Captive Queen

For you dedicated readers, it comes as no surprise to hear I love Alison Weir's true account of Anne Boleyn's fall in her book, The Lady in the Tower. Whether my love is due to Ms. Weir's presentation of the material or my mild obsession with the Tudors and their barbaric behavior is indistinguishable. So when I stumbled across Ms. Weir's historical novel, Captive Queen, I was delighted to the point I started reading it in the store. I knew nothing of Eleanor of Aquitaine and was bursting inside - a miniature Fourth of July taking place in my chest - to find out more.

I gladly, eagerly dropped thirty dollars on the brand new hardcover.

I read aloud to my wife as we started our trip home from Santa Fe. We were both looking forward to Ms. Weir's story. My wife knew how I felt about The Lady in the Tower and, based on my recommendation, believed Captive Queen was a book we were going to immensely enjoy.

I didn't read far enough ahead in the bookstore.

When I read the phrase, erotic memory, my eyebrow raised. But I continued. Entwined bodies, rugged masculinity, flush with excitement soon followed. I could no longer deny what I had gotten myself into; it revealed itself page after page. Historical romance!? How I missed the true nature of the novel was unexplainable.

The novel has been cast aside and will, more than likely, never be finished.

This doesn't mean Captive Queen lacks merit. I have simply never been a fan of bulging packages, ripped muscles, or overt moisture. As much as I wanted to know more, I could not continue.

Still, I have no regrets. Captive Queen will sit on my bookshelf for years to come. And who knows. Maybe one afternoon I'll crack it open and give into the carnal pleasures Eleanor and Henry have to offer. But probably not. Because while Eleanor was imprisoned for a time, she got to keep her head.

Hump-day Haiku: Tilikum the Killer Whale

Killing three trainers
seems not to be a problem.
The show must go on.

Unleashed to perform;
new safety measures in place.
Bloodlust forgotten.

Whales known for killing
are okay in Sea World's book!
You go get you some.

Your reputation
has a big PR problem.
Try wearing a hat.

Nervous

I've been wondering lately if publication is the right path for me.

Yes, I'm scared shitless.

Over the weekend, I lost a heated auction - Writers for Red Cross - for a query letter critique and phone call with a literary agent. Who knows how high the price would have climbed had I not hit a dead zone on the drive home, immobilizing me to bid any further. It was sold by the time I regained a signal.

As much as I wanted to win, I was relieved I lost.

Then the agent said she would give four more critiques and phone calls to anyone who matched the winning bid. Cue sweat. I fearfully and excitingly agreed to match the winning bid, and so an agent will critique my query - yay! - and I will speak with her on the phone - a-ah!

What an unbelievable opportunity. For the agent, I imagine it's simply another day, but for me, it's, I don't know exactly what it is, but it feels big. Not I'm-going-to-instantly-find-an-agent big - this particular agent has already, kindly, rejected me - but when I think about it, I get nervous.

Nerves are nothing more than an indication I'm alive. So I'm going to live-the-shit out of this moment, keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach, and remember all I'm doing is talking to another person.

I hope it works.

Getting Real

Maybe I watch too much television. I don't think I do, but I suppose it is possible considering I have run out of digits, and appendages, to count the numerous times I have listened to a handful of women - looking casually, seriously, imploringly at me - tell me we need to "stop all the cutesy stuff and get real about what happens in the bathroom." Do you want me to double over and throw up?

I live it. I see it. Every day. Please spare me the somber faces, the subdued tones of voices, the everyone-else-who-sells-toilet-paper-is-off-their-nut marketing campaign. I don't need average "housewives" telling me that toilet paper is about being clean.

You think!?

So, toilet paper is the reason we don't use or hands, or the closest thing to the toilet (fancy hand towel, perhaps)? It's the reason we stay clean? Huh. Well, color me embarrassed for missing such a painfully obvious detail. (I did not, however, know toilet paper also functions in the important endeavor known as No Particles Left Behind.)

I appreciate there aren't any men showcased. I really don't want to get real about what they do in the bathroom. Things hang and, I would think, collide. No good can come from it.

Here's a newsflash: we buy whatever's on sale. Cutesy or "getting real" plays no part. Why don't we get real about how much we're being charged to keep our hands from getting too involved? It's just toilet paper, not fancy hand towels.

A Tale of Two Colors

Last I checked, all abusers were dispicable, deplorable, and downright disgusting. Try telling that to major networks and tabloids.

While Charlie Sheen is being treated like Must-See-TV, and Chris Brown is being treated like the CW, I can't help thinking something is rotten in Racemark.

Now, now, let's not get excited. I'm sure this has nothing to do with race. I'm sure I'm blowing this out of proportion. I'm sure Charlie not being fired from his television show after holding a knife to his wife's neck while Chris was publicly and professionally shunned after busting Rihanna's face was nothing more than product placement: Charlie - a white actor - hails from a line of other white actors; Chris - a black musician - hails from an industry known for its violence.

