The Crown King

I recently finished a home improvement project: I installed crown molding in our dining room.

Before I go on, let me tell you a little about my infatuation with "do it yourself" projects. I have no delusions of grandeur regarding my ability to take on complex tasks. I always overlook something important, and without fail the tasks take longer than expected. For some reason this does not stop me (although it should).

When my wife and I first moved in together I mentioned to my mom that I was installing curtain rods.

"Oh, you should get your Dad or your brother to help you," she advised me. Bah. Curtain rods are simple, any buffoon can manage a drill.

Then I learned what those little plastic drywall anchors are for...after I decided I didn't need them and the curtain rods fell down. Then I re-drilled (I strategically placed the mounting brackets so the rod and the curtains would cover the old holes). I used the plastic drywall anchors this time. I did not use a stud finder. Turns out you really don't need those things when your drilling/screwing into a stud. Lesson learned (mostly).

Next was the deck on the back of our old house. I didn't go into this one blind, I purchased plans off the Internet and solicited the help of my uncle, cousin, and brother-in-law, all of whom had more building experience than I did. They also had better tools. The weekend project went by without injury, and we actually finished framing it. I guess a deck with an octagonal raised dining platform is an ambitious first-deck project. Who knew? A month later I finally finished it.

And then there was the six month finish-the-basement project. That was a massive undertaking, and I ended up subbing out the drywall and the drop ceiling. That's not included in the six months. That's just the time it took me to frame it.

For the crown molding project, I used both the Internet and a book for guidance. This is my method of take-no-prisoners planning. The consensus was "4 hours to install crown molding in a room." The consensus was wrong.

After six hours I had successfully nailed up four relatively crooked pieces of crown molding. The next evening I nailed up the molding on the other half of the room.

I surveyed my handiwork. Looked like shit, I must say; but that didn't worry me. I had spackle, caulk, and wood filler on my side. Turns out wood filler can be pretty messy and difficult to work with. It also does amazing things to the top two layers of skin on your hands and fingers (NOTE: "does amazing things to" in this context can also be read as "dissolves").

When I was done with the spackle, caulk, and woodfiller (which I sanded down to a not-quite-imperceptible smoothness), it still looked like shit. But I wasn't worried, I knew the paint would cover most if it.

"What kind of paint do you want, semi-gloss or satin?" the guy at Home Depot asked me. This was my fourth trip there that week. He was well aware of my endeavors.

"Which kind will hide imperfections in carpentry?" I asked.

"The satin."

"I'll take it."

I taped off and painted. I was amazed at how well the paint and caulk created straight lines above and below the crooked pieces of molding. The satin paint did an admirable job of covering the less severe blemishes. As for the more severe blemishes...you can hardly see them in the dark.

Which brings me to my next project: install a dimmer switch in the dining room.

Inoculated- A Short Story

"Inoculated"
By Rick Daley

The scientist slaved away in his laboratory, fueled as much by his ego as his will to survive. He teetered on the cusp of a breakthrough. He knew how to isolate the virus; he just lacked the tools to do it efficiently.

He peered into his microscope. He watched the red blood cells change as the infection took root. He couldn’t see the virus itself without a more powerful instrument, so he relied on observation of its effects to guide his work. The lens did a good enough job. It ought to. It took him three months to grind it. Three months he needed back. Three months that were forever past.

He lived for the future. The present carried little meaning. Day and night were naught in his subterranean world, an impromptu lab set up in the remains of a military bunker hewn deep in the bedrock. He slept often, but never for long. He tried to keep alert while he worked but the isolation acted as a sedative, enveloping his senses and veiling the rest of the world. The world he wanted so desperately to save.

The ground above him bathed in light, but soon the sun would set for months and if he didn’t finish before then all hope would be lost. The virus would have to be delivered to the hosts immediately. He could not preserve it through the long darkness, and he didn’t have the resources to repeat his work.

Success could not avoid him forever, and when his tenacity finally culminated in a pure form of the virus, highly contagious and transmittable through the air, he packed up his gear and stepped into the October sunlight, taking in the waning remains of a continuous day that began in January.

As he set out on his journey south he passed a herd of caribou. He thanked them, for it was in their blood that he first found the virus. If he succeeded – and he did not come all this way to fail – then all humanity would owe its future to the caribou.

He trekked on for days, staying ever vigilant as he traveled in the darkness, relying on the security of the sunlight to rest. Hundreds of miles passed beneath his feet before he reached the breeding pens, located in the central building of a large farm compound. He worked to stay hidden, which was easier than he expected because they weren’t looking for him here. They had no idea what he was about to do; that he had the power to destroy them forever.

The livestock paddocks were fully enclosed. Inside, a colony of hosts for his virus. Incubators and carriers with a natural immunity, the livestock in this pen were special, used for breeding. The mature offspring were shipped worldwide where they were interbred with local livestock.

The virus would spread quickly, and when it did their entire food supply would be poisoned, and every last drop of human blood would be forever protected from than fangs of the vampires.

He looked up at the sun. Four hours before it would sink beneath the horizon. Four hours before they would awaken. If he failed, they would be humanity’s final hours.

He snuck around to a service entrance. Unlocked. They never expected intruders; the vampires had no natural enemies other than the light of the sun. Their order rivaled that of a hive of insects, working to keep their society fed with a steady stream of human blood. They lived with a ruthless efficiency but after years of having no threat to their power they had let down their guard. And it would be their undoing.

He worked his way deeper into the compound and voices echoed through the ductwork. Soft murmurs, primitive vocalizations devoid of true language. Is humanity even worth saving at this point? He wondered as he turned the corner and came upon hundreds of naked humans in a large room empty of any furnishings save the rows of commodes along one wall.

They stared at him, their young faces dumbfounded. They did not make any noise; rather, a hush fell over them as they struggled to make sense of this apparition – a bearded man, something that some of them had not seen since their early childhood, and many had never seen at all. Vampire skin did not produce facial hair, and they kept the human livestock shaved from head to toe.

As a rule, no human was allowed to live past the age of twenty. The oldest of the livestock in the room would have been six years old at the uprising. How quickly the power shifted; mere weeks from the time of the Reveal, when the vampires came together in the moonlight for all the world to see, to the time when they drained the last adult human of her blood. The vampires used their superior strength to wrest control of the planet from its human leaders and establish their own rule of law.

He moved into the center of the crowd, an old glass perfume bottle in hand, and he pointed it at the mouths of the people he passed. Their jaws opened without question, and into each he sprayed one pump of the viral agent. He continued until his spray was all gone, and he left undetected, stealing away into the final hour of daylight.

He reached the woods as darkness fell and he took shelter in a shallow cave. His job finished, he risked a night’s sleep, no longer concerned about his fate if found. Any vampire that tasted his blood would regret it.

Dawn broke and the morning light found its way to his eyes, teasing them open with its promise of warmth and safety. He crawled out of the cave and stood and stretched and breathed deep the fresh air. Today it tasted different, as if his pride and hope were carried on the breeze, nourishing a soul exhausted from years of trials fraught with much more error than success.

The whole farm is infected by now. The vampires won’t know it because they don’t eat the breeding stock. How long until the first vampire dies? He thought. It was the same thought that ran through his mind every day for the past four years, since the day he discovered the virus that the caribou carried. The half-strand of DNA that could kill a vampire within hours but did no harm to a human host.

Not long, I bet. There has to be a shipment of the older stock going out to breed soon. Whoever they are herded with, they will all be infected within days. All they need to do is breathe the same air. When the vampires dine on the infected stock, they will feel the pain of death.

How long until they figure out the cause? He wondered. Another oft-repeated question that seemed as old as the hills in which he hid, with an answer as familiar as the itch beneath his beard. Probably never. I just saved the human race, and nobody will ever know it.

To him, that mattered. As a scientist before the rise of the vampires he coveted the recognition of his peers and sought after the top prizes awarded in his field. And now, when he finally completed a work worthy of worldwide renown, he feared that news of his deeds would fall into a soundless void, never to resonate in the intellect of those that benefitted the most from it.

The disease spread faster than he anticipated. He failed to account for the frequency at which the vampires dined, and the way several of them would gorge themselves on the same human, one at the neck, one at each wrist, and one at the inside of each leg, draining the femoral arteries. For each human host, five vampires would die.

Across the earth the vampires became infected. The virus imbued their unfeeling flesh with a pain so intense it drove them into the fiery light of the sun in a suicidal frenzy. Unable to resist the temptation to feed, the vampires found extinction in the new human blood.

