Sometimes, The Wheel Is On Fire

For the Love of...

2012-02-14T21:49:00.003-05:00

If you've read my post on the subject from last year, you know what comes to my mind when I think of Valentine's Day: LOVE.¹

That might seem a bit harsh, but how else am I supposed to feel about a holiday that depresses millions of single folk every year? That cares more about selling things than it does about selling the emotion behind the day itself? But lest you think I'm too critical of this ~~unabashed marketing ploy~~ holiday, I've filled the following passage with heart:

"I wish my husband bought me more gauche art made with ear trumpets and fresh earth."
"I hear that."

My wife and I show our love for each other every day, not just when the calendar tells us to. And we don't do it with stuff.² It's not that difficult a concept. Hell, the Google doodle gets it. Sure, if you liked it you should have put a ring on it, but when it comes to love, there are plenty of ways to show how you feel without reaching for your wallet.³

For instance, you could prepare her favorite meal, give him a card you made yourself, clean the house while she's at work, or write him a romantic poem. Don't think you have the creativity for that? No worries, I've done it for you:

She loves you.
It's only love,
Real love.
Can't buy me love;
You've got to hide your love away.
All you need is love.
Love me do.
P.S. I love you.

Now remember: If you share your love throughout the year, Valentine's Day becomes just another day, no different from any other except in how it immediately precedes the second best time of the year for scavenging chocolate off of co-workers' desks.

You're welcome. Happy Tuesday.

¹ Load of Veritable Excrement.
² Except that time I bought her a Nook. But that was completely different. It was Christmas.
3 Or, if you're not in a relationship, make Hallmark reach for its wallet. Clearly, Valentine's Day is nothing but blatant discrimination against single people. There, I've practically won your case for you already. All you need to do is lawsuit up.

Playing the Percentages

2012-02-06T22:05:00.000-05:00

Last week, I conducted a social experiment involving the observation of societal norms in a closed setting. Which is to say, I sat in my car and people-watched.

On the way home from lunch with some friends, we had stopped at a grocery store and pulled into one of the spots reserved for Customer with Child. Perhaps you've seen these; the designated spots are relatively close to the building, and meant as a convenience for parents who need to lug a baby in a car seat over to the shopping carts, or who have to corral small children into the store. In our case, The Professor had just fallen asleep, so rather than disturb him, I stayed in the car with him while Denise went inside to pick up the few items we needed.

Over the next 15 minutes, I observed the comings and goings in the other Customer with Child Parking spots nearby, and what I discovered was startling: Of all the other customers who used these spots, not one had a child with them.

Let's do the math. (Okay, I'll do the math. You sit back and watch.) Six different cars filled those other spots during that 15-minute span. With ours as the lone car with a child, that means only 1 in 7 was using the spot as intended.¹ Of course, this is just a small sample size, which doesn't really tell us much. But let's say I'd continued observing from that spot for four hours. If I extrapolate the numbers, that means only 1 of every 97 people would have used the spots appropriately.²

Use of Customer with Child spots isn't enforced like it is with handicapped spots, so of course you'd expect a few people to take advantage of the system. But the numbers don't lie: As my pseudo-scientific experiment proves, a stunning 99% of people are motivated by selfishness and greed, and care not for the plight of young mothers and fathers struggling to carry such a heavy burden.³

And there you have it. I don't know what this says about our society as a whole, but I know what it says about me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am the 1%.

¹ Never mind that we weren't actually using the spot as intended. We'd intended to. Oh, never mind.
² What, you don't trust my math? Every 15 minutes, another 6 childless customers would roll into those spots, for a total of 96. Plus me, sitting there the entire time. Thus, 1 out of 97. So there. You extrapolate your way, I'll extrapolate mine.
³ Okay, so the numbers might not lie, but I might be stretching them a bit. It's not 99% of everyone; it's just 99% of those who use the Customer with Child spots. But considering none of those spots was vacant for more than 30 seconds, I'm still talking about a far higher percentage of the overall population than you might think.

Writing Advice for the Easily Distracted

2012-01-17T08:25:00.005-05:00

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but some poor, misguided spambot (Updated, 1/25: turns out it wasn't a bot at all; my apologies, Brittany) has nominated me for a Top Writing Blog Award at eCollegeFinder. I don't have all the details yet, but I thought I'd serve up some actual writing advice before they start the selection process. You know, so it looks like I know what I'm doing.

We live in a short-attention span society, so I won't bore you by droning on and on about my tips and techniques and proper grammar. I can bore you just as easily by condensing my advice into bite-sized nuggets:

I can tell you how to finish your book in one word: time management.¹
Don't use amateurnouns. Your readers will notice.
After spicing up your novel a bit by mixing in metaphors, set it aside for a while so the plot may thicken.
Omit words.²
When writing non-fiction, be vicious with your punctuation:
- Cut long passages down to size by using bullets.
- To get rid of extraneous content, drop it with a dagger.†
- In order to fit a bunch of people into a smaller space, slash them repeatedly.
  (e.g. Axl/Izzy/Duff/Steven)
To ensure your prose is flawless, always use the perfect tense.
No matter how wonderful a passage or phrase sounds, it's worthless if it doesn't advance the story. As Sir Arthur Quiller-Coach said, "Murder your Darlings. Especially if you're J.M. Barrie, because then you have a Peter Pan Murder Mystery on your hands."
Writers, take proper care of your colons: Otherwise, all that follows will be a painful mess.
Even if you do your writing on a computer, you need your BIC PEN. (Butt In Chair, Persistently Evading the 'Net)
Use short sentences for action scenes. It moves the narrative along.
Use long sentences for flowery prose, 20-page research papers, lists of moderate to great length, and convicted murderers.
Sentence fragments. Useful in moderation. Really.
And I'll end with a few examples of properly used punctuation:
- Why would you ask me? (Question Mark)
- She won't say why she's so moody. (Period)
- Don't interrupt me. Anyway, I've got to— (Dash)

That'll do it for now. And remember: Writing is a journey. Don't stop believing.

¹ And as that statement proves, reading and writing are essential to your success, but arithmetic is not.
² The original advice from Strunk and White's Elements of Style was "Omit needless words." I thought needless unnecessary.
† What did I tell you? This content isn't useful at all.

And That's When My 6-Month-Old Made Out with a College Girl

2012-01-08T23:37:00.001-05:00

On Friday, my son (codename: The Professor) turned six months old. I find it hard to believe he's already that old, yet simultaneously, I feel he's been with us forever. I'm constantly in awe of him (and vice versa). And so far, he's hit every major milestone the baby books told us to look for:

Month 1: The Bloodening
Not long after we determined he wasn't a vampire, it happened. One moment, he was a perfectly happy baby. The next moment, he turned his head and spit up blood. The moment after that, he was a perfectly happy baby (with perfectly distraught parents). We rushed him to the doctor's office, where they performed a battery of tests (battery not included), and determined he was, in fact, a perfectly healthy baby. To this day, our best guess is ~~he is actually a vampire~~ had a baby nosebleed combined with baby post-nasal drip.

Month 2: Olympic Crib Swimming
When we lay my son down on his back in the crib, he'd scoot off head-first toward the opposite end, then turn around and head back to start another lap. He's the current world record holder in the 10-meter backstroke.¹

Month 3: Swapping Spit
He was soaring overhead, and inadvertently drooled into my open mouth. At least, I think it was inadvertent. You never know with The Professor; he has a few Trix up his sleeve.

Month 4: Faster Than the Speed of Light
They say pictures are worth 1,000 words. Well the one to the left is worth 300,000,000 m/s.

Month 5: The Vulcan Neck Pinch
I must say, for a child with such small fingers, he sure has a firm grip. And though I technically don't pass out when he pinches my neck, I do feel rather sleepy.

Month 6: Swapping Spit (Advanced)
Six days before he turned six months old, The Professor did something I was never able to do: He made out with a college girl on New Year's Eve.²

From the moment we got to the party, she was ogling him. You could tell she wanted to hold him close. He played it cool for a little while. He smiled and laughed, and ran her hair between his fingers. Then he opened his mouth and lunged.

The girl's boyfriend tried to get him to back off, offering advice such as "Don't lead with your tongue," but it was as if my son didn't understand him. For a good five minutes, he dive-bombed her chin and cheek. She couldn't get enough of him.

So far, so good. We're looking forward to the rest of his first year, and the many milestones to come.

¹ He's also fond of the breast stroke, though he sucks at the butterfly (it's made of plastic) and has yet to master the crawl.
² No, you don't get to see a picture. Not unless you pay $19.95 to subscribe to my blog's premium content (and then build me a time machine so I can go back to New Year's with a camera).

Day 12: Drumming Up Trouble

2012-01-05T01:05:00.089-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 5, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12

Finally, the last day of Christmas. It couldn't get here soon enough.

Somewhere around Day 3 or 4, Denise started telling me how great the 12^th gift was going to be. How it would make up for everything. I didn’t doubt her for a second. After that initial second, however, I doubted her many, many times. There was no way one gift could make up for all I’d been through over the preceding eleven days. Still, she insisted, so I agreed to take a half-day and be back home for when the gift arrived at one o’clock.

On the way to work I dropped off the last two hens, minus their outfits, at a local dairy farm. We'd run out of money to feed the other twenty-two people in our house, so Denise and I both believed this was the only way we could protect the hens from an untimely (yet tasty) demise. Throughout the morning my stomach was in knots as I envisioned what horrors might await me back at the house, but I still signed off at noon and drove home.

When the doorbell rang, I was upstairs. Denise blindfolded me, then guided me to the living room, careful to maneuver around all the new pipes the Scots had installed on the first floor overnight. Then she whipped off the blindfold, and there, standing before me, were twelve blue men. Not smurfs, not a dozen Paul Giamatti impersonators, but actual Blue Men. Denise had hired four trios of the Blue Man Group. I eagerly took my seat as they carried in the last of their props.

A few years ago I went into New York to see a Blue Man show, and let me tell you, compared to this that was utter rubbish. The twelve performers drummed rhythmically on the massive tangle of pipes with such precision, with such finesse, it was as if the pipers had constructed the plumbing specifically for such an occasion.¹ The Blue Men’s comic timing was impeccable, and the entire show came together so wonderfully that I never would have guessed the four groups had never performed with each other before. In such an intimate setting, every beat on every pipe and every drum resonated in our very bones, and it was such a captivating experience we hardly noticed when two windows had shattered, or that every surface in the house was being spattered mercilessly with fluorescent paint as they banged on their drums. ‘Twas the most spectacular show Denise or I have ever seen.

Pa rum pa pum pum.

Of course, not everyone was as enthralled as we. Shortly after the pipers’ dramatic exit, the paint started flying, and the dancers fled the scene to shield their Victorian attire. Also, when one of the Blue Men began using the turtle shells as bongos, both doves struggled their way out of them and flew off — albeit with difficulty, as their wings had atrophied — through one of the shattered windows.

The performance lasted two hours, and by the end we were exhausted but euphoric. We thanked the Blue Men profusely, and waved as they raced off to return to their home cities for that night’s shows. Four maids, having finally finished their drinks, also chose this time to take their leave.

Upon re-entering the house, we were accosted by Lord Vader, who pronounced that he had been visited in the night by the holographs of three jedis, and wished to change his wicked ways. Wanting to make up for his disgraceful behavior thus far, he asked if he might cook us dinner, then before we could stop him, he summoned his minions to get him “the biggest goose in the village.” They returned from the basement a minute later with one of the bricklaying geese (deceased). Vader set to cooking it, then made some side dishes from what little food we had left in the cupboards, and carved the bird with a light saber. We were joined at dinner by Michael Flatley and the one remaining maid, who somehow still had a few drops of beer left in her glass from four days prior. It was a delightful dinner; the goose was succulent, the entire meal exquisite, and it turns out Vader and I have a mutual hatred for Alderaan.

As dinner ended, a group of guys wearing uniforms from Jim’s Plumbing charged into the house unannounced and darted into the basement. They re-emerged carrying the three parrots, all squawking their heads off. One guy flashed an FBI badge and explained that Don Pappagallo and his two accomplices were being apprehended on the charge of racketeering. As they escorted the parrot don out the door, he yelled, “Ya set me up, Flatley! Yer dead!”

After dessert,² we gave our guests the last three geese (two bricklayers, one tile) as parting gifts, and bid Lord Vader, Michael Flatley, and the final maid (whose last drop of beer had just evaporated) adieu. Denise and I watched them go, and I knew we were both thinking the exact same thing:

Best. Christmas. Ever.

Epilogue

Back inside, we surveyed the damage. There were pipes and paint everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Shattered windows, cracks in the foundation, a plethora of goose poop... It was as if the set of Double Dare had exploded inside our house. Downstairs, the basement hatch was completely bricked in, and the entire floor was haphazardly covered in dingy 70s-era tile.

Out back, the swans were gone, probably scared off by the afternoon's drumming and now flying south in search of warmer weather.³ There's also a large mound in the back corner of the yard where three lords had been buried in a pauper’s grave.⁴

It was pretty clear what we had to do. In fact, there was only one thing to do: burn the place to the ground and start over with the insurance money.

We also agreed on one other thing... In the future, our Christmas will last only one day. We’ll celebrate it together, without pipers or lords or any sort of poultry. It’ll just be me, Denise, the dog and cat, and Danny Bonaduce. In a pear tree.

¹ The pipers had not constructed the plumbing for just such an occasion. Two minutes into the performance, all eleven of the surly Scots stormed out in a huff, screaming about “such a careless disregard for quality craftsmanship,” and how we could “expect to hear from the Pipers’ Union about this.” Whatever.
² One Saltine each, all we had left.
³ Or the nearest YMCA with a pool.
⁴ No, I won't tell you why I had a pauper buried in my back yard. Just know this: He deserved it.

« Day 11: Pipe Down Already

Day 11: Pipe Down Already

2012-01-04T01:04:00.129-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 4, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12

The moment I woke up this morning, I could sense something was wrong. The house was too still, too quiet. I ran downstairs, and to my utter surprise — and delight — I found only eleven people there.

Late last night, the lords had begun to tire from all the jumping, and one collapsed onto the couch before Lord Vader's allotted break time. Vader admonished him for his insolence as the poor sap tried to catch his breath,¹ then made sure he never caught another one. Again, Vader’s henchmen carried the body off.

I assumed Vader had killed off everyone else the same way overnight, but a maid set me straight: There had been a mass exodus. Vader had stopped to argue with a dancer who had gotten in his way, and the few remaining lords leapt at the chance. All but one jumped ship, taking with them five dancers and three maids.²

The one lord who stayed behind has been matching Lord Vader leap for leap ever since. He prefers we call him Michael Flatley, rather than his formal title, Lord of the Dance. I prefer he put on a shirt.

Unfortunately, the house didn’t remain quiet (or relatively empty) for long. Just before I left for work, eleven men in kilts arrived at our door carrying bagpipes. I let them in, and, not wanting to be around for what happened next, promptly ran for my car.

Denise called me at lunch to fill me in on the morning’s events. When the plumber arrived to stop the flooding in the basement, the Scots had cursed at him unintelligibly until he fled. Then they piled their bagpipes by the door and headed downstairs.³ They repaired the leaks, started pumping out the water, and then began to completely rework all of the plumbing. Plus, they insulted Denise (from what she could decipher), made unkindly remarks to the four remaining dancers, and ceaselessly harangued the pipe-laying geese for not belonging to the Pipers’ Union. Just before she headed back to work, Denise caught a couple of them conversing with the mafioso parrot in hushed tones while eyeing the geese. I told her I’d get home as soon as I could.

I begged out of an afternoon meeting and headed home. Though I searched every room in the house — and the oven — I couldn't find the two pipe-laying geese anywhere. Everyone I asked clammed up on me. Oh, and the basement now looks like one of those old Windows screen savers from the ‘90s.

All these pipes and not one giant plumber-eating plant among them? What a gyp.

I thought about asking someone from Jim’s Plumbing — that’s the new van parked across the street today &mdash if they’d be willing to strip all this piping out in a couple days, but then I remembered my last credit card had been shredded earlier in the afternoon, and my last two checks had bounced. Instead, I decided to drink. Heavily.

And here I thought Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy, full of holiday cheer and whatnot.⁴ Well, it’s not a time of joy. It’s a time of pain and death and far too many birds.

Only one more day. One more lousy, stinkin' day. It can’t get here soon enough.

¹ “Nooooooooooooooo!” (He didn't actually say this when it happened two years ago, but I was given creative license for the rewrite.)
² I asked the rest of the maids why they had stayed. They said they hadn’t finished their drinks yet.
³ Sonya, on the other hand, stayed upstairs and spent most of her day attacking the bagpipes.
⁴ Especially the whatnot.

« Day 10: One Giant Leap

Day 12: Drumming Up Trouble »

Day 10: One Giant Leap

2012-01-03T01:03:00.107-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 3, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12

With all the ladies yesterday, I should have known their counterparts wouldn’t be far behind. When I opened the front door this morning, ten lords paraded past me into the house. How can I be sure they’re lords? Because each one formally announced himself as such upon entering: Lord Jim, Lord Byron, a shorter one named Fauntleroy, and so on and so forth. Most of them are prim and proper, as you’d expect, but two don’t fit the stereotype: One has a sparkly jacket and pants but no shirt, whereas the other is dressed all in black, including a cape and a bizarre-looking helmet. That one calls himself Vader.

At first, the lords were just jumping around Willy-Nilly,¹ but Lord Vader proclaimed they would all jump in unison. This naturally caused quite a stir — lords don’t like being told what to do — but Vader calmly lifted a gloved hand, and suddenly his most vocal opponent began to choke. Within moments the guy had fallen to the floor and stopped breathing. Vader beckoned for his two servants, whom I hadn’t even noticed come in, to cart the body away and bury it in the back yard.

Jump with me. It is your destiny.

I assumed the whole thing was an act, but the other lords were sufficiently spooked that they immediately took to following Vader’s lead. Most of them caught on pretty quickly, though the least coordinated of the bunch stumbled into Vader a couple times, and did not live to learn from his mistakes. Fortunately, after those two deaths, everything went a little more smoothly. For the lords, that is...

Do you remember how the Banks’s home shook in Mary Poppins every time the cannon fired from their roof? Well, with all the lords jumping together, it’s kind of like that, except the house quakes every three seconds instead of every hour, and we have far fewer valuables remaining intact.²

With so many people in the house at once, and everyone constantly getting in each other’s way, emotions have been running high. Everywhere the dancers turn, they collide with something.³ The dancers yell at the maids, the maids at the lords, the lords at the dancers, and I at the maids, lords, dancers, and parrots.⁴

Needing a break from the insanity, I headed to the grocery store to pick up enough food for dinner for twenty-seven people. Both my credit cards were rejected, but they took my debit card.⁵ I then returned home to the wonderful aroma of chicken roasting in the oven.

Problem is, I knew for a fact that we’d already gone through all the meat in our freezer. It was as I feared: When I looked on the porch, I found only two of the original three hens.

In the basement, I also found that all the jumping had caused two of the newly laid pipes to burst. The pipe-laying geese were going at it beak-to-beak as the basement flooded. The rest of the birds had lined up two by two to climb into a large Rubbermaid storage container they'd fitted with a sail.

I couldn't reach our plumber, but luckily, I remembered a van from Joe’s Plumbing had been parked across the street for two days. Surely, they’d welcome some extra business. As soon as I neared the van, however, it pulled its satellite dishes back inside and tore off down the road, presumably toward some other plumbing emergency.

I hope our plumber calls back soon; all the jumping cracked the shut-off valve, so we have no way to stymy the flow of water. And the mafioso parrot keeps giving me the evil eye because of it.

I fear what tomorrow will bring.

¹ That’s one of the lords: Lord William Nilly.
² Also, at no time has one of the maids tried sliding up the banister.
³ Walls, lords, maids, birds, furniture, large hadrons...
⁴ Oh yeah, and the pole dancer got into fisticuffs with one of the swans. (She lost. Never mind that the swan had neither fists nor cuffs.)
⁵ As in, they didn't give it back.

« Day 9: Dance Like No One Is Watching

Day 11: Pipe Down Already »

Day 9: Dance Like No One Is Watching

2012-01-02T01:02:00.173-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 2, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12

It takes two to tango. And indeed, a pair of ladies is currently tangoing across my living room. Two more are waltzing their way between the ol' maids in the kitchen. There are nine in total, all wearing dresses of the Victorian era, with the final five focused on ballet-, belly-, break-, tap-, and pole-dancing, respectively.¹ What I find most impressive, though, is that they’re all doing this to the exact same music. Currently, it's Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls.”

My favorites are the two pairs of ladies cycling through the traditional ballroom and swing dances. They even let me cut in to see if I remember what I learned in a ballroom dance class eight years ago.² The break-dancer spends the majority of her time on the floor, so she’s Sonya’s favorite, and has been tackled by the dog three times (and counting). The rest aren’t all that exciting, though I will say belly-dancing looks especially weird when set to rap music and done in a frilly turquoise ball gown.

I wouldn't belly-dance to that music. I'd tap that.

Nevertheless, with nine women spinning and swinging through the house, we had to roll up all the tarps, push all the furniture to the walls, and shift anything even slightly valuable to one of the upstairs rooms. And when I say we, I mean me and Denise. The eight maids — and the three hens dressed as maids — did nothing but sit back and watch us clean everything up.

The maids, though they’re a complete waste of space, aren’t costing me much as expected, since each one is still nursing the same drink she had yesterday. Everyone else, however, is slowly milking me of my savings. I now have to feed nineteen birds (including those uppity, brie-eating hens) and nineteen people (including the uppity, brie-eating ballet dancer), to say nothing of the dog (and the cat). I have to pay an exorbitant noise ordinance fine, and what I’m sure will be exorbitant cell phone and electric bills. And of course I’ll have to hire a plumber and a couple other specialists to undo everything the geese are doing in the basement.

I’ve been looking for ways to offset some of these costs. I haven’t heard back from Michael Phelps’ people about the swan race yet, but I’m in talks with HGTV to get the geese their own home “improvement” show, and Verizon is interested in doing a commercial campaign with the parrot. Verizon has been low-balling me with their offers so far, but I can wait them out, especially now that he's in the basement where I can't hear him now.

Ooh, sorry, I have to go: the upstairs bathroom is free. I don't mean I actually have to go, but with eighteen women in the house, it could be six hours before I get another chance, and—uh oh, someone's tap-tap-tapping their way up the stairs... gotta run!

¹ That last one even brought her own pole.
² Nope.

« Day 8: Cleanliness is Next to Impossible

Day 10: One Giant Leap »

Day 8: Cleanliness is Next to Impossible

2012-01-01T01:01:00.036-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 1, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12

Happy new year to me. When I looked out at the pool this morning, I only saw five swans. Since I was about to let Sonya out, I stepped outside to make sure the other two swans weren’t wandering around the yard where she could get at them. They weren’t. I found them at the bottom of the pool, sleeping with the fishes.¹

Clearly, it was meant to be a warning. I ran to the garage and transferred the parrot mafioso to a warmer spot in the basement. I brought the other two parrots down there as well, though that was more for my sake than the parrots’. As of now, the garage is the only quiet spot in the house.

When I got back upstairs, Sonya was barking frantically out the front window. Dreading the worst,² I opened the door to find eight maids standing on our doorstep. I sighed in relief: Maids were exactly what we needed.

Birds are not clean creatures. Well, the doves haven’t been too bad, but that’s only because they’ve kept everything inside their shells. All the others drop feathers and excrement everywhere they go. We’ve had to lay down tarps in every room to protect the carpet and the furniture. But it seemed our problems were solved: Finally, we had professional help.

I stepped aside to let the maids into the house. Without delay, they made a beeline for the kitchen. The next thing I knew, they were all standing around drinking. Some had mugs of coffee, others tea, and a couple had grabbed some beers from the fridge. Not one held a cleaning implement of any kind.

