision Points

It is important that difficult scenarios always be discussed with your significant other.

For instance, my wife and I decided that we should be on each other's personal financial accounts, incase something horrible should befall either of us.

I let my wife know that if she is in the hospital, and I'm not by her side because I'm not considered a family member, to know that I am doing all I can to be with her. That that much is always understood.

If someone comes into our place of work, guns blazing, she should exit the building using the door right by her desk and run due east. She should not come find me so we can get out together. If I can't make it to an exit, I will throw a chair through the window and come find her. (I have thought about keeping a bowling ball at work for this very purpose.)

We will always stay put if we become lost while hiking.

If we are separated due to a natural disaster, I am focusing all my energy on getting to her.

And last night, I let my wife know that if I ever turn into a zombie, she has my permission to shoot me in the head. I know it would be hard to do, but it's not me anyway. And if I am still in there somewhere, I would hate myself if I turned on her because I was hungry.

It's always good to have a plan. Because when your spouse is coming towards you with that look in her eye--that look that says she is going to do everything she can to rip you open and eat your intestines--and you haven't discussed what to do, your trigger finger may falter. No one wants that.

Dodging Bullets

The news reported another egg distributor pulling their eggs from the shelves because salmonella was found. The following day, I overheard someone asking what brand it was so they made sure not to buy it. It's funny the things we tell ourselves so our lives aren't interrupted, so we can have whatever we want, whenever we want it.

I am a vegan for a reason. I am a vegan because I lifted the veil of ignorance and found out about the food I was putting into my body. And as much as you think you don't want to know, believe me, you do.

You can't eat all the animals you want, including their by-products without a lot of shit being generated. And there is no regulation on how to dispose of all that shit. If you think that every time you eat a cheeseburger that there isn't poop in it, well, you should probably not bother to find out. Same thing with eggs. And pork. There is poop--real life fecal matter--in all factory farmed animal products.

Every time you put factory farmed animals into your mouth and don't get sick, you've dodged a bullet. Eggs especially. If you think the chickens are healthy and happy, clucking around the farm whistling Dixie, you done lost your mind. If you think chicken farms are sanitary and those overseeing the farms take care with the product they are providing, you're just begging to be slapped into reality. Truth is, most people don't see chickens, pigs, or cows as animals, but as objects. Because objects don't feel pain. Animals do. Objects don't get sad. Animals do. Objects don't get scared. Animals do. And if animals are objects, than their living conditions don't have to be anything special. They can be sick. They can be tortured. They just have to stay alive.

Now, I'm not saying everyone go vegan. That's ridiculous. But know where your food comes from. Support farms that treat their animals like animals. It's imperative to your health, and the health of your children. Because the seventeen different antibiotics you had with last night's pork chops will make sure you and yours are susceptible to whatever super bug comes next. And me? Oh, don't worry about me. I'll visit you in the hospital, but will not hold my tongue when it comes to I told you so.

Gobble, Gobble

We have all kinds of wildlife where we live:  Bears, mountain lions, foxes, deer, elk, rabbits, mice, coyotes...but my absolute favorite are the wild turkeys.

Last Sunday, my wife returned from her run to report she was chased by the turkeys. Two of them flew beside her to flank her on the right. When she turned around, the head turkey had his wings spread wide, chest out proudly, his head bobbing back and forth as he gave pursuit. A small army of turkeys behind him. The turkey meant business. She said it was scary. I doubt it. Chased!? By the turkeys!? I would have given my breakfast had they chased me instead!

So when I read in our weekly work newsletter that November 12th is "Take a Turkey to Work Day", I immediately started thinking of ways to coerce one of the wild turkeys into the car. And then into a harness. Attached to a leash. I thought about using my wife as a bait, but it might be too risky. I would hate for the flock to turn on us as we plucked one out of the pack. I mean, they're already feeling threatened by a woman running on their turf. And who's to say the turkeys would believe my assurances that their turkey friend would be back before dinner?

