Morbid? Am I Being Morbid?

You think THAT was too morbid?

www.deathclock.com.

Save the date! Y'all have to come to my funeral. On July 21, 2040. OK, well, actually, the funeral probably wouldn't be until a few days after that, right? So you have time to travel to New Jersey (ooh, now THAT'S morbid!)... :)

How Long Would It Be?

As a single person currently living alone, I sometimes wonder this morbid thought. If I died at home alone, how long would it be before they found me? Depending on the day of the week, the time of day, what's going on in my life, it could be days. Work is the only sure thing that I wouldn't show up for where someone would wonder where I was and take steps beyond one phone call to me to say, "Hey where are you? I thought you were gonna be here." I only hope if I slip in the bathtub, it isn't on a Friday night right after work on a weekend I have nothing scheduled for, or else they're never going to get that smell out of the drapes.

With a large group of single friends, we actually started an emergency contact list on our Yahoo Groups website. Though my other fear is also kinda real, too. If I died, and dear old Dad took care of it all, would he be able to contact all my friends? I guess more importantly, would he bother? Who wouldn't find out? Would anyone just feel like I merely disappeared out of his/her life? All the friends I have on the Internet would think I just flaked. My friends in other towns would just 'lose touch.'

HHmm... am I too young for a Medic Alert bracelet?

Keep Writing!!!

Derek from Maine submitted a tiny story about our tiny stories project! I had to share this with you all. I'm so happy to spread the frustration around the globe. Keep your stories and letters coming in... and keep beating yourselves about the head and shoulders trying to craft your stories...

Phrase Anatomy
by Derek Ash
Franklin, Maine

His site said “Hundred Words” but damnation, I have struggled discovering: It cannot be done. Nouns? Adjectives? Verbs?
Teeth ground dull, bald spots grown immense, blank computer screens leering lecherously, reveling in an author’s frustration.
Ideas so far: Turkeys thawing, butterflies postulating genetics, lost pens revealing divine disappointments, drive through serial killers.
Each shattered by limited description or plot.
Required subject matter? Tiny things.
Steaming bull’s shit!!!
Sitting, hours on end; pacing ferally; throwing fits and Ming vases.
Costs to my marriage alone? Incalculable.
Family? Torn asunder.
Sanity? Even deeper damage detected.
All for lack of just one more--

Who's Your Number One?

OK, stole this from Neil Gaiman's website. Someone pointed out to him that he is Neil Number One, meaning if you enter just his first name into google, he is the top search result. So that leads to the question: Who's Your Number One? OK, just some silly fun for a Friday afternoon.

So for me, Bob Number One is Bob Dylan.

Your Reading Habits Public?

Hey folks,
For those of us who publish, for those of us who write, for those of us who read, we really need to do something to ensure our freedom to study, read, research, learn is not compromised. Can it be the United States of America where the government is allowed to review what you are reading? And how will they use this information? Especially for those of us who read dark subjects: serial killers, mysteries, dark fantasy. Do I really want the government to have access to library records, bookstore sales, etc? If I read a dozen serial killer novels in a row, and then there happens to be a serial killer in my area, does that mean I will be vaulted to the top of the suspects list?

In my local newspaper, a writer made some very good points about the writer's life and these potentially dangerous, insidious laws. It's just a point of view that makes you think... do I have to think twice before I buy a book with a credit card or borrow one from the library? What will people think?

Besides. Somehow I think the truly evil people who really are plotting something will be a little bit more careful than to make their reading habits viewable. They buy the book with cash, not credit card. And if it's a library book they need to read, instead of borrowing it, I'm sure they'll do what we all did in college when we owed on already-overdue books. Go to the back of the library, throw it out an open window into a bush, and then go retrieve it. Oooh, bad people and library personnel, don't read this!

I'm saying this is a truly brilliant essay, but it does make you think:
http://ems.gmnews.com/news/2005/0621/Editorials/033.html

We Love Our Kimmy

I have to quote my good friend Kimmy. Something she just said (ok, a little paraphrased for effect)...

"Don't piss me off. I could kill you with some chicken wire, a pack of chewing gum, and a magnet."

HHHmmm.... chicken wire, a pack of chewing gum, a magnet.... all 'tiny thing.' Anyone feeling inspired?

Question

How come women can get away with wearing flip-flops to work if they have a few sparklies on them? How come women can get away with wearing shorts to work and calling them a 'split skirt?' How come women can wear spaghetti straps to work, but if i wear a tank top, I'll be yelled at and sent home? Well, I guess there is that menstruation thing... so we'll call it even.

Lotsa Tinies!

Keep them coming! Even more came in today! Need inspiration?

One split second
A missing button
A crumb
An old note or letter
One glance or one eye contact
A key

Actually the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy revolves around one tiny thing, doesn't it? Interesting.

You Think You've Got Issues?

I can watch the movie WILLOW over and over and over. It's got to be one of my all-time favorites. I can quote practically every line. Love it, love it, love it. And the campier it got, the better.

You are my sun, my moon, my starlit night. Without you I dwell in darkness.

Mother! Traitor child, I must despise you now.

That is Razel? I expected something more grand and less... fuzzy.

TINY STORIES -- Keep 'Em Coming!

Hello, you creative folk! You're all doing an amazing job sending in your short-shorts (and I'm not talking about cut-off denim Daisy Dukes). Just a few notes based on the submissions I've gotten and comments I've seen, things I want to reiterate and say again even....

1. Your title does not count toward the 100 word count; however, just to make it fun, please use unique words in your title, too!
2. Remember your piece should still be a STORY. A snippet or description or poetic musing is nice, but I really want these to be narrative stories... that's what makes 100 words a challenge. Something should happen --- not just be described. Not a stickler on that, but if your piece has a narrative flow, it stands a much better chance of being selected.
3. If you've submitted a story, THANK YOU! I'm not sending out acknowledgments or thanks for every submission, so if you didn't hear back from me, it doesn't mean I didn't receive it. Of course, if due to your system, email, or general angst, you're concerned that it might not have come through, please feel free to send a separate email specifically requesting I confirm I got it.
4. Please please please continue to spread the word. As the days and weeks go by, our links get older and older. Continuing a steady traffic flow and continuing to spread the word with new links is the only way to keep this project fresh out there in blog and journal land.
5. Again, there's no limit to the number of pieces you can submit. While I probably won't include more than one, okay maybe two, from any one single writer, but that doesn't mean you should not continue to be creative for the entire month of July, send in pieces, and increase your chances of being selected for the collection.
6. Some people have made note that I work for St. Martin's Press. Yes, this is true. But I want to specifically point out, and split an infintive to do so, that this project is not sanctioned, owned by, authorized by, okay, it's got nothing to do with St. Martin's Press.
7. Seven? I don't really have seven comments to make, do I? You can't possibly still be reading this list.
8. Anybody see Batman this weekend? Fun. Dark and brooding. I enjoyed. But frankly, I am absolutely blubbering as only an idiot can over the Human Torch in the upcoming F4. Oh my stars.... *sigh* Can anybody get me Chris Evans' phone number? I'm sure if he got to know me, he'd.... oh, never mind. Just go back to your writing.

MORE! MORE! MORE!

Hey everybody, as those of us who obsessively look at our hit numbers can attest, your daily traffic is only as good as your links and active discussion. Please continue to talk about the TINY STORIES project on your website and spread the word. Please get your blogging friends to mention and link to it! We want lots and lots of entries so we can pick a fantastic best-of collection. Thanks for the comments on the difficulty level of the no-repeat rule. I think it's the whole slant of the exercise really. So I hope you can all make multiple entries! I know I'll be writing and writing.

