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.