At first the human livestock remained in their pens, domesticated cattle that were born into slavery and had little to no sense of freedom. Eventually they emerged into a dangerous new world, learning how to eat and drink without being fed and watered. He did his best to help them and guide them, to give them back the gift of language. He impregnated as many females as he could, hoping that seed would empower a new generation to rise up and reclaim the reigns of the earth.

But is it any use at all? They are so many, and me only one, he thought. Still he tried. He accepted their fate, and with it, his own.

His people looked on him as a God, come to them one day as a ray from the sun to free them from slavery and bring them forth into the light. They erected for him a great stone monument, and carved for him an effigy in rock, part man and part animal, for the animals gave him the power to set them free. Those that made the statue did not know what his caribou looked like, so they chose instead a local animal that had earned their respect for its power and majesty.

When death finally claimed him, he surrendered to it openly, satisfied at last with his life and what he had done.

A Little Humor...

I have to post something. I have a couple long stories to tell, but not enough time to write them, so for today I'm just posting one of my favorite jokes. I'll try to make it as clean as possible...

The judge pounded his gavel. "Order in the court," he called. "Mickey Mouse, I have reviewed your case and I will not grant you a divorce. This court has found Minnie Mouse to be mentally competent."

"Your honor, I didn't say she was crazy," Mickey pleaded. "I said she was f*&%ing Goofy!"

Questions About the Weather

Q: It's been cooler up there in Ohio for the past few days, hasn't it?
A: This weekend was the first time I really felt fall in the air. And it's not just colder, we're getting copious amounts of rain to boot!

Q: Wow, how does that impact outdoor activities, like soccer, mowing the lawn, and going to the bus stop?
A: One topic at a time, please.

Q: Sorry. How does that impact soccer?
A: We have two kids in soccer, a second-grader who loves it and gives it his all, and a kindergartner who seems to lose interest at a rate that is directly proportional to the positive interest of another family member. That is, the more we care about his games, the less he does. Weird.

So when it rained all day Saturday, and it was still coming down hard when it was time to leave for the young one's game, we stayed warm and dry at home. There was no reason to compound the misery. Although I spent the time finishing a crown molding project in the dining room, which is more unpleasant than standing in the cold rain. I am a glutton for punishment.

Q: OK, so how about mowing the lawn?
A: The weather impacts not mowing the lawn more than it impacts mowing the lawn. Right now I have a very moist jungle growing out back. I hope to be able to mow it this evening. If all goes well the mulching blade will do its job and I won't have to rake the lawn when I'm done. Because even if I need to rake it, it is very likely that I won't bother.

Q: Last but not least: the bus stop.
A: That's not a question.

Q: Humor me?
A: If you insist. We have been fortunate that all bus stop trips have been dry so far. Today was very windy and chilly, though. It was worse in the afternoon than the morning. My younger son was quite put off by the cold and the wind, and insisted I carry him. Since the walk is only five driveways, I declined, but I did carry his lunchbox for him.

Every few steps he complained about the cold and pleaded for me to carry him. It's not like we're summiting Mt. Everest or anything like that, so I decided that a character-building walk was not beyond his means.

When I got to the garage I knew he had been trailing a few paces behind me. I turned to check his progress, and instead set sight on this fabulous piece of melodrama, prone in my driveway, at which time I finally gave in and carried him:

I Have an Agent!

Cooler words have ne'er been spoken. Or writ, or typed, as it may be.

What does that mean?

Why revisions, of course. And more writing. The manuscript is not quite ready to submit to publishers, but it will be.

The work in question is RUDY TOOT-TOOT. My other two works-in-progress will have a shift to the back burner while I expand Rudy's story. It was 500-words at first, now it's 4,000, and will grow significantly in the very near future. My agent (wow it's awesome to type that) has an excellent background for editorial advice, having worked as a children's book editor for many years. I'm looking forward to working with her and introducing Rudy Toot-Toot to the world at large.

I've said it before and I'll say it again:

I'll find success if it doesn't find me first.

Preach Like a Pirate

September 19th was annual Talk Like a Pirate Day. Evil Editor had a writing contest involving pirate speak ("The task was to write a scene in which you take over for a preacher who just dropped dead, and deliver his sermon . . . on International Talk Like a Pirate Day" 300 words max), and since I haven't had time to put together an original post here I figured I may as well share my entry for yonder competition:


I hobbled up to the front of the room and whirled around. Peg legs offer a convenient pivot point. The parrot on my shoulder dug its talons into my tattered waistcoat as I gripped the sides of the podium.

“Arrgh vey,” I said. I told you I was going to use that line. “It seems me matey Rabbi Cohenbergenstein has walked ye proverbial plank. Now he’s gettin stuffed into Davy Jones’s locker like a wee landlubber on his first day o’ learnin. So now it’s up to me to complete this bris.”

The parrot on my shoulder whistled and squawked, “Polly want a foreskin.”

“At least the bilge rat was kind enough to swab the dick with a wee bit o’ grog,” I said as I drew my cutlass. “It should be as clean as the bung hole on me best barrel o’ rum.”

As I raised the blade and prepared to make the cut, a voice called out for me to stop.

“Avast ye scurvy dog, ‘fore I gets me cat o’ nine tails out. I got work to do,” I scowled, for scowling is an important aspect of pirate-speak. “Aye, well sink me, this little hornpipe ain’t got enough meat to cut.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. It’s a girl. This is a baptism, you fool.”

“Well shiver me timbers! This wee one squats on the head to pee. Not even me mateys up in the crow’s nest could ‘ave seen that one comin.”

#

Simple Comprehension

As a follow up to my last post:

My wife and I were discussing the kindergarten Curriculum Night we attended yesterday evening. My son had told her about some of the books they were reading and other activities they are doing. He came into the room and climbed on my lap.

"Do you like kindergarten?" I asked.

"Uh-huh," he said, in a very nonchalant tone.

"Do you know what I just asked you?" I asked.

"What?"

Apparently not.

I Must Confess...

I’m going to come clean about something I do as a parent and I bet I’m not alone in this. It’s something I do almost every day, although I should not do it at all. I should know better. But I do it anyway. And there’s a good chance you do it too.

By now you’re probably dying to know what it is, so I’ll let the suspense build while I provide some background information. You’ll thank me, this will totally be worth it.

My sons are eight and five. They are bright boys, and they are well behaved (for the most part). And they are completely different. It’s not just that one likes trains and the other likes jigsaw puzzles. A lot of the difference is their age coming through. They are at a very formative stage, and each year they surprise me as they grow.

As I see them get bigger I interact with them differently, giving them more responsibility, harder tasks. And herein lies my problem: I dole out instructions like I’m talking to adults. But they aren’t. They are kids. And I talk to the eight-year-old like he’s an adult and I talk to the five-year-old like he’s an eight-year-old.

Then - this is the kicker - I get frustrated when they don’t do things right, or they do them too slow. And even though they are close in years, the eight-year-old has no concept of what it was like to be five, when he was still learning and wasn’t as coordinated. He gets frustrated over menial things, like how his brother plays Lego Batman on the Wii.

Kids don’t think like we do. They may be able to carry out a short list of simple tasks, but they can’t remember long lists of complex tasks. Especially my five-year-old, who is free-spirited on top of being five. Here’s an example:

I can’t say “Get ready for school” when he gets out of bed and expect him to make it all the way to the bus stop without further instruction (not counting assistance provided, like toasting the waffles, pouring the cereal, and crossing the street). Here’s what all is required of him in order to “get ready for school” -

- Get dressed
- Brush your teeth
- Comb your hair
- Go downstairs
- Take your allergy medicine
- Eat breakfast
- Use the bathroom
- Wash your hands
- Now dry them off
- Turn the light off
- You turned the fan on. Turn the light off
- Now turn the fan off, too
- Leave the dog alone.
- Come over here
- Now
- One
- Two
- Thank you. Now pick those shoes up and put them on…

Eventually we do make it to the bus stop. But you see, there is so much that falls under “Get Ready for school” that they can’t remember it all. I have to break it down into its smaller components and micro-manage the shit out of each child, or they will manage themselves. For kids at ages where they still miss important details, like “wear underpants,” they just aren’t ready for self-management. I will find that they inserted a 20-minute session of “Play with Darth Tater” between “Brush your teeth” and “Comb your hair.”

It gets worse when I use big words. These are usually reserved for the Great Parenting Lectures where I go on for ten minutes, knowing I lost them nine minutes and forty-five seconds ago but continuing to extol virtue after virtue nonetheless because I feel bad when I spank them.

I tell them about the consequences of their choices and taking responsibility for their decisions and owning up to their actions and being a leader, not a follower. And they look at me and say, “If you hold you face like this too long,” (pinches his cheeks and purses his lips like a fish) “will it stay like that forever?”