My Sense of Reality Is In Shambles

Something like this could not have possibly been going on without everyone knowing it. Can this really be true? If anyone has insight, please let me know. This is almost as bad as the time on Thanksgiving Day when I was 33 years old when my father's girlfriend asked me, "So did you ever want to find out who your real parents are?" Seriously, something like this could not have been kept a secret all this time. Maybe it's like the adopted thing. Maybe this is something everyone else in the world always knew except me:

When you go to buy bread in the grocery store, have you ever wondered which is the freshest, so you "squeeze" for freshness or softness? Didyou know that bread is delivered fresh to the stores five days a week? Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Each day has a different color twist tie. They are: Monday = Blue, Tuesday = Green, Thursday =Red, Friday = White, and Saturday = Yellow. So if today was Thursday, you would want red twist tie; not white which is Fridays (almost a week old)! The colors go alphabetically by color Blue- Green - Red - White - Yellow, Monday through Saturday. Very easy to remember. Even the ones with the plastic clips have different colors. You learn something new everyday! Enjoy fresh bread when you buy bread with the right color on the day you are shopping.

TINY STORIES -- CHALLENGING?

Hey there, writing folk!

I'd like to hear from anyone hard at work on their writing exercises. We've heard from at least two people that think the no-repeat rule is maybe a little bit TOO challenging. Or it might end up causing us all to write a little too esoterically.

How are you all feeling about the challenge? Are you up to it? Do your writings end up sounding stilted, weird, awkward? Chime in on the 'comments' link, and let me know. Plenty of time to work on your story. This was never intended to be something you could churn out in 20 minutes. :)

What do you say, kids?

TINY STORIES -- A FEW SUGGESTIONS

Hi folks, when we did this before, we discovered a few things about trying to write within the parameters of the exercise. First, Microsoft Word comes with a handy 'word count' feature in the Tools drop-down menu. However, I have found it doesn't always count words in the same way you or I would. I keep recounting one story I wrote, and I count 99 words to Word's 100 count. Can't figure out what it's counting and I'm not.

About policing your repeats. I've found the only sure-fire method to ensure you are not repeating a word is to enter your story into Excel in a single column. This actually helps with word-count, too. Then sort the column alphabetically -- any repeats will show up next to each other. Make sure you either kept your story in a Word file or save before sorting in Excel, the sort is kinda permanent! OK, it's annoying having to type it into Excel, but it's only 100 words... :)

Now go. Be creative.

[added, 3:40 pm] OK, I highly recommend inputting your story into Microsoft Excel after you write and save it in Word!!! One column, one word per cell, leave out all your punctuation, confirms your 100 word count, then sort the story alphabetically to catch any word repeats!!! Works like a charm. What do you know! I had a story that was 101 words long, and I didn't realize, and... neither did Microsoft Word!

What a Weirdo!

I caught myself again. Being weird in public. So I was at my desk, and it was time for a snack. I had to wash my fruit, but we only have one sink on the entire floor, and it's at the other end of the building. So I walked over, but on the way, I realized I had to pee, so I stopped off. In the bathroom, I didn't want to put my snack down on a counter of questionable cleanliness, and you know, you sorta need two hands, and that's when it happened. I caught myself standing at the urinal with a pluot on my head. Why am I so weird!?!

And Of Course...

Please feel free to spread the word about our short-short project to anyone you know who dabbles at writing. Feel free to link to the submission post if you have a website, blog or journal.

TINY STORIES -- CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!!

Tiny Stories

Lisa Snellings Clark (http://slaughterhousestudios.blogspot.com) and I are launching a project, and we want YOU to try your hand at it. We were both so pleased with the wonderful stories folks wrote for our recent writing exercise, and we want to try to make something out of it!

To review, the writing exercise is as follows: Write a short-short story of exactly 100 words in length… AND… don’t use the same word twice! [For samples, please look through the previous posts.]

The pieces we received the last time we did this were so good, we think we can compile some of them together and make a nice little collection. I will review the submissions and pick the very best ones, and Lisa has agreed to provide an illustration for every story that we accept for the project. We will then look for a way to get it published and make a donation to the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund (www.cbldf.com) in the form of a share of any proceeds. So we’re putting out a call for submissions! Try it! It’s fun, and it hurts your brain at the same time!

The exercise:
Write a 100-word short-short story. Don’t use the same word twice (OK, we make an exception for contractions if you really really really have to, so don’t is don’t and do not is do not, but don't abuse this as a cheat too much -- see if you can work around it). This time we want the project to have a theme. Given that these are tiny stories, we want them to be ABOUT tiny things. Lisa and I have found so many different ways to explain what we are looking for, I’ll say it a bunch of different ways:

Little stories that are larger on the inside than they appear on the outside.
Stories that leave an aftertaste, that linger.
Special nod to stories that include elements of the fantastic.
Little things with big effects: lost keys, a scrap of paper, a chink in the armor, a missing screw.
The inexplicable in the definable, the fantasy in the reality, the uncommon in the everyday, that something under the surface.
The secret little things….
Now don’t let that constrain you – let it set you on your way…

Deadline: We want you to have enough time to work on your piece(s) and perfect it. So we'll set a deadline of August 5. {NOTE! THE DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO OCTOBER 10!} At that time, we'll take a look at all the submissions and pick the very best ones for inclusion in the final collection. Multiple submissions are more than welcome, but please don't flood me. We will hope to have the finalists selected for inclusion in the project announced within a few weeks (hopefully by Labor Day or thereabouts -- we'll be more specific when we have a sense of just how many submissions we receive).

Submit your story to: fagblogger@aol.com.

Disclaimers: By submitting a story for consideration, you agree to give us rights to it for inclusion in the project and all licensing and subsidiary rights to the collected stories. We can not at this time promise any monetary compensation, but you will receive full crediting of the work. At the time of any actual publication of the project, you will receive a more concrete, legal document to acknowledge that you have given us rights to your story. If you have any questions or concerns about this before you feel secure submitting a work, please feel free to e-mail me.

Authorship: You must include your full (real) name and physical address with your story submissions so that we can contact you if we decide to include your story in the final project. You must send your story in as a Microsoft Word document file, and your full (real) name and address should be in the text of the file along with the story.

If we get questions or concerns as we go, I will post here to this site anything we have to alter or modify as the deadline comes closer, so please keep coming back to see how we're progressing here. If you have any questions about genre, theme, length, etc. please feel free to email me.

Ready? GO!

Things You'll Never Hear...

....from a psychic who wants to get paid at the end of the session...

-- You might want to have that looked at.

-- Yes, they are all laughing at you.

-- You'll die a slow, painful death... alone.

-- You really need to rethink your wardrobe.

-- You'll never have to worry about money... cuz you'll never have any.

-- I'm seeing you finding the love of your life fairly soon... I'm getting... not a name... but... wait... yes, yes, I'm getting a number... it's on his shirt...

-- Your children hate you, your husband is cheating on you, and the dog isn't too fond of you either.

-- You have insurance, right?

Get Rich Quick Scheme

I've found it! I'll be a millionaire I tell ya! The perfect get-rich-quick invention...
Swiffer Socks! Dust while you walk around the house, then just throw them away!

Hearing the Screams...

Well, I've been polling people this last week, particularly in the breakroom at school. So far, I am still the only one who hears the candy screaming. I'm sure there has to be others out there. Anyway, folks, regarding a new writing project, please check back in early next week for a new request for short-short writing exercises. The RatHag and I will be looking to try a more involved project that could turn into something exciting. We're hoping to get it figured out and posted by Sunday. So get those pen tips licked, stack your paper, and turn off the television. We want cogs churning across the globe for this one.

A Minor Brush with Dark Brooding Fame

Yesterday morning, I was in an elevator with Billy Martin, guitarist for Good Charlotte. Of course this was at the happiest place on earth... The Borgata. Now, mind you, I didn't realize it was him until after I let him go ahead of me with his rolling carry-on and he said, 'thanks.'

I thought he was probably a member of the band or a roadie, since I knew they were there from their concert the night before. But I'm not one to bother people in elevators or in public, 'oh are you .xx.x..x.?' I was sure of who he was when a small child approached him outside the doors to The Living Room, and timidly asked him for his autograph.