I haven't figured out how to bring my turkey to work yet, but I still have twenty-four hours. I daydream about me and my turkey posing for pictures (photo op!). Taking my turkey around to all the different departments, making introductions. Explaining my work equipment to my turkey. Working while my turkey takes a nap, in my lap, because our activities have been a lot for a turkey to take in, especially all in one day!

I don't know what work is thinking, but if I do figure out how to bring my turkey to work, there is no way I'm going to put my turkey in one of the freezers. And anyone who would is just sick. I know it's winter, but I don't think the freezer is going to make the turkeys feel more at home.

Finest Hour

I've been wicked sick lately. Sore, itchy throat. Runny nose. Red face. Feverish eyes. Gut-wrenching cough. I think I'm finally on the downhill of the ailment, but this morning, there was an incident that made me feel like I might need additional help.

5:25 AM: I look at the clock and see I have five minutes before the alarm goes off. I decide to get out of bed.

5:26 AM: The minute my feet hit the floor, I realize I really have to pee.

5:28 AM: The babies (the dogs) and I are upstairs, heading down the hallway.

5:28 AM: I grab a tissue on the way.

5:29 AM: I let the babies outside, realizing I still need to pee. Bad. I think about stepping away, but the basset has to be supervised while outside because she likes to put "unsavory" items into her mouth.

5:30 AM: Holy shit, I really have to pee! I blow my nose.

5:35 AM: The basset has been walking around for a lifetime, finding the perfect piece of real estate to drop off her kids. And finally; she lets them go on a really nice piece of dirt, covered by a gentle layer of snow.

5:36 AM: I cough. Hard. I lose focus.

5:37 AM: It takes me a second or two to figure out that the small stream of warmth I feel running down my leg and into my slipper is, in fact, pee. Not a lot. Just enough to take the edge off.

5:37 AM: Really?!?!

5:37 AM: I eyeball the tissue in my hand.

5:37 AM: I use said tissue to clean up what hasn't quite yet made it into the slipper.

5:38 AM: The basset is finally done. The babies come in.

5:39 AM: I use the facilities. It feels like love. I flush the tissue.

5:40 AM: It's shower time. I set the slippers in front of the heat vent.

5:50 AM: I'm out of the shower. Slipper is dry. All incriminating evidence has been erased.

5:51 AM: I decide this never happened.

The List: Part Two

Here are more examples of certain behaviors that are guaranteed to get you kicked off my list of respectable human beings. Once again, enjoy.

When there are twenty cars in front of me, and you insist on riding my bumper so closely that I can't see your headlights. Okay. I get it. You're in a hurry. But I can't go anywhere. And neither can you. Gosh, if I could, I'd pull over and let you know that you really are important. But I'm in the midst of getting where I need to go. We all are. Sorry. You'll have to wait your turn. Too bad, too. Because I'm sure wherever you're headed is really important--the kind of place those of us in front of you couldn't possibly understand. Off the list, All Powerful Being!

When you insist that gay marriage goes against all laws of nature, but you take fertility drugs to the point you pop out six kids. Yeah, that's natural. Off the list, hypocrite!

When you tell me you know how bad the food you're about to shove in your face is but eat it anyway. Just keep your mouth shut, in both regards. Off the list, Reece's Pieces!

When you pull out in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, and you glare at me like I'm the asshole. Next time, why don't you really send the message home and flip me off too. That will really teach me a lesson. Off the list, Asshole!

When I'm trying to merge onto a two lane highway, and you're in the right lane with no one beside you, and you can't get over to let me in. It's just the two of us here. What are you going to do? I have to hit the breaks or gun it so I can get over before my merge lane ends. You know what, jackass? Next time, I'm not giving in. I'm going to keep driving, into the gravel, into the grass, into the big-ass hill, and you can watch as my car explodes. Is that what you want? IS IT!?!? Off the list Grim Reaper!

If you missed the first list and are curious to know if you made it or not, check out the original list posted on 10/12. Until next time, thanks again to everyone who's still on the list. You are the spike to my punch. The garter to my belt. The bitch to my slap. You are all truly wonderful.