Right?

Both men are notorious - as far as I'm concerned - for being abusers of women, yet the media cannot get Charlie out of their limelight and are more than willing to help Chris dig his hole of shame deeper. So why is Chris' behavior not being lauded as something entertaining? As amusing? As take-a-load-of-this-guy hilarious?

It boils down to what we've been programmed to believe. It won't surprise me if Charlie becomes a Senator and Chris goes to prison.

Hump-day Haiku: Charlie Sheen

Eventually,
one realizes how shallow
one's life has become.

Porn stars and cocaine;
burning like a dying star.
How original.

Absurd interviews
and jumbled contemplations.
He's no Jersey Shore.

House Guest

If you haven't heard, Jesus is coming back soon. Apparently, there is a correlation between the terrorist attack in New York City on September 11th, the earthquake in Haiti on January 11th, the recent earthquake in Japan on March 11th, and a passage from the Bible, Luke 21:10-11, that says nations and kingdoms will rise against each other and there will be great earthquakes. It's all supposed to signal Jesus' speedy return.

I better pack my bags and close my bank accounts.

Can we all just calm down? I know what is going on in Japan is scary. Throughout our history, we have all experienced terrifying times. Imagine how people - especially the Jews - felt during World War II. If ever there was a time for Jesus to show his face, that would have been the most ideal: before we dropped not one, but two atomic bombs on Japan, before Japan got a chance to bomb Pearl Harbor, before Hitler was even allowed to come to power. I realize there weren't any great earthquakes, but nations were rising against nations. If a great earthquake had to be a part of the equation, I guess Jesus couldn't come back. The formula was missing an important component.

It is scary when thousands of people die and disappear in the flash of a second, but numbers repeating themselves is no reason to start buying real estate in the sky. Numbers repeat themselves all the time. It's called mathematics. And math is everywhere. So let's not get ahead of ourselves. There have been hundreds of large-scale natural disasters. Crying the sky is falling after each one reeks of irrational thinking and laziness when it comes to understanding how and why something happens.

Let's take a deep breath and think about when the Bible was written. Fault lines existed then, as they do now, but there were no scientists around in good old 1400 B.C. to explain it to the shepherds, kings, slaves, and day laborers. For them, the ground unexplainably shook. Considering their low level of education, the only feasible explanation was the man in the sky was angry. For us, natural disasters are no longer a mystery. Science can explain them all.

So, as disasters and wars keep happening, can we stop looking for meaning in numbers? There is meaning in numbers, but they hold no meaning in the only mythology we're still willing to believe in.

It's So Safe

We've been told, time and time again, that nuclear power is safe.

The fuck it is.

As we twist our hands, cover our eyes, squeeze and shake our heads, hold a loved one's hand, hope that Fukushima Daiichi's nuclear reactors can be cooled before they all explode and/or melt through their containments, we are reminded that nuclear energy is safe when...when, um...when it's, well...uh...when...um, it's complicated.

The fuck it is.

Meltdown. Say it with me: meltdown. Chernobyl really wasn't that long ago. Have we learned nothing? Oh, I know. We learned that better "safety" measures needed to be put in place concerning nuclear power plants. Chernobyl's reactors had no containments at all. But if the reactors in Japan end up melting through their containments, what will it matter?

I'm no scientist, but I am smart enough to know that this is serious. This shit is fucked up! It's either going to be a small scale fucked-up or a large scale fucked-up. Then again, when it comes to radiation being released into the air and water, this world gets a lot smaller. Japan isn't that far from, well, the rest of the world.

We've been told the power plant is leaking radiation. But it's safe, really.

Hey, why don't we try something like, I don't know, maybe not building and continuously doing shit that threatens our oceans, air, food, skin, lungs, eyes, future generations because when something goes wrong - it will eventually - it is no longer safe. Like nuclear power plants ever were to begin with.

No one in charge of the Daiichi plant is publicly putting their head between their legs and breathing.

If only I had that kind of peace of mind.

That's the Spirit

Last night, my wife and I went to a local restaurant with friends. We had no idea what we were getting into. The St. Patrick's Day Parade took place earlier in the day so it was a festive atmosphere. A band greeted one with their folksy Irish sound as soon as one opened the door. There were people everywhere, crammed into tables too small to accommodate their large parties. The wait staff, unsettled, ran around like there were fires in every corner, like they hadn't had a moment to breathe all day.

When my wife and I sat down, the company we kept for the night pointed out a girl they saw puke against the side of the building only moments before. Apparently, she'd taken the time to change out of her shorts and into pants and was ready for more. She stood unsteadily on legs that wobbled and seemed unsure, putting on airs that she was fine, just fine.

That's the spirit. Saint Patrick would be proud.