I was somewhat perplexed, but didn’t know how long they’d been on the road without anything to drink. I figured I’d go buy some groceries to feed our unexpected guests, and by the time I got back they’d be underway. Alas, no. I returned an hour later to find the maids in pretty much the same spots as before. When I asked about this, they said that they were on break; they’d start cleaning once they’d finished their drinks.

This irked me, but I was soon distracted by two investigators who came by asking about David Cassidy's final days. I told them the whole story about the pear tree and the hunger strike and all the birds, and they had me show them around the house. And can you believe it? When they were in the basement, all three parrots shut up. Didn’t say a word. I asked — nay, begged — the investigators to stay, but they made up some story about going to watch an outdoor hockey game and drove off.

When they left, I found the maids still lazing about with drinks in their hands. I again asked when they were going to start cleaning. This time, all I got in response were some aggravated sighs and rolling of eyes.

Perhaps I’m being cynical, but I don’t think they’re ever going to get to work. They’ve been milking those things for hours.

¹ That’s right: along with offing the two swans, someone had also added fish to the swimming pool, presumably just to make that figure of speech accurate.
² An octet of angry ostriches.

« Day 7: Just Keep Swimming

Day 9: Dance Like No One Is Watching »

Day 7: Just Keep Swimming

2011-12-31T00:31:00.176-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 31, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12

David Cassidy is dead.

Denise and I were setting up the above-ground, heated swimming pool for my seven new pet swans¹ when we saw Cassidy clutch at the pear tree to keep from falling. We helped him to the ground, and though he was struggling to breathe, he managed to utter two words before his heart gave out: “swan allergy.” I have no idea what he meant, but I figure it's probably the name of his sled.

Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted the week, sitting in freezing temperatures without food or water. But he clearly knew death was a possibility when he accepted the gig, since when I rifled through his pockets² the only thing I found was the phone number for a local Undertaker. Two hours later, a hearse sporting the WWE logo pulled up in front, and — after some pyrotechnics and a bunch of unnecessary posturing — we bade a final farewell to David Cassidy.

It took us a few hours to get the heated pool up and running, and I’m not looking forward to our next electric bill, but I have to say the swans are quite impressive. Backstroke, breast stroke, butterfly, they can do it all.³ I don't know if there’s a market for this sort of thing, but I bet people would pay to see Michael Phelps race a relay team of swans.⁴

Oh, and last night, a couple policemen stopped by and told me the parrots couldn't stay on the porch, something about county noise ordinances. They were going to let me off with a warning, but overheard the parrot mafia don say some rather unkind things about cops, so now I'm out another $500. I made sure to rattle some cages when I pulled the parrots from their perch on the porch and banished them to the the garage. The parrot don said I'd pay for such an injustice, but he's too late. I've already maxed out both my credit cards to pay for bird food and stinky French cheeses.

Anyway, to make room for the pool, we moved the bricklaying geese to the basement, which is just as well since they were doing a piss-poor job on the patio. They're now building us some (rather shaky) new stairs for the basement hatch. Two other geese are messing with the plumbing, and I threw the last one down there as well after it had cornered Marcelle in the tub for a couple hours. It’ll probably start on an uneven tile floor with too much grout, just like it was doing in the upstairs bathroom.

I don’t have high hopes for any of the geese’s projects. I’ll probably have to rip out all their work and start fresh once Christmas is over and everybody leaves. Wait, they are going to leave after the last day of Christmas, right?

Right?

¹ Yay! More birds! Just what I needed. (For reference, here's the current household tally: 2 people, 1 dog, 1 cat, 21 birds. Surprisingly, Hitchcock has yet to make a cameo.)
² As is the custom with any dead celebrity.
³ And the black one's pretty good at water ballet.
⁴ Or, failing that, smoke up with a relay team of swans.

« Day 6: Take a Gander. No, Really. Take One.

Day 8: Cleanliness is Next to Impossible »

Day 6: Take a Gander. No, Really. Take One.

2011-12-30T00:30:00.050-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 30, 2009.
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Damn it, I thought we were done with the birds!

The latest six arrived replete with their own supplies, and had made quite a mess of the living room before I got downstairs this morning. I tried taking their tools away, but they ganged up on me and pecked at my face, so I quickly abandoned that plan. Fortunately, by the time I returned from the emergency room, Denise had directed them to other areas of the house where they could be more useful.

She led the three bricklaying geese out into the back yard, where they are currently building us a new patio. Two others are laying pipe in the basement, and the last is in the upstairs bathroom, laying down fresh tile.

Da-a-amn! Those bricks got LAID!

Their craftsmanship is extremely shoddy, seeing as how they have to do everything with their beaks, but I’m not about to disparage their work. I’ve already gotten enough stitches for one day.¹

Of course, Sonya spent the day trying to catch the geese, so in order to allow them to get their work done, we had to tie her to the pear tree. In the tree above her, David Cassidy isn’t looking at all well. I could only get hold of one local doctor who does house calls, and he wasn’t willing to climb a ladder to do the physical. Hmm... maybe the local fire company has a a doctor among its members.

In other news, when I went out to the porch to check on the hens and parrots today, one of the latter had stopped talking. At first I was excited, thinking the other three might also soon tire, but then I jostled its cage. The bird fell, unmoving, to the newspaper lining the cage. Just my luck, the dead parrot was neither the Verizon spokesparrot nor the gossip girl. No, ‘twas the Norwegian Blue: the stock broker, the least annoying of the four. Someone had nailed him to his perch.

As I carted his remains off to the trash bin, the parrot mafia don said, simply, “So long, snitch.”

¹ In case you’re wondering... it’s eight stitches. Eight is enough.

« Day 5: Oh, Those Golden Rings

Day 7: Just Keep Swimming »

Day 5: Oh, Those Golden Rings

2011-12-29T00:29:00.122-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 29, 2009.
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Finally, a worthwhile gift! Each ring expertly crafted, a beautiful golden brown, with just the right amount of breading... easily the best onion rings I’ve had in some time. It’s a shame there were only five of them.

The parrots, on the other hand, have been driving me batty. They gave me such a headache yesterday I had to stick them out on the porch with the hens, where their constant yapping is at least muffled. I also spent a half hour looking for the phones their Bluetooths are connected to, hoping to ~~smash them into tiny bits~~ shut them off, but I couldn't find them. And the Bluetooths themselves are going strong; the birds must have some covert spot where they recharge them overnight.

Anyway, I thought the Verizon parrot was bad, but the one who quarreled all yesterday has been chattering non-stop today about boys and fashion and mother-sparkling Twilight. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I just heard the head of the parrot mafia calling in a hit.

David Cassidy still has yet to eat, drink, or move from the tree. I think the doves' wings are starting to atrophy, too. At least, now that I've picked up some brie, the hens have started eating (me out of house and home).¹

Speaking of eating out of house and home, I think I'll do just that. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll even find some more of those onion rings.

¹ Yet, the parrots might turn out to be an even bigger strain on my wallet; Denise hinted that all their calls were being added to my phone bill.

« Day 4: Who You Callin' Pretty Boy?

Day 6:Take a Gander. No, Really. Take One. »

Day 4: Who You Callin' Pretty Boy?

2011-12-28T00:28:00.008-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 28, 2009.
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We’ve reached day four of the David Cassidy hunger strike. He’s beginning to look a bit gaunt, and gray in color. Denise thinks he may have snacked on some snow from a nearby branch when we weren’t looking, whereas I contend his only sustenance during his time in the pear tree has come by sneaking nips of brandy from a flask hidden inside his coat. Either way, we may have to call in a doctor soon. Or a lumberjack.

Nevertheless, I’ve found that I much prefer the silence of his company to the inescapable din inside the house. The latest additions to my avian menagerie should have come with a soundproof box, or at least a box of earplugs. I don’t see why anyone would ever want even one of these birds, let alone four. Yet, I now find myself the proud owner of a quartet of parrots, each ceaselessly yammering away on its own Bluetooth.

It was better back when birds didn't have teeth.

I have no idea who any of them are talking to, but one seems to think he’s a stock broker. All he ever says is, “Buy! Buy! Buy!” or “Sell! Sell! Sell!” Another is having what sounds like a heated argument with her mother. And if I didn’t know the third bird was a parrot, I’d swear I was overhearing an Italian mafia don discussing the storage of stolen goods.

But the last one... the last one I truly despise. There are only so many times I can hear, “Can you hear me now?” before I'm overcome with the distinct urge to strangle someone.¹

Deciding to channel my anger into something more constructive, I grabbed some tools from the garage. I’d hoped to pry the turtle shells off of those poor little doves so they could fly free, but the moment I touched either one, they tried to peck my fingers off. Apparently they’ve become rather attached to their adoptive homes. It makes sense, I guess, as they do provide decent protection from the cat and dog. Then again, Sonya has forgotten all about them, more concerned now with barking in reply to everything the parrots say. And Marcelle is snugly ensconced in blankets upstairs, away from all the noise.

I'm not quite sure how, but out on the porch, one of the hens has developed a French accent.² And unlike David Cassidy, they're finally eating. It's going to be expensive to keep them around, though; the tag I found on one hen’s foot said they'll only eat baguettes with brie and Camembert.

Damn uppity hens. They eat better than I do.³

If I get any more birds tomorrow, I'm pulling out my new Red Ryder BB gun.

¹ I've tried covering their cages, but it doesn’t silence them. Once swathed in darkness, the parrots only start talking louder. Clearly, they're one of those Night & Weekend calling plans.
² Le cluck.
³ And they may be wearing maid outfits, but they sure know how to make a mess. As snooty as they are about their food, they're not the least bit particular about where they leave their merde.

« Day 3: What the Cluck?

Day 5: Oh, Those Golden Rings »

Day 3: What the Cluck?

2011-12-27T00:27:00.008-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 27, 2009.
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If I had to guess, I’d say they’re supposed to be French. I mean, I can’t be sure, since I’ve never been able to distinguish French clucking from any other type of clucking — despite my many years on the board of the GPC¹ — but I don’t know why else the hens would be wearing those black-and-white maid outfits. They’re certainly not doing anything that resembles cleaning.

We've had to sequester the hens on the screened-in porch, since the dog is convinced we got her three new walking, clucking chew toys. In fact, Sonya has completely abandoned her post beneath David Cassidy (who has barely moved the past two days, and still hasn't eaten) to spend all her time whining and scratching at the porch door.

Marcelle finally ventured downstairs, too.² She isn’t your typical huntress of a cat — she’s been known to be scared by string — but once we deposited the trio of hens onto the porch, her curiosity got the better of her. Only then did she spy the doves. She batted at one a couple of times, but got bored when it retracted its head into its shell, and headed back upstairs.

As for the hens, we tend not to keep chicken feed in the house,³ so I went out and bought a giant bag of the stuff. (Apparently, however, they're on the David Cassidy diet; they've yet to touch a single grain of it.) If we could get some fresh eggs out of the deal, that would be wonderful, but a little bird told me we'd need a rooster for that to happen.⁴ And I’m not buying a rooster.

Of course, with my luck, I’ll find four of them under the tree tomorrow morning...

¹ Gonzo’s Poultry Council, est. 1978.
² Aw, I miss Marcelle. For my newer readers, she was the cat I had before Calypso and Schrödinger. Not that it has any bearing on the story, but she was born in Uzbekistan.
³ Surprising, I know.
⁴ Actually, it was a rather big little bird that told me. His exact words were: “You’re doing it all wrong, son! You need a — I say, you need a rooster, boy, or you’ll never get eggs!”

« Day 2: Birds of a Feather Stuffed Together

Day 4: Who You Callin' Pretty Boy? »

Day 2: Birds of a Feather Stuffed Together

2011-12-26T00:26:00.008-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 26, 2009.
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Well, this is an improvement. Sort of. There are no new trees in the yard this morning, no Wally Cleaver or John-Boy Walton perched up above building a nest. Just a box with air holes sitting under the Christmas tree.

The doves sure are cute little things. Their cooing is adorable, as is the way they poke their little heads out when they’re hungry. I can’t help but feel bad for them, though, stuck in those shells.

Stuffing a peaceful bird into a shell? Not coo.

They must be cramped in there; as far as I can tell, they have no way to fully stretch out their wings. And walking's a chore: even when they manage to poke their feet out, the shells are too heavy for them to stand upright. One of them has figured out how to maneuver by pulling itself around using its beak, but mostly they stay where they are and coo quietly. I’ve been hand-feeding them birdseed and giving them water to drink from a tiny saucer.

Speaking of feeding, David Cassidy still hasn’t eaten.¹ And despite the freezing temperatures and threat of snow, he has repeatedly ignored our invitations to come inside.² In the end, we decided the least we could do was provide him with a couple of thick wool blankets to help protect him from the cold. He wouldn’t take them from us, of course. We were forced to haul out a ladder from the garage and drape the blankets over his back.

Goddammit, celebrities piss me off.

¹ Nor has he spoken. I know the cat hasn't gotten his tongue; she's too scared to leave the house. His contract must have stipulated a non-speaking role.
² Sonya wouldn’t come in, either, unwilling to leave her post beneath the nut in the tree. We offered her double her usual amount of treats, but no dice. I had to drag her inside by her collar, with her straining against me the entire way. Once locked in the house, she whined at the door for hours until I couldn’t take it any more and let her back out.

« Day 1: Hazing the New Guy

Day 3: What the Cluck? »

Day 1: Hazing the New Guy

2011-12-25T00:25:00.008-05:00

This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 25, 2009.
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Okay, so I kind of get the pear tree.

Ever since we chopped down the crabapple tree back in July, the back yard has felt a little empty. The pear tree fills that void, and I’m certain its bounty next year will be much tastier than those horrid crabapples ever were.

What I don’t understand — and maybe this just shows my utter ignorance of Christmas customs — is why, sitting halfway up the tree, is that guy from the Partridge Family.

Admittedly, as a Jewish Atheist celebrating only his third Christmas, I’m relatively new to the holiday. But please, tell me: What does David Cassidy have to do with Christmas? Is it traditional to give your loved one 70s-era TV stars?

He’s been up there all morning, and has yet to move from that one limb. At first, Sonya barked at him, perhaps thinking he was some sort of giant mutant squirrel.¹ She settled down after about ten minutes, but hasn't left her post beneath the tree, nor let her gaze stray from the middle-aged man oddly perched in her yard. David/Keith hasn’t said a word, nor did he seem interested in the plate of bacon and eggs we offered him. He just sits there, shivering, locked in a staring contest with the dog.²

My fiancée Denise³ made some remark this morning about Christmas being 12 days long. That's not true, is it? She’s just hazing the new guy, right? I sure hope there aren't another 11 like this one; I know for a fact that nowhere on my wishlist did I write, “a plum tree containing Greg Brady.”

I'll be keeping my fingers crossed.

¹ I checked IMDb. As best I can tell he's never played a mutant rodent of any kind before. The guy's got range.
² Update: Cassidy won the staring contest when Sonya stopped to eat his bacon.
³ See? You can tell I wrote this two years ago because back then I still called Denise my fiancée, rather than my ex-fiancée. (And she'd prefer I stop calling her that. It's the standard marriage stereotype: She nags at me to change my ways, and I don't listen.)

Day 2: Birds of a Feather Stuffed Together »

Not a Creature Was Stirring

2011-12-24T00:24:00.000-05:00

This post first ran on December 24, 2010.

'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a—HEY!

Christmas Carols for the Zombie Apocalypse

2011-12-23T00:23:00.000-05:00

This post first ran on December 23, 2010.

"[Nate's] voice is as smooth as that of a Norwegian yak!"

- Chris Phillips

Just in time for the holidays — and the imminent zombie threat — we bring you a brand new album from Flaming Wheel Records.

Complete with 48 of the world's most popular apocalyptic seasonal hits, this 4-CD box set has updated versions of all your old favorites, including...

Silent night, holy Christ! Here they come! This ain't right! Round yon corner, mother and child Shamble toward us bloody and wild. Death would be a relief. Death would be a relief.	(listen to mp3 preview)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oh, the devils outside are frightful, But on fire, they're so delightful. And since we've no place to go, Let 'em groan! Let 'em groan! Let 'em groan!	(listen to mp3 preview)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Chester roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping off your nose. You'll find Carol being sucked by Claire, And folks in pies of Eskimo.	(listen to mp3 preview)

Of course no doomsday collection would be complete without these beloved numbers:

Hark! the herald angels sing, "Blast the head off that damn thing!" Please unearth us some more food. God! us sinners are all screwed.	(listen to mp3 preview)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
I'm dreaming of a red Christmas, Unlike the ones we used to know. Where bodies glisten, And we all listen, For sounds of movement down below.	(listen to mp3 preview)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Have yourself a very brittle Christmas As your limbs decay. From now on, Your arms will both be miles away.	(listen to mp3 preview)

And who can forget these timeless classics?

Come and hold me, pa rum pa pum pum. An awful thing to see, pa rum pa pum pum. Our finest are dying, pa rum pa pum pum. Then re-animating, pa rum pa pum pum, Rum pa pum pum, rum pa pum pum.	(listen to mp3 preview)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
On the fifth day of Christmas, My true love gave to me: Five cold dead things! Four mauling hordes, Three strange men, Two useless guns, And a car for which I have no key.	(listen to mp3 preview)

And many more!

This Christmas, face down the undead hordes with a song. (Tip: Also keep a shotgun handy.) For only 4 installments of $9.99,* you can own A Zombie Named Carol, the greatest compilation of zombie carols ever made.

Place your order in the next fifteen minutes, and we'll throw in the album Purim of the Vampires, a $42 value, absolutely free!

Order yours today! Operators are standing by.

* Plus $19.95 for shivving and man-handling.

Your Chosen Questions About the Chosen People

2011-12-21T22:46:00.001-05:00

I apologize for not getting this post out earlier in the day, but I was busy making Christmas cookies and wrapping Christmas gifts. For a while there I was also away in a manger. Nevertheless, you asked me some excellent questions about Jews and Judaism, and it is my Jewishly duty to answer them. So here we go.

Li starts us off with a question I'm sure many of you are curious about:
What's the correct spelling - Hanukkah or Chanukkah? (Or have I misspelled both?)

So, you want to know the true ~~meaning~~ spelling of Hannukakakahh, do you? Well, it's not that simple; just like the labor/labour divide between American English and English English, the spelling of Chanuka differs depending on your background. For instance, there's Chanukkah (traditional), Hannukah (nontraditional), Chanukah (transitional), Channukkah (transactional), Kamchatka (trans-siberial), Hanukhaaaaan (nerdly), Hannoushka (jeweler), and Hanukka (absolutely ridiculous), just to name a few. You say tomato, I say Hanukkah.

In the end, it comes down to preference. And unless you spell it Hanukkah, you're wrong.

My sister anonymously asks:
Why do Jews hate Christmas?

It's not that Jews hate Christmas: they hate what Christmas has become. It used to be a day when all Christians would remain home, allowing Jews to have free reign of movie theaters and gorge themselves on Peking Duck.¹ But then everyone else realized movies and Chinese food were a far better plan than spending the afternoon cooped up in the house with Uncle Ralph and a half-dozen screaming kids.

Now, every year Christians descend on theaters and restaurants in hordes, disrupting our long-standing Jewish traditions. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but do you really have to take away our Christmas? Couldn't you head to the theater on Purim instead?

¹ Or, for those fond of sacrilege, Pork Lo Mein.

A different Anonymous entirely asks:
What can you tell me about hats and haircuts associated with Judaism?

That they're awesome.

I'm kidding, of course. The Jewish people are a frugal sort, so traditionally, Jewish boys get what is known as a "bowl cut," although some families have been known to splurge and buy a Flowbee. Those who claim to be truly devout (i.e. the cheapest) don't cut their hair at all, and are often mistaken for the two members of ZZ Top not named Beard.

In regard to hats, Jewish men must cover their heads when in prayer, and Orthodox men must keep them covered at all times, or else zombies will eat their brains with garbanzo beans and a nice Manischewitz.² Some men opt for baseball caps or fedoras, but most stick with the traditional kippah, which I believe is just another name for a herring.

Oh, and the women? They can do whatever they damn well please.

² At least, that's what it says in the torah.

Tricia J. O'Brien poses this poignant question:
Why gefilte fish???

Jews may have been treated horribly by Germans in the past, but we're not above some good ol' Schadenfreude. And that's where gefilte fish comes in. We only break it out when gentiles are present, to see their reaction when it first touches their tongue.³ We don't actually eat the putrid stuff ourselves. (It may look like we do, but watch more closely next time. Jews are experts at spiriting food into folded napkins, purses, potted plants, dogs, etc.)

³ We also make bets about whether they'll finish it out of politeness. I once made 180 shekels.

I received a litany of questions from Anthony Stemke:
What's the difference between lox and nova?

Lox is just lox, nothing more. But nova can be super.

Why the dickens can't knishes be sold outside of New York City?

The Dickens Knish Law of 1857. At the time, authors were celebrities on par with today's movie stars, and during one visit to the States Charles Dickens was heard to remark that knishes were so good they should be illegal. Seeking his approval, or perhaps a part in his next novel, Congress quickly ratified the law. The NYC exception was hastily added once President Buchanan remembered that city's Jews controlled the country's banking industry. The law has remained on the books to this day.

How come there are no Jewish hunters?

Jews are excellent gatherers. Sometimes it's just best to stick with what you know.

Can Orthodox Jews listen to Bloodrock on Fridays?

Yes, they can, assuming they turn the music off before sundown. But why would they want to, when they could instead listen to the wholesome Jewish stylings of the Beastie Boys? (There is also a small sect calling themselves "Jews for Jesus Jones," but that just ain't right, here or now. We pay them no mind.)

Falen is also interested in the details of Hebrew cuisine:
Have you ever eaten Lox? If so, what does it taste like?

Ah, yes. Bagels and lox, the loaves and fishes of the Jewish people. I've tried lox on a couple of occasions. It tastes like heaven on a rainy day.⁴

⁴ Little known fact: On rainy days, heaven tastes exactly like cured salmon fillet.

My sister Naomi (non-anonymously, this time) asks:
What is the difference between Hanukkah candles and non-Chanukah candles? And why don't they have any of the former in Boise or Spokane?

There is no difference; Hanukkah candles are non-Chanukah candles. It's all in the spelling. And there are none in the Boise/Spokane area because of the Hawthorne Candle Act of 1858.

She follows that up with a rather leading question:
What makes half-Jewish babies so gosh-darn cute?

There are three schools of thought on this matter:

1. They're not actually cute; Jews in mixed-faith marriages are simply biased toward their babies' Jewishy looks. (Yeah, this theory is complete and utter rubbish. As evidence, I submit to you Exhibit Photo-On-the-Left.)
2. It's not the Jewish that makes them cute; it's the half. Babies that are half anything are cute. Half-Asian kids are adorable. Demigods are breathtaking. Half-caf lattes, I could drink those right up.
3. Um, duh. They're babies.

And Anton Lewis brings the session to a close with:
How do Jews find true love?

Before online dating, Orthodox Jews would go to a matchmaker. Dances were held on Friday nights and they aren't allowed to turn on lights after sundown, so they needed to strike matches in order to be able to see their suitors' faces. Unfortunately, this method led to numerous concussions and burned down many a dance hall.

Today, people use JDate.com. There they might find some love, but not true love, because online dating profiles are rife with lies.

There's only one way that has always worked: fiddlin' on rooftops. Jews are drawn to rooftop fiddlers like moths to a flame, only without the smell of burnt moth at the end.

So there you have it. Just fiddle on a rooftop, and you'll find your true love. It's tradition. Tradition!

There we are: twelve questions asked, twelve questions answered. I'm glad I could help you understand so much about the Jewish people. Go forth and share your new knowledge. Amaze your friends! Startle your enemies! And most of all, make sure you flip your latkes in the air sometimes.

« UPDATED 12/23 »
And then (then!) another Anonymous belatedly asks:
What does the conservative branch of Judaism say about sexual fetishes — whether they are allowed when consensual?

