Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 103
March 5, 2014
The Crystal Leather Anniversary
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
It occurs to me that this column comes out on March 5th, my third wedding anniversary.
And by “occurs”, I mean my wife reminded me.
As I wrote a few years ago, it wasn’t supposed to be our “real” wedding. Our intention was to get married here in Indiana, then have a bigger celebration in her home state of Missouri. The first wedding was exactly the kind most guys want: Get it done and over with:
“Mark, ya’ll wanna?”
“Well … ouch! Yep.”
“Emily, ya’ll wanna?”
“I get his stuff?”
“Yep.”
“Why not?”
“By the authority of the World
Wide Web Church Of Nigerian Princes, ya’ll is hitched.”
Just like that. Well, except without the accents, or the hesitation, or the questionable legality. Okay, really not like that at all.
But things happened: medical stuff, money stuff, bad timing stuff. Basically, real life. While we still intend to have that down south celebration, it’s far too late for that be our “real” anniversary.
March 5th isn’t so bad, because isn’t March when things start to warm up, the snow melts away, and we see the first signs of nature’s renewal? Okay, not this year, but still.
So what do we do for our anniversary? For early March, my idea included a trip to a place where you can sit on the beach without seeing chunks of ice, unless it’s the ice in your drinks.
Then I checked my bank account. There will be no dunes this anniversary, unless you count snowdrifts in the back yard.
As I mentioned in my Valentine’s Day column, I really stink at this kind of thing. So, for what to get my wife for our third anniversary I consulted a trusted source: Wikipedia.
Wikipedia is an internet website in which any Joe and his brother, and his brother’s dog (with internet access) can put in information, so it has to be always accurate. Right? So I asked it about wedding anniversaries, and this is the first line:
“A wedding anniversary is the anniversary of the date a wedding took place.”
Why, thank you, Captain Obvious.
But what should I get her as a present? Or should I just skip that and move a couch out to the garage? Too cold for that. So, it turns out there are two kinds of anniversary gift lists: the traditional one, and a “modern” list created by librarians at the Chicago Public Library.
If you need to know something ask a librarian. If they don’t know the answer, it’s not worth knowing.
So, the modern suggested gift is crystal and/or glass. Okay. Crystal! Snowflakes are crystals; I’ll just get her a bowl of snow. Salt’s a crystal; Pass the salt at dinner, and done. Or salt the snow! But no way could it be that easy.
I could go with glass—new windows for the house. I know she wants new windows, but that also seemed a bit too easy.
So I went to the internet again and asked what the difference is between crystal and glass. Turns out the librarians are talking about glass kitchen stuff, like glasses (which, duh) and bowls, and other breakables. As that last word implies, glass kitchen stuff doesn’t last long around my house.
So, what’s crystal? It turns out crystal is just glass, with the addition of at least 24% of … lead.
I thought lead was bad. Although I ate lead paint chips as a child, but it never seemed to have any ill … what were we talking about?
Okay, then what’s the traditional third anniversary gift? Turns out, according to the unimpeachable Wikipedia, it’s leather.
One can go two ways on the subject of leather anniversary presents. The first, which I call “50 Shades of Leather”, is questionable for a column that aims to bore people of all ages. Okay, so what about the second? Exactly when did leather become the ideal anniversary gift? Did women of olden times have a lot of leather underwear? That would explain why the women in old photos always looked so dour: They weren’t chaffing only because they couldn’t vote.
Armed with this, I knew instantly what my wife would like for our third anniversary: Tack. For those of you who don’t know (I didn’t, until my horse-loving wife told me), tack is all that stuff that goes on horses while they’re being ridden, like the reins, and the bridle (which isn’t related to brides at all), and bits, which are apparently the stuff that the horses bite. Better it than me.
So tack for my wife, who loves horses, and I actually did some window shopping before I remembered we had no horse. Just a horse-sized dog.
This whole time something had been bothering me, something niggling at the back of my mind. I’d been ignoring that as I searched for leather and crystal, or maybe crystal leather, which might be a brilliant invention and forget it, it’s mine. Finally I went back to the column I wrote just after we married, in which I described the wedding situation. Maybe I’d forgotten some detail.