Now, BM was all dragged up in full complete black from head to toe, black belt with metal studs, hollow earrings stretching out his earlobes so they now have almost-fuckable holes, dark and foreboding, looking like the world should leave him alone, is it any wonder I didn't say hello. First thing, all I could think was, somebody get that boy a sandwich! When he stepped off the elevator first, I got that all-important rear view. Chile, let me tell you, that boy is a Buttless Wonder. But you know what? He's still adorable, even with his attempts at dark mood, his layering on of black and metal and punk drag, the thick layers of 'leave me alone' that I bet most notable people wear in public. And I was left with that all-important realization: I could do that.

See, I've been thinking I kinda want my next boyfriend to be an East Village punk dude with a pouty face, too many pieces of black clothing, metal-studs on leather belt, bracelet, (collar?), and heck, when I look at Billy Joe Armstrong, I think, yeah, even if he wears mascara.

See, you thought I was posting something about celebrity, Good Charlotte, etc., and in the end, nope, it's all about me. Billy Joe, call me.

The Candy Screams.

OK, back to blogging... more on my own personal brand of weirdness.

Is it me? In the middle of an ordinary moment, I can see the brooding horror underneath the surface of even the most common of everyday items. The most innocent looking things. The cutest teddy bear is probably holding a boxcutter behind his back waiting for just the right moment. There's probably a razor blade in that crisp red apple. Yes, the bunny rabbit is a killer; the salmon mousse is poisoned; that doll is a psycho-killer; and yes, clowns and mimes freak me out.

Whenever I go for a snack at the vending machine, you know the one, with the candy all displayed on multiple levels held in place by spiral coils of metal, I think about the candy. Does it like being in there, clinging to the shelves, thinking only of the precipice, knowing that once it is selected, it will be pushed forward slowly, toward the edge, then jettisoned off to plunge to the harsh metal pan below? Can I see the fear in each Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, each roll of Life Savers, every Sun Chip? Is it that terror on Grandma's face on the cookie package? And why do they always put the potato chips on the top row?

Does it hurt them when they fall? Do they die? Do the pretzels bleed? Did they know each other? Do they miss the fallen? Did they have hopes, dreams? Am I the only one who hears the candy screaming as it plummets to its death?

Break Time!

OK, folks! It's time for a break. Lisa and I are hashing out a follow-up exercise, seeing what we can make out of this. Please keep posted to one or both of our sites for more information and possibly another call for short-shorts. This was way too much fun spreading the creativity and sharing with you all!

Love, hugs, and pen stains on your fingertips,

Bob

2 More! from Robert C. Johnson, Jr.

Hey! 2 for the price of one! Even more 100 Word exercises! Fantastic!

Lost Dreamer
by Robert C. Johnson Jr
June 2, 2005

At midnight laying in quiet darkness, seeking elusive altered consciousness. The dream sought is just an indiscernible thread hidden among dark dreamstuff weavings. More memory than imagining, never found. Always finding only dreams not wanted.

Remembering flight brings sweet melancholy. Lightness, distance, freedom, almost happiness.

As a child flying through every night, day hours crept by with longing for bedtime. Chance to shed so much weight, sad burden accumulated living ten short years. Nighttime, disconnected from that “reality”, experiences seemed crisp, sharp, tangible. Those daytimes, memories are smudgy, indistinct, surreal.

Drifting off, sloughing baggage, shucking inhibitions, clothes too, I flew.

*****************************

Cry for Vampire
by Robert C. Johnson, Jr.
June 2, 2005

Their relationship still young, lacking scars as armor against hurt feelings, fragile lovers exchange harsh words, slammed doors.

A strange dark cloud coalesces. Half-seen, savagely beautiful tiny winged creatures swarm. Not just of shape and time, beings crystallized from cruel thought. Hunger manifest in miniature imitation, woman, man. Nearly invisible perfect bodies, wings shadowy leather.

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, tears brim, dribble down human cheeks.

Unseen minute feathery tongues lap, finding nourishment. Each salty lick laden with weeper’s sadness. Only this emotion can slake bitter thirst. To the deep well they return over, again.

Sorrow’s kisses which offer no comfort.

100 Words -- Pete Clark

Bad Pete Clark, Bad! Bad! Repeater!

Here's his edits:

Imagine vast landscapes expanding before uncontaminated, civilized neural pathways. Unfamiliar memes triggering horrific immersions in scale gone excruciatingly awry. Distance… purpose…identity.. sentience… exposed as baryonic shadows played upon quantum walls, formerly Totality, by flames ignited at Time Zero. Forces which hover just below the surface of humanity’s gestalt watering hole where everyone’s soul monkey stops, catching an all too brief yet absolutely necessary repast from unflinching, atavistic predators that never, ever cease chasing delicious morsels, swinging temptingly, piñatas stuffed with guilt smelling suspiciously like cheesecake, whiskey and timidity. We animals must eventually lose, struggling vainly against this enemy, Instinct. Damn .

100 Words -- Not Me AGAIN!?!

All right, all right. I see the theme trend. I'll jump on the bandwagon with you all. Here's a piece a little bit darker. I wrote it on scrap then transferred it to Word, so please police any repeats that may exist... enjoy!

Rebirth
by Bob Podrasky

Two wings, dozens more, uncountable flurries, black leathery beasts swarm, blotting out moonlight, descend upon the dark, unmoving form sprawled over rocky soil, completely covering it in a desperate, hungry bloodlust, first biting then tearing gouges into flesh, feasting, nothing untouched, unbitten.

At once, as one, all launch skyward leaving behind mounds of bloodied fleshy clumps, bone, gristle, meat, teeth, innards, unrecognizable until... shivering movements, gelatinous oozing, sticky liquid sounds, pieces merge, reform.

Reborn, renewed, alone, naked, strong, filled with that same devouring need. Must find blood... Lights mark distant houses, towns, cities -- fresh, juicy prey. It's feeding time.

OK!

I'm all caught up! I still know of a few friends working who have promised to send me a finished story, and I have one I wrote on the train home this evening that needs some tweaking that I plan on posting tomorrow or as soon as it's ready.

Everyone, please keep logging in to Lisa's site and mine. We're going to be putting out another homework assignment soon... this time with a theme... and we're going to see if we can make this a more in-depth project.

Keep writing. Anyone who wants to submit more stories, I'll gladly post more. And hey, feel free to comment on any of the pieces already appearing. Having someone read your stuff is great... hearing how it made them feel... priceless...

I really couldn't be happier with the results. You're all wonderful.

100 Words -- Nora Wright

OK, Nora claims to have been suffering from jet lag when she wrote this one, so if anyone spots any repeats, please post a comment, but it looks good to me.

It's Over
by Nora Wright

It’s over.

After all the months of preparation, stress, confusion, overt disagreements, silent rebellion, this incredible train rolled into her station. Then came nearly one hundred hours filled with excitement, joy, sheer terror, pain, enlightenment, boredom, anger, and finally, exhaustion. New acquaintances were made, old friends celebrated, good times enjoyed by everyone. Nobody slept, much.

My mind absorbed myriad experiences, struggling to comprehend such disparity. Emotions battled against each other without resolution.

Some stragglers breakfasted together Tuesday morning. We exchanged brief goodbyes. I pulled away from our empty hotel feeling a sharp, wordless ache inside me.

Another Balticon is gone.

100 Words -- Pete Clark

Sometimes you have to keep it in the family...

Lake You
by Pete Clark

Imagine vast landscapes expanding before uncontaminated, civilized neural pathways. Unfamiliar memes triggering horrific immersions in scale gone excruciatingly awry. Distance… purpose…identity.. sentience…all exposed as shadows played upon quantum walls, formerly Totality, by flames ignited at Time Zero. Forces which hover just below the surface of humanity’s gestalt watering hole where everyone’s soul monkey stops, catching an all too brief, yet absolutely necessary repast from unflinching, atavistic predators that never, ever cease chasing delicious morsels, swinging temptingly, piñatas stuffed with guilt smelling suspiciously like cheesecake, whiskey and timidity. All animals must eventually lose, struggling vainly against this enemy, Instinct. Damn it.

100 Words -- Bob Podrasky

OK, Princess Points! I've been working over-time, and I wrote a couple more. So indulge my histrionics as I post another of my own.