For the love of Christ, conservative Jews don't give a lick if you have a sexual fetish. But tell me, when are you going to find yourself a nice Jewish girl and settle down? Your father and I worry.

Posts of Christmas Past

2011-12-19T15:46:00.000-05:00

Before I get to Christmas, let me speak briefly of Hanukkah. For the second straight year, I shall do you a service (and my religion a disservice) by answering any question you have about Judaism. And I mean any question. Does all that penny-pinching hurt our fingers? What's the appropriate topping for latkes? How and when shall we exact our revenge upon Mel Gibson? Just leave your question in the comments section of my previous post by this Wednesday, and it shall be answered.

But now, onto Christmas. December is always a busy time, and I expect the holidays to be even busier this year as we celebrate The Professor's First Christmas.™ Thus, starting this Friday, I will be dipping into my archives to bring you the posts of Christmas past. Like a fruitcake that rises from the ashes year after year, my yuletide posts will never die.

Which is a fitting intro, since I'll begin with...

Christmas Carols for the Zombie Apocalypse (Dec 23)
Not a Creature Stirring (Dec 24)
The 12 Twisted Days of Christmas (Dec 25 - Jan 5)

That's two straight weeks of Grade-A recycled humor, folks. And it'll be new to most of you; the Twisted 12 are from back when The Wheel only had a half-dozen readers.¹

So why don't you cozy on up to the fire and grab yourself some nog (or some chestnuts). I'll be back soon with my own particular brand of Christmas, and you won't want to miss it.²

¹ Plus, I'll be editing the posts to make them even better. No, not like George Lucas messing with Star Wars. I may make Darth Vader scream out "Nooooooooo!" but I can assure you there will be absolutely no Jar-Jar Binks.
² Or maybe you will want to miss it. After all, there's no accounting for taste. (Although, thanks to Price Waterhouse Coopers, there is accounting for Taste, Inc.)

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Judaism But Were Afraid to Ask

2011-12-13T23:45:00.003-05:00

That's right, goys and girls: It's that time again.

Two years ago I gave you Uncle Nate's Wholly Unsubstantiated Hanukkah Primer. Last year, in my first Jew & A session, one crazy guy explained eight crazy nights. So, break out your dreidels and gefilte fish, since once again...

I will answer any question you have about Judaism.

Have you ever wondered why God chose to talk to Moses from inside a flaming shrubbery? Why challah is braided while French bread isn't? Why Orthodox Jews can't listen to Black Sabbath on the Sabbath? Why the Hebrews are so obsessed with bagels and lox? Any question you might have, I have the answer.

And don't hesitate to ask a question simply because I've answered it before. As everyone knows, religions as old as Judaism don't survive by remaining constant; they constantly have to adapt and evolve. Thus, my answers to any repeat inquiries will undoubtedly be different this time around.

So, if you're curious about some aspect of Judaism, whether cultural, historical, pedagogical, or megalomaniacal, just post your question (or questions) in the comments section below. In one week, on the first day of Hanukkah (12/21), all shall be revealed.

I'll Take Blogging for 200, Alex

2011-12-12T00:12:00.016-05:00

Wow. Two hundred posts. That's either the start of a really long fence, or a middling output for a blog. And I already have a fence.

Although most bloggers have churned out two or three times as many posts in the same span, for me this is quite the accomplishment. In fact, I'm rather surprised I've reached 200 already. Have I really written that many things worth sharing?¹

I originally started The Wheel as a way to entertain friends and family without having to share my novel with them before it was ready.² Unfortunately, with The Professor watching over me these past five months it's become harder to find much time to write at all. Not only have I been ignoring my novel and expending less effort on my blog, but I've also been visiting other blogs less. I'd feel guilty, but just look at that face. You can't say no to that face. Especially since he doesn't know what "no" means.³

Anyway, thanks in part to the motivation techniques of one Joseph Selby, I'm now back on the wagon. That is to say, I'm headed west with enough bullets to smite every buffalo between here and Oregon, and I should make good time as long as I don't get dysentery. Also, I'm writing fiction again.

In the past week, I've touched up a short story I hope to get published, and started working again on my novel. Though I have less free time than I used to, I hope to manage it more wisely, so I can continue to entertain you here, but also push my novel toward completion. You know, the one with the invisible monkeys. (Don't worry, it's better than it sounds. Even if you already think it sounds awesome.)

Anyway, I should finish up this post so I can do something more novel. Like play peek-a-boo with The Professor.

¹ No, no I haven't. Two of my posts were complete rubbish.
² It's still not ready. But hey, you can't rush genius. Nor, apparently, can you rush mediocre wit with an abundance of adverbs.
³ Usually, no means no. But sometimes, no can mean "Yes, but I'm not about to tell you that," "Maybe later," or "Holy cheese biscuits! I don't believe it!"

Putting the Rhyme Back in NaNoRhyMo

2011-11-30T23:59:00.005-05:00

We're in the final hours of NaNo season, but that won't stop me from celebrating National Novel Rhyming Month. However, we'll be doing things a little differently this year.

Sure, participation doubled (all the way to two!!) during NaNoRhyMo 2010, and we learned The Hunger Games fits quite nicely when set to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," but I felt it was time for a change.

After all, in each of the past two years, I was only rhyming about novels. But this time I shall rhyme the novels themselves, and trust me when I say these are literary gold. You won't find better NaNoRhyMo work anywhere in the 'verse. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!

It's quite absurd, but I have heard that it is far less than one third
Of the U.S (I am assured) who clamor for the written word.
So am I really such a nerd (as many people have inferred)
For reading, till my vision's blurred, tales like To Kill a Mockingbird?
For yes, indeed, I have decreed my innate need to always read;
On Superfudge and Lamb I'll Feed (or Choke upon The Wanting Seed).

Would it make me a crook if I took Just One Look
At my wife's brand new Nook to read The Graveyard Book?
What if something I give her (perhaps Mystic River)
Sets her heart aquiver or delivers a Shiver?
(Would she take me back in if I left The Shack in
One piece whilst attackin' and killin' the Kraken?)
I bet she'll forgive me and we will be fine,
Since these questions are stupid (and this a near-rhyme).

If The Lord of the Rings meets The Lord of the Flies,
There'll be a Battle Royale where Everybody Dies.

The Road, I find, is not my taste; Da Vinci Code is but a waste.
If reviews glowed, a story laced with vengeance owed and, too, well-paced,
A tale like that I would devour, every minute, every hour,
Since I'm smitten with well-written prose whenever I am sittin'
And relaxing in my home. (I also avoid Ethan Frome.
Though it's true my resolve weakens with The Last of the Mohicans).
But just the same it's such a shame that so few people know the name
Of that great dame who is "to blame" for giving us The Westing Game.
So we'll unfurl a Brave New World (one with, of course, a moose and squirrel)
And in the gloom then find a pearl (perhaps The Other Boleyn Girl).

That's all I've got; that's all there is, so I won't be including 'Tis.
And I'll skip Tuesdays With Morrie. Both are memoirs. (Very sorry).

Yeah, so I might have oversold the quality of the rhymes just a tad, but in my defense only one of us believed me.

Related posts:

NaNoRhyMo 2010 (National Novel Rhyming Month)
NaNoRhyMo 2009 (National Novel Rhyming Month)
NaNoRyeMo 2010 (National No Rye Month)
NanoRhino 2010 (Microscopic Rhino)

So Much To Be Thankful For

2011-11-23T15:23:00.000-05:00

Thank your lucky stars. Without them, you'd only have unlucky and indifferent stars, and every wish you wished upon them would go unfulfilled.¹

Thank the lord. His generosity keeps a roof over your head and food in your belly, and all he asks for in exchange is hours and hours of backbreaking labor. Some people might say it's a futile system, but they're just bad spellers.

Thank goodness. After all, goodness is far better than badness.² And good Ness did such a fine job battling Al Capone and his little friend in the 30s. Both deserve our recognition.

Thank God. Without him, watching Providence College basketball between 1995-97 wouldn't have been nearly as interesting.

Thank heavens. Without the prospect of all those heavens, just think how many more amoral people there would be. And before you try to tell me there's only one heaven, I know people who have been to the seventh one, and at least one mountain lion who has visited multiple heavens on his way to Murgatroyd.

Yup, I have much to be thankful for. But this year, I'm mostly thankful for this little guy:

(Check out all of The Professor's latest photos on Flickr.)

I wish you all a wonderful Thanksgiving, even if you eat tofurkey instead of turkey, turducken instead of tofurkey, or the jell-o mold instead of turducken.³ And for all of you who live outside the U.S. and don't celebrate the holiday, I'll make sure to eat an extra helping for you. May your weekend be filled with fun, laughter, and enough food to feed the entire population of Turkey.

Thank you, come again.

¹ Not to mention, you'd be more at risk of getting struck by a ricochet from a shooting star.
² Unless we're talking Michael Jackson circa 1987.
³ Jiggly.

The Rule of Seven

2011-11-20T14:38:00.001-05:00

Even before Winter Storm Alfred tore through Connecticut like it was Winter Storm Batman and knocked our lights out for a week, I wasn't blogging too often. I apologize for my scarcity, but in my defense I've been quite busy of late. And by "busy," I mean I've spent most of my time ~~being lazy~~ ~~being very lazy~~ ~~occupying various cities~~ camping out for Twilight: Breaking Dawn ~~seeking the GOP presidential nomination~~ being a dad.

Seriously, it's like The Professor has an innate ability to sleep right up until my workday ends, and then need to be held and/or entertained the rest of the night. It's a good thing he's so darned cute.¹

Anyway, last month Heather Henry over at Little Red Henry bestowed upon me the 7x7 Link Award. In the interest of ~~laziness~~ concisity, however, I shall henceforth call it the 49 Link Award.²

As I do every time I receive an award, I promptly redesigned it in Photoshop:

Original:

Nate-ified:

Now, as a recipient of the √2,401 Link Award, I'm supposed to point you to some of my previous blog posts, one in each of seven specific categories. I've never been one for following rules,³ but this one seems benign enough I'll play along.

Of course, I never said I'd stick with the original categories...

~~Most beautiful~~ Most productive use of bacon: Horrible Puns For The Win

~~Most popular~~ Greatest contribution to popular culture: That Wasn't All, Paul (The Other 45 Ways to Leave Your Lover)

~~Most controversial~~ Best Justin Bieber anagram: A Ram Sang a Ragman's Anagrams

~~Most helpful~~ Most creative use of paper clips: Before The Wheel

~~Most surprisingly successful~~ Best use of photos to illustrate a story: The Biggest Carrot in the Kitchen

~~Most underrated~~ Best appearance by Melvin the Wannabe Warlock: Say What?

~~Most pride-worthy~~ Most topical mention of gefilte fish: Yo Ho Ho, and a Bottle of Manischewitz

I suspect I'm also supposed to pass this award onto seven other bloggers or something like that, but that's not my style. I'm a rebel, not a sheep. I march to the bleat of a different drummer and take the toad less graveled. Or, something like that.

Besides, I don't have time to create more links. I'm far too ~~selfish~~ ~~indecisive~~ ~~devilishly handsome~~ lazy.

¹ Technically, he's only cute, not darned. But some of his clothes are both.
² "Concisity" may not be a real word, but it's more concise than "conciseness," so it should be.
³ I make my own rules. And then I disregard those, too. The only ones I always follow are slide rules, since otherwise kids could fall and get really hurt.

An Open Letter to Jerry Sandusky

2011-11-16T00:41:00.004-05:00

Dear Mr. Sandusky (and I use the title Mr. not out of respect, but because I'd feel unclean addressing you by your first name),

I wasn't planning to chime in on the whole Penn State scandal, since John Scalzi had already succinctly summed up my views on the matter. But then you professed your innocence in an interview with Bob Costas Monday night and uttered, among other things, this little nugget:

"I could say I have done some of those things. I have horsed around with kids I have showered (with) after workouts. I have hugged them, and I have touched their legs without intent of sexual contact."

Now, I know it's innocent-until-proven-guilty here in America, but I call bullshit.

You showered. Naked. With prepubescent boys. That itself is extremely disturbing, if not grounds for charges of child endangerment. Yet you also hugged them. Naked. And touched their legs. I'm sorry, but no. You can try to explain away your actions as harmless horseplay all you want, but no sane person will ever believe your intentions were anything but sexual.

Let me tell you a story. In high school, I ran track and cross country, and our coach made it mandatory to shower after practice. He'd shower, too. On days when he ran with us, I suppose it made some sense, since his argument was that wearing our sweaty clothes home was unhygienic. But he'd often join us in the shower even if all he'd done was sit around waiting for us to finish our run.

A few guys — those more inclined to run around the locker room whipping towels at each other — showed no outward discomfort with this, but the rest of us did our best to wash up quickly and get out of the showers before he entered. We didn't really talk about it much, but I know most of us came to pretty much the same conclusion: Coach got his rocks off by showering with 14-to-18 year-old boys.

No one ever reported his behavior. Perhaps it was because, if he had such urges, he didn't seem the type to act on them. Unlike you, he never made any advances or touched us in any way. All we had was speculation. Nevertheless, it surprised no one when he was arrested on child endangerment charges for watching porn with 13-year-olds at the nearby Catholic school where he taught phys ed. We were lucky they caught him when they did; unchecked, his behavior may have escalated until he began doing what you now stand accused of doing.

Of course, this one instance doesn't prove all grown men who shower with young kids are pedophiles, but I guess what I'm trying to say is this: GROWN MEN SHOULD NOT SHOWER WITH YOUNG KIDS.

And if, for some asinine reason, you do shower with children, you should certainly NEVER TOUCH THEM IN ANY WAY.

If you're attracted to young boys, so be it. You can't necessarily change who you are. But you always have control over your own actions. You lost control, and you took advantage of children. Who knows how many people you've irreparably scarred along the way.

You may claim innocence, but I don't buy it. You are a weak, weak man.

And you deserve everything you're going to get.

Alliterative Assistance

2011-11-11T01:11:00.044-05:00

Today's the day we send my oldest blogging friend to the top of the A-List.

Jessica Bell, a.k.a. the Alliterative Allomorph, was the first fellow writer I connected with after I created this (sometimes) fiery monstrosity I call a blog. And today, with your help, we're going to get her debut novel, String Bridge, onto Amazon's bestseller list.

Why should you help? Well, not only can Jessica write a gripping, heart-wrenching tale, but she's also a stellar musician and she recorded an original soundtrack to accompany her novel. If you buy String Bridge today, you'll also receive the soundtrack, Melody Hill: On the Other Side, for free!

You like free music, don't you? I thought so.

All you have to do is purchase the book today (paperback or eBook), November 11th, and then email the receipt to: jessica.carmen.bell(at)gmail(dot)com

She'll then email you a link to download the album at no extra cost!

To purchase the paperback: Amazon USA | Amazon UK
To purchase the eBook: Amazon USA | Amazon UK
To listen to samples of the soundtrack: iTunes

Curious what String Bridge is about? Check out the book trailer and jacket description:

Greek cuisine, smog and domestic drudgery was not the life Australian musician, Melody, was expecting when she married a Greek music promoter and settled in Athens, Greece. Keen to play in her new shoes, though, Melody trades her guitar for a 'proper' career and her music for motherhood. That is, until she can bear it no longer and plots a return to the stage—and the person she used to be. However, the obstacles she faces along the way are nothing compared to the tragedy that awaits...

Rave Reviews for String Bridge:

“Jessica Bell’s String Bridge strummed the fret of my veins, thrummed my blood into a mad rush, played me taut until the final page, yet with echoes still reverberating. A rhythmic debut with metrical tones of heavied dark, fleeting prisms of light, and finally, a burst of joy—just as with any good song, my hopeful heartbeat kept tempo with Bell’s narrative.”
~ Kathryn Magendie, author of Sweetie and Publishing Editor of Rose & Thorn Journal

“Poet and musician Jessica Bell's debut novel String Bridge is a rich exploration of desire, guilt, and the difficult balancing act of the modern woman. The writing is lyrical throughout, seamlessly integrating setting, character and plot in a musical structure that allows the reader to identify with Melody's growing insecurity as her world begins to unravel ... String Bridge is a powerful debut from a promising writer, full of music, metaphor, and just a hint of magic.”
~ Magdalena Ball, author of Repulsion Thrust and Sleep Before Evening

“Jessica Bell is a brilliant writer of great skill and depth. She doesn't pull back from the difficult scenes, from conflict, pain, intensity. She puts it all out there, no holds barred, no holding back. She knows how to craft a scene, how to develop character, how to create suspense. This is an absolutely brilliant debut novel. I look forward to reading her next novel, and next and next.”
~ Karen Jones Gowen, author of Farm Girl, Uncut Diamonds and House of Diamonds

Connect with Jessica
String Bridge: http://www.stringbridge.com/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/jessica_bell
Website: http://www.jessicacbell.com/
Blog: http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/author.jessica.bell
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/MsBessieBell
Publisher: http://www.luckypress.com

It took 10 days, but my house has both power and internet access again, so this blog will soon return to its usual footnote-filled insanity. But in the meantime, buy Jessica's book. Get the free soundtrack. And enjoy.

Home Is Where the Heat Is

2011-11-06T16:14:00.000-05:00

Six days without electricity. Six days without heat. Frankly, I expected an even longer recovery period, but Friday afternoon we got our power back. (I guess there are advantages to having an elementary school at the end of your street.) Of course, our internet is still out, but that's okay. More time for reading. And more time in the library sponging off their wi-fi.

Here in New England, people are generally somewhat cold to strangers, but the outage seemed to warm everyone up. Instead of exchanging waves or a nod of the head, we approached each other and swapped war stories. We commiserated with complete strangers at restaurants and gas stations. Neighbors helped clear debris and trim dangerously hanging branches. Friends and acquaintances offered up hot meals, hot showers, and places to stay.

It wasn't all rosy, however. O, the idiocy! Some morons moved charcoal grills or generators into their homes. Other clods drove through unlit traffic lights with nary a glance in either direction. And then there were those whose idiocy impacted my friends and family:

My wife Denise works for the town. On Monday she received a voicemail saying her office was closed, and that she might receive a call from her supervisor about coming in to help out in other areas. She never got the call. On Tuesday, when the rest of her co-workers were doing shifts at the local shelter or the emergency operations center, she again heard nothing. And then, on Wednesday, she was told that because she didn't work Monday or Tuesday, she either had to use two vacation days or work both days this weekend.

Apparently, her supervisor's supervisor took on the responsibility of calling everyone, but when she didn't reach someone on the first try — because a landline was down, or because spotty cell service meant it might take two or three attempts to get through — she just moved onto the next name on the list. No emails were sent. Therefore, even though the automatic messages implied Denise didn't have to work because the office was closed, and even though she waited to be called in, and even though she was willing to work, she was never given the option, and is now forced to work two extra days because of someone else's mistake. I'm not a lawyer (thankfully), but that doesn't sound very legal to me.
My friend Scott — who, with his wife, hosted us for four nights once their power came back — works for a local oil company. On Monday, his manager told him to work from home because their office was without power, and they had no cellular service in the area. With the myriad calls they received from desperate customers because of the outage, he ended up working a full day plus 2-3 hours of overtime. On Tuesday, Human Resources informed him that because he didn't come into the office, he wouldn't be paid for his Monday hours. Last I heard, no one in three levels of management above him had yet stepped up to support him. I'm not a philosopher (thankfully), but that doesn't sound very moral to me.

So, that's the aftermath in a nutshell: warm and idiot-filled. I hope those who are still without power get it back soon, those who've been abused by idiots get their vindication, and I hope you, dear reader, never have to go through what we've had to this past week. Or if you just did, that you never have to again.

I should note these pictures are not of my home and yard. This is the carnage from four houses over. House, relatively untouched. Cars, not so much. The tan SUV had its windshield and roof crushed, and I'll zoom in on the left side of this photo, so you can see how their other vehicle fared after they moved it away from the SUV...

Yep, it’s been that kind of week.

Powerless To Do Anything

2011-11-01T16:38:00.000-04:00

In my 2+ years of blogging, I had never written fewer than five posts in a full month. Sure, I'd written exactly five posts twelve times, but long ago I'd instituted a five-post minimum, and I'd never dipped below it. Until now.

I'd planned to churn out two posts in the last few days of October (one featuring an adorable costumed Professor), but Mother Nature decided she had yet another trick up her sleeve.¹ Despite already hurling countless earthquakes, snowstorms, sandstorms, hurricanes, and a whirlwind Kim Kardashian marriage at us this year, apparently it wasn't enough.

That, or she had it in for the trees. On Saturday night, 40mph winds and lead masquerading as snow snapped trees as if they were twigs, and those tree-twigs in turn snapped power lines as if they were... um... other things that snap easily. Peas? Dragons? Anyway, this left most of us in Connecticut without electricity. And by extension, heat. (Also, internet.) The heatlessness is the toughest to deal with, especially with a three-and-a-half-month-old.²

At least six homes on our block — including ours — had their power lines downed by trees, and one had both cars felled by branches the size of small Buicks. Thankfully, however, no nearby homes seem to have been damaged.

Three days later, approximately 100% of our town remains without power. We don't expect ours to be reconnected for at least another week. I'm writing this post from work (possibly violating my company's social media policy in the process),³ at an office in another town where 100% of the people are without power. The building was closed yesterday, and today their generator is powering enough of the cube farm for only about 300 of its 3000 employees. I was one of the "lucky" ones who happened to work in the one working wing.

In short, you shan't expect to see me much 'round these parts in the coming days. But give me a week or so, when once again I see the light, and I'll be back blogging like it's October 29.

Until then, stay safe, stay warm, and stay cool.⁴

¹ Not that Mother Nature has sleeves, per se. At least, I hope not. That would mean the blanket of snow she draped over us this weekend was actually a giant white Snuggie. *shudder*
² As of this morning, our house was down to 50 degrees Fahrenheit. But you'll be happy to know we've yet to surpass four layers of clothing on our son, so he can still flail his limbs as will. (Will thinks it's cute.)
³ Dear crack team of corporate attack lawyers, when considering whether to rescind my internet access, please take into account I wrote this during my lunch break.
⁴ Figuratively speaking, of course, for that last one.

Rock-a-Bye Kitty

2011-10-19T04:00:00.007-04:00

Denise and I returned home last Sunday night to find a void where before there had been black. We'd been gone little more than 24 hours, yet in that time our household feline population had somehow dropped from two to one. It was kind of like one of those locked-room mysteries, except this was an entire house, and there wasn't a dead body.¹

At first, we assumed Calypso (a.k.a. Callie) was merely asleep somewhere, but as the hours passed with nary a meow, we began to worry. The friend who had stopped by to feed/walk the dog said she hadn't seen Callie at all on her second visit, but was certain she hadn't gotten out. We ramped up our search.

I looked everywhere for her. And I mean everywhere. I searched under couches, behind bookcases, in box springs, between the DVD and Blu-ray players, in the crisper drawer of the fridge, and even inside the dog.² By the end of the first day, we'd determined there was nowhere she could be hiding or trapped in the house. We now assumed Callie had slipped out, despite our friend's assurances to the contrary, and we moved our search outdoors.

As an indoor-only cat, Callie didn't wear a collar, and we knew few would be able to distinguish her from the couple stray black cats in our area. Still, we asked the neighbors to keep an eye out for her, and circled the block calling her name. We looked under decks, in bushes, and up trees. Food left by the back door was eaten, but always at times when squirrels were running rampant in the yard.

Callie was a cautious cat who rarely sought attention from anyone other than us, so after three days passed with no sign of her, I gave up hope that we'd ever see her again. I could tell you exactly where Waldo was,³ or Carmen Sandiego,⁴ but not my sweet black cat who liked to leave us offerings of socks and dish towels. She had become Schrödinger's cat, both dead and alive at the same time, since we had no idea which she was.⁵

So imagine my surprise when our savior came to us in the form of an annoyingly yippy toy poodle with a small bladder. (Go ahead; imagine. I'll wait.) At 4:00am and in the pouring rain, he spotted Callie 20+ ft up a tree at the far end of our neighbor's yard. Luckily, the neighbors had a 24-ft ladder, so I ventured up to retrieve a scared, soaked Callie. Four attempts and two gouges in my arm later, I secured her against me and she purred and licked my shoulder as we descended. And like that, our four-day ordeal was over. Our family was whole once again.