I read the thing through twice. It wasn’t one of my best. Finally, something caught my interest: The date. I posted it on March 14th …
2012.
This isn’t our third anniversary. It’s our second anniversary.
So I’m off to find some China, thanks to the librarians. Or some cotton, thanks to someone from Medieval days. Or, I don’t know, a cotton plant made of China.
Anybody want some crystal leather?
It occurs to me that this column comes out on March 5th, my third wedding anniversary.
And by “occurs”, I mean my wife reminded me.
As I wrote a few years ago, it wasn’t supposed to be our “real” wedding. Our intention was to get married here in Indiana, then have a bigger celebration in her home state of Missouri. The first wedding was exactly the kind most guys want: Get it done and over with:
“Mark, ya’ll wanna?”
“Well … ouch! Yep.”
“Emily, ya’ll wanna?”
“I get his stuff?”
“Yep.”
“Why not?”
“By the authority of the World
Wide Web Church Of Nigerian Princes, ya’ll is hitched.”
Just like that. Well, except without the accents, or the hesitation, or the questionable legality. Okay, really not like that at all.
But things happened: medical stuff, money stuff, bad timing stuff. Basically, real life. While we still intend to have that down south celebration, it’s far too late for that be our “real” anniversary.
March 5th isn’t so bad, because isn’t March when things start to warm up, the snow melts away, and we see the first signs of nature’s renewal? Okay, not this year, but still.
So what do we do for our anniversary? For early March, my idea included a trip to a place where you can sit on the beach without seeing chunks of ice, unless it’s the ice in your drinks.
Then I checked my bank account. There will be no dunes this anniversary, unless you count snowdrifts in the back yard.
As I mentioned in my Valentine’s Day column, I really stink at this kind of thing. So, for what to get my wife for our third anniversary I consulted a trusted source: Wikipedia.
Wikipedia is an internet website in which any Joe and his brother, and his brother’s dog (with internet access) can put in information, so it has to be always accurate. Right? So I asked it about wedding anniversaries, and this is the first line:
“A wedding anniversary is the anniversary of the date a wedding took place.”
Why, thank you, Captain Obvious.
But what should I get her as a present? Or should I just skip that and move a couch out to the garage? Too cold for that. So, it turns out there are two kinds of anniversary gift lists: the traditional one, and a “modern” list created by librarians at the Chicago Public Library.
If you need to know something ask a librarian. If they don’t know the answer, it’s not worth knowing.
So, the modern suggested gift is crystal and/or glass. Okay. Crystal! Snowflakes are crystals; I’ll just get her a bowl of snow. Salt’s a crystal; Pass the salt at dinner, and done. Or salt the snow! But no way could it be that easy.
I could go with glass—new windows for the house. I know she wants new windows, but that also seemed a bit too easy.
So I went to the internet again and asked what the difference is between crystal and glass. Turns out the librarians are talking about glass kitchen stuff, like glasses (which, duh) and bowls, and other breakables. As that last word implies, glass kitchen stuff doesn’t last long around my house.
So, what’s crystal? It turns out crystal is just glass, with the addition of at least 24% of … lead.
I thought lead was bad. Although I ate lead paint chips as a child, but it never seemed to have any ill … what were we talking about?
Okay, then what’s the traditional third anniversary gift? Turns out, according to the unimpeachable Wikipedia, it’s leather.
One can go two ways on the subject of leather anniversary presents. The first, which I call “50 Shades of Leather”, is questionable for a column that aims to bore people of all ages. Okay, so what about the second? Exactly when did leather become the ideal anniversary gift? Did women of olden times have a lot of leather underwear? That would explain why the women in old photos always looked so dour: They weren’t chaffing only because they couldn’t vote.
Armed with this, I knew instantly what my wife would like for our third anniversary: Tack. For those of you who don’t know (I didn’t, until my horse-loving wife told me), tack is all that stuff that goes on horses while they’re being ridden, like the reins, and the bridle (which isn’t related to brides at all), and bits, which are apparently the stuff that the horses bite. Better it than me.
So tack for my wife, who loves horses, and I actually did some window shopping before I remembered we had no horse. Just a horse-sized dog.