Answers to Your Vegan Questions

Most people, when I tell them I'm a vegan, make fun of me. I eat dandelions. I eat tree bark. I eat twigs rubbed in dirt. They cannot, for the life of them, figure out what I could possibly eat by not eating animals or their by-products. In their minds, I've eliminated 99.9% of the food available to eat.

That is so not that case.

So for anyone still confused on what I eat, let me make it very clear: I eat tires. I eat plastic shampoo bottles. I eat batteries. I eat cell phones. I eat carboard. All the recycables you throw into your colored bins end up on a vegan's plate.

You see, we vegans take the planet and the creatures on it very seriously. You can only make so many plastic water bottles into bags, so what's leftover is sent to any registered vegan to be consumed, thereby reducing landfill waste.

You may be asking, How is that possible? How can you digest tires? Well, it's easy! Once you register at the iamveganbecauseicareaboutpeopleandtheirchildrenwhointurndontcareaboutme.org, you receive, between 6-8 weeks, your Vegan Survival Kit. It includes:

A set of stainless steel teeth
A silver lined stomach
A plastic--made out of soda bottles, of course--intestinal tract
A pine scented air freshener

When you go vegan, it's a lot like converting your car to biodiesel: you get a whole new system. It's a difficult adjustment for the first month, but by the second month, there is nothing your system can't handle. I've even graduated to picking through construction sites! You wouldn't believe how good nails are between a couple of two by fours.

So, for anyone out there who thinks veganism might be something you're interested in, ask yourself a few basic questions:

Do I care about how animals are treated?
Do I care about the topsoil they are ruining and will never come back?
Do I care about setting healthy food habits for my children? (I'm sorry, but Snackables don't count.) :(
Do I care about my children inheriting a healthy planet?

If you answered no to any of these questions, you might not qualify for the program. But don't fret. I can help you. I'm here day or night to answer your vegan questions. And remember, if you ever get a hankerin' to make fun of someone who isn't like you, think about what makes them different and try it again.

It's Not About You

I do not make it a habit to buy books from giant chain stores. Today was the first time this year I found myself standing in one. There is no excuse for my being there. I could have waited. Nicolle Wallace's new novel, Eighteen Acres, isn't going anywhere. But I felt an overwhelming urge to have it in my hot, little hand. And I happened to be in the store's neighborhood.

But the experience wasn't a total bust. I met a local author who was there signing books, and he discussed his path to publication with me. It was the highlight of my day. I even bought his book.

When I was checking out, the man assisting me--after turning the author's book round and round between his hands--finally made the connection. "Oh, you're buying the guy who's here's book."

"Yes."

"So, what's it about?

"An African American and a Caucasian forging a friendship during the Vietnam War and how they come out afterwards."

The guy looked at me and said, "Oh, is he the Caucasian?"

I waited for the hint that he was joking: A raised eyebrow, a sideways smile, a chuckle. Nothing.

I say, "It's a work of fiction? But, yes, he was in Vietnam. You write about what you know."

Our discussion ended there.

Here's a little something everyone should know. Writers don't write about the people in their lives, unless it's a memoir. Fiction means it's not based in truth or fact, that it's made-up. While this may not be true for all writers, it is certainly true for me. My characters tell me who they are, not the other way around. I know that may sound strange, but it's true. They surprise me all the time.

So if/when my novel is published, and you know me and read it, know none of the characters are you. While characteristics may match some of your own, I assure you, it's still not you. And I'm not in it either. So don't waste your time trying to figure out which character you are. You'll only miss out on what the real characters are trying to tell you: this is our story.

Healthy Fear

When you've had absolutely no use for God and then suddenly, after a close friend dies, you find God, maybe in the pantry or in the lettuce crisper, you give yourself away too easily: Your fear is showing.

Every creature on this planet is afraid of dying. We're supposed to be afraid to die. It keeps us from doing stupid shit that kills us, like crossing the street against a green light, jumping off a twenty-story building with the four corners of a sheet tied to each one of our appendages, eating rotten food, sleeping with Pamela Anderson or Tommy Lee. Without a healthy fear of death, our species would become extinct. It's called survival instincts, but we don't tell ourselves that's what we're doing. Because, somehow, instead of surviving, we're doing God's will.