I guess the moral of the story is: Don't trust eyewitness testimony.⁶

Welcome home, Callie.⁷

¹ The body showed up three days later. And don't worry; it wasn't the cat.
² Okay, so I didn't actually look inside the dog. But still. Everywhere.
³ In the kitchen with Dinah.
⁴ In the study with a candlestick.
⁵ Which is rather fitting, considering our younger cat is named Schrödinger, and he owns her.
⁶ That, or: If you own a cat, make sure you also own a 24-ft ladder.
⁷ Oh yeah, you're probably wondering about that body I mentioned in the first footnote, huh? Well, the day before Callie appeared in the black of night, a mouse forced open the panel around a set of electrical outlets and entered our home. Moments later, despite its alternative method of entry, it was as dead as a dormouse. (Schrödinger is claiming self defense.)

10 Top 10s for 10/10

2011-10-10T22:10:00.001-04:00

Last year when I put together my 10 Top 10s for 10/10/10, including the popular Top 10 Common Household Items You Can Use to Repel an Attack By Ninjas, people thought me mad. Little has changed.

[+] Show/Hide All

Top 10 Ways to Keep a Dragon from Getting the Princess

Use a decoy. Stuffing a pillow under the covers usually works for lowly peasants, but for the princess a pea under a couple dozen comforters should do the trick.
Get a dog.¹
Make a sign saying, "Sorry, but the princess is in another castle."
A tiger riding atop a bear riding atop a Tyrannosaurus Rex, hurled at the dragon by Chuck Norris.
Film the dragon's attempt. It'll return to its lair only to find it has captured the princess's stunt double.
Befriend the dragon. Start by inviting it to a barbecue, so it'll warm up to you. You can have toasted S'moors.²
Kill off the princess's family. That way, she'll become queen; queens aren't nearly as tasty.
Admonish it. ("No! Bad dragon!")
Guard the princess with a hobbit, a leprechaun, the tooth fairy, and the Easter Bunny. They're just as real as the dragon is.
A moat. With sharks. Attach friggin' lasers to their heads. Why are we still talking about this!?³

¹ As anyone familiar with the Chinese zodiac can tell you, dogs and dragons are incompatible.
² Spanish Moors.
³ By the way, here's how to defend yourself against sharks with friggin' lasers attached to their heads.

Top 10 (Fake) Names for Groups of Animals

A flagon of dragons
A scintilla of chinchillas
A hodgepodge of hedgehogs
A platitude of platypi
A quandary of quail
A circus of pythons
A baudelaire of polar bears
A smattering of gnus
A yes of deer
A mukluk of ducks

Top 10 Things to Say When Going in Circles

Duck
Duck
Duck
Duck
Duck
Duck
Duck
Duck
Excuse me, Creepy Gas Station Attendant Guy, but how do we get back to the highway?
Goose!

Top 10 Things I Hate About You

People are so lazy they replace you with "u" even when they're working with a full keyboard.
You is both singular and plural, so I can't always tell which one is meant (unless I'm in Brooklyn, where the plural is always "yous")
You rhymes with lieu, mu, new, ooh, poo, queue, sue, & to, but not thou.
You (yes, you!) never read my blog posts when I'm nearby, so I miss all your laughter, your groans, your thinly veiled threats...

Um... yeah... that's all I've got. I thought this would be an easy topic, and I'd quickly churn out ten fantastic--wait, I think I've got a solution! I can't believe I'm already doing #1 on this list, but:

Top 10 Things I Hates About U

U has such a great rapport with Q. All Q & I have is a nice qi. (Although, if they swap places, they look pretty smart.)
I always owes U, never the other way around.
I wants to keep things straight and true, but U turns things around on him.
I is often stuck standing alone, yet U is usually surrounded by other letters. (Prior to this lists's #1, brought on by — of course — the iTouch, iPhone, iPad, etc.)
U (Uranium) is always gloating about its half-life, which makes I (Iodine) want to dye.
Sometimes I just wants to wear a muumuu like U, but is forced to fit into a bikini.

Top 10 Sound Effects on the Tables at Little City Pizza

At Little City Pizza (Simsbury, CT), the tables display an assortment of random comic book panels.

SLLAMP
VREEEOOT
SHKAROWM
FRRRRZZZZZZZAAKKKTT
koff a-huk
FSSSMMM
PAFT
SNAKT
PLT
WHUG!

Top 10 Movies That Would Be Improved Via Muppetization

Groverfield
The Bert Locker
Weekend at Ernie's
Gone Baby Gonzo
Conan the Fozzie Bearian
I Am Sam Eagle
Zootlander
Sesame St. Elmo's Fire
Dr. Strangepork, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Link Hogthrob
How to Lose Guy Smiley in 10 Days

Top 10 Worst Lines When a Lamb and a Lion Walk Into a Bar

"Oh no, not ewe again!"
"Hey, my mane man. You're one hep cat."
"I'm not gonna eat you."
"Yeah right. You're lion."
"You're riding that thing as you flee the authorities?"
"Yes, I'm on the lamb."
"Yeah, I used to follow Mary around, but you know how things go..."
"Restraining order?"
"What can I say? I've been a baaaaad boy."
"You can't pull the wool over my eyes. I've been sheared."
"My fleece was white as snow. But then I pissed off that bastard Jason and his Argonauts."
"I don't steal wool."
"King of the Jungle, you say?"
"It's good to be the King."
"Well I didn't vote for you."
"I like ewe, alot."

Top 10 Tops

Top Secret! - the Val Kilmer classic
Big Top Pee-wee - I prefer his Playhouse
The Four Tops - I couldn't help myself (sugar pie honey bunch)
Top dog - that'd be the one humping the underdog
Top hat - I wear mine on the Boardwalk
Topol - he fiddles on roof tops
Roof tops - where to get the good kind of shingles
Stove Top stuffing - prepared on counter tops
Counter tops - where I cut the tops off carrots
Carrot Top - yes, Carrot Top tops Top Gun

Top 10 Tens

Past pluperfect tense.
You're an idiot. You've gotten it all wrong.
Oh, really? Well, then why don't you enlighten me?
It's tens, not tense. You need to be more attentive.
I don't have to listen to this. Back off.
Are you threatening me? I'll knock you into next week.
Ooh, I'm frightened.
You should be. I intend to break your face.
You keep your dirty tentacles off me, or I'll—
Ooh, look! A kitten!

Top 10 Blüe Laws Still on the Books in the U.S.

Traditionally, blue laws were created to stymie activities that were deemed offensive to religious principles. Most have since been repealed, but some remain on the books today. Blüe laws, on the other hand, are fictional, since nothing with an ümlaüt actually exists.⁴

(Columbus, OH) In years when a dog is mayor, the town clerk must be either a cat or a badger.
(Plymouth, MA) After 9 pm on Mondays, it is illegal to sing or hum any song by ABBA.
(Placerville, CO) It is illegal to own more than one purple umbrella.
(Alpharetta, GA) You are allowed to punch your in-laws in the face if there is a full moon.
(Reno, NV) When juggling more than three chickens, at least one must be a rooster.
(Gary, IN) It is illegal to cry over spilt milk unless Oreos were also spilt.
(Eden, NY) Every citizen is required to name their first-born child Adam, irrespective of the gender.
(Enid, OK) You may not ride an armadillo through the city's center unless you are wearing high heels, earmuffs, and a cape.
(Roseau, MN) It is illegal to store a banana in a gun holster, even if the banana is loaded.
(Austin, TX) Walruses are not allowed to enter any place of worship without wearing pants.

⁴ You are so naïve.

And that'll do it for me. Now if you don't mind, I have a princess to save, so I must be off.

WHUG!

Once Upon a Tuba

2011-10-05T06:54:00.001-04:00

Long before I started spinning yarns, I was pretty handy with a pencil. Graphite was my weapon of choice for any art assignment that didn't specify a medium. That is, until one fateful day... which really wasn't all that fateful. Sorry to mislead you like that.

'Twas my freshman year of college, six years before I first started writing fiction, and three years before I was rejected from a short story writing course because I was an art major.¹ The professor spread out about 100 postcards on the floor and had each of us choose three to combine into a drawing.

One caught my eye right away: a work by my favorite artist, René Magritte.² I snatched it up and scanned the rest of the cards as my choices quickly dwindled. In the end I snagged a Picasso collage I'd never seen before and a photo of a desert landscape to round out my triumvirate of awesome.

I knew I couldn't resort to my usual grayscale pencil drawing, not with a desert sunset involved, so for the first time ever I ventured into the realm of chalk pastels. I merged Magritte's tuba, suitcase, and cloth-ed woman with a Picasso moth and set them against the desert backdrop. The result:

I'd hoped to come up with some clever way to tie this all back to story writing, but since a picture is worth 1,000 words and this one comprises three pictures, I'm already way past my quota. Instead, I'll just leave you with this:

More art should have tubas in it.

¹ That's a half-truth. I wasn't rejected for being an art major. I was rejected for not being an English major. It's probably just as well, since my other courses only afforded me 17 seconds of spare time that semester. (Seventeen seconds? / I can't write a tale that fast. / Maybe a haiku...)
² Ceci n'est pas une apostille.

Ramble in the Bronx

2011-09-28T07:11:00.000-04:00

For every blog post prior to this one, I sat down at the keyboard already knowing what I would write about. But this time I have nothing. Not even an inkling. Therefore, I'll do what I did in practically every email I sent home during my four years of college. Ladies and gentlemen, let's get ready to ramble.

Once I get going, I shouldn't lose my train of thought, though I may shift tracks so quickly others will say I've lost it. So let's leave this topic behind and shift to the topic of behinds. Brits call ours an arse, with that R thrust up in there, butt we Yanks are more apt to make a crack about having junk in the trunk, further yanking Brits' chains since they call their trunk a boot. And not a boot like Italy, which has always looked to me like it's tripping on Sicily and falling hip-first into southeast France, which is Nice. And not nice as in "oh, that's nice," but pronounced "niece," which by the way can also be a nickname for Denise, though I don't call Denise that because it's not nice. Instead I call her Denise, or Beautiful, or Mommy (if The Professor's nearby), but never Honey, since she may be sweet but she didn't get that way by being regurgitated by bees.

By the by, bees are stingy. And that's stingy, not sting-y, though of course they're sting-y, too. I mean, whenever I try to keep tidbits of pollen away from them, bees seize dese with ease, despite the fees. (Jeez, that was a bad bit, but bite me. I don't backtrack mid-ramble. That's a recipe for disaster, like if you completely leave the rum out of a Hurricane. Or if you leave the rum out in a hurricane, which isn't wise; the rum's gone and an angry Sparrow will chew your ears off.) Speaking of chewing ears, I'd rather speak of Ewing cheers, which aren't quite Bronx cheers since the Knickerbockers play their home games in Manhattan.¹

Well, that'll do it. I do hope my muse has amused. Or bemused. Honestly, I'm equally happy with either outcome.²

¹ Leave the rum out of a Manhattan, or it'll be too rummy when gin's supposed to be in the cards. And never leave the rum out in Manhattan, or an artful Dodger may steal it away to L.A.... and then you're back to the earlier ear-chewing scenario.
² Oh, and the first person to make a crack about me being a ramblin' man will end up at the wrong end of a gun. After all, I'm just trying to make a living and doing the best I can.

Into International Waters

2011-09-19T05:00:00.008-04:00

Rejoice, ye filthy bilge rats! For today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

In past years, I’ve explained how to talk like a Jewish pirate and taught you how to speak like other traditional pirates (e.g. Pittsburgh, software, of Penzance). But I now realize I’ve been neglecting a large part of the day: the part where it's International.

Sure, I’ve previously included Somali and Caribbean pirates, but that barely gets us started. So here’s a guide on how to talk like some truly international pirates (with stereotypes fully in force):

Type of Pirate	Sample Phrase(s)
French	- Le arrrrrr. - Hand over yer—oh, you want our ship? Okay, it’s yours.
Canadian	Arrrrrr, eh?
Swedish	Feerst you get a sceeervy sceeervy dog, then add de bork bork bork.
Italian	I’m-a gonna make-a you walk-a da plank-a.
Mexican	Barges? We don’t need no stinkin’ barges!
Swiss	I’m gonna cut you. Then snip you. Then file you, tweeze you, saw you, and corkscrew you. (And then I’ll clock you.)
German	Nein, nein, nein! Not pirate! Ich bin ein longshoreman.
British	Pardon me, but would you mind terribly handing over your ship and jumping into the ocean? Jolly good!
Space	- These are not the booty you are looking for. - You can’t take the sky from me. Try, and none in the ‘verse will ever see your gorram face again. We shiny?
Transylvanian	I vant to sink your boat.
Australian	G’day, matey. Shove off, or we’ll throw you little shrimps on the barbie.
Chinese	I pirate. I fry prane.¹
New York	Yo, ho! I’m walkin’ the plank over here!
Mordor	Smee(gle)! Kill those lost boys!
Russian	We’ll show these capitalist pigdogs. We’ll make ‘em bleed Red!
Danish	- To sea, or not to sea—that is the question: Whether ‘tis horribler in the mind to suffer And sling arrows for outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of lubbers, And by opposing end them? - Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Just take stuff.

And that ends our lesson for today. May this knowledge serve you well, no matter where in the world your piracy leads you.

¹ Like I said: fully in force. But before you get mad at me, remember... me love you long time.

Farewell, Fran

2011-09-17T11:11:00.002-04:00

On Tuesday, my father-in-law passed away following an 8-year battle with colon cancer. When I first met Fran, two days before Christmas in 2007, he opened his home to me and welcomed me into his family without hesitation. Unfortunately, I never knew him before the cancer and chemotherapy took their toll, but I can tell you he was a wonderful father, a great friend, and one of the most generous people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.

At my wedding, when Fran first greeted me after the ceremony, he embraced me fully. He choked up as he congratulated me, with tears in his eyes but pure joy evident on his face. He was just so happy for me and Denise. Much of my wedding day is a blur, but that moment is one I’ll always remember clearly, and never forget.

Fran was only my father-in-law for one year, one week, and one day. It’s hard to believe he won’t be here to see my son grow up, but I’m glad he got to meet his grandson before he left us, and I feel honored to have known him as long as I did. And of course, my son will still get to know his grandfather through the many stories my wife and her family share of him. I look forward to hearing them myself.

Goodbye, Fran. We miss you dearly.

Francis Anthony Ricotta
December 14, 1930 – September 13, 2011

Back to Writing

2011-09-14T05:55:00.003-04:00

I've been known to call myself a writer, so I figured it was time I got back to writing. And by that, of course, I mean as a topic for this blog.

Since December 2009, I have added less than seven pages to my novel. An impressive total, I know, yet I can't help but be disappointed. I mean, not once in those pages do I mention ninjas.

So, why have I made so little progress in all this time? The smart money would be on procrastination. If I'm not feeling motivated, it's easy for me to be distracted by DVDs, TV, live sports in HD, fantasy sports, fantasy novels, books on my nightstand, people that I can't stand, canned goods, good times, Thai food, poor rhymes, board games, card games, mind games, word games, homophones, homonyms, hominids, katydids, my wife and son, my dog and cats, that squirrel beyond the window slats, minor slights, internet sites, waving from such great heights, songs I love, songs by Liszt, lists I love, and things that are shiny. To give you some idea, I wrote the first part of this post (through this sentence) ~~yesterday~~ ~~two days ago~~ sometime last week, and I've only gotten around to finishing it now. I take my procrastination seriously.

But despite Occam's Razor,¹ I don't think my procrastination is fully to blame. Another culprit is blogging, which eats into my novel-writing time. Then again, some might claim that by remaining at The Wheel, not only am I entertaining upwards of seven people, but I'm also honing my craft, and my novel will be better for it. But that's a faulty argument. Not only is my novel not written in the first person, but it also doesn't contain a single footnote.²

Nevertheless, both my blog and my pro...(wait for it!)...crastination play a part in why, in the past twenty months, the first draft of my novel has only gone from 85% complete to 85.3% complete.³ But I feel there may be a reason bigger than all of those I've already mentioned: I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that when I finish the draft, the editing process will prove too harrowing and do me in. I'm scared no one other than those obligated by family ties or bound wrists will truly enjoy the story. I'm frightened it won't hold people's attention, that it'll be dull instead of engaging. Also, I'm mortified I'll eventually run out of synonyms for "afraid."

I know these fears are probably unwarranted, but they're still there, nagging at me from the back of my mind. Poking me. Prodding me. Not telling me that I'm going to fail, but that I'll disappoint. That my story won't live up to the expectations of my friends. Of my family. Of myself. And it scares me.

Or maybe I just waste all my time coming up with lame excuses. Enough of this. It's time to write.

Er... tomorrow.

¹ Which basically states: The simplest solution to a problem is to cough up that blade you swallowed as if it's a hairball, slit the guard's throat, and then hightail it to Mexico.
² And just like that, I've lost all seven of my potential readers.
³ Nor can I discount the possibility that I've been cursed by gypsies.

The Biggest Carrot in the Kitchen

2011-09-05T23:37:00.017-04:00

One year ago today, I married this woman:

It was pretty much like any other wedding. During the ceremony, for instance, I showed what sort of husband I'd be by crushing something fragile with my foot.

The wedding song mentioned 36 different varieties of cheese, and was accompanied by a puppet show and French horn kazoo solo.

Our closest friends and relatives pelted us with bird seed before we kissed on a covered bridge and looked longingly into each other's eyes in front of a giant rocket and an obviously fake backdrop.

After we entered to The Muppet's "Mahna Mahna," Table 5 won the sugar packet tower competition and we were given the largest carrot in the kitchen.

And then, we danced.

Best. Day. Ever.

* All photos courtesy of Kaz Photography of Buffalo, NY.

Two Turns of The Wheel

2011-08-27T23:40:00.001-04:00

Today, this blog enters its terrible twos. Thus, not only should you expect a bit more yelling in the coming months — and perhaps an infatuation with dinosaurs or trains — but I’ll also have to be careful what I say around the blog, since it’ll be sure to repeat it in public at the most inappropriate times. (Not that it matters, since my blog’s readers are so stupid they won’t even realize they’ve been insulted.)¹

Last year I celebrated The Wheel’s one-year anniversary with a contest, but sadly, I won’t be doing the same this year, because funds are scarce. Half my money has gone toward our new windows, half is set aside for our new kitchen, and I blew the other half on diapers. (What? You can too have three halves. You can’t? Are you sure? Well, in my defense, I was never good at math.)³

Here’s a snapshot of my past year:

Lost: 1 cat (aged 9), 1 great aunt (aged 102)
Gained: 1 wife, 1 son, 1 cat, 1 monster, 143 followers
Wrote: 94 blog posts, 2 chapters, 1 award-winning speech
Took: 1500+ photos, 1 chump for all he was worth⁴

Thus concludes year two in the life of the (sometimes) fiery wheel. As great as it was, I can’t wait to find out what wonders year number three will bring.

¹ Goddamnit! That’s entirely out of context. When I said that to the blog, I was joking.²
² Shit. I shouldn’t have said ‘goddamnit,’ either. Now the blog’s gonna fucking say it all the time.
³ That’s a goddamn lie. (Shit, I did it again.) Math used to be my best subject. In fact, I was even in our high school’s Math League, which was kind of like the Justice League (i.e. both groups solved problems), except in our league only one person wore brightly colored tights.
⁴ Bazinga.

And That's When I Wet Myself

2011-08-21T16:52:00.001-04:00

Two years ago yesterday, I survived The Great Plummet.

Which is to say, on August 20, 2009, I fell 30 ft to my death but didn't die.

Which is to say, I was hiking with my ex-fiancée Denise¹ when I plunged 26 ft 8 in into a narrow chasm, but came out nearly unscathed.

Which is to say, I slipped off a mossy precipice about 100 ft upstream from Bingham Falls (pictured above) and into a gorge barely 5 ft wide, yet only suffered two minor scrapes and bruises. Nevertheless, my death (rather than my life) flashed before my eyes during my precipitous drop.

Which is to say, amidst my one and a half seconds of freefall I pictured myself dying in two and a half ways — cracking my head against the cavern wall opposite, breaking my neck as I landed, and shattering my legs and back to end up paralyzed.²

And that's when I wet myself.

Which is to say, I splashed down (much unlike a space shuttle) into water far deeper than I'd expected. I returned to the surface, but my poor, poor D took in too much water, and she drowned.

Which is to say, my Nikon D60 succumbed to the elements.³ I then swam 60 ft one-handed (my other hand heroically — and fruitlessly — trying to prolong the life of my camera) and climbed out of the gorge the only way possible: by hauling myself out, hand over hand, along the husk of a dead tree.

Which is to say, I climbed out of the gorge the only way possible: by hauling myself out, hand over hand, along the husk of a dead tree. After we celebrated my continued living at the nearby Ben & Jerry's factory, I knew I had to share the story of my amazing survival with the world.

Which is to say, one week later I started this blog.

And the rest is history.

¹ She prefers I call her "my wife," but where's the fun in that?
² No, I'm not trying to imply that losing the use of my legs is akin to dying. Yet, I would die a little inside, knowing I'd never again have the chance to run a marathon (never mind that I've never run more than 8 miles in one clip) or reign over the volleyball court as the "Lord O' Leaping" (never mind that I haven't played in over a year) or accidentally slip off a mossy precipice to my almost certain doom (never mind).
³ Or rather, it succumbed to one element. Then again, that one element is made up of two elements, so perhaps I was right right from the start.

My Son Is Already Smarter Than Me

2011-08-11T01:11:00.000-04:00

I've been studying with The Professor (age: 36 days) for a while now, and I must say, the experience has been extremely enlightening. He has so much knowledge to share, and under his stern yet forgiving tutelage I have already learned a great deal. Today, I'd like to pass along some of the wisdom he has imparted so far...

If someone is being too loud and you're unable to pacify them using traditional means, give them the finger. That will shut them up.
When you're in charge, you don't need to ask nicely to get what you want. Just keep screaming, and eventually other people will do it for you.
There's no need to cry over spilt milk, or let a little blood faze you. But if anyone ever puts you down, wail at them with all your might. They'll think twice about doing it again.
People don't learn from their mistakes unless there are consequences that affect them personally. Don't tell them what they did wrong right at the start; let things leak out over time. Only then will they learn.

And, of course,
If you're beautiful, you can get away with pretty much anything.

I already knew that last one, but ain't it the truth.

More Fun With Homos (and a Baby!)

2011-08-09T01:23:00.001-04:00

When I messed with homophones a few weeks ago, people loved it. Or perhaps they just loved the photos of my newborn son. Either way, I have more of the same for you today.

Behold: 24 new pictures of The Professor! Also, 12 new snippets in my latest assault on the English language:

If you can tame her, the kingdom is yours. Whoever holds Rain's reins reigns.
"These aren't the cookies you said you were making. This looks more like a fawn than a dodo." "It's a deer, dear. A dough doe." "D'oh!"
The ad for "Do the Dew" (part deux) was due, causing much ado and meaning I could bid this job adieu.¹
Does a cuckoo coo, or a nene neigh? Nay. But that's coo'.
That Boer named Bohr is a boor; he bore into a Bora Bora boar.
Hey, when you're in this strait, man, don't purchase a Straight Man or Gay Man from Gaiman. When he comes by, buy Bi. Bye bye!
He lays leis on ladies as they laze on the leas.
Oh, Kay, it's okay if you choose Oak A. But I would not get a wood knot.
"Are we ready to cast the James Bond side characters?"
"Yes, cue the Q queue."
What got the thin king thinking was when the prince's prints implied the imp lied about a bout between the banned band and the barred bard.
Ignoring his praise, she prays that when he preys on her, no matter how hard he pries, he'll never prise away her prize.
Sorry, I realize (with real eyes) none of these quite match a pro's prose. I know I'm no pro, but I like to think I'm at least a mature amateur.