On the other hand, if I say let’s go to the park they will vanish and reappear a split-second later with shoes on, thrusting my car keys into my hand and urging ME along, telling me that I made a wrong turn when I wasn’t going to the park he was thinking of. Now he’s got a built-in GPS for crying out loud…

Are We F#$@ing Crazy?

I just read a news report that there is some kind of national frenzy over a planned speech by President Obama to our nation's schoolchildren next week.

Apparently there is fear that he will indoctrinate the children of this great country to his socialist agenda. Someone must have found a copy of the speech, and it must go something like this:

"Good morning children. I am your President, but you can call me Supreme Leader. Starting immediately I want you, the children of the nation, to start a communal sharing of all of your worldly goods. At lunch time, you will be asked to place your lunchbox in the center of the cafeteria and government workers will distribute the food equally among you all. You will be checked each day for money, and any cash found on your person will be confiscated, taxed, and the redistributed to the whole student body. Then we will give you all abortions and kill your grandparents in death panels. Go put on your new Red school uniforms and remember that disobedience means death in a labor camp."

This is especially dangerous in public schools, which are effectively socialist institutions already (socialized education), so the last thing those children need is self-realization of this fact, because then they will be able to skip school every day out of basic patriotic duty.

On the other hand, he might just encourage them to study hard. That in and of itself may be OK, but I'm not risking the chance that he'll turn our kids into little fetus-killing socialists in 20 minutes flat. That is his goal, you know.

I am soooo high right now

I mean that in a literal sense. I think we are cruising at about 29,000 feet. This plane has wifi!

It's a Delta flight. I'm coming home from a business trip in Florida and Atlanta, and there was a girls in Atlanta-Hartsfield International Airport handing our cards with a promo code to use this service for free. It's called "gogo flight internet" and I must say, this is pretty cool.

I just finished reading INTO THIN AIR, about the 1996 tragedy on Mt. Everest. I bought it on Tuesday afternoon and read most of it on the way to Orlando, and I finished it on the way to Atlanta this morning. One of the climbers, a wealthy lady named Sandy Pittman, had planned to transmit a blog post from the heights of the mountain. Turns out that (among many other things that didn't go as planned) her equipment didn't work when she was as high as I am now. This is a much better solution.

And while I'm on the topic, it was a great book. I am insane enough to read it and think, "Wow, I'd like to try that." If only the whole tragedy thing could be averted, that is. I'm just talking about climbing Mt. Everest. I know I won't (I don't have the $65,000 needed to book a guided trip).

That's all for now. I'm going to work on a manuscript for the rest of the flight.

A Writing Game

I'm going to play a writing game. It's called "How much can I write before my wife and kids get home."

It should be easy, because I know when they get home I will have to stop. Time check: 6:15 pm EDT.

They are at an open house at school. We went to the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the brand new elementary school yesterday. One son, destined to wear the proud badge of a Hall Monitor before he graduates, is starting second grade. The other son, the Peanut, is starting kindergarten.

NOTE: Most other bloggers seem to have pet names for their families when they blog, to protect them from the likes of people like you. Not me. I'm changing them to protect you from us.

Another Note: I'm still working out what to name my wife. Feel free to vote, your options are: My Love, My Darling Wife, My Better Half (too cliche? It's really true), The Hottie, and Biatch. Ha ha! Just kidding about that last one...

OK, time's up. 6:21pm.

This is a Multi-Award Winning Publication

It seems I have earned the respect and admiration of a few readers of this humble blog. How the hell that happened I have no idea. Stark cynicism must have climbed in value since the last time I checked. But who am I to deny myself the benefits of free publicity?

So I will momentarily shed my humble ego (NOTE: WTF? Humble? You expect any of us to believe that?) and accept these two prestigious awards that some random bloggers made up. (NOTE: is it a Freudian slip that I almost typed boogers just now instead of bloggers?)

First, the Kreativ Blogger Award:


One cannot just claim this coveted prize without completing a series of Herculean tasks. Really, Herculean? Surely you jest! Buy nay, as you read through the list of duties (NOTE: Ha ha! He said "doodie") you will see what a challenge each one is...

1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.

I received this nomination several days ago, and I don't remember who it was from and I'm too lazy to look it up right now. Really the first nomination was from Bridget, but she didn't really nominate me, just emailed me that she wanted to nominate me but was afraid that I would do with the nomination what I am doing right now, i.e. using it to fuel my sarcasm. Then Laura nominated me. And I got another nomination from Vodka Logic. So thanks to all of you!

2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.

I didn't place it, I pasted it. I hope this does not disqualify me.

3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.

Crap. Now I have to do the research I avoided on task number one. Ok, research done, it was Laura Martone.

4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.

4.1 I am a heathen. But regular readers know that already.
4.2 I play bass and guitar, and I write songs and lyrics.
4.3 I try to sing, but I'm not good at it. If you are pretty drunk, I'm good enough that you probably won't mind, though.
4.4 I had a normal, well-adjusted childhood with friends and a loving family, but was still a basket-case as a teenager.
4.5 I am an introverted extrovert. I like attention, but only when I am alone in the center of it. I hate being in a crowd, and I am a shitty conversationalist at parties. Small talk and I have never gotten on well.
4.6 This is like slaying the hydra, all these things about me are like the hydra's heads, as soon as I tick off one interesting thing, another one pops up in its place. I told you this was Herculean.
4.7 I'm really humble (NOTE: Bullsh!t.)

5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.

These are in alphabetical order by author. To avoid creating what Microsoft Excel would call a "circular reference" I did not nominate those who nominated me (and/or considered nominating me):

5.1 D. Michael Olive, DMichaelOlive
5.2 Lady Glamis, The Innocent Flower
5.3 Laurel, Unhinged...Seriously
5.4 Mira, Come in Character
5.5 Penney, The Sometimes Almost Fictional Life of Penney
5.6 Tricia J. O'Brien, Talespinning
5.7 VodkaMom, VodkaMom

6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.

See 5.1 through 5.7.

7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.

Holy f&%*ing s^!# this is taking forever.



Vodka Logic nominated me for this one, and I like it better because the logo is not frilly and girly and the sub-tasks are in quantities of 5's and not 7's.

**Each Superior Scribbler I name today must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.

No rule saying I can't just copy and paste the first 5 from the other award. Sorry numbers 6 and 7, no disrespect. The alphabet doesn't favor you.

5.1 D. Michael Olive, DMichaelOlive
5.2 Lady Glamis, The Innocent Flower
5.3 Laurel, Unhinged...Seriously
5.4 Mira, Come in Character
5.5 Penney, The Sometimes Almost Fictional Life of Penney


**Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.

See above, under the logo.

**Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to this post, which explains The Award.

See above, above the link mentioned above.

**Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor.

How could I not participate when the name is as cute as "Mr. Linky List"?

**Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

This I refuse to do. Eat me.

Till Death Do Us Part

I pulled into a parking space and turned to my wife and sister (NOTE: even though my wife is from West Virginia, I am not, and therefore she and my sister are in fact different people).

"I want to apologize in advance in the event a bolt of lightning strikes as soon as I walk into the church," I said. They nodded, affirming the likelihood of such a smoting.

The architecture of the building was beautiful, a Catholic cathedral situated right in downtown Akron. I know, downtown Akron is not much of a selling point, but you have to trust me on this one. The inside was very nice, and the stained-glass windows kept the reality of its location at bay.

Now I mentioned this was a Catholic cathedral, so that means it was a Catholic wedding. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the tenant s of Catholicism, this requires a full mass before the actual wedding. Minimum run time of 45 minutes. I am a recovering Catholic (went to Catholic school grades 1-7), so I wanted to challenge myself by seeing how much of the rote memorization of the Catholic mass I remembered. Plus I want to see how many times I can use the word "Catholic" in this paragraph. It turns out, quite a lot. Catholic.

If you haven't noticed from my writing, I have a short attention span and an over-active imagination. My thoughts turned to the walls, upon which many things were written. One of these things read "Joseph, pray to Jesus for us" and all I could think was "Damn, that's lazy. Can't even take the time to pray yourself, have to ask someone else to do it for you?"

The priest actually had a good homily, but I couldn't stop thinking about how his squinty eyes looked like Mr. Magoo without his glasses.

The bride and groom wrote their own vows, and they were very good. They were also long. The groom went first, talking about the first time they met. When the groom flipped his paper over and kept reading from the back, an image crept into my mind of him standing there in paper up to his knees ("And then on our sixteenth date..."). Honestly, though, he made a lot of people cry (in a good way). Of course, I was not among those numbers. My mind was already wondering elsewhere.

The most precious part of the wedding was when the priest said, "Frodo, the ring."

At least that's what I heard him say. Everyone else may have heard something completely different.