Why does the animal kingdom get to have survival instincts and we get to have fairy tales? Why is it that our species is the only one that has come up with a safety net--going to a beautiful place where everyone you've ever loved is there waiting for you-- for after you die? Why are we the species that gets to comfort ourselves with the God idea while the animals simply die?

My wife was quick to point out that because animals communicate with each other, and because we'll never have a deer mind, or a turkey mind, or a tiger mind, or a bear mind, or a horse mind, or a dog mind, we have no idea what kind of system animals have in place for what happens to them when they die. True. If I knew they had all been touched by the hand of God, and were just biding their time until He called them home, I might not be so skeptical.

As it currently stands, I am terrified to die. I love my life and hate to think of it ending. I'll continue to white knuckle it down the mountain pass when the road is covered in ice. I'll continue to care about what food I put in my body. I'll refrain from stepping foot into a rough neighborhood. And when my day to die comes, I'll continue to dismiss a guy wearing a robe, with real estate in the sky, who is also his own son, as a fairy tale. But I'll admit, it is a good one.

Twitter: A Love Story

I joined Twitter this week. I didn't do it because I think everyone wants to hear what I have to say. I did it because I can follow literary agents, publishers, and anyone else of interest in the industry. And whether I like it or not, it is a great marketing tool.

I still have little idea on how it works, but I'd like to invite you all to follow along. You can find me, I think, at http://twitter.com/kelceymckinley

If you think my words are worth the eye damage the glow of the computer screen creates, share my blog with others. Tell everyone I'm a twitterer, or a tweeter, or whatever it is called. (I feel like John McCain. Next thing you know, I'm going to buy one of those Google machines.) Share it with everyone you know. I can't build a base without you. If I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it with all of you by my side. Don't think you don't play a part in my success, because you do.

<Turning the lights down low, cueing music, clearing throat, speaking with a deep voice>: Let's make this love of stories story together.

To anyone who is reading this, know you are the Barbara Hershey to my Bette Midler. And I don't mean that in a gay way. Or in a let's buy a house together way. Or in a way that suggests you're going to get an incurable disease, and I'm going to have to sing a song about it. I mean it in the only way possible: "You are the wind beneath my wings."

I promise to never use that line again. I still feel a little cliche' and average having used it once.

Hump-day Haiku: Post Election

Curly-headed man
is Kentucky's Senate choice.
Run, black people, run.

Christine O'Donnell
failed to make the Senate cut.
She should be a witch.

I can't really tell;
she looks a little German.
We'll miss you, Sharron.

Election Eve

Sharron Angle wants to shoot some folks up if she doesn't win in Nevada. She scares white people by telling them brown skinned people are going to take over their colleges. Then she announced, without humility, to a group of Hispanic students that she thinks some of them look Asian. Really? You're just going to say that out loud? You don't have to say everything you're thinking. Nut-bag crazy! and people still want to vote for her.

Christine O'Donnell doesn't know there is separation of church and state in the Constitution. Oh. Em. Gee. And she thinks being gay can be cured. Is she smarter than a fifth grader? Nut-bag crazy! and people will still vote for her.

Ken Buck thinks he's qualified to be in the Sentate because he doesn't wear high heels. Are you for reals, Ken? What back-woods barn did you crawl out of? Nut-bag crazy! and he's leading Michael Bennet by one point.

And that's just scimming the top. There are others, but I don't have that kind of time.

I can't help to think that these candidates are viable because they think and talk just like the people who want to vote for them do.

When did it come to pass that we want people like us running our country? I don't want a sarcastic, smart-ass lesbian who dropped out of college deciding our foreign policy. I don't want Barbeque Bob in charge of Wall Street reform. I don't care how good his steaks are! And I definately don't want a racist, gun crazed, nut-bag, or someone who doesn't even know what's in the constitution, anywhere near my "freedoms" (I'm still not allowed to marry the person I love, like I'm some fifteen-year-old who doesn't yet have a driver's license. I don't call that freedom.)