And there's five minutes of your life wasted.

¹ Yeah, that was a bunch of doodoo.

Born On This Date

2011-08-02T10:49:00.000-04:00

The winningest active pitcher in Major League Baseball (1966)
An Israeli president (1923)
A Greek king (1868)
An advocate for interspecies relations* (1976)
A native son (1924)
A British Army officer (in Arabia)* (1932)
A sexy pot dealer* (1964)
A pot dealer who is decidedly not sexy* (1970)
The judge of Juice (1950)
The winning goal scorer at the 1996 World Cup of Hockey** (1970)
The fast-talking wife of a former detective* (1905)
The true inventor of the telephone, according to some (1835)
America's favorite bigot* (1924)
America's less-than-favorite homophobe (1959)
The writer of numerous Hitchcock films (1899)
A leader of men... against robots* (1977)
A purveyor of nightmares (1939)
A purveyor of footnotes*** (1978)

* Sort of.
** No, I didn't know that existed, either.
*** That last one is me.

We Who Are About to Dye Dilute You

2011-07-28T11:31:00.001-04:00

Long before I began writing for fun and (no) profit, art was my creative outlet of choice. And though the image below is far from my best work, I've chosen to make it the first one I share here at The Wheel (apart from my computer animation) for good reason. Many pieces in my portfolio tell a story, but only this one comes with a story already in place...

What do you see when you look at this picture? I see my high school. In flames.

One morning in May during my senior year of high school, I arrived to find the front entrances blocked by police and a bunch of fire trucks. The place wasn't ablaze, however, so I circled around to the back entrance (using a somewhat illegal route through the neighboring VA hospital's property) and parked in the lot behind the gym.

The authorities kept us out of the school for an hour, but we soon learned the shocking truth: A substitute teacher had started a fire in my (commie) history teacher's classroom.

Sadly, it wasn't nearly as nefarious as it sounds. My (commie) history teacher (who wasn't really a commie (as far as I know, but he did teach The Communist Manifesto, collected Russian memorabilia, and only gave students in my A.P. Western Civ class who were communists A's (which is to say, none of us))) had been sick the previous day.¹ The substitute accidentally left a window fan running overnight, and at some point it fell into the room and onto a pile of books. The fan rubbing up against the books all night got them pretty hot, and by about 6:00am the friction had started a good ol' fashioned book burnin'.

The fire consumed the books, as well as a nearby television set, while the rest of the room sustained extensive smoke damage and was closed off for the rest of the year. Of course, we had no sympathy for the teacher, in part because he didn't give anyone A's (even though A is also the first letter of the Russian alphabet), and in part because, as an (alleged) communist, he shouldn't have cared about his belongings.

But wait, there's more! (Which I suppose was pretty obvious, considering I haven't even mentioned the picture yet. (Until now, that is. But you should ignore this instance. In fact, ignore this whole paragraph.))

Eventually, they let us inside and directed us to our first period class. I had Creative Drawing, where we were in the process of making batiks. (A batik is created by applying hot wax to cloth (or rice paper, like we used), removing the wax once it has cooled, and then painting the surface with dye. The areas that previously had the wax will repel the ink (as you can see in my meager example above).) We'd been at work maybe ten minutes when they announced over the loudspeaker that we should instead go to homeroom, and then return to our first period class. We thought this was pretty stupid, but we did what they asked.

When we got back to the art room, one of the hotpots (used to heat the wax) was steaming. One kid jokingly suggested we avoid it, lest we start a fire. But once the teacher returned to the room, one girl went over to get some wax. She lifted the lid, and whoomp! (There it is. Wherein "it" is oxygen.) As soon as oxygen reached the pot's contents, we had flames a foot high.

The fire was contained, though. It only extended above the pot, not outward, and couldn't quite reach the (wooden) storage area above. Our teacher (a woman in her early 60s, and perhaps no longer with a firm grasp on all her faculties) grabbed the fire extinguisher, aimed it at the hotpot, and promptly... hit the side of the pot, knocking it over onto the counter. Which was, of course, lined with paper towels to catch the wax. In moments, the entire counter (about six feet wide, and extending the entire length of the room) was engulfed in flames.

The alarm sounded. I grabbed my painting and headed for the exit. The rest of the school poured back outside, fire engines summoned a second time. Some kids headed down the street to the 7-11, but the rest of us just sat back and laughed, contemplating where and how the day's next fire would spring up. An improper mixture in the chem lab, perhaps. Or maybe a piece of meatloaf would spontaneously combust in the cafeteria.

To our disappointment, we topped out at two fires that day. And even worse, the firefighters didn't believe us when everyone in our art class said we needed treatment for smoke inhalation at the hospital. Our laughs betrayed us, and we all had to go to second period.

And that, dear readers, is how a still life painting of a boot, an old rotary phone, and a potted plant will always remind me of the time my high school almost burned down. Twice. In one day.

THE END

¹ By the way, if you're wondering about the over-abundance of parentheses in this post, I've reverted to my previous standard for the sake of sentimentality. Prior to my blogging days, I only used footnotes when forced.

The Evolution of a Newborn

2011-07-21T02:22:00.028-04:00

Early last week my wife discovered she had given birth to a hobbit.

Our son, a.k.a. The Professor, was barely five days old, but the evidence was undeniable. He was tiny, but had big feet, and every day he would eat breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, etc. (It probably didn't help that I'd look at his wee little hands and hiss "my precioussss.")

But soon other, conflicting evidence also became undeniable. His feet were not hairy. He did not reside in a hole in the ground. Nor did he live in the 'Shire (a.k.a. Cheshire, CT, which is 30 miles away). Alas, our hobbit was not a hobbit.

It didn't take long to figure out the truth, though. He was a pale child who we were advised to keep out of direct sunlight, and he stayed awake throughout the night. Women were uncharacteristically drawn to him, and he would feed by sucking on the flesh of another person. Clearly, The Professor was a vampire.

Except that he wasn't. Not only can he be seen in mirrors, but he has no adverse reaction to garlic, wooden crosses, or holy water. Once again, we were wrong.

Over the past week, we've come to a series of similar conclusions, only to find logical discrepancies every time:

He's small, with the right sort of hat, and sometimes has a dopey look on his face. Thus, we believed he was a dwarf. Yet, he doesn't work in a mine or live with six older brothers in a house in the woods, so that couldn't be right.

Like a werewolf, he has claws, and he howled during the full moon this past Friday night. Nevertheless, he didn't become hairy, his basketball skills didn't improve, and he's not in London.

We thought he might be a young Starfleet Captain: There's always a lot of beaming when he's around, sometimes he cries out what sounds like "KHAAAAAAN!", and he can't always control his Number One. But he only boldly goes where many babies have gone before, so that couldn't be it.

The Professor's head can nearly turn to face backward, he keeps us up all night with his unearthly wailing, and spews liquids from his mouth. Therefore, he must be inhabited by a poltergeist, right? Wrong. His face always remains angelic, and the power of Christ does not compel him.

Perhaps he escaped from a retirement home. He needs others to feed, clothe, and bathe him, has no memories of his youth, doesn't try to hide his infatuation with breasts, and looks like an old man when he cries. But we've checked with every place in the area, and they have no record of him.

Also, he coo coos, and kachoos, but never does he do them in a row like that, so it's obvious he's not The Walrus.

And then we hit upon it: Harry Potter! He can't see clearly without wearing glasses, he was brought to live with a muggle family by a bearded man who was somewhat hagrid, has a pet (stuffed) owl, and he always surprises us with how quick he is with his wand.

Unfortunately, he can't see clearly with glasses, either. And his scar was Photoshopped.

So it looks like we still don't know what sort of creature The Professor is. But maybe you can help us out with that. Any ideas?

Fun With Homos

2011-07-14T13:57:00.001-04:00

I like messing around with homophones, homonyms, homonids, and the like. A few of you may remember my discussion of we wee Wii weevils from a while back. Well, now that I'm a new father and spend more time awake thinking about inane things, congratulations! You get more of the same!¹

And lest you get mad about me putting together a blog post with nothing but a list of horrendous homophones, you can also peruse 15 new photos of my week-old son (a.k.a. The Professor).

"You still need to repay me for that essence of sheep's eye you borrowed."
"Oh aye, I owe you ewe eye eau."
When I competed in that International Pie-Eating Contest against King Juan Carlos of Spain and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, I'd have been victorious if not for four forefathers conspiring against me. Though I ate eight more than my competitors, I received no prizes; Juan won one, and they gave two to Tutu, too.
I sure hope the TV gods see fit to air Eyre Heir ere the end of the year. They'd better not fill that one empty timeslot with anything else. If they put a favorite of theirs there, they're going to be hearing from me.
Even if Orville and Wilbur had a strange coming-of-age tradition, don't just write "Wright Rite" right away. You need time to come up with a proper title.
Koreans believe fish have sun spirits, so don't scoff at Seoul sole sol soul.
"This may sound corny, but when I go through Mr. May's maize maze, rather than follow the rose roe's rows or the weighed whey way or the isle aisle, I'll compose an idle idol idyll and simply sing to myself until I'm out the other side," sighed Cy.

See? I told you they were horrendous.

¹ The sleep deprivation isn't nearly as bad as everyone made it out to be. It may be because I've always lacked for sleep, or because I'm not working for the time being, or because I already once suffered through two weeks of the devastating combo of mono and insomnia (a.k.a. insomnimono). But no matter the reason, this minor sleep loss is child's play. Speaking of which, I can't wait to play with my child. (So far, his vision is blurry and he has no coordination, so the baseball just tends to hit him in the face.)

Class Is Now In Session

2011-07-08T02:22:00.005-04:00

Date of Birth: 07/06/11 at 2:22 AM
Height: 20 in
Weight: 7 lb, 10 oz
Codename: The Professor

Two days ago — ten days after our due date and twenty hours after my wife was induced — my first child screamed his way into the world. Although Denise ended up having to have a Cesarean section,¹ she and the baby (and I) are doing well, and he is the picture of health.²

I may have no problem sharing my name on this blog, or my wife’s name, or pictures of my son, or really horrible no good very bad puns, or random inane ramblings, or random insane footnotes,³ or long run-on lists of things that don’t really have much relevance beyond their first three items, I’m still not sure I’m ready to share my son’s name for all the interweb to see.

Thus, henceforth he shall be known here as The Professor, which I dubbed him the week he was the size of a plum, and which my sister has called him ever since. (If you’re confused as to why, here’s a Clue.) Not only does this give him a secret identity, making him a superhero of sorts, but it’ll also be fun to witness people’s reactions when I begin stories with “So, I was changing The Professor’s diaper when...”⁴

Anyway, I know The Professor will soon teach me many things about life.

And I look forward to learning every single one.

¹ Unfortunately, we stalled out at 8 cm of dilation and were forced to go the way of the big C, but not until after we learned these valuable birthing tidbits: One, major contractions are called major for a reason. Two, the epidural is your friend. Do not badmouth the epidural.
² Thus, the pictures above are pictures of the picture of health. (What? Like I’ve never written a useless footnote before...)
³ You need footnotes? We’ve got footnotes! We have original-source footnotes, extra-information footnotes, zany-aside footnotes, and of course rainbow-colored blinking Comic Sans footnotes. We’ve got obscure-reference footnotes, nested footnotes, and the-game-is-a-foot notes. Brand new, gently used, and factory seconds, we have them all. We have footnotes so far from the bottom of the page you’d swear they were shouldernotes, and others so small you’d swear they were toenotes. This Saturday only, half our footnotes are 50% off! So come on down to Cap’n Bill’s Discount Footnote Emporium for all your footnote needs!
⁴ Plus, it’s like a Choose Your Own Adventure! If you have fed your son breast milk, go to page 12. If you have fed your son sweet potato puree, go to page 63. If your son has been drinking like a sailor on shore leave but his diaper seems dry, pick up this book right now and use it as a shield.

Ye Gads, They Got Me!

2011-07-01T22:36:00.000-04:00

I fully intended my next blog post to be the one introducing my son, but he's taking his sweet time getting here.¹ So instead, you get this.

Blog tag. It's like laser tag, but without the lasers. Also, instead of running around an abandoned warehouse trying to shoot Neil Patrick Harris, all you get to do is sit at your computer and answer five questions. I barely eluded getting tagged by Heather Henry over at Little Red Henry, but then, like an idiot, I let my guard down² and Bryce Daniels (of the Bryce Daniels Preservation Society) got me.

Shortly thereafter, Bryce had me sweating under the heat lamps of some interrogation room...

What's the first thing you do in the morning?
I try to uncuff myself from this chair and get the hell out of here. You ain't got no right holding me against my will. I'm innocent, I tells ya, innocent! I demand a lawyer! Actually, no, I take that back. I demand a bowl of ice cream. A bowl of ice cream, and the key to these handcuffs! In that order.

Also, a spoon would be nice.

How old do you feel?
Well, most of me feels 32, but my front teeth feel about 26 or so, and my molars even younger than that. I've got these scars on my hand that feel about 5 years old, and a cute little mosquito bite on my right arm that feels no more than a day or two old.

Serves you right for asking such a stupid question.

What's your sign and does the description match your personality?

This has been my sign ever since I first saw it two years ago in Placerville, ID, and I think it describes me splendidly. After all, my personality does not contain a single traffic sign.

Well, maybe "Wrong Way."

How do you like your caffeine?
I like my caffeine wrapped in a tortilla, sprinkled with cinnamon, topped with whipped cream and caramel, set on fire, and eaten whilst riding a yak across the Alaskan tundra.

What is your favorite cartoon character?
No no no, What is my favorite fictional second baseman. GIR is my favorite cartoon character. (Calvin would have given GIR a run for his money, except I consider Calvin & Hobbes a comic strip rather than a cartoon, and GIR has no money.)

Have you chosen a name for your son yet?
No. But we've got it narrowed down to three: Ozymandias Nebuchadnezzar Wilson, Azrael Gargamel Wilson, and Island Volleyball Wilson. Then again, Anonymous No Middle Name Wilson has a nice ring to it, too.

Eh, we'll probably just figure it out with a Ouija board, like we do with all our major decisions.³

Weren't there only five questions originally?
You shut your face.

Okay, enough of this nonsense. Where's my damn ice cream?

Fine. I'll get it myself. *expertly picks lock with shoelace* *throws cuffs at Bryce* *puts other words between asterisks* *leaves room*

¹ He's currently six days overdue, which means not only has he inherited my procrastination gene, but he's also already figured out how to rankle his mother, the librarian.
² My guard's name is Louis. He's really disappointed in me.
³ I'm kidding, of course. We no longer own a Ouija board, ever since my bowl of Alphabet Soup told us to get rid of it.

The Too Big to Fail Whale

2011-06-27T06:27:00.004-04:00

I've been on The Twitter for about a year now, and although I'm occasionally amused, I still don't quite get it.

Eventually, as the technology progresses, Twitter will outlive its usefulness. As much as people enjoy yelling out into the void and seeing what other people yell back, Twitter will only last so long. Like AOL, MySpace, and others before it, it will die a slow death as newer, fancier ideas supplant it. This may happen in two years or in twenty, but when it succumbs we won't mourn it for long. We'll adapt and keep on going, because no matter how the media evolves, we'll always have something to say. At least, I know I will.

My whale is too big to fail.

(Okay, so I really just wanted to mess with Twitter's imagery. Not that it makes anything I've said any less true...)

DOOOOOM!

2011-06-21T01:11:00.007-04:00

In the past, I’ve called this blog the place where memes go to die. When I’m given a blog award, I redesign it in Photoshop, ignore most (if not all) of the associated rules, and pass it along to absolutely no one. Well, today that’s going to change.

Okay, I may have modified the image, but old habits, like Bruce Willis, die hard. So, why am I breaking from tradition and adhering to the award’s prescribed rules? For my answer, I give you these four simple words:

Blog. Award. Of DOOM.

Today’s DOOM is courtesy of the epically fantastic Joseph L. Selby, who looked at my life and determined it didn’t have nearly enough DOOM in it. If I were you, I’d go check out his blog. Oh, and that’s not a suggestion. In case you forgot, you must now obey me because I am your overlord.

The rules (which I’ve only altered ever so slightly):

When you receive the Blog Award of DOOM your task is to post a short selection of your writing, 100 - ~~300~~ 375 words, in which ~~your favorite~~ a character suffers a horrible fate. It can be ~~your favorite~~ a character from your own writing or from something you've read, it can be from a finished manuscript, a WIP or something you just made up on the spot. Your choice, but it has to be full of DOOM!
Pass it on to one other blogger and let them know their DOOM has come.
Remember that the person who gave you the award also received it. Go back to their post to read and comment on their writing sample. Make sure to thank them for sending the DOOM your way.
Whenever you use the word DOOM in your post, you must capitalize the whole thing.

Of course, when I received this award, the first thing I thought of was this exchange from the first episode of Invader Zim:

Zim: Let us rain some DOOM down upon the filthy heads of our DOOMed enemies.
GIR: I'm gonna sing the DOOM Song now. [singing] DOOM DOOOM DOOM DOOM DOOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOOOOM... (watch video)

The award is also quite fitting, since I’ve performed with the Rod Knobs of DOOOOOOOM!, my friends’ Rock Band band. (And by the way, “rod knobs” are not what you think they are. Get your mind out of the gutter. They’re actually what an interior decorator would call “finials,” or what a normal person would call “those things at the end of curtain rods.” Okay, you can put your mind back in the gutter now, if you so choose.)

Anyway, I shall pass the DOOM on to Hannah Kincade over at The Palindrome Effect, even though she’s on a semi-hiatus, because I’m curious to see what sort of DOOM she might throw at her characters. Of course, she may choose to DOOM The Picard instead, but that could be just as fun.

Getting back to rule #1, the selection below is the end of the first chapter in my WIP. I wrote this passage over four years ago and it’s in dire need of copious editing, but it should be fine for the purposes of DOOMY DOOMY DOOM. For reference, the main character has just been turned invisible by Army scientists, and he’s decided to play a little trick on them while they’re out of the room.

Behold, the excerpt of DOOM:

Sean pulled out the IV and let it fall to the floor. Shedding his hospital gown, he started toward the door, but a tug at his chest stopped him short. He glanced back and caught his reflection in the mirror: three electrodes floating in mid-air, straining at their wires like miniature kites in a gale-strength wind. That was it. He couldn’t help but smile.

He peeled one of the electrodes off, and then jumped as a sharp crack shattered the silence of the room. Before he could turn to see the source, another three bangs rang out in quick succession. His left shoulder erupted in a burst of searing pain.

What the hell?! His attempt to scream this sentiment, however, came out as more of a gurgle, and he tasted blood. He brought his right hand up to his throat, which was wet to the touch and had a small hole in it on the left side. His fingers found its twin on the right, his blood seeping out in spurts. Oh fuck, this was not good. He applied pressure to both neck and shoulder to try to stymie the flow.

Something clattered off to his right. He swiveled cautiously to look, wincing as his shoulder throbbed. A close grouping of black circles now stood out against the white tile of the back wall, a series of minute cracks radiating outward from each one. A couple adjacent tiles had unburdened themselves and fallen to pieces on the floor below.

The dizziness hit him all at once. His vision blurred. He needed to get to the bed. He needed the doctors. A violent cough sent him staggering backward into the heart rate monitor, which fell to the ground. Spun around by the impact and entangled in electrode wires, he tumbled forward onto the machine and collapsed in an invisible heap, his invisible blood collecting in invisible puddles on the floor.

Beneath him, the monitor sounded out a half-dozen more quick beeps, and then settled into one steady, high-pitched tone.

* * *

Standing in the doorway, Colonel Jack Buckworth sighed and re-holstered his weapon. “Well, that was a waste of money.”

The colonel spun on his heels and strode back down the hallway, past the trio of stunned doctors.

It’s not my best work, but I hope with some spit shine and/or elbow grease it’ll turn out alright in the rewrite. Oh, who am I kidding? I think it’s pretty obvious my writing career is DOOMED.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I, For One, Welcome Our New Fiery Overlord

2011-06-17T00:09:00.005-04:00

...because it is me. And before you start to argue how that should be "...because it is I," you might want to remember that I'm an overlord now. Never dispute grammar with an overlord.

So how did I gain my new title? Laurie Peel over at Earth Dragon Healing bestowed the Overlord Award upon me because she feels I'm changing the world one blog post at a time. Now, I know me pretty well, so that seems rather unlikely,¹ but I daresay it's about time I got me some minions. Welcome, minions.

Anyway, the first thing I did as Overlord was the same thing I do every time I get an award: I redesigned it.

Original:	Overlorded:

I'm also supposed to list three things I will change about the world now that I'm all-powerful. You can expect many, many improvements during my reign, my dear minions, but here are the first three pronouncements that come to mind:

You must make me a sammich. I'm not saying you should all gang together and build me a sandwich of monumental proportions, since overlord or not I'm still just one man. My mouth only opens so far, and my stomach only holds so much. It'd be a shame for so much deliciousness to go to waste.

Nor am I saying that each of you should make me a sandwich right now. My benevolence and cruelty may know no bounds, but my appetite doesn't. Tell you what: I'll have my underlord put together a schedule, and you'll each be responsible for preparing a sandwich for me on one date in the future.
Turn signals: Use 'em or lose 'em. The first 'em, of course, refers to your car's turn signals. The second 'em, however, refers to your arms. Under my rule, if you don't use your turn signals, you will lose your limbs.² Then again, it's likely the limbless will be even more unlikely to use their turn signals, and I can't have that. Thus, I also decree that it's illegal to drive without arms. And you must come to a full stop at red lights and stop signs. What? I can totally combine three pronouncements into one. Shut up.
No, you shut up. As overlord, I can't be bothered to listen to you blathering on about this, that, and whatnot. I simply have too much to do. If I start to look bored, you'd better shut up, or I'll send you to work in the pepper mines.³

If you feel I'm blathering on too long myself, a) you're wrong, and b) it's to the parsley mines for you. But if, in the midst of my impressively important diatribe, you utter the phrase, "This is my favorite story," I may eventually stop talking. Maybe.

So there you have it, my first three changes to the world order. I believe I'm also supposed to pass this award on to a bunch of other bloggers, but fat chance at that happening. There are already too many other overlords as it is. So you be good little minions, and get cracking on those sandwiches.

Oh, and make sure to come back next week, for there shall be DOOM!

¹ About as unlikely as some firm offering to rep Rep. Weiner's wiener.
² And it won't be just a flesh wound.
³ What? There are salt mines; there have got to be pepper mines, too. No? How about oregano? Paprika?

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way Out of the Forum

2011-06-14T01:00:00.025-04:00

Last month I complained about my local writers' group because a handful of the members refrain from critiquing any piece outside the mainstream. Thus, anyone writing genre fiction, be it sci-fi, fantasy, or in my case, a story about a guy fighting crime whilst wearing spandex, will receive less feedback from the group as a whole.

Many of you recommended I escape post haste and join (or create) a smaller, more focused critique group. I thought it was sound advice, and went into last week's meeting fully intending it to be my last. I would call out the group for its behavior, stay for one final round of critiques, and then part ways, only remaining in touch with the few whose opinions I truly valued. But then a funny thing happened.

I enjoyed myself.

I raised the issue at the beginning of the meeting, reminding everyone that — as it states in the second line of the group's charter — fiction has many facets one can give feedback on that are independent of genre.¹ A few people were quick to say they shared my sentiment; everyone else nodded in agreement. One woman even admitted her guilt.

Of course, it may have helped that the other four culprits from last month weren't in attendance. Three had stayed home because of the violent thunderstorms that had passed through that evening.² Nevertheless, it felt like a minor victory.