WARNING: MATURE CONTENT

That got you to click didn't it? You bunch o' perverts. Gosh.

Actually, there won't be any mature content in this post. You may now go elsewhere for your debauchery. Doesn't matter, Google Analytics knows you were here.

I just wanted to tell you about the difficulties I have selecting music for my car. I have a 6-CD changer, which is great because I'm too impatient to listen to commercial radio and I don't drive enough to justify satellite radio.

I have an iPod adaptor, but if I used my iPod I am sure to leave it in the car and then the battery will be dead when I want to go jogging, and then I won't jog without music so ultimately listening to the iPod in the car is bad for my health.

The kids don't appreciate the talents of Crosby, Stills & Nash or Janis Joplin. Those "Best of..." CD's are getting pulled from the mix. Trying to decide what to replace them with is a challenge, indeed.

I discovered recently that the kids like Billy Joel, as they continuously request two tracks from Disc 1 of his "Best Of..." CD. (NOTE: I do have several non-Best of... CD's. But none of them will be mentioned in this post).

Choice 1: Disc 2 of the Best of Billy Joel. Many great tunes, and I am sick as hell of The Entertainer and Captain Jack from Disc 1.

Choice 2: I settled on the "Best of...The Doors." I haven't listened to them in a long time, and Jim Morrison had a great voice for a drunken lunatic. Which disc, though, 1 or 2?

Looking over the songs...Disc 2...LA Woman, good one...Roadhouse Blues, another classic, makes me want to get myself a beer...Love her madly, sweet romantic ballad...The End, wait a minute.

That's the one that goes:

"Father?"
"Yes, son."
"I want to kill you. Mother. I want to..."

Waaaay too many questions to answer there. Disc 1 it is.

So Sue Me

Where there's smoke, there's fire. Where there's thunder, there's lightning. And where there's money, there's a lawsuit.

It seems someone named Jordan Scott is suing Stephanie Meyer for allegedly taking her vampire love story and making it popular.

Now first things first: Jordan Scott, is this all you can do to earn money after American Idol? I know your record sales are down, but frivolous lawsuits are not cool. Oh, wait. That was Jordan Sparks. My bad.

Ms. Scott is suing Ms. Meyer because of "striking and substantial" similarities between the fourth book in the TWILIGHT series and a work titled THE NOCTURNE. The article linked above, which is sourced from MTV because this is totally about music, provides two examples of text, which I will critique for you now to illustrate how different they actually are.

First, Ms. Scott:
"Her face was so pale, it was frightening; and there were beads of sweat pouring down her forehead. She couldn't even stand, she was so weak. ... She was violently ill, vomiting and scarcely able to catch her breath."

This has most of the makings of a hit YA vampire love saga, i.e. passive story telling (was so pale, were...pouring, was so weak, was violently ill) and multiple adverbs (violently, scarcely). Plus you demonstrated an advanced understanding of punctuation by using a semi-colon. But this lacks sparkle.

Additionally, there are many unnecessary descriptions here:
- Her face is frightening because it is pale. Cause and effect is not necessary in YA vampire love sagas. Plus cold and pale is really HOT, don't you know? Nothing scary about that.
- Her weakness is demonstrated through her inability to stand. You said she's weak, your extended examples overwhelm our collective lack of imagination. Cut it out.
- Physical descriptions of sickness, such as vomiting, are just gross. Although you get an extra adverb point for scarcely

Overall, this is a nice first effort that could be made ultra-successful in the hands of a true master.

Now, Ms. Meyer:
"Most of her dark hair was pulled away from her face into a messy knot, but a few strands stuck limply to her forehead and neck, to the sheen of sweat that covered her skin. There was something about her fingers and wrists that looked so fragile it was scary. She was sick. Very sick."

This has all of the makings of a hit YA vampire love saga, i.e. passive story telling (was pulled, was something, was scary, was sick) and adverbs (limply). Plus it sparkles: the sheen of sweat.

If we look up the definition of sheen, we find:

- adjective: shining, beautiful
- verb (used without object): to shine
- noun: 1) luster, brightness, radiance, 2) a member of a family of actors with varying degrees of talent and success. See also: BALDWIN

And the way you made the hair stick to the sheen, it's brilliant. Personally I never would have thought something would stick to a sheen, except a monkey to Charlie Sheen's back. I would have made the hair stick to the sweat. Shows you what I know!

And the vague descriptions that don't force me to actually visualize something unpleasant. What a relief! I mean, something about her fingers and wrists that looked so fragile it was scary. That gives me goosebumps! It's a good thing neither of us can think of what it actually was, we'd really be freaked out!

And the way you told me she was sick without grossing me out with yucky images of puke, or pain in specific areas of her body. Thank you! You said she was Very sick, and because you made that its own sentence, I know you really meant it. 'Nuff said.

Can't wait to read the rest!

Prostitution- Defined

Last weekend we went to Akron for a wedding. On Friday we stopped at my uncle's house to drop our kids off, and they stayed with him Saturday while we went to the wedding and stayed in a hotel that had free shuttle service to and from the reception (it's like getting an official license to drink yourself silly).

I'll tell you about the wedding later. This story is about the kids' experience at my uncle's house, and how it affected my relationship with my Grandma. You're probably wondering what this has to do with the definition of prostitution....

The backstory: We met at my Grandma's house to pick the kids up. I had to go to Grandma's house, there was a serious issue I needed to confront. You see, she gets online sometimes. And she read this post about my last trip to my uncle's house. And while she does get online, she does not get my sense of humor. She got to the part about "Lila smoked some really strong crack" and of course she took it literally and promptly called my aunt to tell her that I was no family man like I pretend to be, I took the kids to a crack-house before I went home.

To my aunt, this was way to good to quash, so she didn't even try to explain it to Grandma. Instead, she called me, laughing so hard she could barely speak and leaving it up to me to clear my name.

We got to Grandma's house before my uncle and the kids did, and I took Lila (our GPS) inside to show it to Grandma and explain such concepts as metaphors and hyperbole. No sooner had I re-polished my tarnished image than my aunt and uncle arrived with the kids.

First thing was hugs and kisses for the boys (had to re-establish the fact that I am a family man). The kids ran off to play Grandma's piano.

"Oh, in case it comes up," my Uncle said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the kids were out of hearing range, "prostitution is not wearing your seat belt."

To make a short story long, here's how this little word game unfolded:

My Aunt and Uncle were channel surfing with the kids when my older son saw COPS on the cable guide. He loves that show, he first saw it when he was staying at my in-law's house. I watched it with him several times, eventually drawing the conclusions that 1) I didn't want to keep explaining what was happening and why, and 2) the explanations are not suitable for a seven-year-old anyway.

I didn't think to tell my Uncle this beforehand.

So the first scene in COPS was the officers busting a car full of hookers.

"Why are they getting arrested?" My son asked.

"They weren't wearing their seatbelts," was the evasive answer given.

A few minutes later the officer said, "We're going to have to take you in on charges of prostitution."

My son drew the only conclusion he could, given the information available to him at the time. "Prostitution? So that's what it's called when you don't wear your seat belt."

Nobody contradicted his logic. However, my Grandma overheard my Uncle telling me this, and now she believes that I am somehow involved in prostitution. So apparently I went from socializing with crack-ho's to just ho's. And for the record, Grandma knows prostitution has nothing to do with seat belts.

The Angel of Death

My son was visited by the Angel of Death last week.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that Rick Daley can be funny sometimes, and right now he's grasping at straws for material. That may be the case, but it doesn't negate the truth of the statement. My seven-year-old son was visited by the Angel of Death last week. Luckily he marked his door with lamb's blood so he survived the incident.

The AoD visited him at Bible school. Now regular followers of this blog may ask, "What the hell was your son doing at Bible school? Aren't you the one who's writing a blasphemous novel about God coming down to earth and hiring a consultant to help Him figure out how to destroy the world?"

In regard to the latter part of your question, yes, but I consider it funny, not blasphemous. My God has a great sense of humor and appreciates my efforts. But as to the first part, I am not opposed to my children being exposed to different religions and cultures. They need to learn about them at some point. However, the specifics of the subject matter can sometimes be called into question.

After he got back from Bible school last Wednesday, he told us that he didn't like it. We asked what he didn't like.

"Well, at first they told us all about Jesus, and that was kind of interesting..." He started, but we could tell he was holding back.

"What else did you do?"

"We had to go into this room where there were all these houses. And we had to paint marks on the doors with lamb's blood and go inside. Then there were loud noises outside, they said it was the Angel of Death. As along as we painted our doors with lamb's blood we would be alright, but if we didn't then we would die."

"Wow," I said, and I meant every word.