The crazier people get, the more I think they're scared. And I get it. I am terrified that this country is going to be taken back fifty years, to a time when a woman's body was the property of the government. A time when a child's education was interrupted for prayer. A time when I had a curfew.

So get out there tomorrow and have your say. Because I will beat down your door if I have to go to bed at 7:30 again and lay next to my "roommate"!

Watered Down

I hate being scared. It is a feeling I do not enjoy. My wife, however, loves to be scared. When Halloween rolls around, I know there will be an onslaught of scary movies available for her viewing pleasure.

My wife is kind enough to not subject me to scary movies if I do not care to watch them with her. (I'm sure she wishes I would show her the same consideration when it comes to sports.) There are a few times a year when I feel brave and tell her that I could watch a scary movie. Thankfully, she rarely takes me up on the offer.

Yesterday, in the spirit of Halloween, I let her know that there were three scary movies premiering on television and it was her choice which one we watched. I started mentally preparing myself as soon as I got out of bed.

I have always been a bit of a cry-baby when it comes to horror. I once threw-up in a movie theater's bathroom sink after I heard Darth Vader's heavy breathing filtering through the closed doors of a movie that had yet to let out. I cried hysterically when Sammy Terry (I think that was his name,) a man with white make-up on his face, wearing a Dracula-style cape, came on the local cable channel to introduce that night's scary movie. Then came Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, The Brood, The Omen, Psycho, Poltergeist, all movies that scared me to the point of wishing I could take the watching of them back. But I had to watch them: I was saving face in front of my cousins.

My wife picked The Crazies. Okay. Sure. The Crazies. Decent cast. Tainted water supply. I can do this, I kept telling myself as the sun started to set and time drew nearer. I made sure I was finished eating. I snuggled into my wife's chest. The movie started. Oh, god...here we go. We watched. I started to relax. It wasn't scary. In fact, I wish my wife could turn back time and pick something else. She deserved better for her one pick.

What happened to making movies that inspire people like me to turn every light in the house on? To refuse to go outside when it is dark? To question every noise the house makes? Is it because I am older? (I really don't think so because I was well into adulthood when I visited my last haunted house--something I will never do again. The only way out of it was by going through it! My behavior was less than civilized as I yanked and pulled and screamed and let myself be blindly led by my girlfriend at the time.) Is it because the genre has been overdone and the same movies are being made over and over again with different casts and a small tweaking to the stories? Maybe. All I know is Halloween used to mean something. It used to mean climbing the steps to a house, all in the name of sugar, where there was  scary music playing through a stereo speaker, a casket by the door, and a moment that needed to be collected while pausing to figure out if the candy was worth it. Was there something in the casket, biding its time to pop out and give fright to a group of kids? Yes, of course there was.

Maybe it's been too long since I've been on the trick-or-treat circuit, but it seems like kids today don't have to work as hard for a handout. And movie makers don't have to try as hard to scare the pants off theater-goers. Maybe I should just shut up and thank god for small favors.

Nightmares

This morning, as the sunlight filtered through the bedroom drapes, my wife put her arms around me and held me tighter than usual. She had had a bad dream.

In the dream, she was in the shower, washing the new tattoo she'd just gotten on her stomach. Her doctor told her she would not live long enough to see it heal: she had stomach cancer. And while she washed around it, she felt herself dying. "You know how the doctor told me I wouldn't live long enough to see my tattoo heal?" Yes, I replied. "This is it. I'm dying." And die she did. But it didn't end there. She watched as I emotionally crumbled.

WTF?!?!

Why can't my wife have "normal" nightmares? She is always dreaming about the end of the world, where everyone around her is dying. Or dreams where she has to save our entire family from a catastrophic event, the cat included. And sometimes we're kidnapped. Or people--people with some kind of affliction, like zombies or space-aged monsters--are chasing her. Why can't she have bad dreams about our house being foreclosed on or burning Thanksgiving dinner? Why do they always have to scare the shit out of me too?