We then went around the table and everyone provided useful feedback for the first story. Everyone, that is, except for the one woman who'd admitted her guilt just minutes earlier.³ But along with the critiques, we had a few good laughs, and afterward I stayed and chatted with a couple of the guys for another 45 minutes or so. For the first time in six visits, I left feeling positive about the group, rather than mixed.

Despite this, I don't know if I'll be heading back. Part of me thinks this was an outlier, that if I return I'll be asking myself why I bothered. Perhaps I should stick with my original plan, and just remain in touch with the few members whose opinions I truly value.

Or maybe, just maybe, the next meeting will coincide with another thunderstorm.

¹ Dialogue, for instance. And description. There's also pacing, plotting, conflict, character arcs, character motivations, setting, structure, tone, and improper use of Comic Sans. (Here's a tip: Are you using Comic Sans? Then you're doing it wrong.)
² That's right. I said "had passed through." As in, they'd already come and gone over an hour prior. It would seem these people can get scared off by both fantasy and reality. By both the futuristic and past events. By things both outside their comfort zone and things inside a temperate zone. (Yeah, that last one doesn't quite work. Too bad, I'm keeping it.)
³ She gave a two-sentence critique, the second sentence being: "I liked it." (In her defense, I've never heard her give a better critique.)

A Cat Named Schrödinger

2011-06-06T00:34:00.067-04:00

I haven't spent much time writing or blog-reading this past month. One reason is that I've been suffering from Alphlambé.¹ I've also been heavily involved in Operation Pending Baby. I've spent some of my spare time with a power sander on Home Improvement.² And of course, when the weather bypasses the second half of spring for the hot stickiness of summer, I'm always overcome by a General Malaise.³

But more than anything else,⁴ the reason for my absence has been this little man:

Schrödinger (who I first introduced in January) may look all cute and innocent, but only that first descriptor is entirely accurate. Sure, he may purr like a chainsaw and look heart-wrenchingly adorable while doing pretty much anything that doesn't rhyme with joop or jommit, but he's a monster.⁵ And I'm not exaggerating; "Monster" is, in fact, my wife's pet name for him.

He's almost ten months old now, and he monsters⁶ everyone in the house. If he's tired of napping and doesn't feel like entertaining himself, we'd better be flailing something around for him to chase. Otherwise we're in trouble. He'll bat at Callie's face until she retreats, with him in hot pursuit. Sonya's wagging tail is always ripe for attack. If Denise or I head toward another room, Mr. Underfoot is right there, ready to trip us multiple times as he sprints ahead to find out what's going on. And of course, we need to lock up anything we care about that's made of paper or cardboard. They don't call him Schrödinger the Shreddinger for nothing:

Which brings me to my absence from the internets. A few weeks back, Schrödinger found his way into the small space atop my desktop computer, behind the keyboard tray.

He then discovered that I didn't like it when he batted at my mouse, clicking the buttons (and randomly deleting passages in the process) or pulling it and the mouse pad to the floor. In fact, he discovered that if he did this enough, I'll get exasperated and do something to distract him. I might even pull out his new favorite toy, the LASER.

I use the laser to lead him all over the second floor, which tires him out; soon he's out cold in the hallway, dreaming of elusive little red dots. I return to my writing. Ten minutes later, he's back behind my keyboard tray. Laser, rinse, repeat.

So you can see why I haven't been too computer-productive of late. I've been too busy entertaining our feline friend by turning plastic seltzer bottle lids into hockey pucks (he's got this great move where he'll deke right into my shin), crumpling up post-its for him to kill (their colorful carcasses later show up under the area rug in the kitchen), or letting him chase some tail:

Sure, I suppose I could just close my office door and play music loud enough to mask his chirping and scratching as he tries to claw his way in to see me (and the LASER), but he's just too darn cute. I'm powerless to resist.

It may mean I'll visit fewer blogs and work less on my novel for a little while until he outgrows this phase,⁷ but that's a small price to pay for cuteness.

Yeah, I'm weak. But I see that as one my strengths. Now, if you don't mind, I have a kitten to entertain.

¹ a.k.a. A to Z burnout.
² Although in my version, there's far less grunting.
³ *salutes* And to think, just last week he was only a Colonel.
⁴ Except for procrastination. (You knew I'd get to that eventually, didn't you?)
⁵ And to date, he's never jommited.
⁶ Verbing words is fun. So is adverbing themly.
⁷ See, that's funny because it's not true. There's no way I could possibly work less on my novel.

The Dream Job

2011-05-26T04:00:00.005-04:00

I've finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

Not an artist, like I wanted to be as a kid.¹
Not an actuary, like I briefly considered in high school.²
Not a computer animator, like I yearned to be into my early 20s.³
Not a web designer, like I have been the past 10+ years.⁴
Not even a novelist, which I'm still striving to be today.⁵

No, what I want to be when I grow up is a dad.

I'll be getting my wish soon enough; my son is due in one month. Many people have told me I'll be a great dad, and I believe them. I'm going to be a wonderful father.

Now all I have to do is grow up.

¹ I figured out early on I'd never be willing to sell anything I made unless I disliked how it turned out. To date, I've only parted with pieces as gifts. No money has ever exchanged hands.
² And I mean briefly.
³ It's just as well. That industry never really caught on anyway.
⁴ Don't worry, Maureen. I'm not quitting. Yet.
⁵ Although I'm doing a piss-poor job of it. Since the beginning of last year I've now written 127 blog posts, but only 1½ chapters in my novel. (Also, eight short stories, but that hardly excuses the depressingly low chapter count.)

"Not My Genre"

2011-05-23T00:00:00.008-04:00

Back in January, I started hanging out with a new crowd. But now I'm having second thoughts.

The writers' group meets monthly at a local library, and each month it critiques three member-submitted writings. This past week, one of them was mine.

My short story — which I also plan to use later as the first chapter of a novel — involves two costumed crime fighters trying to foil a bank robbery. No special powers, just gadgetry. All pretty easy to understand, I thought. But oh, did I underestimate the reading abilities of my writing group.

Fourteen fellow writers were there that night to critique my piece. Of those, seven admitted it wasn't the sort of story they would normally read. Fair enough. Yet, of those seven, only two proceeded to give me any sort of feedback beyond that. The other five went about it different ways, but basically what they said boiled down to: "It's not my genre, so I have nothing for you."

Since when does "not my genre" excuse people from doing their part? ¹ Even if you don't understand the technology I describe, is it really that hard to take a critical look at the dialogue, or the pacing, or the interplay of characters? I don't read romance and rarely opt for women's or literary fiction, but I still give thoughtful feedback for each of those excerpts. But hey, if that's not the accepted practice in this writing group, I guess I can prepare some excuses for next time:

"Stories with this many adverbs and such unexpected shifts in perspective aren't really my style. My apologies."
"I'm sorry, I don't usually read books set in 1982. I don't have anything for you."
"I only read paranormal steampunk cyber-werewolf murder mysteries with female protagonists. But you went with male. Too bad."

Not all the writers are useless, of course. Five others truly enjoyed the story, and I did get some useful feedback from the group as a whole. Still, part of me wants to leave this motley crew for a true critique group, or at least break off into a splinter group with those who aren't concerned with genre.²

So, has this ever happened to you? What do you do when someone in your group isn't pulling his own weight?

¹ This wasn't an isolated incident. Another writer submitted a sci-fi story a few months ago and got a similar response. His concepts were tougher for the average reader to grasp, however, so I was certainly surprised when my story became its equal. Apparently, the elder statesmen and stateswomen of the group (and I suspect all the offenders are over the age of 60) can't handle anything that isn't culled directly from real life.
² We could call ourselves the Genre Assassins. Or Bob. Bob's a good name for anything.

Virtue May Be Its Own Reward, But I'll Take These

2011-05-18T06:00:00.056-04:00

As much as I enjoyed the A to Z Challenge, I was also relieved when May rolled around and I could get back to my regular "whenever I damn well please" posting schedule. But after spending the past two weeks recovering from blog overload (or "bloverload") by retreating into the real world, I feel it's time I finally gave some recognition.

Of course, since my ego is the size of a Buick, what I want to recognize is that my blog has been recognized. I'm talking blog awards, people. I've recently received three of them from four fellow bloggers (only one of whom is a fellow), and as is my practice, I've Photoshopped them into oblivion.

Matthew Vanacore over at FilmMattic was the first to bestow the Stylish Blogger Award upon me. If you like movies like I like movies (and I like movies), you owe it to yourself to check out his blog.

Then check out Marian Allen, who determined I was "crazy all over the inside of [my] head," and then also gave me this award, presumably because my craziness is so stylish. Nonetheless, I didn't think the award really lived up to its name, so I went to work:

Before:

After:

Marian's award also came with the stipulation that I share seven things about myself. Normally, I ignore stipulations, but luckily for Marian, I enjoy making lists:

For Halloween in kindergarten, I dressed as a carrot.
The day I bought my first car, I got into an accident... before I left the dealership.
For Halloween in first grade, I dressed as a carrot.¹
I haven't set my alarm clock for a time ending in 0 or 5 since I was 15 14.
Once, while playing volleyball, I dislocated a thumb. The thumb wasn't mine.²
I can hold my breath for upwards of 15 seconds.
When I was two years old, I tried to jump into the Grand Canyon.³

At the tail end of the Challenge, Elizabeth Mueller passed this award along to everyone who made it through to Z, which I thought was a very nice gesture on her part. My decision to embellish the award wasn't nearly as nice a gesture, but I didn't let that stop me:

Before:

After:

And finally, Deirdra Coppel over at A Storybook World handed out an award to everyone in the Challenge. She chose the Creative Blog Award for me, though for the life of me I can't think of why. I couldn't even come up with a inventive way to improve her award; all I did was add depth, contrast, and color:

Before:

After:

Well, that's it for today. Maybe next time I'll do something more stylish, or creative, or survivory.⁴ But for now, I'm going to retreat once again into the real world, and see if I can maybe win an award there. Wish me luck.

¹ In both instances, it was an orange felt costume, with a green felt cap, and had C-A-R-R-O-T in bold black letters down the front. Booya.
² Despite being a short white guy, I can jump high and spike hard. (Unlike Nathan Fillion's character, my nickname of "The Hammer" is because of my fist.) Anyway, after his partial block, the guy popped his thumb back into place and proudly played through the pain the rest of the night. I have no idea why. They were just pick-up games.
³ I failed.
⁴ For instance, Bridget, I know you still want me to create the Deviant Blogger Award. I'll get started on that once I finish the Procrastinating Blogger Award.

Pirate Haiku Contest Winners!

2011-05-09T23:15:00.001-04:00

Thank you everyone, for making it so bloody difficult to choose the winners. If you haven't done so already, make sure to check out all the entries.

All of the haiku were fantastic, even if my sister Naomi tried to win with stuff pirated off my Talk Like a Jewish Pirate Day post, and her husband Josh submitted an entry pirated from last year's contest. (At least he admitted it.) Sadly, nobody anonymously entered any spectacular ninja limericks this year, but that may have been because the theme this time around was pirates. Still, 'twas a shame. Yar.

Now, I should point out that there is no method to my madness, and thus, my judging of your entries was both extremely subjective and overly erratic. Thus, if your haiku aren't listed below, it's clearly either because I'm not smart enough to appreciate it properly, or because you never wrote the damn thing.

Baygirl32 especially captured the spirit of the contest with her entry:

Arrg arg aaaarg arg aarrgggh
Aaarg hhharr har aarrggh har rrar har
Yo Ho ho HHo Ho

But it fell just short of honorable mention, getting only a regular old mention instead. These, on the other hand, did one better...

Honorable Mentions

Hannah Kincade said she might or might not have pictures of the following event. Pictures might have sealed the deal...

Swinging from the door
She is naked, knife in hand.
"Yargh! Pirate knife fight!"

The Rare Poet's was one of the rare few to incorporate another form of piracy:

a bootlegged copy
of Jack Sparrow's latest flick.
such sweet irony!

This was Mary R's first haiku ever:

Before Blackbeard's Ghost
I ran around on two legs
Now it's just the peg

Naomi, as she likes to do, presented us with idiots:

Incredibly dumb
Pyromaniac Pirates
sink their own vessel

Budd introduced us to pirate Date Night:

A hook on the hand
A patch on the missing eye
And she's the looker

Laura also found inspiration in piratical romance:

Come buxom wenches
Come fondle my wooden leg
And I'll hook ye good

And the ever-entertaining Chris Phillips carved up a few creative entries, including this'n:

Polly won't shut up
Another cracker you say?
You'll be delicious.

First Place - Traditional

Once again, the Traditional prize proved to be the tougher category, with the majority of the entries straying toward the comical. It was a hard fought battle, but in the end, my brain outsmarted itself and selected this entry by Sarah Ahiers (Falen) for the first $25 prize:

Moonlight brushes sea
Waves capped in silver and gold
Treasure for all men

First Place - Humorous / Creative

And the humorous champion is Joelle, who's always looking for new reasons to be pantsless:

Too many buttons
For me hook-hand to manage.
Naked pirate time.

Congratulations to all the winners, and thanks again to everyone who entered!

Falen and Joelle, I've sent you each an Amazon gift card in your email. Please let me know if you haven't received it yet.

The Great Tebahpla

2011-05-06T01:00:00.000-04:00

a.k.a A Fond Look Back on the A to Z

Thar be but two days left to enter me Pirate Haiku Contest. It ends Saturday, 5/7 at 5pm.

Although the following retrospective may only appeal to me, I'm still going through with it. You know why? Because I'm me. And I like things that appeal to me.

Anyway, like many participants in April's A to Z Challenge, I started off strong, and even without eating my Wheaties. I'd written the first week's worth of posts ahead of time, so I began visiting other blogs left and right. Things were good for a while, but I couldn't keep up the pace. Halfway through, I began to tire, and soon real life interfered. By the final week, I only had one of the last six posts written, and I barely made it to any new blogs. I regret I wasn't able to visit more bloggers, but that's really my only complaint. I found new and exciting blogs, wrote a few inspired posts, and gained followers who ~~are delusional~~ actually enjoy what I have to say. It was a great month.

By the way, in case you missed them, here are the posts I feel were my cleverest, craziest, and Jesus-meets-Hitchhiker's-Guidiest, respectively:

L (Love Letters, Literally)
G (Go-Go Gadget Gobbledygook!)
So Long, and Thanks for the All the Loaves and Fish (my bonus Easter post)

First Conceived:	C (A to Z Contest), Q (Questioning Qwyjibo), V (Vampires vs. Velociraptors!)
Last Conceived:	P (Primordial Pluperfect Prepositions)
Fastest to Write:	P
Longest to Write:	A (A Ragman's Anagrams, or how Justin Bieber = Inert Jubbies)
Done Weeks Ahead of Time:	H (The Half Humphrey), R (Reading, 'Riting, 'Rithmetic), T (The Top Ten Things That Threaten to Topple This Theocracy)
Done Last Minute:	W, X, Y, Z
Most Read:	C, B, A, and for some reason, O (Oh. Em. Gee.)
Least Read:	Y (The Sometimes Y), P, N (Nothing, Nil, Nada.)
Most Misplaced:	K (Kurious Khemical Kompounds)

Also, since so many people asked about the letter images (technically, no one asked, but you shut up), I'll share the background on those. I painstakingly created them myself, using 24 different fonts and practically every Photoshop layer style known to man (plus a few others only women know about).

I wanted to get all the letters in one place, so you'll find them below. Hover your cursor over a letter to display the title of that day's post, and click to go to the post itself. (If you hover over the same image in the post, you'll get an alliterative sentence using that day's letter.)

So, will I do the A to Z again next year? I don't know. All I know is that if I do, I won't be nearly as creative as I was this time around. Creativity takes time, and I'll have a 9-month old in the house, so I'll be rather short on time. Maybe I'll just go for witty instead.

That, or haiku. Everyone loves haiku. (Hint hint.)

That Wasn't All, Paul (The Other 45 Ways to Leave Your Lover)

2011-05-03T01:00:00.004-04:00

In Paul Simon's iconic "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," he only repeats the same five methods over and over, and it's always kind of annoyed me. So I did what any rational person would do: I finished his song for him.

For reference, here's the original chorus:

Just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy, you just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus (you don't need to discuss much)
Just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free
(listen to it as an mp3)

So what are the other 45 ways? I'm glad you asked. Sure, a bunch of these are actually ways to get your lover to leave you, but in my defense, it's not exactly like Mr. Simon stayed on task, either. Here are the ones he left out:

Drive off in a truck, Buck
Jump in a van, Fran
Catch the next plane, Shane, and sit in 3B
Ride on the rail, Dale (watch out for the fail whale)
Travel by cars, Lars, and head for the sea
Escape in the dark, Mark
Run off in the night, Dwight
Slip out at dawn, Shaun, while she's still asleep
Just flee in the morn, Lorne (so you can watch more porn)
Skip out 'fore she wakes, Jake, and don't stop to pee
It's fine to be rude, Jude
You gotta be curt, Bert
You need to be mean, Gene, don't show her pity
Dump her in a tweet, Pete (yep, that there's the sweetmeat)
Change all the locks, Knox, and get a new key
Just tell her she's fat, Pat
Insult her bod, Todd
Call her a freak, Zeke, I don't think she'll agree
Say she's a dyke, Mike (that she looks just like Ike)
Make fun of her rack, Zach, she won't find it funny
Fool her with a con, John
Lie, cheat, and steal, Neil
Take her to the bank, Frank, and snag all her money
Forge all of her checks, Dex (and only eat Tex-Mex)
Slip her a pill, Will, and then you can flee
Just get with her friend, Ben
Sleep with her sis, Chris
Make out with her mom, Tom, she'll be so angry
Find a new girl, Earl (one with some unfurled curls)
Start dating a man, Dan, she'll be done with thee
Throw her in a ditch, Mitch
Leave her to rot, Scott
Kick her to the curb, Herb, that's what I want to see
Send her on her way, Jay (and right before payday)
Toss her from your house, Klaus, then throw a party
Shave her pet cat, Matt
Go jump off a cliff, Biff
Fake your own death, Seth, that sounds good to me
You just have to leave, Steve (no need for a reprieve)
Just fly far away, Clay, that'll work guaranteed
Slide out of bed, Fred
Just turn the knob, Rob
Step out the door, Thor, you just listen to me
Head 'cross the lawn, Vaughn (and soon you'll be long gone)
Just push through the gate, Nate, and set yourself free*

* This is advice for a different Nate. I'm perfectly happy where I am, thank you very much.

And hey! Don't forget to enter my Pirate Haiku Contest, which ends this Saturday, 5/7.

Pirate Haiku Contest!

2011-05-01T11:00:00.008-04:00

** The contest is now closed. Check out the winners. **

Announcing The Wheel’s 2nd Annual Haiku Contest!

Last year, it was ninja haiku. This year’s theme: Pirates.

It's not difficult:
You just write five syllables,
Then seven, then five.

And you write about pirates. The eye patch-and-parrot types, sure, but also those with illegally obtained music, or any others you might think of. With so many different types of piracy out there, I'm not about to restrict you.

So, write your own pirate haiku in the comments section below. Two lucky winners will receive ~~a treasure chest full of gold doubloons~~ $25 Amazon gift cards.

I will be selecting the best haiku in each of two categories:

Humorous/Creative
Traditional (i.e. eloquent, evocative, etcetera)

The deadline to submit a haiku is this Saturday, May 7 at 5:00pm (Eastern Time). Please review the official rules below before entering.

Pirate poetry. Let's make it happen, people. Good luck!

Official Rules:

To enter, post pirate-related haiku in the comment section below. Multiple submissions are allowed, but if you submit more than five (5), you may begin to get on my nerves, and I'll get our resident witch doctor to curse you. (Oh, the profanity!)
Standard haiku rules apply. To qualify, each entry must be a three-line poem, the first line containing exactly 5 syllables, the second line 7 syllables, and the third line 5 syllables. If you miscount, I'll know I can't count on you, and both you and your entry will be sent into the briny depths.
The contest is open until Saturday, May 7, 2011 at 5:00pm, Eastern Time. If you try to sneak an entry in after the deadline, you will be caught hiding below deck and stranded on a deserted island. Like your carcass, your entries will be picked apart by scavenging birds. They will no longer have enough syllables, and be disqualified.
Entries must be in English. (i.e. Using Japanese kanji will not help you win for best traditional haiku. If I can't understand you, obviously you're plotting mutiny against me, and I'm not about to let you steal this contest which I've been captaining for years. You will finish in dead last. Because my first mate will slit your throat.)
Anonymous entries will not win. If you try to hide your identity, clearly you're running from something, and I don' t need that sort of trouble. I'll feed you to the sharks. Or to the shrieking eels. Then I'll claim any valuable writing you had on your person as my own.
Prizes will be awarded in each of two categories: Humorous/Creative and Traditional.
- Two (2) first place winners will each receive a $25 Amazon gift card for which to purchase booty.
- An indeterminate number of Honorable Mentions will receive bragging rights over everyone who doesn’t win. Also, honor.
I will act as sole judge, and select the winning haiku based on the aforementioned criteria, as well as other criteria I make up as I go along. All decisions are final, and will not be changed under any circumstances unless bribery is involved.

Zip, Zilch, Zero.

2011-04-30T00:26:00.015-04:00

With that title, you may think I'm referring to how many letters we have left in the A to Z Challenge, but no, that's not it. With all those Z's, I'm talking about sleep.

Because come July, I won't be getting any of it.

At least, that's what everyone says to expect for the first few months of parenthood. And Denise and I are expecting.¹

To answer the most common questions I get whenever I mention the coming of Baby von Wilson:

Yes, she's doing fine.
Late June.
A boy.
The Battle of Bunker Hill.

Although we're still narrowing down names,² throughout the pregnancy our son's gotten a new one almost every week, corresponding to whatever the books compared him to size-wise. He started as an Olive.³ At plum, he became the Professor. He was Jack as a lemon and James as a giant peach. He's been (orange) Julius, Harry (lime), and a small Fry. Currently the size of a head of lettuce, our boy now answers to Kale.

In about two months, I'll be a dad for the first time, and I won't be getting a lick of sleep.

And I can't wait.

Thus concludes my meager contribution to the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge brought to you by Arlee Bird, Jeffrey Beesler, Alex J. Cavanaugh, Jen Daiker, Candace Ganger, Karen Gowen, Talli Roland, and Stephen Tremp. It's been fun, guys, but now that this crazy month is over, I'm going to try to catch some Z's while I still can.⁴

¹ By the way, nowhere in the book What to Expect When You're Expecting does it say anything about the Spanish Inquisition. Typical.
² We're almost down to double digits!
³ This was before he flashed us during the ultrasound.
⁴ And I'm an American, so that's Zees. Every other country might pronounce it the traditional way, but as the immortal Butch Coolidge said in Pulp Fiction, "Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead."

The Sometimes Y

2011-04-29T00:25:00.018-04:00

Y isn't like the rest of the letters. They all know their purpose, but not Y. Y is in a category all of its own, an outcast. But why?

Because Y swings both ways.

Yes, C may have identity issues, unsure if it wants to be a nice soft S or a cold hard K, but Y is the only letter that can switch teams completely. It'll be a vowel one moment, a consonant the next; it all depends on context. Y is the alphabetic equivalent of baseball's utility man, working hard to fill whatever need arises, and never getting full credit. It's the underpaid character surviving by working both a consonant full-time job and a temporary one. It's the bit player there in support of the main cast, able to go from young man to small boy with one quick change.

You might think the vowel form of Y could easily be replaced with I, but that's a naïve assumption: Change by to bi (or Candy to Candi) and suddenly it seems more promiscuous.¹ Besides, would you really want to fly through the ski, or have some small bites of data? Probably not, unless you're a masochistic robot. Not to mention, the list of most popular baby names is proof that many people prefer Y to I.² The names with two Y's may not be too wise, but who am I to judge?³

There's nothing wrong with Y. It may be a little different, but it deserves to stay. After all, it's got rhythm. Who could ask for anything more?