"That was just weird," he confided.

I couldn't agree more.

He didn't want to go back and we didn't make him. For all I know he missed out on a re-enactment of the time David had to kill 100 Philistines AND collect their foreskins for Saul. Or the time Lot's two daughters got him drunk and had sex with him. Yep, some parts of the Bible aren't written for children.

Fate or Free Will?

Do you believe in fate, or free will? Is it possible to live a life governed by both?

Imagine this scenario. A reincarnating soul, preparing to begin its next life, has a clarity of thought and vision our limited senses cannot fathom. The soul is able to choose the course its life will take, like the expert marksman who knows where his bullet will hit before he squeezes the trigger.

When the soul pulls the trigger, it begins a life it chose for itself. But once it is born, the trajectory cannot be altered. Fate, chosen of one's own free will.

I like this thought. It gives a sense of ownership over one's past and future without having to write off tragedy to the incomprehensible mind of a deity.

Why, then, would anyone choose to suffer in life? Well, if the choice to suffer is made by a soul between stages of reincarnation, a soul who knows that each life is temporary, a soul that has lived many lives and is ready for a new experience, then suffering starts to make more sense. It is not a lesson taught by God, it is a lesson taught by ourselves.

To me, God is bigger than a single life. God is the universe in its entirety, "all that is seen and unseen." There is nothing that is not part of God; indeed, "nothing" itself is also part of God.

So if you look at yourself, you are made up entirely of God. You are 100% God, as am I. The earth, the sun, the distant quasar...everything has equal divinity: 100%.

When you gotta go...

I was in Chicago this week for a quarterly sales meeting. Wednesday's agenda started at 8:30am, went straight through the working lunch, and was scheduled to go until 5pm with no breaks.

At one stage, one of our salespeople quietly got up and left the room. He came back a few minutes later. "Sorry, I couldn't hang on any longer," he informed us.

"That's TMI," someone said.

"No," I corrected. "It was TMP."

Time Management

I've been doing my best to manage the split between work, family, and writing. I think I'm making progress. This is the routine:

- Wake up really early, between 5am and 6am. This morning I woke up around 5:30 but stayed in bed until my alarm went off at 6am because I knew that coffee wouldn't be ready. I'm stubborn that way. I am not a morning person unless I force myself.

- Hit the computer. Check email and the weather while sipping coffee and letting my eyes adjust to the light. This is the Danger Zone of Potential Distraction, and sometimes I forego it and leap right into my manuscript for FATE'S GUARDIAN.

- Write until 8am, refilling coffee cup frequently. The IV drip is still on backorder.

- I work from home, so when eight o'clock rolls around I save my work and rotate my chair ninety degrees counter-clockwise and hit the other laptop.

- Work all day. Run or exercise around lunchtime, shower, eat and get back to work.

- After work, spend time with the family and get dinner ready. I worked in restaurants for many years so I'm the resident chef.

- Tell the kids to get their pajamas on seven thousand times. If the tub is also involved, then the count doubles. My firstborn is a better listener and usually complies after the initial request, but my other son (who turned five yesterday!) needs the extra goading.

- Talk to my wife, sip wine, and work on the manuscript for EARTH'S END. Thankfully TV season is in a lull (LOST, DEXTER, and AMERICAN IDOL are the primary distractions; WEEDS is losing my interest, it's water-skiing toward the shark but hasn't officially jumped it yet).

- Go to bed.

- Rinse and repeat.

This morning I hit 20,000 words in my re-write of FATE'S GUARDIAN. My goal is 80,000, so I'm a quarter of the way through. I really like this version of it. As I read back and reflect on the prior drafts, I think it's amazing how much I have grown as a writer.

I swear to you I will find success if it doesn't find me first.

A Chilling Thought

Short post, not much time. We're about to leave for Dayton to see the air show. The Thunderbirds will be flying, as well as a stealth bomber, Apache helicopters, and other things that, until I know the names of them, will be formally considered UFO's.

The issue: right now it's 59 degrees outside. It's freaking July!!!! Our high isn't even going to reach 70. WTF?

If you happen to run see Mother Nature today, please tell her she is a whore.

That's all.

Tongue Twister

Try to say this out loud as fast as you can:

A skunk sat on a stump. The stump thought the skunk stunk, the skunk thought the stump stunk. Who stunk, the skunk or the stump?

Earth's End- Post 5

(You really need to start at the beginning. Click here to get there. Or click here to revisit Post 4)

God stepped off the subway and onto the platform. It reminded him of hell, it just smelled worse. He worked his way through the crowd, careful not to get any muck on his suit.
He went up the stairs and onto the streets of Manhattan. As He walked toward Central Park He noticed His reflection in a window. He admired himself in his fine gray suit, custom fitted and made from a material He just created. It resembled silk, but it was softer and stronger. Too bad the world would be gone before everyone had the chance to admire the genius of His latest creation.

The exhaust from a bus tried to muss his white hair but failed. God smiled, fascinated by the prefect form of his mustache and beard as his cheeks reached their peak.

Damn I look good, He thought. I am who AM!

God was going to go straight to the park and meet Joshua, but He passed a pizzeria and couldn’t resist going in for a couple slices and a beer. If the Earth was to be destroyed soon - and it was, He knew that because He was the destroyer - He thought it wise to take in one last gulp of all it had to offer.

The pizza was like manna from Heaven. Its crust was crisp, and the fluorescent lights made shiny rainbows appear in the grease on top of the pepperoni. For his second bite he sprinkled on some crushed red pepper and chewed slowly, letting the heat spread evenly across his tongue. Then he bit his tongue. Hard.

No one knows the mind of God but God. Whether or not he bit his tongue on purpose will remain forever a mystery. What is undisputed is that in his frustration from feeling the extra burn of pepper on his newly chewed tongue, God smote a bus full of nuns in Peru. Lightning hit the bus and it exploded as it tumbled down the mountainside. God loved a good explosion.

The nuns died instantly and were transported to heaven. God may have lost his temper and hurled brimstone once or twice when it really wasn’t called for, but at least those unfortunate victims got a free pass to Heaven.

He finished His pizza and beer and went back out toward the park. He saw Joshua with his shirt off, washing his armpits in a drinking fountain.

“You missed a spot,” He said.

Joshua didn’t look up. He just kept washing.

“You need some soap.”

Joshua stopped and gripped the basin at its sides, arms shaking. “You come down here in a suit, with money for food and drink, looking respectable, but You send me here like this?”

“Quite an experience, isn’t it?” God smiled.

“Not really, no. Want to trade places and see for Yourself?”

“Ha ha! No, that’s not necessary. I already know what it’s like. I’m God, remember? Whatever you know, I knew beforehand. That’s how you can know it in the first place.”

“Thanks for the reminder. Can You answer one question for me?”

“I can answer any question for anybody. Do you mean will I answer one question for you?”

“When are You going to pull the trigger?”

“Three-hundred and sixty-four days from today.”

“Earth Days or Creation Days?”

“That’s two questions.” God held two fingers up to illustrate his point.

“Humor me.”

“Earth Days.”

"How are you going to do it?”

“To be honest with you, I still don’t know. Got any ideas?”

“No, but I know someone who might.”

God sat down on the bench and Joshua finished washing his torso and face.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” God asked.

“What about ‘whatever you know, I knew beforehand’?” Joshua said as he put his shirt back on.

“I can make your situation worse, you know.”

“Whatever,” Joshua scoffed. Then he went blind. “OK, you got me. His name is Greg Simon.
He’s a consultant. I read his mind this morning and he had some interesting ideas for a client, I think he may be able to help you brainstorm. Now give me my sight back.”

The world remained dark.

“Please,” he added.

Joshua’s vision returned. “Why did you do that? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be blind?”

God just stared at him.

“Oh yeah. ‘Whatever I know’…I get it.”

“Let’s go meet your friend Peter.”

"Greg, not Peter. Greg Simon.”

“Oh, right. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, you just know what everyone else is thinking.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it? As self-absorbed as I am, you would think me to be completely narcissistic. Go figure.”

They started walking toward mid-town. “I went to Hell this morning. You’ll never guess who I saw there.”

Joshua raised his eyebrows. “Um, let me guess. Moses?”

“How did you know?” God asked.

“Who do you think told him how to get in?”

“You’ve been going down there, too? Son of a bitch.”

“My mother is not-"

“It’s a euphemism, God-damnit.”

“Stop taking your name in vain. It’s one of your commandments; you’re setting a bad example.”

“I’m God, I can take my own name in vain if I want to. And don’t change the subject. When did you start sneaking into Hell?”

“During the Dark Ages. You and Satan were battling over the souls of plague victims, so neither of you noticed. Finding the way in was easy. Getting back out was the tricky part.”