Defiance
by Bob Podrasky

Paper plates, sporks. Juice boxes, sandwiches, potato salad. Frisbee, kite, soccer ball. “Sweetie, go downstairs. Find the wicker basket with red handles.” Upstairs, telephone ringing, muffled conversation. Not again you don’t. Footsteps coming down stairs. “Honey? I’m so sorry. Emergency at work. Picnic will have to wait. Can we try for next weekend?”
A child bounding back up, eager, excited. “Mommy? Where is Daddy going?”
“Your father has lives that need saving, baby.”
“What about our…,” eyes curling in disappointment.
Postponements, promises. Summers go by, holidays, Sundays. Childhood never waits, nor marriage.
“Pack that bag, kiddo!” Who needs him anyway?

100 Words -- Robert Glaze

My Own Evening News
by Robert Glaze

He sat there without anything to say. Staring at her packing suitcases made him feel complete abandonment. Why leave after six years? She left. Visiting favorite places they went only brought thoughts concerning suicide. Looking upon many old photos would just make nice days, go bad. Songs shared between them were now depressing. Anger ensued then vindictiveness. Shoeboxes flew from the walk-in closet, a firearm retrieved. Driving across town didn’t give much time for reconsideration. When all was said and done, five innocent bystanders lay dead, including an unrequited love.
Will we ever start believing that people kill, not guns?

Still More to Come!

I'm really enjoying posting all your tremendous works for all to read. Quiet readers, if you have some words of encouragement or if you enjoyed any of the works, please feel free to post comments! Still more to come tomorrow! Heck, it was a soft deadline anyway. No one's giving out grades here. Happy Wednesday, everyone.

B

100 Words -- Heather FaerieStar

OK, this is the most rewarding one for me, because of how it makes Heather feel.

"um, im not a writer, nor do i generally entertain the thought... but having made a haiku challenge for myself this year, i thought, what the hell, 100 words wont kill me, and i wonder if i could even do it. i did. im proud of it, because i completed it... i know you will receive better stories, but im sending mine in, cause i did it damnit :) and im proud of myself."

I'm proud of it, too, Heather. It's adorable!

Xander Wiggins III
by Heather FaerieStar

No introductions necessary for my cat, there is fur, it's striped. Normally kitty spends his days eating, sleeping, purring...simple. One fairly boring afternoon, sweet tabby happens upon a cozy blanket...perfect napping zone. Paws begin to gently knead, slumber follows...bringing awake-like dreams where he finds an adventurous winged faerie friend. This laughing mischievous creature toys with whisker boy, First buzzing about velvety ears expecting quick chase...next giggling when little lion hands miss--skilled escape artist. Soon our pair settle down, whispering secrets of love and life. Listening, remembering the hunter wakes, finds warm lap, curls up.

100 Words -- K. Hutson Price

I think you can probably tell which ones come from Lisa Fans... lock your doors and windows tonight after you read this one! Very cool...

Winged Assassin
by K. Hutson Price

Broken glass crunched underfoot. Good people sleep while I roam, peeking in windows. Searching. Sniffing down her scent. Black leather gloves, shiny with age, stretched over hardened hands and a gleaming silver sappara is all the better for slitting throats, dear. Knife-points stars cruelly cut through an ocher bruised sky, lighting paths through darkness.
But which to choose? This house? That one, where Kindertoys lay strewn about like Hugo’s aftermath? Complications. Decisions. Life’s full of them. Creation? No, thanks. Destruction’s my job. Seek out sinners. End it. Michael assigns cases, Gabriel –that’s me- takes care of business, doing God’s work.

100 Words -- The Lady of Shallott

And One from a mysterious mad woman...

Untitled
by The Lady of Shallott

Slit throats glare back mockingly through hazy vision. Could such horror truly just happen? No fanfare, hardly any emotion felt. Death seems unfriendly now, considering pronounced pain endured in achieving it. Intrinsic guilt bears down before thoughts metaphysical return. Well-pitched lies conjure justification. Metamorphosis, afterlife, glory... crackbrain rationalization. Inevitably, crimson rivers of exsanguination make reality divert, falling upon delusion, unable or unwilling to recognize what ‘IS’. Smiling sheepishly while fingering the blade with reverent sensations, I reject gratitude for venerable actions. ‘You’re welcome, Dear Ones,’ muttered by unfamiliar voice, my own. ‘Time immediate. Move along. More souls require release.’

I Promise...

...more this afternoon. I have to go to a meeting now that will last the entire morning. Further adventures in 100 words will be back after this commercial break.

UH-OH! LAURA!

Woopsie! Hey, Laura Mann! You've got two 'the's in your piece! Can you edit it and resubmit abiding by the rules? Who made these stinkin' rules anyway.. oh wait, that would be me.

More homework for Laura!

100 Words -- Rosie Waller

They keep coming! One more before I hit the hay... what a fun day!

Untitled
by Rosie Waller

There is a grassy bank where I sat and waited for people who did not come. Leant myself back against rucksack, expecting damp ground working throughtrousers. Gazed at feet in front, marking grass, crushing stems too brittle to spring upright after I'd left. Became aware of earth uncomfortably irregular beneath me. Still found contentment watching leaves waving above, clouds moving past behind them. Surrounded with glowing buttercups just above knee height, vetches below them, unripe seedheads everywhere. Heard wind moving trees, but felt gentle breezes. Warmed by sunlight, tasting blossom on air. Absent others stopped mattering. Life was good.

100 Words -- Robert C. Johnson, Jr.

Here are 100 different words from Robert C. Johnson, Jr., who had a really wonderful comment about doing this exercise that I'd like to share:

"All the stories I wanted to tell spilled way over. So finally I let go of all the 'story' and just told one true thing. Then it was just a matter of selecting the words that fit."

Another's Feelings
by Robert C Johnson Jr., May 28, 2005

Ever get a sudden feeling there's more to existence than you previously even suspected? I'd known Allen since 6th grade, been mad in love from 7th. We were best friends right at the start, and he didn't have clue one how I really felt. But I'm not telling that story now. This story's about Allen's dad, sorta. Mr. Lewis' funeral. Holding his son with these arms afterwards was an epiphany. Him sobbing, grief wracked. Such strong non sexual emotions shocked me, seemed truly alien. My heart broke for both of us. Al's loss so very plain. Mine just discovered, unexplainable.

100 Words -- Laura Mann

More of Lisa's fans offering pieces! From Florida...

Untitled
by Laura Mann

Two parallel worlds, one of indifference, an other obsession. First creates isolation, distance. Second consumes entirely. A magnet, opposite polarities enjoined as single unit. It pulls and rends, twists, torments. Riding the ruthless roller coaster. Up then downhill again, WHEEEEE! What waits below?

Oblivious bliss, just kiss. Irrational dreams imbued with scenes of passionate things that may never be. Want and desire...craziness. I breathe, sigh, cry.

Run fast? Where?

Stay near? Around here?

Choices available?

None but eternal waiting.

Hate? No, love...agony, ecstasy, prevailing adoration...causes tears flowing on soft cheeks.

He does this to me.

Phone rings.

100 Words -- Alys Robinson

Our little homework assignment has spanned oceans! Here's one from Alys Robinson who was the first to get one submitted! Thanks, A!

Forbidden
by Alys Robinson

Rose. Velvet, blood, wine, old garnets caught by gaslight. Thorns prick, unmade decision, theft, deserted garden, who will know? Perfume, musk, sandalwood, enthralls, warm fog, drawn deep. Coughing, throat burning. White-fanged death howls down. Threat penetrates enchantment, fear takes hold. Running. Wolves pursue. Deep as forest shadow falls, concealment fails. Scent betrays, clinging like a lover. Comfortless, illusory refuge. Impossible hope strikes spurs into aching sides. Fluttering. Something inside beats, frantic for escape. Falling. Treetops, moonlit, twist into fantastic shapes. Tearing. Skin splits, shining silk emerges. Wings unfurl, spread luminescent, shining, across dark sky. The rest curls away, withers, crumbles.

100 Words -- Lisa Snellings Clark

OK, I'm posting these a little faster than once a day. I'm really excited about them. Thanks all for submitting! This is fantastic! So I promised I'd go first, which I did, and now let's hear from Lisa!