The bedroom is still dark in the mornings, so when she tells me about her nightmares, I'm glad she cannot see my face. It is a testament to how fucked up I think her sub-conscience is. Panic and fear reside in my eyes. My mouth is pulled tight. And I can't help thinking that if I had her nightmares, I would never want to go to sleep.

I keep telling her that some of her dreams would make great screenplays. Screenplays that I think could actually sell. At least that way, while her dreams might still scare the shit out of me, they would scare me from the comforts of a million dollar home.

The Wonderful World of Queries

Yesterday, I received a form letter rejection. Today, I received a personalized rejection by an agent who said he/she appreciated my creativity, but it just wasn't right for their agency. It's amazing what a difference a day can make.

The form rejections never make my cry in my pillow. They only remind me that the writing business is tough to break into. But the personalized rejections always fill me with a strange sense of it's going to happen eventually.

The various responses I have received from agents so far remind me that tastes vary. In the same sense that not all books or genres speak to me, I know that my novel is not for everyone. Some agents/agencies generically shut me down while others take the time to let me know that while they're passing, there are many agents and to keep trying. These rejections are my favorite. They make me feel that I am a part of their world, even if they're not inviting me into it.

I didn't send a single query this week. Instead, I focused on working on my second novel. I think next week I'll hit the query trail again, if only to ensure the roller coaster doesn't derail.

F*cking Wal-Mart

This morning, I saw a commercial for Wal-Mart I had never seen before. 

A woman is ecstatic that she has a job at Wal-Mart because she is no longer on welfare. And her son got a job too!

I thought I was going to hulk out of my clothes.

The woman was not white. (White people don't go on welfare!)

The woman will see her son--and other men--get promoted over her, time and time again. (There is a class action law suit against Wal-Mart right now, for this very issue.)

In these "excited" times, the last thing Wal-Mart needs to be doing is telling white people that minorities can get off welfare if they just come on in and fill out an application. Because it's bullshit. Wal-Mart pays their employees like they are thirteen-year-old babysitters.

There has been far too much rhetoric lately about people getting a free ride: health care, welfare, social security, Medicare, Medicaid, are all programs that "good-hearted Christians" and their lunatic fringe spokespersons feel need to be abolished or handed over to the private sector. And with the immigrant issue still a hot button issue, all this commercial does is tell all those people that, yes, minorities are to be feared because they're living off welfare, and you're paying for their free ride. You may think I'm overreacting, but the nonsense that is flying out of people's mouths lately is exactly why I made this connection. And I'll be damned if Wal-Mart will get me to believe they are the answer. But I bet Sharron Angle is on board.

I detest Wal-Mart. It has been close to a decade since I have used my purchasing power to support one. They have bastardized too much to be given a free pass. They treat their female employees like shit. They bully the companies of the products they sell. And now they're taking idiocy to a whole new wtf? level. I would rather pay an extra quarter for a box of cereal than bankrupt my integrity.

Hump-day Haiku: Road Rage

Get out of the way!
Big trucks think they own the road.
Small penis drive fast.

Angry minivans
Want to run me off the road.
Wal-Mart is waiting.

Turn signals announce
Way too much information.
You're a mystery.

Irrational Fear

I have an issue with being chased. I don't know where it originated or why it is still here. But if my wife is behind me on the stairs, following me, my insides start get all weirdsy. I feel uneasy. My heartbeat quickens. I feel like I need to move as fast as I can before she gets me.

It's irrational, I know, but it cannot be helped.

My wife was taking a shower. She screamed like there was blood coming out of the showerhead instead of water. When I ran in to inspect, she pointed. There, in the folds of the shower curtain, sat a spider the size of a baby's pinky nail.

Last night, as the family was nestled together on the sofa--two dogs and cat included--terror, once again, struck the heart of my wife.

"I see a spider," she announced.

"I don't see it," I replied, looking around the floor.

"It's right there."

"Oh, I see it." It was crawling across the floor, about four feet away from her. She was not sitting on the floor, but on the sofa, so the threat, to me, seemed really low.