“So what did you do down there?”

“I did that which was denied to me in the life I sacrificed for all the world.”

“And that is…”

“I sinned. Like you wouldn’t believe. It doesn’t matter if you sin once you’re already in hell, you know.”

“Who told you that?”

“Who needed to? It’s simple logic. You sin, you go to Hell. Once in Hell, you cannot get out. Therefore, if you sin after going to hell there is no longer a negative consequence for the action, so the point is moot. Hell’s entire existence is just a sin-avoidance policy between You and humanity. And sinning is just a heaven-avoidance policy between You and Satan.”

God scratched His head. He hated loopholes. “You know, sinning isn’t the only way to get into Hell. Satan is a good salesman, and his uses the direct approach quite often. In fact, he has 490 million active contracts with humanity as we speak. They go void when I end the world. As you can probably guess, he’s pretty pissed at me right now.”

“When has he not been?”

“Point taken. Nevertheless, we can expect Satan to try to kill as many people as he can over the next year.”

“How do you think he’ll do it?”

“By mistake,” God smiled. “Like he always does.”

“Does it matter how many people he kills? Everyone’s going to die anyway. Why do you want to save the souls that are pledged to Satan all of a sudden? You never cared about them before.”

“It’s kind of a professional courtesy. I owe it to humanity to let them know I’m pulling the plug. I always had someone try to warn them before. But they never listen.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’ll do better this time than any prophet that has come before you. Don’t worry.”

“God tells me ‘don’t worry’? Why does that worry me most…”

Farewell to the King

Today is the memorial service for Michael Jackson. The King of Pop passed away on June 25 (in case you haven't heard) and will soon be interred, although the embalming process actually began in late 1988.

Jackson's career began as a child, where he upstaged all of his siblings in a vain attempt to escape his father's physical and mental abuse. With young Michael at the mike (of course the pun is intended, what a silly question) the Jackson 5 exploded onto the charts. Their talent was immense. So great, in fact, that I will forgive them from enabling follow-up child acts such as Hanson, The Jonas Brothers, New Kids on the Block, and all the other lame kid-bands that have had unfortunate influence over the nation's youth.

Jackson's success carried on to his young adult years, where he shattered numerous records with the release of "Thriller" and, among other things, he inspired yours truly to learn to moonwalk - a talent I retain to this very day.

Jackson's success helped him tear down racial barriers on MTV, and his string of music videos continued his path of wanton destruction of records (the Guinness kind, as opposed to the musical kind) as he solicited top filmmakers to the director's chair and drew millions of new viewers to the fledgling music video network to watch Beat It, Billie Jean, and that other one about the zombies, I forget the name. (NOTE TO YOUNGER READERS: The MTV network once played music videos. Really, they did!).

His collaborative efforts fused his genius with other artists, ranging from Eddie Van Halen's guitar work on "Beat it", to Paul McCartney's song about the dog-gone girl that was his, his, his. Michael's music gave us such hits as Eat It and Fat. Weird Al owes Jackson his career; without the aforementioned parodies, he would still be playing an accordion version of "My Bologna" on the Dr. Dimento show.

Jackson's new-found fame and fortune was not without its drawbacks, as he pretty much went insane in the decades that followed. But the depths of his madness will never overshadow his genius. He was a gifted singer, dancer, and songwriter, and it is clear that the world will always carry his tune.

May he rest now in the peace that avoided him in his latter years.

And may the TV networks eventually revert back to their regularly scheduled programming.

Easy Listening Part II

Download Rick Daley - Just Jammin' Groove

You should be able to click the above link to access the audio...

Hypothetical Botany Lesson

After I dropped my four-year-old off at daycare, my seven-year-old and I drove back home and he asked me if I remembered something.

“Maybe,” I said. Chances are usually 50/50 on my remembering anything. Actually, probably more like 70/30, and not favoring total recall.

“Do you remember when you were driving and you saw us over by the sheriff station?” He asked.

“I do.” My wife had taken the kids on a bike ride and I passed them in the car.

“And we were on our bikes, and Abbey was with us.”

“Yep.”

“Do you remember that Abbey was with us?”

“Yes,” my affirmation was solid, and my tone sarcastic due to the redundancy. He was stalling for some reason. There was something else he wanted to tell me, but he hadn’t built up to it yet.

"Do you remember that we saw that poop plant?” He asked. Now this is getting somewhere. There’s a water treatment facility next to the sheriff’s station. My wife must have called it the poop plant.

“Yes.”

“Before we went there I thought it was going to be a real plant!”

“Oh yeah?” I laughed. “Like a Turd Tree?” Hypothetical botany is a subject every father should cover with their seven-year-old son, in my humble opinion.

“I thought it would be a plant that looked like poop.” He clarified, but it wasn’t necessary. I got the picture all too well.

“Would turdberries grow on it? Then it would be a Turdberry Tree.”

“Ew, gross!” He laughed.

“Would you eat a turdberry off of a Turdberry Tree?”

“No!”

Then I was going to ask him if turdberries had corn kernels for pits, but I realized that that’s just gross, so I figured I would spare him that ghastly detail. Too bad you are not as fortunate. I should probably stop now. Please accept my apologies.

Re-writing a Dream

WARNING: This is a post about writing, not likely to be funny. We will return to our regularly scheduled sarcasm later this evening or tomorrow; funny conversation with elder child is half-transcribed. Thank you.

In my novel FATE'S GUARDIAN, my protagonist witnesses the murder of his best friend as a child. He watches through the window as she is knocked unconscious by her father, who then sets fire to the house and leaves. Afraid to speak out about what he saw, he suffers from nightmares as he fights to forget the ghastly scene.

In the earlier drafts, I had a very macabre telling of the dream, where he exacts revenge on her father.

I re-wrote the scene today, and instead of showing what he dreamed about in detail, I decided to focus more on what he looked like from the outside. I took 2,000 words and distilled them down to 250. I took a scene that had six characters and focused on one (in the first version he woke up his brothers and parents). There are glimpses of his dream, but they are painted with very broad strokes, so the reader can fill in the rest (I'm taking the literary approach)...

Gil fought sleep as long as he could, but eventually he did succumb. For the first hour his body rested in a dreamless slumber, healing many of the physical exertions from the horrid day.

His body twitched as the nightmares started. First his fingers, gripping at the sheets. Then his feet and legs. Kicking. Running. Sweat broke out on his brow and he clenched his jaws, concentrating on his struggle against an unseen foe.

He tried to wake up, but he could not pull himself out of it. Fear and panic evident on his face, his breathing became shallow and fast and his heart raced to catch the wind in his lungs. The dream world took all the realities of the day and enhanced them with childhood imagination. Colors swirled. Julie’s blond hair and pink shirt doused in red blood and blue flames.

In his mind, he ran. The world around him a disoriented blur, he ran to escape from Julie, from Mr. Flaherty, from his own memory. But they were all there, following him, surrounding him at every turn. The things he did. The things he didn’t do. The threats he avoided, only to come home and find that they followed him.

In his dream he screamed. A silent, breathless scream. His jaws stretched wide and air rushed through his throat. His vocal chords vibrated so hard they made his neck hurt, but his voice failed to find a sound and carry it to those who could help. And so his desperate cries went unheard that night, as they would for many more.

Vacation Recap- Part 2

Monday morning we woke up like it was a regular school / work day, but it wasn't. I took the day off work, my wife didn't have to work because her office was closed this week, and the kids are out of school. It was King's Island day.

King's Island is an amusement park near Cincinnati, OH. It lacks some of the mind-blowing awesomeness afforded to Cedar Point in Sandusky, but that's not really a fair comparison. Cedar Point is one of the best amusement parks in the world. It's in a league of its own. Plus King's Island is an hour closer, so it's awesomeness is padded with convenience.

We went with our neighbor and her three kids. Altogether it was me, two ladies (many cool stories could start that way), and five children, ages 10, 8, 7, 5, and 4 (coolness factor henceforth evaporates. Also, see prior post on cool (or lack thereof)).

We started off with The Fairly Odd Coaster in the Nickelodeon kids' area. After waiting for 30 minutes, they announced that they were closing the ride. The bloodthirst among the populace was palpable. They offered a quick addendum: "To put another car on the track."

Murmers of approval wafted through the crowd. This should make it go faster. Eventually.

An hour had passed and we finished our first 45-second ride. We were skeptical as to how the rest of the day would go, but for the most part it was awesome. I only experienced one other line as long, and it was for a coaster that you ride inverted. It flips to the bottom of the track, so it's like you are flying. Pretty cool experience, and worth the wait. But not as cool as the Diamondback.