Midnight
by Lisa Snellings Clark

I swim at midnight, remembering Father. His teaching penny, its shocking copper taste, erased emotion, stopped tears instantly, infallibly. Hard focus tattooed my childhood mind. Night forgets murk. Water feels clear, silky. Most have gone, our desert nearly…deserted. Fear followed the attacks, then panic, violence, chaos, looting, horrible smells and finally, terrible quiet. Sandy winds scrubbed everything clean.
Tomorrow, we few will trek with great difficulty up those snowy mountains, taking trucks until fuel supplies run out or roads become too narrow. For now, floating here, memories flow past like currents, preparing me.
All is packed, including one old coin.

100 Words ---- HOMEWORK!

OK, folks, we've got some really great submitted short-shorts for the homework assignment. Instead of just posting one, I'd like to post many over the next few days. Lisa really helped get the word out, and you've really delivered with some strong work. Lisa and I are discussing doing this exercise again, this time with a theme! So keep on the lookout on her site and mine for your follow-up project!

Now for the stories. I promised I would go first to ease you all into it. Mine's probably the most boring of all, so don't worry about your own. Folks, also please comment on each story as they appear, whether you liked it or not, etc. Also, we've all found it a little difficult to make sure we're not using a word twice. Everyone's been hunting for software tools that will help that task, so please police each other. If a submitted story by accident has a repeated word in it, please chime in, and the author will be asked to resubmit with the repeat fixed.

So here's my boring little story. Go ahead. Comment on it. I promise I won't cry.

Mentor
by Bob Podrasky

“But Dad, why must I learn from making mistakes?”
“Experience, Son,” his father said. “There is nothing like figuring something out for yourself!”
Walking together in their garden, parent lecturing child, they stepped into the warm sunlight.
“When a gardener sows seeds, some fall on rock, where nothing can grow. Others find strong, firm soil.”
He contemplated this notion. Questioning results. Accepting losses, failures. Doing better next time. Seemed sensible, yet…
“So you see, it makes sense.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell me then its moral.”
“Discard all textbooks. Ignore warnings and directions. Heed not your teachers. Don’t expect any help.”

So, what are you doing June 6?

Yet another reminder. I've got you working on a homework assignment, AND you have an event you have to attend coming up! Remember, if you're in the New York City area, I want you to come to fagblog's first event! Go to see '29th and Gay' at NewFest, the New York City Lesbian & Gay Film Festival. My ex made a movie! It's only playing once. At Loew's 34th Street on Monday, June 6 at 8:15 pm. You have to buy tickets in advance!!! At Loew's 34th Street or online at newfest.org.

And remember your other assignment! If you do go to the movie and you heard about it here at fagblog, as the lights go down or the previews end or whatever feels like the appropriate time right before the movie starts, in the darkness when it's quiet, I want you to call out 'Pedro!' in honor of James Vasquez who made the film. Cuz that's his real name. Just scroll back to the original post. It will make more sense. I've got my tickets! How about you?

The Weekend's Almost Over!

Hopefully you are all having horrible, tragic flashbacks to high school. The weekend's almost over, and suddenly you realize: you haven't done your homework! I'm hoping for a few more short-shorts, people! Many, many, many thanks to the Rat Hag for linking up and for being her fabulous self. She really helped it get out there to more people and spread the creativity, even around the globe!

If you're at work on your piece, send it in, even if you're late. I'm going to be posting stories from folks for a few days. I'll make myself the guinea pig and post my own first -- followed closely by the work of a certain rat lover. So the guinea pig then the rat... it's like a pet store around here, ain't it?

A Real Compliment

Good ol' Lisa has posted 'Homework' to her website (http://slaugherhousestudios.blogspot.com) to try to get more people interested in writing a short-short with us. It's working! Yay! We'll have some good pieces posted here! I went over to her site, and she said this about me:

We wants to squash him occasionally.

Wow. It is my belief that that's the greatest compliment you can give a blogger. I love knowing when I push buttons. Now you kids get to your homework or no dessert!

Remembering Pain

A man and woman standing next to me on the train were chatting. She asked how his arm was feeling, and he said, 'Oh it's totally fine. I just have this nasty scar now.' And she questioned him further, 'And how did you manage to do that again?' 'Oh I was carrying all these things including a drill, and something touched up against the drill's button, and it came on and drilled into my skin.'

OK, yeah, I really didn't need that visual, or worse that sound, in my head first thing in the morning. But you know, it made me realize something. You can't remember pain. I mean, physical pain. You can remember the emotion. You can remember how you felt ABOUT the pain, but you can't really remember the actual physical pain, what it was like to feel. You can remember the emotion and shock of being hurt by someone you trusted, especially in the case of abuse, but that's not the same as remembering the actual pain itself.

A few years back, I broke my finger playing volleyball and had to have two metal pins drilled through the bones to set it. I decided to walk out of the hospital afterward and head to a pharmacy to fill my prescription for painkillers. Oops, the pharmacy was closed. So I walked a bit further to the next. Closed. The next... opened, but they didn't have my prescription on hand. By the time I found one that was open and had my pills, the local anesthetics had completely worn off, and I was feeling the full effect of two metal rods drilled through my bones. I was screaming as I walked through the store. The clerks were all coming running and asking what was the matter. I threw the prescription on the counter, begging, 'Please fill this, but you have to give me one right now...' and showed them my finger. Within minutes, the pain was subsiding. It was the most intense thing I have ever felt in my entire life. But I can't bring it back to mind really. I can think about it. I can think about the fear and the emotion, but I can't really touch upon the reality of what it must have felt like in the moment.

Just a Quick Question...

What's with all these "practicing" homosexuals? Honey, I'm a professional. I don't need to practice.

REMINDER

JUST A REMINDER TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK! Scroll down or check the archives. Readers, you have an assignment! You better spend the weekend getting it done! And that means you, Tom! And everyone else!

These Straights...

So my assistant just got engaged and is planning her wedding. They go through so much effort these straight people. Why would we want this??? They are discussing invitations and halls and cake and registries and flowers and ceremony and parents and location and timing and, oh don't get me started, The Dress. I said to her, "Seriously, I don't know what all this fuss is about getting married. Flowers, The Dress, ceremonies, receptions. Let's face it. All you need is a bride, a groom, and fresh bed linens."

Homework!

When I lived in San Francisco, I took a writing class at the Harvey Milk Institute, and it was the one and only time I ever actually produced anything. The class was on the short-short story. Having a deadline really helped me to get to it and write something, because I knew I had to have a story to deliver to each class.

Well now, I'm the beyotch in charge on this webpage, folks, and if you found your way here, then you will do what I say. You're reading my words here for free all the time, well, now you've got homework. Don't worry. I will do it, too. Actually this is an attempt to get myself to write something, too.

I'm giving myself and all of you an assignment. I love the concept of the short-short story. 250 words or less, a few more if you really need to get something told, but for the most part, get a full complete story told in as few words as possible. The other thing I enjoy in writing exercises is to add in completely random rules that make you think creatively and force you to choose every single word thoughtfully.

I'm getting there, I'm getting there.

All right, I want my trusty readers who need inspiration and a deadline to write a short-short story. [The rights manager in me has to stipulate:] You will maintain full copyright and ownership of the work you submit to me, but by sending it to me, you give me permission to post it to this blog (including standard site-archiving) only. My plan, depending on how many of you make submissions, is to post the best one. If I only get two or three, most likely I may post a few. And of course, I will post my own.

Now let's get down to it. I want you to write a short-short story. About anything. Ah, not so fast. I want your work to be exactly, no more no less, 100 words long. To the word. Ah, that's too easy. Get close, throw in a contraction here, edit there, and you did it. I think we need to add in something more. OK, I want you to write a 100-word-long short-short story, and... you can't use the same word twice. If you give your piece a title, the title does not count toward word-count, but it does count against the only using each word once rule. Yeah, your writing may get a little bit esoteric or poetic, but heck, that's where the fun lies, coming up with different ways of saying something. Only one 'I,' only one 'the,' only one 'of,' only one 'one.'