¹ Even though Y's the one that gets around.
² As do I, in most instances. For instance, I still remember the solution to a puzzle from the 1990s computer game The 7th Guest. The trick was to rearrange the letters BCGHLLLMPPPRRRSSSSSTTTYYYYYYYYYYY into a sentence. The (peculiar, yet somewhat elegant) answer? Shy gypsy, slyly, spryly, tryst by my crypt.
³ I'm Nate, and I would be a brutal but fair judge. For instance, I would make sure that anyone who tried to name their kid something like Caytlyn or Dylyn or Evylyn would be exycutyd.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Alex J. Cavanaugh and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

The Spot is Marked

2011-04-28T00:24:00.030-04:00

Agent XXXXX:
On July XXX 1976, at XXXXX pm, in the tiny
town of XXXXX, Utah, XXXXXX claimed to have
seen old XXXX of the XXXX dock his ship at
the pier, XXXX for XXXX even if Utah is
landlocked. XXX to XXX before unloading
9 trunks of XXXX XXXX which, according to
XXXXXX, they XXXXXX at that precise spot
using metal XXXX XXXX and a XXXXXX crane (a
live one). XXX & XXXX then spotted him, so
they then XXXX his XXXX and forced him to
walk the XXXX. Next XXXX parrots swooped
down and XXX (so he XXXX) which brought
him to XXXXX. Thus we XXXX his mind, so he
would XXXXX be able to XXXX it ever again.
XXXXly,
XXXXXX

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Talli Roland and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Wow, What Wonderfully Wacky Winners!

2011-04-27T00:23:00.091-04:00

As I began combing deftly through your entries, it just killed me that none piqued my interest. But, in my view, that's one sexy zither.

As you can see from that example, certain letters can sure throw off the mood of a piece. There were 16 excellent entries in my From A to Z Contest, and 9 people who said they'd come back but never did (just like in a horror film! I hope they're okay...).

For those of you who missed your chance — or have a long-standing feud with the alphabet — fret not. My 2nd Annual Haiku Contest begins this Sunday. So come on back.

Anyway, before I get to the prizes, let me share some of the brilliant writing from this alphabetic contest:

"Anteaters bounced candidly down the elephant's fabled garage..." (Holly Ruggiero)
"Everything fresh and good was hateful." (Marian Allen)
"...ghosts in jackets that liked mango puddings..." (Cheree)
"...save the ukulele vandalizing..." (Liz P)
"...shivering with antici-(say it!)-pation..." (The Writing Goddess)

First I shall divulge the lesser prizes, the $10 giveaways. I never said what these would entail, so sadly, only a few of the criteria were met. On the one hand I'm disappointed, but on the other, I'm actually quite relieved. After all, it's probably in the world's best interest that no one else's brain works quite like mine.

First Uvula Award -- unclaimed
Most consecutive letters in a row, minimum of 4.
(e.g. Did the king of rap music, Def G, hijack an elm? Nope.)

Kilimanjaro Prize -- Naomi (for abracadabra and menopause)
Most letters in one word, minimum of 4.
(e.g. abdicated, backdated, defrag, fighting Afghani, hijinks, luminous lamination, gymnophobia, squarest, Rustoleum, Stuyvesant)

Codefighting Jackalominions Cup -- unclaimed
Most creative made-up words.

Abacusz Prize -- Cheree (157 characters, including spaces)
Fastest to Z, but without using made-up words or rare names. (I'm talking to you, Gahoolie.) And yes, considering the prize's name, I understand the irony of this restriction.

Mighty Zota Award -- RS Robertson
Doing A to Z backwards. (I said you had to use the alphabet in order, but never said which order.)

Razmatazz Trophy -- unclaimed
Going through A to Z twice in one go (or from A to Z and back to A).

Man From Nantucket Prize -- unclaimed
Best poem, limerick, or haiku. For instance, you could have done something like...

Abe codes fighting jokes.
Lymph nodes piqued, thirst unveils
A waxy zebra.

...and even though it makes practically no sense, you would have taken home four of the lesser prizes, including the coveted...

Waxy Zebra Award -- unclaimed
A completely random prize for entries that end with the phrase "waxy zebra."

Honorable Mentions:
The following people came oh so close, but in the end my utterly biased and fantastically unpredictable brain went a different direction, possibly because I had been playing hide-and-seek in the reactor core again. Nevertheless, I thought the entries by these three deserved both mention and honor (but unfortunately for them, not cash): Cheree, Marian Allen, and Sumira Khan

Grand Prize Winners:
And now I shall unveil the three winners of the $26 gift cards. They were selected using my fool-proof method of reading each entry out loud to my cats, and seeing which ones caused them to bat at me in the most playful manner. That, or I left it up to my brain. Both ways are equally as random. Thus, I present to you the winners, in no particular order...

As Beverly chased delicious dreams of great pleasure, her idea generated jokes and laughter. Mere nonsense, they said. Perhaps, but quit? She refused to abandon her ultimate goal, shivering with antici-(say it!)-pation, wetting her lips as she dialed. “XYZ Pizza? I’d like a medium cheese with double broccoli, please.” (The Writing Goddess)

A bad cat drank everything from grease, human intestinal juice, ketchup, lemonade, mint, nutmeg. Occasionally puked. Queasy, really silly tomcat. Usually very wild. X-rays yearly. Zikes. (baygirl32)

Although blatant canonical deficits exist, figurative genetic hierarchy is instrumental in justifying knee-jerk legitimization by many neo-oppressionistic populists (who will) quite readily spout their unpopular views with xenophobic yammering and outright zealousness. (RS Robertson)

(You can view all the entries here)

Congratulations again to all the winners, and thanks to everyone who entered! I hope to see you all again next week for my 2nd Annual Haiku Contest!

Winners: If you haven't gotten an email from me, and you aren't my sister, send me an email at theothernate@yahoo.com. If you are my sister, you can't claim this prize until after you first claim your Japanese dinner.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Arlee Bird and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Vampires vs. Velociraptors!

2011-04-26T00:22:00.029-04:00

For those interested in the results of the A to Z Contest, I'll be posting the winners tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest you keep reading. It could very well save your life.

In this corner, weighing in at 172 pounds, the veritable villain of violent vivisection, the virulent virtuoso of vicissitude, the vicious violator of his victims' every viable vessel, the valiant vampire vicar of Vladivostok... Vladimir the Eviscerator!

(The crowd roars.)

And in this corner, weighing in at 241 pounds, the vile viper of visceral—and he's out of his corner! V-Rap has ignored all protocol and leapt at Vlad before the bell sounded!

V-Rap snaps his jaw closed upon a puff of black smoke as the vamp manages a timely escape, morphing into his bat form at the last possible moment. And he shifts back in mid-air! Vlad has dropped down on top of the raptor, his black cape rippling behind him, and has V-Rap by the neck! The ref—yes, it looks like the ref is trying to stop the fight and—ooooh, there go his innards. That was a rookie mistake by the veteran official there. V-Rap was already struggling to get his little forearms to reach Vlad, and the ref got too close.

I should take this time to remind our listeners that V-Rap is a Jurassic Park-style velociraptor, which is why he's about eight times larger than the traditional 30-lb raptors. But his size isn't helping him against Vlad the Eviscerator. The blood is really starting to flow from ol' Rap's neck.

Oh! And he's leapt from the ring! V-Rap's jumped, and he hits the concrete hard, the impact shaking Vlad loose. The crowd scatters in all directions, retreating to the back of the arena. But wait, V-Rap looks weakened by the blood loss, and he may have hurt his leg in the landing. Indeed, the lizard is limping, and he's actually backing away as the vampire vicar approaches, with V-Rap's blood dripping from his fangs.

I can't believe it. V-Rap is cowering! He must really be in pain. And Vlad is ready to finish him off. He leans in, and—holy cow! Another raptor has come from out of nowhere and tackled Vlad, the man's chest caught in its razor-sharp teeth. It looks like, yes, V-Rap's brother. It's Velo, who has plenty of vitriol for Vlad and his ilk after his devastating loss here last month.

And V-Rap is back up to his full height, gliding smoothly over to where Velo is. His frailty was all a ploy! Of course! Raptors are known for working together and luring in their prey! And boy, Vlad is not looking at all well. It can't just be from Velo's teeth and talons; from Vlad's sallow complexion I have to wager Velo gorged some garlic before entering the arena.

It looks like this could be the end for Vlad the Eviscerator, since there's no referee left standing to call the fight and spare him. But hold on! What's this? Four vampires have just dropped down from the rafters and alit upon V-Rap, wasting no time in sinking their fangs into the big lizard. At least, they look like vampires, although for some reason two of them seem to be sparkling under the arena's lights. Perhaps they rushed here from the glitter convention across town.

Anyway, it looks like they're trying to bargain for their friend. V-Rap's life for Vlad's. And Velo's relenting! He's slowly opening his jaw to release the vampire vicar, who I must say looks simply horrible, even for the undead. I don't know if he'll ever be able to recover from those ragged wounds, but these vamps are remarkably resilient, so I wouldn't put anything past them.

So, fight fans, it looks like this one's going to end in a draw, and... um... who's that man waving to us as he exits through the side entrance? That looked like the guy from V for Vendetta, didn't it? Why would he—oh, crap. Who decided to hold this fight in the Parliament building?! Let me outta—

(Explodes.)

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Jeffrey Beesler and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Unappreciated, Unadulterated, Unnecessary, Um...

2011-04-25T00:21:00.033-04:00

Undulating undies! My From A to Z Contest closes at 11:59 pm tonight, ending your chance at over $100 in prizes. What are you waiting for?

Um, so I was thinking, well, you know, that I might try to, uuuh, write a post the way you—that is, the way we, as a people, y'know, talk.

Every writer has probably considered this at some point. For realistic-sounding dialogue, why not use dialogue taken directly from real life? And then they listen to how real people talk.

Our conversations are full of crutch words and verbal tics, those uhs and ums and y'knows we say without realizing it.¹ We stutter, we stop, we interrupt each other. We change what we're saying multiple times before completing a thought. We complete each others' thoughts, or move on without completing them. Basically, it's like we're all talking in Mamet speak.

This works in real life because we learn to subconsciously ignore all these little tics, and read into what people are saying. When reading, however, our brains don't work the same way. We see every word. And if we actually have to, um, read, like, every word, it, well, it gets tougher to—it gets a bit stilted.

Dialogue and narrative should flow, not feel like a case of literary hiccups. It's fine to use a touch here and there, perhaps an um of consideration or an occasional y'know from one character. But a little can go a long way, so don't overdo it.²

Realism is good. But for good realistic dialogue, fake it.

¹ Once, while listening to a vendor give a presentation, I noticed his inadvertent overuse of "y'know," so I started counting. Before a minute had passed, he'd hit 20. No one else in the room noticed this tic at all.
² This goes for regional dialects and accents, too. And adverbs. And exposition. And sentences that begin with conjunctions.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Jen Daiker and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

So Long, and Thanks for All the Loaves and Fish

2011-04-24T00:01:00.043-04:00

click on the above image to witness it in all its glory (i.e. to embiggen)

If you don't know the relevance of the slogan or towel above, you need to read this.

And by the way, there's only one more day left to enter my From A to Z Contest for your chance at over $100 in prizes. What would Jesus do? He'd probably enter my contest. You should, too.

Anyway, Happy Easter!

Original photograph
of the Jesus Statue
in Cusco, Peru
by fabian-f.

The Top Ten Things That Threaten to Topple This Theocracy

2011-04-23T00:20:00.028-04:00

Thundering thistleweed! Two days left to enter my From A to Z Contest! I'm giving over $100 away, so enter today!

Theocracies are typically defined as "states governed by a deity or a priesthood," but in today's modern society even some people of faith also subscribe to another almighty: Science! It, too, is often perceived as infallible, omnipotent, and the cause of earthquakes and plagues. But the following things threaten to shake people's core scientific beliefs:

Thing
It's a disembodied hand that can think for itself. Need I say more?
The Thing
He's a man made of rock who, when he died, was resurrected by God. Need I say more?
Thing 1 and Thing 2
They have wild, natural blue hair and hang out with a talking cat. Need I say more?
Time-Traveling Tyrannosaurs
What's that? Dinosaurs are actually from the future? Fossils are the result of time-travel missions gone awry? Biology and geology, you're officially on notice.
The T Party
No, not the Tea Party; they're hardly a threat. I'm talking about the rabid fans of Mr. T, who are fervent believers in pitying the fool. Thus, they always vote to fund idiots who spread incorrect scientific information, which will cause the public to distrust science more and more every year.
Toothless, Tongue-Tied Thespians
Because the success of Cats with an all-gum cast is in direct opposition to Darwin's theory on natural selection.
Tool Time's Tim Taylor
With his incessant grunting, his poor grasp of language, and his propensity for smashing things, once the reruns start playing on Nick-at-Nite, people will soon realize evolution is a myth.
Tattle-Tales
A highly-respected member of the scientific community, under oath, will admit in the next inning of the steroids scandal that we still know next-to-nothing about almost everything. Whether steroids can help you hit a baseball, what causes cancer, the secrets of DNA, proper nutrition, weather forecasting, what's keeping Dick Clark alive... it's all guesswork.
The Truth Theorem
This theorem posits that science is a fad and will soon die out on account of its constant need for proof.
Ten Thousand Teeming Tapirs
Swarms of pig-like mammals from out of nowhere. Explain that, science.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Karen Gowen and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Shel Silverstein's Secret Sleazy Side

2011-04-22T00:19:00.024-04:00

Suffering succubus! The end of my From A to Z Contest! draws near. Enter today for your chance at over $100 in prizes!

When you think of Shel Silverstein, you probably think of books like Where the Sidewalk Ends or The Giving Tree, full of fun poems and stories for kids. But did you know he also wrote numerous songs, including Johnny Cash's hit, "A Boy Named Sue"? (No, that's not the sleazy part.)¹

Or how about that, before he got into kid's stuff, he wrote a little book called Uncle Shelby's ABZ Book? Sounds pretty innocent, doesn't it? Especially since the original subtitle was "A Primer for Tender Young Minds."²

Here's an excerpt:

B is for baby
See the baby
The baby is fat
The baby is pink
The baby can cry
The baby can laugh
See the baby play
Play, baby, play.
Pretty, pretty baby.
Mommy loves the baby more than she loves you.

Silverstein also suggests stealing money from Mommy's purse, freeing animals at the zoo, setting the house on fire, and telling kidnappers your Daddy has a lot of money, among other things. Oh yeah, and there is no Santa Claus!

So, I think it's pretty obvious what I'm saying: This book is not for kids.

It's just. Too. Awesome.

¹ Even if he did write one song called "Ballsack," and another about venereal disease.
² It has since been amended to "A Primer for Adults Only."

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Candace Ganger and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Reading, 'Riting, 'Rithmetic

2011-04-21T00:18:00.032-04:00

Rippling rhombus! There's less than a week left in my From A to Z Contest, with prizes > $100. Enter today!

Math isn't just a numbers game. Like with most everything else, letters have greedily horned in on the action. Yet they always try to pretend they're something else. Here's one possible interpretation for each, in the realm of math and science:

a	acceleration (you'll go faster if you skip these snarky comments in parentheses)
b	the length of the second side of a smart triangle¹
c	the speed of light in a vacuum²
d	diameter (yours will get larger with too much π)
e	Euler's number/Napier's constant (Napier took partial credit on Euler's day off)
F	the Force (which, as I proved on D-Day, is hard-coded into our DNA)
g	how quickly you're falling toward earth (depending on the gravity of the situation)
h	height (I've always been tall for mine)
i	a number for those who miss their imaginary friend
J	joule (I'd have chosen Joule over Jinger and Jordyn-Grace, too)
K	a base unit of temperature³
L	likelihood (as in the likelihood you didn't know this)
m	mass (not Churchy mass, unless you take up the whole pew)
n	the size of a statistical sample (which can go to infinity~~, and beyond!~~)
o	a circle, or possibly an ellipse (it really depends on which font you're using)
p	momentum (move along, nothing to see here)
Q	heat (and Q's vehicles always pack heat... coincidence?)
r	radius (it's half of d: flip r upside down and you'll see the resemblance)
s	second (not as in "I second that" or "the second one," but "in one second")
t	time (it used to be on my side, but then Morris Day took it)
U	union (if you don't approve of this, speak now or forever hold your peace)
v	velocity (you shall know mine)⁴
W	What's that? That's watt.
x	any damn number it wants to be
y	the vertical axis (where everything's on the up 'n up)
z	the it's-coming-straight-for-us axis (now in 3D!)

¹ I call it a smart triangle both because it's not obtuse, and because it's always right.
² As measured by vacuuming up a firefly, followed by a miniature cop with a radar gun. Oh, and he'll need a miniature walkie-talkie, too, to radio back the findings.
³ For reference, 0 K is not OK. You've never felt such cold.
⁴ I reached 28mph during The Great Plummet.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Stephen Tremp and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Questioning Qwyjibo

2011-04-20T00:17:00.018-04:00

Quivering Quaaludes! Quit dallying around and enter my From A to Z Contest, with over $100 in prizes!

qwy•ji•bo (kwi-jee-boh) n. A big, dumb North American ape with no chin and a short temper.¹

I was raised on Scrabble. Not literally — there wasn't need for that much fiber in my diet — but my sister and I did have fierce Scrabble competitions throughout our childhood and well into our 20s. This was in part because we enjoyed the game, and in part because no one else would play the game with us more than once or twice.

Why did our friends and family forsake us, you ask? Well, apparently they didn't like being trounced regularly by 100-200 points. We might not have had the skills of the Scrabbly grandmasters, but we knew all the best techniques and most of the most important words. If either of us scored fewer than 30 points on our turn, we were disappointed.

Some of our techniques:

Aim for the multipliers. Unless you hit a double-word score or triple-letter score, odds are you won't net many points. In the same vein, try not to give your opponents access to the triple-word score spaces. With the right letters, they may lay a SMACKDOWN on your ASS.²
Go for two. Crisscrossing words isn't usually as effective as layering. If you lay down a word directly beneath (or alongside) one already on the board, and create a series of 2- or 3-letter words, the points will really start to add up. Especially if you hit a multiplier as well.³
Manage your rack. One of the best ways to up your score is with bingos; using all 7 of your tiles gets you an extra 50 points. When you're deciding which word to play, sometimes it's better to go with one that'll leave a better combination of tiles on your rack, even if you might get fewer points initially. I mean, which would you rather have on your next turn: AIDS or DVDS?⁴

Some of the words:

2-letter words. There are currently 101 valid 2-letter words, involving every letter except C and V, and it's even better if you know what letters can turn them into 3-letter words. The most valuable ones use the high-scoring letters: AX, EX, JO, KA, KI, OX, QI, XI, XU, ZA.⁵
Q words without U. There are 33 of these, including: QAT, QAID, QOPH, FAQIR, SHEQEL, QINTAR, and the keyboardtastic QWERTY.
Vowel dumps. Have too many vowels? Lay down a vowel-heavy word to get them out of your hand. Something like: AA, OE, UNAU, AALII, AUREI, COOEE, OURIE, and MIAOU. Oooh, that's good stuff. (But OOOH isn't.)
Consonant-only words. Too many consonants? There are about 20 of these (more, if you include that shifty Y), such as: BRRR, CRWTH, CWM, HM, MM, NTH, PFFT, and TSKTSK. Mm hm, that's right.

So there you have it. With this new knowledge and a little practice, you can take your Scrabble game to the next level. Or, you know, to your friend's house. Where you can play it. And beat him. And gloat.⁶

¹ For those of you who are not avid Simpsons fans, the word qwyjibo was used by Bart during a game of Scrabble in the second ever episode of the show. For those of you who are avid Simpsons fans, I realize that the correct spelling is "kwyjibo." This is exactly why I'm questioning "qwyjibo."
² No, not really. SMACKDOWN is not an acceptable word. Also, ASS? Honestly? What are you, 12? ASS is a complete waste of two good S's.
³ Don't actually hit the multiplier. It's a figure of speech. The board will shake and the tiles will go flying everywhere, and Mitzie will run off with the U-tile in her mouth, which is quite strange because usually Mitzie's pretty sedate for an 80-year-old.
⁴ Don't answer that.
⁵ ZA, as in pizza. I wish I was kidding.
⁶ If you happen to lose, beat him over the head with the box. Then gloat about it.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Arlee Bird and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Past Perfect Present Participle, Please

2011-04-19T00:16:00.010-04:00

Pilfering pirates! There's a treasure trove of over $100 in prizes up for grabs in my From A to Z Contest. Enter today!

Okay, I admit it: When I try to think about participles, my brain leaves me dangling. Attempting to identify past perfect or present progressive leaves me tense. I knew all this stuff back when I needed to — in high school English — but it has no real world application.¹

In a way, my knowledge of English grammar is very similar to my grasp of music theory. When I create music, I have no idea what key I'm in or that I'm employing a tertian harmonic system; I just know what sounds good. Likewise, I couldn't tell you if my writing uses primordial pluperfect prepositions or future conditional subjunctive. I just know what sounds good.

I agree with most grammar rules,² but to keep your writing feeling natural, you'll need to break a few of them now and then. End a sentence with a preposition if you want to. I give you permission to recklessly (and needlessly) split infinitives. And sentence fragments? Powerful stuff. If used in moderation.

We have the rules for a reason. But you can ignore them, within reason. Give it a try; you (and your readers) will be glad you did.

Which grammar rules do you break, bend, or shatter?

¹ Whereas Apple and Android devices come with a real world application already installed. It's called the power button.
² Such as the one about minding your P's and Q's. They're like rabbits, I tell you. Best to keep an eye on them (or an I between 'em).

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Talli Roland and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Oh. Em. Gee.

2011-04-18T00:15:00.024-04:00

Onerous ocelots! Only one more week to enter my From A to Z Contest for your chance at over $100 in prizes!

Throughout history, teenagers have always seemed to speak a different language than everyone else. A young Julius Caesar uttered upon witnessing his first political debate, "Veni, vidi, stoliiiiidus est."¹ Mozart called one of his early symphonies "Shiznit No. 19 in Da Bomb Major." But only recently have they developed their own written language: texting.

Some of the lingo has been around a while, so even some of us older folk may be able to decipher this jumble of letters: omg! roflmao! ftw imho (lol).²

But as the texting language continues to evolve, we're bound to be left behind. To help you out, here are some of the newer phrases, so you'll be able to ~~spy on your children~~ understand a text from one of your younger relatives:

yklw	you know, like, whatever
tgiso	that guy is so old
homdyamatadta	hold on, my dad's yelling at me about texting at the dinner table again
dbahb	don't be a hater, bitch
rofbabz	rolling on the floor, being attacked by zombies
icftwaap	I completely forgot this was also a phone
nnjsio	not now, Jersey Shore is on
pitjtocuhfmctafep	personally, I think Jung's theory of collective unconsciousness has far more credence than anything Freud ever postulated
jaborl	just a bunch of random letters

I hope these r useful 4 u. I'd h8 it if u found them 2 b a waste of ur time.

Crap! I think I've become infected. FML!³

¹ "I came, I saw, it was sooo boooooring."
² Orange marmalade, grandma! Royal orderlies found lemons, mangos, and oranges! Forget the watermelon; I must have oranges (luscious oranges, luscious).
³ Find me leeches!

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Karen Gowen and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Nothing, Nil, Nada.

2011-04-16T00:14:00.034-04:00

Nipping niblets! I'm giving away over $100 in my From A to Z Contest. Enter today!

I was going to talk about ninjas today, but NOTHING, NIL, and NADA¹ threatened me with a class-action lawsuit. Only, the words they used were not class-action lawsuit, but "death by Pokemon." And those might not even be the exact words — it's hard to catch everything when threats are passed along via the wind — but there was no mistaking their intent. Thus, ninjas are out.

Update: For the record, none of those secret ninja organizations are real. Really. (Please believe me.)