The Diamondback is a new attraction that just opened in 2009. Its first hill is 230 feet high, and the drop is 215 feet. The next hill is 191 feet. And there are nine more after that, four of them over 100 feet.

The Diamondback is the biggest, baddest roller coaster ever to hit King's Island. It's not the best in the world, but it's good enough. You go up the first hill at such a steep angle it's like you're laying on your back as you watch the scenery fall away to your sides. Then you go down.

I think it's the angles of incline and decline that give the ride its umph. When you go up, you go almost straight up, and the crest is very narrow before you plunge straight down. Words can't really describe what it's like, but I like you people so I'll try:

It's a Triple Scoop of Awesome with Hot F*@% Yeah Sauce, Whipped Ass, and Nuts on top. Your Nuts. Unless you are a roller coaster virgin, and then it's your Popped Cherry.

Wow, I guess you can put it into words. Who knew?

We got hungry and decided on Chick-Fil-A for lunch. We thought a fast-food chain would have the distribution channels in place to move a large supply of food on-site for preparation and sale, and they would have a low cost of goods sold so they would be the more economical eatery.

We thought WRONG.

The King's Island Chick-Fil-A charges $7.89 for a combo meal. That's a sandwich and fries. The drink is another $2. I don't remember exactly what I said when the cashier broke me this news, but I think it contained an f-bomb. Apparently no one ever told that cow that runs the place the Laws of the Combo Meal. Drinks are included. Three combos with drinks and a kid's meal cost $44. Or to put that in more comparative terms, the $7 of food you would normally pay $20 for cost $44.

For dinner we pooled our resources and both families at together at You Call This Pizza? The proprietors probably called it something else, but I think my name is a better description. But since it was only $43 to feed three adults and five kids, it all tasted fine to me.

We closed the park down, staying through the 10pm fireworks show. It was officially Tuesday by the time we got home. We were tired, but it was well worth it. The kids had fun and were well-behaved (for the most part).

Next time we're going to Cedar Point.

Vacation Recap- Part 1

The weekend is over, we're home again and getting back in the swing of things. The trip started up Garrettsville, Ohio (where?) near Aurora (where?) and Ravenna (where?). These are small towns east of Cleveland (oh...Cleveland. Thanks!).

My uncle lives in Garrettsville (remember, near Aurora and Ravenna?) and his daughter just turned one. I should probably mention my aunt here, too, since she's the mother and really did most of the work. It's just that I'm related to my uncle by blood and her by marriage, so I mentioned him first. But I don’t want anyone to feel left out.

The party was a lot of fun, mainly eating and drinking and playing cornhole while the kids played football and soccer. And a bonfire. I got to see my great grandmother and great grandpa, other aunt, uncles, and cousins I only see about once a year at events such as this one. As an added bonus, my Dad was in town and made a surprise visit. We knew about it beforehand but had to have a non-disclosure agreement in place so nobody would know he was coming. I think that was in case he had to back out.

We were going to camp out. By which I mean sleep in a tent in my uncle's backyard while otherwise enjoying all of the amenities of a comfortable home. Due to one brief mid-afternoon rain shower and more than one beer, the tent never got set up. So we slept on air-mattresses in the basement (it was a finished basement, very nice).

We spent the morning trying to get Wii Fit before loading up and heading home. I am not Wii Fit, at least not when it comes to ski jumping. I'm better with Yoga. Apparently my seven year old son has the Wii body of a twenty-six year old. I don't know what to make of that.

We have a GPS named Lila, and she usually tells us where we need to go, in her sweet British accent. Lila smoked some really strong crack before we headed home, though, and instead of guiding us back the way we came, the bitch took us on a convaluted tour through the greater Akron-Canton area before leading us to the road home (I-71 south, in this case).

The rest of Sunday was rest and relaxation, and a little bit of getting ready for Monday and our trip to King’s Island…

What, no post?

You would think that over 5 days I could manage a 250 word post. Especially considering I've written about 2,500 in blog comments ;-)

But alas, nothing. Maybe by the end of the weekend I'll have something. We're going to Cleveland to visit family tomorrow. We'll be camping in my uncle's yard with my two sons and our neurotic Schnauzer. If I can't spin something funny out of that, I'm worthless!

We think we're so cool

Once upon a time, my wife and I were cool. We went to cool places and hung out with cool people. We wore cool clothes and said cool things. We were arctic, we were so cool.

Things heated up when we started a family. Kids can do that. They add warmth to your life and soul, but that warmth slowly melts away your cool.

First to go is the ability to travel to cool places. This is followed by dramatic changes to the company you keep. You hang out with non-parents less and less. Non-parents don't understand that infants don't care if you have a hangover. And if you didn't drink to begin with, a) why the heck not, and b) non-parents also don't understand that you have to stop what you are doing twice a day for six to nine months so your baby can nap, so bear with me.

Cool clothing is next on the list. Your children may wear cool clothes, but you are so broke from buying kid stuff you are afraid to splurge on yourself. I have never splurged on my own clothing. God that sounds bad, if your mind is in the gutter where mine is. If I ever look well-dressed, it is because my wife purchased good clothes for me and told me when to wear them.

The last cubes of cool to melt away are your language skills. Elimination of foul language is the beginning of the end. As it turns out, it is inappropriate to tell a crying baby to "shut the f-up." Who knew. Instead, you are supposed to hold them and coo lovingly, or just let them cry it out while you slowly go insane. You are going to go insane anyway, as a parent, so you may as well start the process right away. Once you have total disarmament of your F-bombs, it's all downhill from there.

The isolation mandated by parenthood keeps you at a distance from new cultural trends. You don't go to the hot new hangouts. Actually, you just don't go out at all, but that's too depressing to mention. You can only watch kid-friendly TV, at least until you get them to bed. Then if you put on a movie, you are likely to fall asleep watching it because you are too tired from dealing with the kids all evening.

And you don't understand the new slang. You are vaguely aware that it exists, but you rarely have instance to practice its proper form and end up saying the wrong thing the wrong way at the wrong time. My wife was watching TV and some criminal did something really stupid and got busted.

"Oh, smack!" She said to the TV. Then she turned to me and asked, "Is that what you say?"

"Snap."

"Oh yeah. Snap." At least she got the timing right.

Luckily this little exchange occurred in the privacy of our own home, not in a public forum where many people would be aware of it. That would really be embarrassing, you know.

How to Drive Blog Traffic and Comments

Mention TWILIGHT.

Better yet, praise it.

And the ultimate: criticize it.

Ha! Actually, I do think it inspires a thoughtful discussion. There are many valid points on both sides of the table, and while there are examples where it could have been written better, I think it was clearly written well enough (even if it wasn't always written clearly).

That's my smart ass observation for today. If all goes well, I will atually have a fresh and funny post tomorrow. Topic has been selected, just need to write it out.

Another example of poor syntax

The last post had an extreme example of poor sentence structure, but I find lesser errors with syntax are one of the primary drivers of "bad writing." Here's an example that comes from a popular book:

"The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front."

As worded, "full of papers and brightly colored flyers" implies that the flyers are in the basket, not taped to the front as the author intends. I believe "taped to its front" is a dangling participle...anyone want to give a formal ruling?

Also, "wire baskets" is plural but then is switched to a singular "its" and although you can discern the intended meaning, it's just sloppy. This has nothing to do with the story, and for many readers this level of detail flies below radar. But for those of us who write and revise and constantly try to turn out the perfect sentence, this burns like lemon juice on a paper cut, or a bad analogy.

Good Writing vs. Bad Writing

It's very easy to spark a debate over writing quality. What makes it good or bad?

Throw a popular novel into the mix, like TWILIGHT, THE DAVINCI CODE, or HARRY POTTER and you are certain to stir the pot.

Now as fond as I am of the pot (wait, did that come out right ;-), I'm going to shy away from popular fiction and instead use an example I discovered today while I was watering my lawn. Someone from our home owners' association stopped by handing out flyers. It seem we have the option to convert our gas street lights to electric. That's not the critical issue. I'm all for the change.

The problem is this sentence:

"The builder with the intention of providing nighttime illumination, since we do not have streetlights in our community, installed these lamps."

What's wrong with the sentence? There are no misspellings. The comma placement is appropriate for an appositive, so the punctuation is correct. The information provided is complete, I can read it and understand what the implication.

The problem is the syntax. The information does not flow properly. Technically it is not wrong, but it could be better. It should read:

"The builder installed these lamps with the intention of providing nighttime illumination, since we do not have streetlights in our community."

All I did was move "installed these lamps" to after builder. The clause that follows, "with the intention of providing nighttime illumination," relates more to the installation of the lamps than the builder.