Your deadline is... OK, I'll give you a week. And.. that gives you the entire Memorial Day Weekend (in the U.S., at least). Tuesday morning, May 31, 9am. Send your 100-word short-short story to me at FagBlogger@aol.com. If I post your story, [and you want to give me a physical address], I will send you a free book on writing.

This is homework, people. Get to it!

It's Time to End the Roman Catholic Church

It's time it goes away for good. Close it up. Shut all the doors. It has outlived its usefulness and has no relevance in the modern world. Unethical, discriminatory, judgmental. It would be the most Christ-like thing to do: tear down the old church, full of its hypocrites and parasites, and build it anew.

from cnn.com:

MONTGOMERY, Alabama (AP) -- A pregnant student who was banned from graduation at her Roman Catholic high school announced her own name and walked across the stage anyway at the close of the program.
Alysha Cosby's decision prompted cheers and applause Tuesday from many of her fellow seniors at St. Jude Educational Institute.
But her mother and aunt were escorted out of the church by police after Cosby headed back to her seat.
"I can't believe something like this is happening in 2005," said her mother, Sheila Cosby. "My daughter has been through a lot and I am proud of her. She deserved to walk, and she did."
The school's guidance counselor delivered Cosby's degree to her house earlier Tuesday, but she still wanted to participate.
"I worked hard throughout high school and I wanted to walk with my class," she said.
Cosby was told in March that she could no longer attend school because of safety concerns, and her name was not listed in the graduation program.
The father of Cosby's child, also a senior at the school, was allowed to participate in graduation.

Driving Instruction

I was driving with a friend in my passenger seat the other day. There was an old lady about to step off the curb when I rolled by, and my friend said, 'Oh careful, watch out for the old lady!' I said, 'Oh come on, I wasn't even close! She was still on the curb.' He said, 'Well, you could have hit her!' And I said, 'Oh please, do you think I would waste a perfectly good opportunity for a hit-and-run on a total stranger?'

Retirement

Years ago, my dad took 'early retirement,' but he got bored and went back to work. Eventually, he was full-time again behind a desk, promoted, and was back to the same old grind. He ended up with the same situation: 'early retirement.' He again was bored. He never lost touch with all his old coworkers, and he was signed back on to do his same old job as a temp. Finally, they told him they had to let him go again, and finally, he decided enough was enough and stopped working. He's probably bored again. But I think he's finally done with having a full-time job.

He's 74 and has only been fully retired for about a year or two now. Sorry, Dad, but I just don't understand this whole being bored thing after retirement. I'm ready to retire right now. And I will be so busy. I don't know how I manage now! Here's how the typical day will look:

8am, rise and shine. Put the coffee on. If it's nice out, take a stroll in the backyard.
8-9:30, Squawk Box, catch up on e-mail, the news online, send some message to friends who still work and make fun of them (yes, every single day), do a little stock researching online.
9:30-10, minor details in the house, like put dishes away, clean the coffee pot, counters, etc.
10, shower
10:30-11:30, the morning constitutional. Walk downtown or ride the bike. Make the trip to the bank, post office, stores, buy a lottery ticket, buy gas or get the car washed, restock the Mike's Hard Lemonade. There's always one or two things that need getting done.
11:30/12noon, oh look it's time for lunch. I'm sure one of those working stiffs that I emailed this morning is available to have lunch. If not, make a quick sandwich or bowl of soup at home. Check into my E*Trade accounts and see how I'm doing today.
Afternoon, after lunch. This is the main event of the day. It's always going to be something. And it will also depend on who is around today. There's so much to do: driving range, tennis, bowling, movies (can you say bargain matinee!), shopping, stay home and garden or mow, head to The Wine Library to restock. Or I have that appointment at the day spa.
After that. If the main event wasn't something too taxing, I'm off to the gym. I hope to be there by 3/4. Since I plan on being a dirty old man, this all depends on when the college boys tend to be there. Schedule for optimum gawking time.
Early evening, friends will be getting out of work. And it's time to start cooking dinner. I'll have plenty of time to cook, so there will be people coming over regularly.
7pm. Dinner at my house or go out to eat.
8pm, watch whatever DVD I have from netflix.
After the movie, check in on emails, see if anyone responded to any of my online personals for 'vgl older gentleman with very good hands.'
11pm-midnight, send the male escort home and go to bed.

This is all on top of the many day trips and vacations I will have planned. And of course, I'll have people interrupting this schedule regularly -- 'hey i'm off on Tuesday -- let's go to The Borgata.'

I don't know -- I think I'm ready for retirement, RIGHT NOW.

fagblog's first... EVENT!

OK, there's probably none of you actually out there who are constant readers enough to care, but if by chance any of you exist... and are in the New York City area... fagblog is officially lending support to... my ex! Yes, I too can not believe I broke my own golden rule: 'never let your ex-lovers continue living.' Well, for some reason I let this one survive, and now... it's come back to bite me... he's made a movie! He promised me at one point while he was writing it that if for any chance he talks about his past loves (i.e., ME) that he would be kind, but I have to see for myself.

So here's the scoop. Go see Pedro's... yes, I'm letting you in on a big secret: his real name is Pedro, not James... go see Pedro's movie! He's a sweetie. OK, so maybe he's not a 19 year old college student any more, but hey, neither are you.

"29th and Gay" will be featured at NewFest, the New York City Gay & Lesbian Film Fest. Monday night, June 6, 8:15pm, at the Loew's 34th Street cinema. If you exist, you should be there! If you do go, here's what I want you to do. So I can know that you exist and that fagblog readers will do anything I tell them to do (hhhmm... *evil grin*), when the lights are dimmed, just before the movie starts, I want you to shout out, "Pedro!" With any luck there will be several of us, and Boetie (yeah, a very unfortunate nickname his father gave him as a child... imagine a fag with a nickname pronounced 'booty.') will be so thrilled... and embarrassed! Do it for me. Do it for the fag. Do it for Pedro. See you there. If you do come, and you see a bald, old, Moby-Agassi-lookin' fag in the audience, say hi... it's me... or... it's I... oh to hell with grammar... it's me. See you there.

For more information, go to www.29thandgay-themovie.com.

Today's Rant Brought to You by the AARP

A few years back, I read a book called 'When Did I Become My Parent's Parent?' Man, it gets truer and truer every year. No Dad, you can't sell your house and travel around the country visiting relatives, staying until you wear out your welcome, and going on to the next one. No Dad, you can't give away all your furniture because you don't use it and then live in a house with entire rooms completely empty. No Dad, I don't think you can come to the YMCA with me and play competitive volleyball. No Dad, you can't get the other end of that desk and carry it down the stairs with me. No Dad, you shouldn't listen to everything a telemarketer has to offer and then accept it! And no, you shouldn't give them your credit card number! No Dad, I don't think you should drive straight through to Indianapolis from New Jersey. No Dad, it's not okay that none of the rooms in your house have been painted since 1978 -- we need to repaint. No Dad, you don't have to leave your phone number on my voicemail everytime you call -- I know the number -- you've had it since 1959 -- and it was my phone number, too, for the first 21 years of my life.