I watched a seven(ish) year-old-girl drag a three(ish) year-old-boy down a small - four at the most - flight of stairs. His body was stretched out as she dragged him by his hands. They ran up the stairs, all a giggle, ready to do it again, knocking into wait staff, disregarding everyone because they - fun always trumps duty - had the right of way. When I questioned what was going on and how something like that happens in a public place of business, it was pointed out to me that the parents were drunk.

That's the spirit. Saint Patrick would be proud.

St. Patrick's Day, a religious holiday intended to celebrate the Irish patron saint, Saint Patrick, has been reduced to drinking green beer and watching girls puke against the side of buildings.

This Easter, let's show the Irish they aren't the only ones who get to have a fun religious holiday. Fill those plastic eggs with jello shots. Send the children to their rooms to gorge on chocolate while you drink pastel colored vodka - thanks Stoli! - out of hollowed chocolate bunnies. Take a keg to your local cemetery and get so shit-faced you think your besty puking against a headstone is Jesus rising from the grave - again.

That's the spirit. Jesus would be proud.

Open Letter: Governor Scott Walker

Dear Governor Walker:

Congratulations. You did it. So what if you broke the law by violating your state's open meeting laws. It's a minor technicality. Who cares anyway, right? You're a hero! You said collective bargaining for public employees was a fiscal concern, yet you stripped away all the fiscal matters and left it on its own so you could pass it without the Dems. Good one! You're a true American, Governor.

I loved watching your give-me-liberty-or-give-me-death attitude unfold. I'm sure the billionaire Koch brothers loved it too. That call, where you thought you were talking to David: hilarious! Nothing tickles me more than hearing our hired public officials - paid by the taxpayers you insist sacrifice for the budget shortfalls - spend twenty minutes on the phone with billionaires. It truly is good stuff, Governor. Next time, think you can do me a solid and patch me through? I have some ideas I think David Koch would be interested in, too.

I know I've called you some rather ugly names lately - douche bag, fucker, dickhead, dick-smack motherfucker - but let's let bygones be bygones. But, between you and me, you have to admit, you are kind of a dick, right? I mean, you don't actually look at yourself in the mirror and think you're doing right by the thousands of people shouting outside the capital? Oh, that's right. How foolish of me. Your audacity slipped my mind. There's nothing like self importance to get one through the day. Am I right!?

In any case, it comforts me to know that you'll be provided and cared for until you're six feet under. If the citizens of Wisconsin vote you out, I'm sure the friends you've made will pick you up and dust you off with hundred dollar bills. I bet that helps you sleep at night, too.

One more thing before I let you get back to work. Be proud of yourself. As the protests grow bigger and louder, you keep patting yourself on the back. The work you've done to fuck the average American worker is almost as good as corporations moving their businesses overseas (those foreigners sure don't demand as much, eh?). But you keep at it, Governor Walker. I can't wait to see what you come up with next. I never grow tired of watching assholes walk on two legs. 

All best,

Whack-A-Muse

Hump-day Haiku: A Cat Named Pickle

Found in the shelter,
History of violence;
Attack the curtains.

Climbing up the stairs,
She waits on the piano.
Duck, cover, and run.

Dead birds half her size,
Headless mice in the driveway:
Present or warning?

Finding Focus

My absence has plagued me each day I have stayed away, yet it was necessary. Necessary because I needed to take some time and remember why I started blogging in the first place. It was not meant to distract me. It was not meant to keep me from writing anything else. It was meant to make a connection to you, the reader. Instead, I began using it as a place to hide.

When the agent who requested my manuscript came back with a I-do-not-wish-to-pursue-this-project-any-further, I completely deflated; became a paper-thin replica of my former self. During the months the agent had my manuscript, I felt a part of things. I gladly dangled off the edge of hope. (Possibility feels remarkably good.) When the agent decided to pass - which I knew all along was the larger of possibilities - I could not help but feel defeated. In the ten seconds it took me to read the I-think-I'll-pass email, I felt as though I'd been kicked out of the club, the next invitation being withheld.

Am I proud of how I handled the rejection? Proud of how I allowed the agent to hijack my confidence? Proud of how I willingly, gladly laid down? Not at all. I needed to remember that while this one person's opinion did matter, it was not the last say.

It was imperative that I let the blogging suffer and focus on my resolve.

I started querying agents again. I began polishing a few short stories that I wrote long ago, getting them ready to submit to various literary magazines. (If I can get a short story published it will make it slightly easier to attract the attention of an agent.) I even started working on my second novel again.

When we allow others to define who we are or how we feel about ourselves, the damage we do is undeniably dangerous and foolish. I spent months wasting time, refusing to lift myself up. Will it happen again? Undoubtedly. However, I must remember perseverance will get me farther than pity. And even if I never get published, it does not mean that I will feel any less of a writer than Jodi Picoult or John Irving. It only means that I will have never made it onto the big stage. For now, I only need remind myself not to hide from the idea of never finding the spotlight.