When people gripe about bad writing, issues like this are usually prevalent. This has nothing to do with the plot or characterization. It's the way the story is told.

For those of you that say "So what? I read this blog for your smart-ass observations on life and your family, not to learn about writing. Show me the funny, dammit!" Please do so in the comments section, so that I may dole out smart-ass replies in turn.

A Novel Idea

As many of you know, I am writing a novel, FATE'S GUARDIAN. Or rather, I wrote a novel, and now I am re-writing that novel.

It is a process that I love and hate. I love the story. I love writing in general. I hate the thought of re-writing 100,000 words, though. It was tough enough the first time. For the past three months I've been stuck, re-writing the first 50 pages over and over, like I'm trapped in a writer's version of Groundhog Day. At least those pages were getting better each time, but I had this thought nagging at the back of my mind, saying, "Dude, there are 300 more pages, you know."

The other night I had an epiphany. I figured out a new structure for the novel and a new way of plotting (and some changes to the plot itself), and now the re-write is taking new shape and speed. It's about freaking time.

I also set a new mandate for my work time. I get up early and make my way to the coffee pot. That part hasn't changed (nor will it in the foreseeable future). Then I go to my computer. Now here's the clever part: I write for an hour.

Let me clarify that: I re-write my manuscript for an hour. No blogs. No email. No checking the weather online. The only application allowed is MS Word. Bill Gates must be proud.

So if you hear less of me in the blogosphere, that's why. I'm really hunkering down to knock this out of the park.

Mothballs

We have a moth infestation in our house. For several weeks we've seen moths all over. Not a veritable swarm of them, just two or three of them here or there. Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs, sometimes on the stairs.

Moths are incredibly dumb and easy to kill. Maybe that's why they procreate with such fervor. But on second thought, rabbits also procreate with fervor, and they are quick. And upon even further reflection, I realize that rednecks procreate with fervor, and they are slow and dumb. Not always - the NASCAR drivers can be pretty fast, at least when they are behind the wheel. But than again, maybe some moths are fast, too. I guess it goes to show that speed and propensity to procreate don't go hand in hand. Procreation obviously goes something in something, but let's not dwell on that now...

I didn't know what to do about the moths, so I consulted The Oracle (i.e. Google). The Oracle told me that moths usually set up shop in a pantry or a closet. That may be true, but it is not helpful. We have one pantry and many closets. As you may have surmised by evaluating the long stretches of time between posts on this blog, I am either very busy or very lazy (answer: both). Rather than hunt down the source of the moths, I chose to wait until an answer presented itself to me. As I noted before, moths are dumb and I knew they would give themselves away eventually.

Last week I saw three moths above the door of an upstairs closet. I killed them, and then out of curiosity I opened the closet door and found two more inside. This is more than enough circumstantial evidence to convince me that I found their lair.

I went to Home Depot (TM) on my lunch break and bought a box of moths balls. I work from home, so when I got back to the office (home), I gave the box to my wife so she could distribute them accordingly. By "accordingly" I thought she would read the directions, which said something about a number of balls to use per cubic foot. Now I'm no math major, but I do know that we didn't need to use the whole box for that single closet. My wife - God love her - is not a math major either, and she chose to use the whole box. She just opened it up and set it in there on top of a suitcase.

I didn't realize this until last night, when I retrieved my own suitcase from said closet to pack for a trip to Orlando. I noticed the Very Strong Smell coming from the closet. I did not notice how deeply embedded that smell was in my suitcase until I got to Orlando, where I was able to identify my luggage on the baggage claim carousel by scent alone.

It turns out that the mothball odor is highly transferable. In fact, it has fully permeated every stitch of clothing that I brought with me on this trip. I am quite amazed that I have been able to type so many words through the haze emanating from my t-shirt right now. I am very identifiable on the trade show floor, but not in the way I had hoped.

When I get back home, those f*&^%ing moths had better all be dead.

Race Day Review

We went to bed early last night, but we both had trouble falling asleep. When 6am rolled around, neither of us felt refreshed. But that's nothing coffee and adrenaline can't cure...

Over 7,000 people turned out to run and walk. I don't know the breakdown, but there was a 5k run / walk (that's 3.1 miles), and the rest did the half-marathon (and that's 13.1 miles). I think this qualifies as a "crowd."

Here's a view of the starting line before the race.

The signs on the right side were for the runners to line up based on their pace.

The 1:30 indicates people who expect to finish in 1 hr 30 minutes.

Elite is for steroid abusers, and for people who were bitten by radioactive spiders, or hit by gamma ray bursts, or come from Krypton.



Notice that this picture was taken from aways back...

At 1 minute to race time, this crowd tightened into solid mass. We were in the latter half of a crowd of 7,000, a dense throng crammed into a lane and a half of roadway. They gave the command to start and we stood still for over between five and ten minutes while those in front of us started going- one by one, it seemed. Eventually the crowd did move forward in an asynchronous waddle that was reminiscent of a March of the Penguins, just without the antarctic winds. Our weather was perfect. Thank God.

I crossed the start line, and I heard horns start playing the theme from Rocky. Literally. It was the first song on my playlist. The second group of horns stared to play when I pressed start on my GPS to track time and speed. I was pumped.

About a mile in we passed an on-ramp for I-670. "We should take the highway, it would be so much faster," I suggested to my fellow runners, but no one deviated from the course. I did get a chuckle out of a couple people nearby and we chatted for the next mile. It turns out running can be a semi-social event. A turn came up.

"Stay to the inside, the outside curve is longer, and there's not need to make this any farther than it need to be," I cautioned. They ran along the far side of the curve anyway. I followed like a retarded sheep.

Around 3 miles in, my wife and I were still running together. "Happy anniversary," I said. She smiled and returned the sentiment. Only 10 miles to go.

After the race my wife said that someone who overheard this exchange asked her it it was really our anniversary. She assured them it was.

"Ask him to take you o=t to dinner next year," was the advice they gave. Ha! This whole damn thing was her idea to begin with. She brought it up, I found a training schedule online and thought we could do it.

At about 4 miles in, I started to pull ahead of her. Or she purposefully fell back because she was embarrassed by by air guitar skills (which are, in fact, awesome). I told you I was pumped.

Miles 5-10 were fueled by a kick-ass iPod playlist. It's easier to run when you have good music. It's also motivating to be in a crowd of people, with spectators on the side of many of the streets, cheering on friends and family. All I had to do was pretend my name was Kate, Erin, or Mom and it was like they were cheering for me, too.

The final three miles were tough, but not as bad as I thought they would be. The worst part was the block and a half of cobblestone / brick road we ran over in German Village. This was about 11 miles in, and my feet were already hurting pretty bad.

The blisters on my toes were second generation - regenerated old blisters that had nearly healed before this run. As I hit the cobblestone, my feet cheered me on, encouraging me to quickly pass this nuisance.

"FU," my right foot said each time it hit the hard, uneven ground.

"FU2," my left said, a prefect echo of the right foot's sentiment.

I got past thirteen miles. Almost there. Up a hill, and then the final half-mile was down hill, and then (finally!) around a corner to the finish line. You bet you ass I took the inside track on this corner. As I did, I pulled my digital camera from my pouch. This is what I captured:



I was kicking it with all my energy. My average pace in the run was a 10 minute mile. For the first part of that video I was close to a 7.5 minute mile. I don't know what I was clocking as I crossed the finish line, but it was absolutely all I could muster. The camera recorded my voice, but it didn't pick up that much of the ambient noise. It was loud. People cheering, noisemakers, Andrea Campbern, a local news anchor, was to the left of the finish line cheering us on through the PA...

I think I finished in about 2 hrs 10 minutes. That's what my GPS said. The clocks at the finish line were based on the first people who started. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Here's a pre-race photo. The post-race photo is me and my wife, and she has not granted authorization to make that photo public:
















So what happened after the race? We had a busy damn day, that's what. My son had a soccer game. They won, 6-0. He scored two goals, and he saved all three shots the quarter he was goalie. Then i went to the store, then out to dinner with my in-laws.

May 2nd, 2009 is prom night here in Columbus. It took three restaurants to find a good eatery with less than an hour wait! But now we're home, and holy mother of God do my knees and toes hurt...

Race Day

It's 6am. I am up and dressed, sipping coffee and eating a bagel. Well, I was doing that. Right now I'm typing.

My wife and I are celebrating our 10 year anniversary by running a half marathon. That's 13.1 miles. The race starts in 1 hr 43 minutes. It's 45 degrees out, should get into the 50's. Clear with a chance of scattered showers. Little to no wind.

Should be a good race.

My goal is to finish, time is absolutely not of the essence!

I'll be back tonight for a post-race report.