In one of the most extraordinary novels ever written, Alan Lightman's 'Einstein's Dreams,' one of the chapters imagines a world where time runs in reverse. We start out life relaxing and sitting around all day, enjoying life, with lots of money that we took back from our heirs when we died. We take trips, take life easy. We have lots of aches and pains, but every day they go away a little bit more. Finally when most of our aches and pains are gone, and we're more spry and agile than we've ever been, we go to work. They have a party for us, and we start out in a high-powered job, the big boss or a high-level manager, making lots of money, making lots of decisions, living in a nice big house. Every few years, the company takes away some responsibility and gives us a lower level job for less pay but one that's less stressful and not as demanding. We buy smaller and smaller homes. Finally they put us in an entry-level job, where all we are required to do is answer phones, make photocopies, process data. Our bodies have become leaner, and we rarely ever have any pains or aches. We can stay up late almost every night, go out with friends after work for drinks, even stay up until all-hours on the weekend, go dancing, drink a lot, have a great time, not remembering the time when we had crazy stressful jobs and mortgages and family responsibilities. We unmeet our spouse and say goodbye for the first time. We have lots of sex, and since we unbought our houses, we rent small apartments in trendy neighborhoods and all in all have a really great time. Then comes the time when we can't really do our job anymore, but the fun nights and drinking and sex and partying continues. We enter college to unlearn all the things we're not going to need to know anymore, since we've given up working for a living. We spend four years in college, having the time of our lives, then we tune it down a notch and go to high school. We experiment with sex and alcohol, maybe even drugs or marijuana. We undo a lot of homework. We move back in with our parents who are just in the middle of life and working all the time. They support us. We play sports, join clubs, hang out with our friends. Our bodies start changing and soon we aren't capable of having sex anymore, but very quickly, we forget about it entirely and lose interest. We become virgins. We go to grammar school and only deal with the basics of information that we'll need for our last few remaining years. Food is always provided. Finally for our last 5 years of life we stay at home and just play. And play. Until we lose all knowledge and exist solely for the benefit of our body functions: eating, sleeping, pooing and peeing, cuddling, laughing, being hugged and loved and called cute. Finally as our body becomes smaller and smaller and smaller, until one day everyone makes a huge fuss over us, and we are done. Everyone forgets us immediately, because we've never existed. Sorry, Alan, sue me if you want, but if everyone who reads this buys 'Einstein's Dreams' and loves it to death, maybe the spike in sales will make you think twice.

Anyway, I think some of our parents DO live life in this direction. Cuz they sure do seem to act like children sometimes, don't they? [Man it took me a long time to get to that statement!]

Happy Mother's.. um... Happy... er...

Did you hit the Hallmark store like I did last week? Did you ever notice how a card has to say just the right thing? Despite the fact that you know no one ever actually reads the text of the card, just what you wrote in it? But there we all stand going through the racks of the inane, idiotic, insipid, hokey, overly-sentimental, flowery, kitschy, and unfunny garbage that they truck out for every holiday. And they never get it exactly right. Every card is too this or not enough that. You can never find the perfect card that says exactly what you want to say. On Wednesday I was in there, and I went through every rack, and despite spending almost my entire lunch hour, I could not find a single card that said, "Happy Mother's Day to the Lesbian Carrying My Baby." Seriously. Not a single one. I even would have settled for one that said, "To the Mother-to-Be. Happy Mother's Day from Your Gay Babydaddy."

I thought that was enough, but on Friday I found myself in there again. Seriously, this company slings the smelliest rose-water-scented beast feces at us on those racks of drivel. And there I was again, and not a single card of the hundreds and hundreds said what I wanted it to say. Have you noticed how people need to remind the person getting the card what their relationship is to the card receiver? Are there that many people out there with Alzheimer's that Hallmark sells these cards that say, 'from your son' or 'from your daughter?' As if all these women out there won't know that a card signed, 'Love, Pete,' is from her son Pete. 'Remember me, Mom? Pete. Your son. We used to live together.' OK, my favorites are 'from the cat' and 'from the dog.' I'm not kidding. They have cards you can send to a woman to make her think her tabby can write and has enough pocket change to go shopping, yet I couldn't find a card that says, "You're not my mother, but you're dating my dad, and he made me buy this card for you. Happy Mother's Day."

Weirdness

I just want to say, right upfront, so there is no arguing the fact: I'm weird. I've been aware of this for quite a while. I'm 38 years old, but I still find myself bouncing up the stairs and humming a jaunty little tune -- yes, in the office at work. I don't just stand there when I'm waiting -- I balance on one foot, then another. I kick my heel with the other foot, lean over, bounce up and down. I sing completely out of key, talk to myself, juggle pens, toss my empty ceramic mug up in the air on my way to the kitchen to get water -- haven't dropped it yet --, stick my tongue out at some people instead of saying hello, cross my eyes and try to look at the tip of my nose. I still toss pencils up at the drop ceiling to see if they'll stick. And I'm still fascinated trying to balance small objects on my fingertip. I giggle when people say words like shaft, balls, stick, wood, hole -- I tell ya, there's not a sport I can watch.

But I really have to watch myself. Do you ever notice that freak on the subway? There's one on every car. It's usually the homeless guy having an argument with himself. Every now and then, though, I have to stop and realize -- you know what? Sometimes... it's me. Doing a runner's stretch while holding the hanging strap. Or attempting to stand without holding on pretending I'm on my snowboard. Or singing loud enough to be overheard. Or laughing at one of those ads above your heads. It's even worse at work. With a smaller population, I'm convinced there's no denying that I am without a doubt The Weird One. What 38 year old man walks up the stairs by taking two steps up, then one back, then two steps up..? Just this morning I realized I might have to make a very serious concerted effort to stop being this weird... when I was standing at the urinal balancing a book on my head.

Jack-of-One-Thing

My dear friend Lisa -- oh all right, while I've never met her in person, I already love her, and besides you should see all her ratworks (artworks, ratworks, same thing) in my foyer, any way -- as I was saying, my good friend Lisa has a wonderful website (lisasnellings.com). Love her as I have loved her. One of the stories she relates on there is that Harlan Ellison once called her a 'monomaniac.' Well, of course I had to look it up. I had an idea what it meant, and I was basically correct, but I found it an intriguing word. Monomania is an 'obsessive interest in a single thing.' You know, I don't think that's a necessarily bad thing. Monomaniacs are the world's greatest thinkers, inventors, innovators, and yes, bloggers.

And that is exactly why this blog sucks, and you probably don't find anything particularly interesting in it. It's been my problem my entire life. I'm not obsessed with any one specific thing. I know a very little bit about a lot of different things. I get interested in something, I do it for a little while, then I lose interest and go on to something else. In high school it was bowling. In college the student theater. In my 20s it was volleyball. Still is to a point, but the mania has slacked a bit. I go in and out of obsessing over going to the gym -- some months I will go 4 times a week -- then weeks will go by that I don't go at all. Now the real test is: when can I focus a monomania on writing??? That's when I'll accomplish something.

Ah well, monomaniac or jack-of-all-trades. Just make sure you're one or the other. It's the person with no interests or obsessions that's really got a problem. That's it! I think I will call myself a serial monomaniac.

Sidewalk Issues

How come it always seems, when I'm walking on the sidewalk or driving on the highway, the people behind me are always in such a rush, but the people in front of me have so much patience? If they were just in opposite positions, we'd all be a lot happier. I wonder about these people that are, as my mother used to say, 'slow as molasses.' Did you ever notice they are always in front of you on the highway? If they're so friggin' slow, how did they get ahead of you in the first place? And the leadfooted speed-demons that Mom used to call 'wackos' -- if they're so fast, then why are they always so far behind? If everyone would just travel at MY speed, we'd all get where we were going efficiently. Seriously, people.

Old Things

I was thinking back to my days as a kid in grammar school. Remembering not so fondly the typewriter. And I'm not talking about one of those high-powered electric fangled correcting IBM Selectric typewriters. I'm talking back to the 1970s and manual typewriters. I remember typing reports and taking the entire evening to type one page. I went to Catholic school -- not only were we not allowed to have any typographical errors or misspellings, we were also not allowed to have observable corrections on the page. No eraser marks, no white-out, and absolutely no -- Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ-forbid -- scratch-outs or line-outs. Gasp! I remember spending an hour typing a page only to make a typo on the last line. You know what the nuns expected. Take out that sheet with the memorable screeching-whirring sound, crumple it up, and start that page over again. I remember being on the verge of tears through all of primetime, missing Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley, Dallas, Falcon Crest, all so that Sister Francis Raymond wouldn't have to be mortified and defiled by having to view a pencil eraser stain on the last line of my essay on Thomas Jefferson. Funny though, I have to say, throughout the entire 1970s, I never once lost a phone call in mid-conversation nor had my telephone run out of juice. And... I could recite all of my friends' phone numbers by heart.