Anyway, I realize a ninjaless post is quite the letdown, so I'll try to make it up to you with this short video about ninja thumbtacks.² I created this over ten years ago, although I didn't get it online until this past February. For the purposes of this post, I'll call it Nate's Nawesome Nomputer Nanimation:

And if you're interested:

¹ The Nefarious Organization of Terribly Homicidal International Ninja Gangs, the Ninja Integration League, and the National Association of Deadly Assassins.
² Wait, did I say ninja? I meant "pseudo-samurai."

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Candace Ganger and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Modest Mussorgsky's Mercurial Melodies

2011-04-15T00:13:00.017-04:00

Meddling marmosets! Over $100 is up for grabs in my From A to Z Contest! Do you like money? You could win money.

Although these days I mostly listen to modern music — Lady Gaga, in particular, is fantastic¹ — I have a better appreciation for classical music than most people. This is because a) I'm a classically trained violinist, and b) most people have absolutely no appreciation for classical music.

Odds are, you have no idea what a Modest Mussorgsky is. But if you've ever seen Disney's original Fantasia, you've heard Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain," one of my favorite classical pieces. That's not what this post is about, however; as with almost everything else I've done this month, I'm focusing on the letters.²

Musical notes are designated by the letters A through G, and as a violinist, I'm most familiar with the treble clef (which is also called the G-clef).³ When using the treble clef, the five lines of the musical staff (from bottom to top) are E-G-B-D-F. Like many music students, I was taught to remember that order with the mnemonic "Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge." Although, to cut down on childhood obesity, in recent years I've heard: "Every Good Boy Deserves Favor," "Every Good Boy Denies Flavor," and "Evil Gnomes Burn Down Forests."

The spaces between the lines, on the other hand, are much easier to remember. They spell out either D.B. or B.C., depending on how old you are.⁴

Composing words — or songs — with A-G isn't too difficult. But composing a decent sentence is. I mean, I've tried a bunch of times already, and—Egad! Becca defaced Gaga's beaded cabbage feedbag! Bad! Bad Becca!

¹ And you have no idea if I'm kidding, since I wrote that while wearing my poker face, p-p-poker face.
² And not just because I enjoy plucking women's G strings when they aren't looking.
³ It's called the G-clef because one G is what it cost Count Johann von Treble to commission the clef's design from a young Albrecht Dürer. One G was a lot back then, worth at least 10 K. Am I telling you the truth? P-p-poker face.
⁴ That's Dirk Benedict or Bradley Cooper, a.k.a. FACE.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Jen Daiker and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Love Letters, Literally

2011-04-14T00:12:00.014-04:00

Leaping Lazarus! I'm itching to give away over $100 in my From A to Z Contest. I might give it to you. Show me what you've got.

Dearest Alphabet,
Oh my love, I have been under your spell ever since the first moment I saw you. I was drawn in by your magnetism, but even at that early age I could see you were more attached to the refrigerator than you were to me. But I didn't give up: I found you in the library, and then at school, and it wasn't long before we were going everywhere together. Of course, we didn't always get along—sometimes you were too bold, or a bit loopy, or leaned too far to the right for my taste—but I never stopped loving you. You're always kind to widows and orphans, and oh those fantastic curves!

When I'm with you, I feel like anything's possible. You transport me to faraway lands for grand adventures. When we're alone I can have my way with you, yet you don't mind when I put you on display for the whole world to see. Yes, I did have that short fling with a couple of hot numbers in college, but you were my first real love, and I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you I love you I love you, and I always will. (Don't tell my wife.)

XOXO

Nate

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear A,
B mine. You touch B, I kill you.

- C

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear M,
I love U. M sorry we no work out.

- I

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear U,
Not to be querulous, but why won't you come away with me? Do my inquiries not pique your interest? It's quaint that you wish to remain amongst these unsophisticated troglodytes, but none of the other letters is your equal. They possess neither your quiet, gentle nature nor your eloquence. They are overly quirky and quick to quibble; neither are endearing qualities. And since A was nearly drawn and quartered, it seems C has started using I as an enforcer. Frankly, it's disquieting, and you deserve better.

There is no question we belong together, my darling. With you as my queen, we could conquer the English-speaking world. Perhaps you find my forwardness quite quixotic, but thy shalt not quit. Let us escape this quintessential quagmire.

Unequivocally yours,
Q

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Q,
I with U now. I no understand message. Neither do U.

- U

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear A,
Hope you are recovering quickly after what I did to you. Question: Would you ever consider leaving this dreadful language and starting anew in Qatar?

Eagerly awaiting your answer,
Q

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Alex J. Cavanaugh and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Kurious Khemical Kompounds (wherein K = Potassium)

2011-04-13T00:11:00.019-04:00

No, I'm not saying you should translate this post's title as "Potassiumurious Potassiumhemical Potassiumompounds." I've already covered gobbledygook.

I'll fess up: I was planning to use this topic for C, but then I hit upon my From A to Z Contest (with over $100 in prizes—enter today!). I needed a new spot for this, and K seemed like the logical choice.¹

Anyway, I suspect that like me, some of you got bored in chemistry class and started making words with the symbols on the Periodic Table of Elements. It's harder than you'd think, since 10 letters only come as part of a pair (ADEGLMRTXZ) and two don't appear at all (JQ). And it's even more difficult if you don't allow symbols to repeat within the same word (which I don't).²

Of the eight co-hosts for this A to Z Challenge, only one can spell any part of his name with elements: STePHeN (Sulfur-Tellurium-Phosphorus-Helium-Nitrogen), which is rather fitting, considering his love for science. The other 15 first and last names? Can't be done.

In Period Table English, you can't spell ~~PErIOdiC~~, ~~TaBle~~, or ~~eNglISH~~. ~~CHemIStrY~~ doesn't exist, and neither does ~~ScIeNCe~~. You're out of luck with ~~OUt~~ and ~~lUCK~~.

You can have an AmBiTiOUS RhInOCErOs, but not an ~~eAgEr~~ ~~BeaVEr~~. InTeRnAtIONAl SPIEs, but no ~~FOReIgN~~ ~~AgeNtS~~. Plenty of FLaSH FICTiON, but not one ~~NOVel~~ or ~~SHort~~ ~~StOrY~~. Yet, surprisingly, you can have both SYNeCdOCHe and ScHeNeCTaDy, NY.

SO I WAs ~~ThInKINg~~ I ~~WOUld~~ ~~AtTemPt~~ ~~StrIVe~~ ~~trY~~
IF I CaN FInISH ONe ~~SeNTenCe~~
ThAt'S WHAt I ~~WaNt~~ ~~HOPe~~
'TiS SO VErY ~~HArd~~ ~~tOUgH~~ ~~dIFfiCult~~ ~~dArN~~ ~~ImPOsSiBle~~
FUCK ThIS. No MoRe, GdAmMt!
I'MdONe.³

~~SiNCeRelY,~~
Sodium Tellurium (NaTe)

¹ If you consider pulling letters randomly out of a hat logical. Luckily, I do.
² By the way, this type of wordplay is the only (arguably) legitimate reason to ever capitalize every other letter when you type.
³ P.S. ScReW YOU, HErSHeY! I TaSTe ArSeNiC. ThAr Be PoISON In ThIs HeRe CHoCoLaTe! NOW I PErISH. (SCeNe.)

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Stephen Tremp and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Joshua, Jana, John-David, Jill, Jessa, Jinger, Joseph, Josiah, Joy-Anna, Jedidiah, Jeremiah, Jason, James, Justin, Jackson, Johanna, Jennifer, Jordyn-Grace, Josie

2011-04-12T00:10:00.008-04:00

Jumping jacksnipes! There's over $100 up for grabs in my From A to Z Contest. Enter today!

Yeah, I don't watch that show. But I know if I had 19 kids whose names all started with J, there would be nary a Jinger, Jordyn-Grace, Joy-Anna, John-David, Jedidiah, or Bullfrog among them.

Here are some other J-names I'd saddle my kids with long before I used any of those:

Jacob, Jeremy, Jerome, Jesse, Jessica, Jaime, Jameson, Jamal, Julie, Julia, Julian, Julianna, Julius, Juliet, Jules, July, June, Jude, Judith, Jensen, Jared, Jarrett, Jade, Jaden, Jalen, Jaren, Jin, Jan, Jean, Jayne, Joan, Jenna, Joanna, Janine, Jeanette, Janelle, Janice, Jocelyn, Jessalyn, Jessamine, Jasmine, Josephine, Justine, Jolene, Joelle, Joel, Jonah, Judah, Judas, Jodie, Joss, Jensen, Jefferson, Jeffrey, Jerry, Jericho, Junior, Junius, Juneau, Juniper, Jhumpa, Jewel, Jillian, Jacquelyn, Jermaine, Jarvis, Jasper, Jaleel, Jacques, Javier, José, Jorge, Julio, Juan, Jesus, Joaquin, Joachim, Jaromir, Jett, Jethro, Jupiter, Jebediah, Jehoshaphat, Job, Jojo, Jujube, Jughead, Jellybean, Jimmer, Jibjab, and Jugdish.

That is all.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Jeffrey Beesler and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Insanely Irascible Insurance Industry Initialisms

2011-04-11T00:09:00.020-04:00

Inconceivable! I'm giving away over $100 in prizes in my From A to Z Contest! (Okay, I concede it's kind of conceivable.)

As a web designer for an insurance and investment company, I'm constantly surrounded by initialisms. If you're unfamiliar with the term, it's what most people mistakenly call acronyms.¹

Initialisms are everywhere, but insurance and investment companies are rife with them. You can apply for STD coverage because of an STD (short-term disability / sexually transmitted disease). People in RPG can play RPGs on their lunch break (retirement plans group / role-playing games). You can buy an IRA for a member of the IRA (individual retirement account / Irish Republican Army), or get an MF for an MFer (mutual fund, motherfucker).

A CPA in the AARP might get an LTD while under HIPAA, then check an IPO's YTD before discussing ERISA with a TPA and the FDIC. I might be a little off in my usage, but we use all those initialisms, and that's just the tip of the iceberg.²

I have worked in HTSC and on sites for IAS, SRS, SIU, and HPRM (which works off a PPA). I was even briefly part of GSD, which stood for GBD Solutions Design. That's right: an initialism inside another initialism. It's like one of those Russian nesting dolls, only much, much stupider.

And that's the insurance industry for you. TTFN. TTYL.

So, how about you? What insane initialisms do you have to deal with?

¹ An acronym is a series of initials said as a word (e.g. SCUBA, LASER, LARP). An initialism is any series of initials, whether it's an acronym or needs to be spelled out by its individual letters (e.g. ABC, IBM, WWJD). Then again, I normally try to pronounce all initialisms as words. I get stranger looks that way.
² By the way, if you hit the iceberg, you can file a claim with P&C (property &nd casualty).

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Talli Roland and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

The Half Humphrey

2011-04-09T00:08:00.016-04:00

Holy horsefeathers! I'm giving away over $100 in my From A to Z Contest! You should enter. That money (and maybe the horsefeathers) could be yours.

For your viewing pleasure, let me present to you this handy dandy multi-letter conversion chart:

AAAA	=	1 tiny battery; 1 1/3 auto clubs; 2 Milnes
BBB	=	1 consumer rights group; a King and a half
CCCC	=	2 cubic centimeters; ~57% of the Kraken's domain
DD	=	1 national fried dough merchant; 2/3 of a top-heavy porn star
EEEEE	=	1 reeeeeally wide shoe; 1 mouse sighting; 2½ uppercase cummingses
FFF	=	1 forte fortissimo; half-white HTML
GGG	=	1 annual defective yeti guide; 75% of a cellular network
HHH	=	1 former US VP; 1 pro wrestler; ¾ of a youth organization
III	=	1 Richard; page 3 of the prologue
JJJ	=	1 Schmidt (that's my name, too!); 1½ Abramses
KKK	=	3 swinging strikeouts; 40 guys in bed sheets
LL	=	1 Bean; 1 Cool J; 40% of a llama
MMM	=	¼ of this kid who got into an accident and couldn't come to school; 1 bop
NN	=	1 internet principle
OOO	=	1 Tic-Tac-Toe win; 1 ghost with a short attention span (or no confidence)
PPP	=	1 piano pianissimo; 1½ non-toilet-trained toddlers
QQQQ	=	1 Nasdaq 100 Trust until last month; 20% of 20 Questions
RRR	=	1 unit of education; 1 space between Oriental Avenue & Income Tax
SSSSSS	=	3 Nazi squadrons; 1 slow leak
TT	=	1 Audi roadster; 2 steak bones
UU	=	1 W
VV	=	1 set of fangs; 2 vendettas
WWW	=	1 series of tubes
XXX	=	thirty; dirty; kisses
YYY	=	1 lament
ZZZ	=	1 unit of Sleep; 1½ Tops

Yes, technically H is only 1/3 of a Humphrey, but that amount left little alliteration for the post's title, so I decided to round up. Consequently, I'd appreciate it if you would just keep this between us, and didn't report me to the International Bureau of Weights & Measures. In return for your discretion, I'll give you a DD hole.¹

So, did I miss anything important?

¹ Yes, I realize that, based on the chard above, a DD hole could refer to either something awesome or something really disgusting (or vice versa), but that's what you're getting. Deal with it.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Karen Gowen and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Go-Go Gadget Gobbledygook!

2011-04-08T00:07:00.004-04:00

Great galloping gadflies! I'm giving away over $100 in my From A to Z Contest! What are you waiting for?

While I wholeheartedly (as opposed to partheartedly or halfspleenedly) admit that much of what I write/ramble/rant about here on this here blog is a steaming heap of—no, I refuse to call it refuse, but it is pretty much rubbish, and aye, there's the rub: If most readers can't cross your streams of consciousness, if they can't manage to follow your train of thought, it's clear you've probably gone loco without the motive. Even if you're just a little off track, betting you lose readers would be a profitable endeavor, since we live in a Short Attention Span Society (or SASS, and by the way I'm having SASS sashes made, shiny ones, all the better to distract you with, my dear) and—wait, where was I? Oh right. Sitting in my home office with a cat by my mouse.

Anyway, people sure love themselves some crazy (translation: they're keen on Sheen), but dude, they won't abide being driven batshit crazy themselves by having to decipher the droll, dauntless drivel you dare to deem your writing. So give it to 'em straight — or gay, or bi, or asexual (like this one amoeba I knew in college) — but whatever you do, don't force your readers to slog through the unnavigable landscape of crags and crevasses created by your particular brand of madness in the hopes they'll soldier through and eventually arrive at your point, because before they ever get there their minds will inevitably wander (as minds and tribes are apt to do) onto uncharted paths of their own (and likely lesser) imagination, and there they'll revel forever and ever and when they finally do come stumbling back to your intricately plotted passages and best laid lines that get tangled in each other and cause your hook to get caught in the fleshy part of your thumb, it will be time for dinner.

Reading shouldn't be a struggle.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Candace Ganger and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Five Fiendish Footnotes

2011-04-07T00:06:00.088-04:00

Flying fishnuts! There's over $100 up for grabs in my From A to Z Contest! Enter today!

I like footnotes. Not all of them, of course. The traditional ones, which simply impart more information or list source material, can be a bit droll. Footnotes can be so much more.

If you've been on my blog before, you know I typically use them as humorous asides, or as the punch line itself. Twice, I've had footnote-centric posts with 10 notes a piece, and my blog's title also comes from a footnote. But it's not just me.

Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell has footnotes that go on for pages, detailing past events in her revised history of Britain. Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves contains footnotes within footnotes within footnotes, mirroring the story's narrative. Jasper Fforde's protagonist Thursday Next speaks with characters who aren't in the scene via a footnoterphone. And these are just a few examples.

My footnotes today, however, are like none of the above. You may notice there are no little numbers or asterisks pointing you to them, that they have no connection at all to the content of the post. Here's why: My friend Maureen always reads the footnotes first, and I've tailored these specifically to, for lack of a better phrase (and to ensure the infinitive I started back there is really, really split), screw with her. Never mind that I don't necessarily believe the things I'm saying below. Like I said at the beginning, footnotes can be so much more than just boring old information.

They can be downright fiendish.

¹ "Not unless it's a hundred grand." Get it? Because of the farmer's tooth? Man, that joke kills me every time...
² ‒ • • ‒ ‒ ‒ ‒ ‒ • • ‒ ‒ ‒ ‒ ‒ • • • ‒ • • • • • • • ‒ • • ‒ ‒ ‒ ‒ this.
³ But this time, the duck was wearing a monocle.
⁴ People may call Bill Gates the Devil, but I say it's Steve Jobs. Think about it. They say the devil's in the details, and while Gates has given up day-to-day decisions at Microsoft, Jobs still has his hand in each new iDevice that comes out and imposes strict regulations on every product and app. He is like a snake, and Apple is the fruit of the devil.
⁵ Which is why, from now on, I shall only use Comic Sans. In bold text, red on a dark background. No, wait. It should be RAINBOW! And in a scrolling marquee!! BeSt FoOtNoTe EvAr! (Note: You'll need to click through to the blog to actually see the marquee — and blink — in action.)

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Jen Daiker and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Enigma Encryption, Eagle Emblem, Etc.

2011-04-06T00:05:00.071-04:00

Egad! I'm giving away over $100 in my From A to Z Contest. Enter today!

A few years ago a friend and I visited the National Cryptologic Museum outside Washington, DC. This was shortly after I'd finished Neal Stephenson's excellent Cryptonomicon, so I was ready to gorge myself on all things code-making and code-breaking.

Sadly, the museum had practically nothing from the last 10-20 years on display. Of course, those technologies are still in use today, so that wasn't surprising. This was: We got a personal tour from a former head of the NSA.

He was the museum director at the time, and there were few patrons there that Friday afternoon, so he accompanied us through half the building. Along with giving us detailed explanations about history's greatest cryptologic devices and techniques — such as the Engima machine during WWII — he also shared other interesting tales of espionage.

For instance, in 1946 Soviet school children presented the American Ambassador with a wooden replica of the U.S. Great Seal. The seal hung in his office for six years before anyone discovered the small microphone hidden inside the carving of the eagle.

Another story dealt with secrets escaping through a fireplace.¹ But for me the museum's real highlights were the codes and ciphers and encryption. I mean, sometimes it's just fun to send things in code. For instance, look what I can do to the phrase "THIS IS AN ENCRYPTED MESSAGE" by implementing two little rules:

VGET OR UP IMDQYQSAF LITRUHI.

It's not just simple letter substitution, like you'd find in a cryptogram. As you can see, a message can quickly become indecipherable unless you: a) know the encryption method, b) have a code-cracking computer (or code-cracking brain), or c) happen to know the original message, allowing you to ignore the encrypted one completely. (By the way, if you don't want to reverse engineer my code, the answer's in the footnotes.)² Sure, the Enigma machine and its progeny utilize far more complex algorithms, but I'd say it's pretty good for a couple minutes' work by a novice. I might even work it into a novel.

Anyway, if you're ever in the DC area and get the chance, I recommend checking out the National Cryptologic Museum. Or, if it sounds too geeky for you (or you have easily-bored children), I'd suggest the nearby International Spy Museum instead.

Oh, and remember...
CA RASA SU FQEPJ ZUOQ UWUKVOMA.

¹ I don't remember all the details, but I think this happened at an embassy in China. National secrets were getting out, and they couldn't figure out how. Multiple searches over a period of months (or years) turned up no bugs of any kind. And then someone thought to try lighting a fire in the fireplace. Smoke quickly filled the room. Turns out the fireplace had been built specifically so any conversation would echo down through the grate and along a 100-foot underground tunnel to where a Chinese agent sat recording every word.
² I switched each vowel to either the previous vowel or the next one, in alternating fashion and starting with the previous. I did the same for the consonants, but starting with the next. (Oh, and rather than deal with the Y as a vowel, I just left it as it was.)

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Alex J. Cavanaugh and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

Deoxyribonucleic Awesome!

2011-04-05T00:04:00.050-04:00

Dude! Do you like money? There's over $100 up for grabs in my From A to Z Contest. Enter today!

I expect if you were to ask most people what DNA stands for, even avid CSI watchers would respond IDK.¹ Scientists, on the other hand, would tell you that DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, is made up of letters.

And D isn't one of them.

Specifically, it's made up of A (adenine), C (cytosine), G (guanine), and T (thymine). Together, not only can these spell the name of an underrated 1997 film that deals with genetics, but they also combine to form the building blocks for all known living organisms. That's great and all, but what's really exciting is that they are proof Star Wars is hard-coded into our genes.

No, really.

In DNA, the nucleotides form base pairs. Adenine always bonds with thymine, and cytosine always bonds with guanine. So what does this mean? It means, like Star Wars, our DNA has many AT-ATs which are made with CG.²

That's right: The Force will be with you, always. Science fiction has become science fact.

You're welcome.

¹ I have no idea what that last one means. Illegal Donna Karans? Illustrated Donkey Kong? I'm David Krumholtz? Yeah, I don't know.
² That's computer graphics, for those who don't speak geek.

This post is part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, hosted by Stephen Tremp and seven others. Go check out the other participants!

From A to Z CONTEST!

2011-04-04T00:03:00.035-04:00

**The contest has ended** (view the winners)

In honor of Arlee Bird's Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, I thought today would be the perfect time to unveil an idea I've had for a while now: An alphabetic writing contest.

The rules are simple:
Write something using every letter of the alphabet, in order.

It can be prose. It can be poetry. It can be instructions for properly installing a flux capacitor. I don't care. All I care is that it contains all 26 letters, and that they appear in alphabetic order.

So, what do I mean by in order? Let me give you an example.

Amy used the bacon defense.

Take a look at the underlined letters in the above sentence. That's A through F, in order. Six down, twenty to go. Nice and easy.

And no, I won't tell you what the bacon defense is. It wouldn't be nearly as effective against you if I did.

Anyway, here's what you can win:

I shall bestow three prizes of $26 (as Amazon gift cards or something comparable, winner's choice) upon the authors of my three favorite entries.
I will also award at least three additional prizes of $10, based on criteria I won't divulge to you at this time. I'll just say this: it's all about the letters.

That's over $100 up for grabs. If you want in on this, leave your entry (or entries—I'll give you up to two) in the comments below. Don't worry about underlining the appropriate letters, just worry about what you're writing. And in which order the letters appear.

The contest will close in three weeks, on Monday, April 25, at 11:59pm (Eastern Time).

Be creative. Be funny. Be eloquent. Be insane.

But most of all: Entertain me.

Contest Rules:

Rules will be written in small type and numbered, so they look more official.
To enter, write something using every letter of the alphabet in order, and post it in the comments section of this blog. If your letters are out of order, I'll find them in contempt of court and give them a short sentence. Or I'll just hang a sign on the door telling people to use the next stall. Either way, you won't win.
Entries must use the English alphabet. If you end up using another one, such as Greek or Russian or Klingon, your entry will be translated into English, and inevitably lose something in the translation. Such as this contest.
You may submit a maximum of two entries. If you submit more than two, I will notice, because I can count. Only your final two entries will be eligible to win. I'll claim any earlier attempts as my own.
You must provide a name. Anonymous entries will not win. Eponymous and androgynous entries probably won't win, either, but I'll decide that based on merit.
There is no rule 6.
Prizes will be awarded as follows:
- Three (3) winners will receive $26 each, in the form of an Amazon gift card or comparable online currency (of the winner's choosing).
- Three (3) or more additional winners will receive $10 (also Amazon, etc.), awarded based on criteria that I make up as I go along.
- An indeterminate number of people will be dubbed as Honorable Mentions. These people will receive honor. (Also, mention.)
I shall act as the contest's sole judge, and if James Brown enters, its soul judge.
The contest is open until April 25, 2011 at 11:59pm, Eastern Time. If you post an entry after the deadline, it will be entered in my next contest instead. It won't win that one, either.
Good luck. (Not that luck will help you win, but it felt like the right thing to say.)