The basset had been on and off the sofa for the past thirty minutes. The mutt had finally stopped obsessing over the cat. Everyone had finally settled. There were quilts and pillows involved. The last thing I wanted to do was vault off the sofa and handle a spider. I brought all these details to my wife's attention. She understood what I was saying and said she would keep an eye on it.

I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Her body sat up straighter. She couldn't stop staring at the floor.

"It's coming towards me."

"You're going to be fine."

"But it's coming to get me!"

The spider was not coming to get her. It was two feet away from her. And she was still on the sofa while the spider was still on the floor. Granted, it was moving in her direction, but I knew that there was no way it was going to jump on her face and eat it. Not like she thought it was going to. Still, I got off the sofa and wrangled the spider onto a piece of paper and threw it outside.

Knowing that I have irrational fears of my own, I cannot blame my wife for having her own. We all have something that make us want to scream. Right now, my something is Christine O'Donnell. Though I don't think my fear of her is all that irrational.

Sponsorship

The Chick-fil-A kickoff.
The Chick-fil-A halftime report.
The Chick-fil-A post-game show.
This injury timeout is brought to you by Chick-fil-A.

If I see one more commercial where a cow is begging us to eat more chicken so it can live--animals wanting to live is so fucking hilarious--I'm going to throw my sofa into the TV.

As long as books continue not to be brought to us by the Chick-fil-A prologue, or the Wendy's You-Know-When-It's-Real table of contents, I'll survive without college football.

Light a Fire

I've been rather fired-up lately concerning an incident that took place last week. A gay man--someone I do not know--was talking about his boyfriend coming back home and how he needed to get back into shape because his "hot body" had disappeared. Later in the conversation, he mentioned having an oral fixation (he chewed on his fingernails.) A woman--a straight woman--was highly offended.

Straight people are granted the courtesy to define themselves in a myriad of ways: by being single or married, through their professions, the kind of shoes they wear, the kind food they make, the kind of car they drive, their hair, their clothes, their children, the church they attend, how much money they make, the jokes they tell, the friends they have, the talents they possess.

Gays are not afforded the same consideration when it comes to being who we are. Instead, we are immediately defined by the kind of sex we have. When a straight person finds out we are gay, they--for some insane reason--picture us in the bedroom. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why it is straight people are so obsessed with what we do with our sexual lives. There is an arc of perversion when a gay man can sit next to a straight women and not say a word about his sex life, yet she immediately sees him on his knees when he says oral fixation. Seriously!? Get your mind out of the gutter, straight lady, and get over yourself. What does it say about this woman? It says that she has a mind that works in a very strange, creepy, warped way. The last thing I do when I know someone is straight is picture them boning someone of the opposite sex. It's just gross.

I would bet a trazillion dollars that if it had been a fellow straight woman talking about her husband coming home and how she needed to get back her hot body and needed to curb her oral fixation--biting her nails--the woman who was offended would have thought nothing of it. She might have even had suggestions. I know it in my heart.

Ken Buck, a viable option to represent the citizens of Colorado in the United States Senate, believes being gay is a choice. The only way that argument makes sense is if Ken Buck has fantasies about the opposite sex. And because he is inherently straight, he thinks he's choosing not to be gay. Those who protest to much, who gladly show their ignorance, show the true nature of their fears: that they will not only be discovered as frauds, but their darkest thoughts will be revealed if they show compassion or understanding.

I lived a straight life for the first twenty-two years of my life. And had I chosen that life, I would have chosen emotional death. Fuck you, Ken Buck. Fuck you for just opening your mouth and speaking on a subject you know nothing about. You're entitled to feel the way you do, but when you're running for high office I expect your mouth to remain closed on the gay issue. Because when you say, to a national audience, that being gay is a choice, they are only words to you. But to me, it is real. To me, it is young gay people killing themselves because they were incessantly bullied. To me, it is gays being beaten, tied to fences, and left to die. To me, it is not holding my wife's hand in certain places for fear we will be targeted. To me, it is a gay man, just being who he is, offending a straight woman because people like you will always make it okay to hate and judge, preserving your "rightful" place by feeling better than others.