Stupid Women

Do you see these women in your town? You see them all over the streets of Manhattan. You have to walk behind them to see what I'm talking about. And look lower than you usually do, straight boys. I'm talking about these women who wear high heels that are so precariously high, as each foot steps down onto the concrete, you can see the ankle physically wobble as they catch balance for each and every step on the needle tip of their high-heeled shoe. The ankle very obviously shakes and wobbles for a split-second on each and every step. Seriously, that can not be good. Watch for it.

I saw a woman the other day that was wearing shoes like that AND a poncho. I put her in my file of 'People Who Need to Be Slapped.'

Bring Your....

Today was Bring Your Child to Work Day.

Well, I don't have a child. So what was i supposed to do?

So I made it Bring Your Favorite Henry Miller Novel to Work Day.

I've been carrying it around all day.

Just Wondering...

If every time you drink, you kill more brain cells, why aren't I dead yet?

You know, I took one of my customers out for lunch the other day, and I ordered first and asked for a glass of red wine. My customer, a truly adorable straight man -- can I clone him and make the clone gay -- smiles and says, 'You know, there's just not enough of that any more! I'll have a glass of wine, too! When did people stop drinking with a business lunch!' We are firm in our conviction that we will bring back drinking with lunch! Join us! It's a revolution! Okay, well, maybe it's a re-revolution.

The Two Magic Words

I don't know why straight men don't absolutely love gay men. Every straight man should have that one close gay friend. Cuz guys seriously, we know all of women's secrets. And when a woman finds out that you have a close friend who is gay, she's going to think you're so cool, so nice, so non-judgmental. And she's also going to tell me all her secrets, which I could then relay to you. Besides, do you straight boys know what we keep telling women? Cuz you know we all have a gaggle of women around us, and what do we say over and over and over to them? 'You really need to get laid.' Come on, guys, we are your biggest supporters!

OK, here's some proof. Guys, we know The Two Magic Words that can get any woman to like you. I can't guarantee you'll be surfing the poontang highway within minutes, but The Two Magic Words can open up the doors to further conversation and make her think you're 'not like all the other guys.' You know the secret, guys... flattery. And you know you can't comment on her looks or her body. No, the secret is this: "Nice shoes."

Now, of course, that alone is not enough. Because her first thought is going to be, "Great, another gay guy noticing my shoes." But hey, the backdoor approach (hehehe) is always the best. Cuz when she realizes that you are NOT gay, she'll be all over you. I suggest several back-ups to The Two Magic Words. Always make her feel like she's better than other women:

"Nice shoes. You know, my ex had a pair like that, but they never looked right on her."
"Nice shoes. I bet my sister would love those."
"Nice shoes. I don't usually notice women's shoes, but I don't know, there's something about those shoes on you..." OK, maybe that one's a bit much...

I would definitely steer you away from:

"Nice shoes. My mom has a pair just like those."
"Nice shoes. Do you think they come in my size?"
"Nice shoes. They really make your tits look bigger."
"Nice shoes. So, ya wanna f*ck?"

A New Plane

A new plane took its maiden voyage today. With 555 seats and room for double beds, lounges, even a mini-casino and a jacuzzi, but there's still not enough overhead luggage room.

My Global Moment

This morning, on the street in New York City, from a Mexican grocer, I bought an Asian Pear that was grown in Chile.

Not only do we live in a global world, it really makes it difficult not to mix modifiers.

Days Turn Into Weeks....

And I realize I haven't written a thing. I sail through the weeks these days: work, school, work, work, school, work, work. I need to schedule more breathing and pooping time. Oh yeah, and then maybe post something here in between. Heck, I have wireless internet. I can multi-task: blog and poop at the same time! I just hope I don't run out of battery time on the ol' laptop. What, too much information? Damn, out of paper! I hate when that happens.

Is Coping the Answer?

There's a lot of talk about 'coping' in self-help. This is supposed to be a positive topic, how people are taking charge of a negative aspect of their life and learning how to deal with it. Actually, I would say, coping is actually not as grand a feat as one would assume. For many situations, there's nothing you can do. If you have cancer, then yes, you have to cope with cancer. But if you have problems in your life, you don't want to cope with them... you want to attack them and work toward eradicating them. There is a sense of futility in the notion of coping.

With pain and injury and other medical conditions, there are three levels of management. There is palliative care, which means the condition is not going to go away and in fact is going to worsen. Therapy and treatment targets attempts to alleviate the outward pain and keep the patient as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. Then there is managed care. While the condition is not going to go away on its own, it can be dealt with and effects of it can be managed or alleviated so that the condition does not severely disrupt the life of the patient. Then there is therapeutic change. By working on the problem, it can be not only managed but changed and even eradicated.

Coping in many areas of self-help is a giving up any possible chance for therapeutic change and relegating the situation to managed care. How can I manage in this situation? We go too quickly to coping strategies. Too many times the situation is not looked at for the potential of eradication. Remember when 'coping' used to be real... when you asked someone, 'how are you doing,' and they said, 'I'm coping,' it was usually a sad but hopeful situation. Now people consider themselves victors when they say, 'I'm coping.' Careful. As soon as you stop thinking about the fact that you're 'coping,' you suddenly find that you're not coping anymore, and the original problem is still there.

Massage

Well, kids. I'm sorry sorry. 16 days without posting?

I've started a new venture. I'm training to become a massage therapist. So far, so good. We're working on Swedish massage techniques. We've worked on face, scalp, neck, arms, hands, legs, feet, and last night, abs.

Now I've never had a massage therapist work on my abs before. I can't remember any even asking me if I wanted that area incorporated into the massage. Well, certainly like everyone else, I was apprehensive.... for both working on someone in that area and in having my abs worked on.

Let me tell you. This is an area that you should not neglect. And if you ever pay for a Swedish massage, make sure you have the therapist work your abs. Several of the key benefits of massage in general are prevalent in the abs. Today I feel better posture and more relaxed in the areas of my stomach, waist, and sides. I'm holding my abs more erect, giving that better posture, but even more obvious, holding your abs firm means... I'm holding my stomach flatter!

One of our first classes we went over the benefits of massage. There are over a dozen. One is maybe a little bit more... esoteric than the rest, but for me, it seems to be one of the most prevalent. I'm more aware of my body and its parts. Now granted in the training sessions we're doing for class, we are concentrating on a single body part for ten times as long as it would receive attention in a typical one-hour long massage, but today, I'm so aware of my abs and how they are supporting my torso, I am 'aware' of them doing their job, and yet, they feel relaxed, not stressed.

More to come on the topic of massage. New direction for me here and not in keeping with what I named this blog. Perhaps I will end up with another one, rename this one, or heck, just deal with it... :)

Channeling Parents

A friend of mine just channeled my father the other night. It was an amazing thing, particularly since Dad is still alive. Who knew you can channel the thoughts of a living person! I thought it was something that could only be done across the planar boundaries into the other space. No, you can channel from town to town within the same state, too. Or it could be something only possible in New Jersey.

Me: My furnace won't come on.
Friend: Well, what's wrong with it?
Me: Um,... it won't come on.
Friend: Well, did you call somebody?

Office Mentality

We have so many meetings here that require the attendance of so many different people that in order to keep it all straight season after season, we have a meeting to schedule all the regular meetings that take place through the business cycle. It's called the Meeting Meeting. Now of course, you would think that this type of planning would cause less confusion, but we still have conference room booking problems, find out later certain people are unable to attend certain meetings, cancellations, postponements.

At a job I had many years ago for a large corporation that shall remain nameless, we had so many standard forms, there was a form you had to fill out to order standardized forms. One of the listings on the Form Form was a line item to order more Form Forms.

My only question is: what if I'm unable to attend the Meeting Meeting? What if I run out of Form Forms -- how do I get any more?

Sorry Faithful Readers

Went offline there for a while and realized I haven't chimed in in a while. So hello. I haven't had much in the way of inspirations for posts though. I promise I'll try harder to extrapolate meaning from the world at large and disburse my witty insights. But you know, sometimes, I just don't think the world is really that deep at all. Sometimes it's just wake, work, pee, poop, snooze, snore, repeat. And every now and then, I masturbate.