This whole time something had been bothering me, something niggling at the back of my mind. I’d been ignoring that as I searched for leather and crystal, or maybe crystal leather, which might be a brilliant invention and forget it, it’s mine. Finally I went back to the column I wrote just after we married, in which I described the wedding situation. Maybe I’d forgotten some detail.
I read the thing through twice. It wasn’t one of my best. Finally, something caught my interest: The date. I posted it on March 14th …
2012.
This isn’t our third anniversary. It’s our second anniversary.
So I’m off to find some China, thanks to the librarians. Or some cotton, thanks to someone from Medieval days. Or, I don’t know, a cotton plant made of China.
Anybody want some crystal leather?
February 27, 2014
The Horrors of Holiday Food
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
People, we need to talk about holiday food.
I know what you’re thinking: “The holidays are over! Don’t make us rehash holiday hash!”
Yeah, well, these days you’re never far from the next holiday. We have to nip this problem in the bud, before we’re all eating rosewater Valentine soup.
(Yes, I’m late posting this column. Like the TV networks, I dropped everything important and fun in favor of the Olympics.)
It used to be simple, if strange. Pumpkin cookies at Halloween. Cranberry sauce and stuffing at Thanksgiving. Eggnog at Christmas. Spice flavored crap here and there. (Not literally crap. Ew.)
It was, quite frankly, food most of us wouldn’t even think of consuming any other time of the year. But during the holidays it was a “special treat” that somehow we felt duty bound to try despite our better judgment.
Most holidays have some questionable variation on this. Much as my brother and I liked to blow things up as kids, we didn’t consider going out looking for fireworks once Independence Day was past. New Year’s Eve party hats look ridiculous on January 2nd, especially once the wearers sober up. On Halloween we get away with stuff nobody even tries the rest of the year, unless they’re in San Francisco or a Washington, D.C. hotel room.
But now it’s out of control. For instance, in late summer last year Starbucks started selling Pumpkin Spice Latte.
I’ll leave off the debate about whether latte, by itself, it inherently ridiculous.
Dunkin’ Donuts pimped its pumpkin products in September. Brueggere’s Bagels has a pumpkin bagel. A pumpkin bagel! Oh, the humanity.
Now, some of this doesn’t bother me much. After all, it’s a free country when it comes to food, as long as you escaped the spice scented reach of the Bloomberg Administration. You want pumpkin yogurt? More power to you; as far as I’m concerned, yogurt joins buttermilk among those items that I refuse to taste because it’s impossible to tell if they’re spoiled.
But come on. Pumpkin Pringles? Ice cream? M&M’s? Good ingredients are being wasted. There’s only so much chocolate in the world.
There’s pumpkin-spice flavored vodka, and a beer made with pumpkin and cranberry juice, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I suppose, as with the non-holiday version of those products, they taste better the more you drink.
If you’re full but still craving, you can get a pumpkin scented room deodorizer. You’ve long been able to get holiday spice scents, although the eggnog scented candle wasn’t a huge success.
Once Christmas approaches, you can leave the pumpkin and go to eggnog, which at its best is enriched in some nice, holiday buffering booze, and at its worst makes people violently ill. After all, it’s got milk, cream, and whipped eggs in it. And, of course, you can get it with pumpkin spice.
If you’re not careful, it’s a recipe for a sweet treat and a sour stomach. I’ll stick with hot chocolate, because … hey, chocolate.
But people love eggnog, to the
extent that you can now get it in cupcakes, marshmallows, cake mix, bubblegum, popcorn, and of course milkshakes. You can even get eggnog flavored candy corn, thus taking you all the way through the fall and winter holidays. Next they’ll be dying it green for St. Patrick’s Day.
And why do people go for all this stuff they wouldn’t touch in June? White chocolate peppermint Pringles? Gingerbread shakes? A turkey shaped ice cream cake? (Although still – it is ice cream.) White hot cocoa lip balm?
There’s also roasted turkey Doritos. Perfect for that college kid who can’t make it home for the holidays, or someone who’s been smoking some questionable green leaf and doesn’t much care what flavor his snacks come in. Or both.
I’ll give you milk chocolate Lays potato chips, which at least combine two “normal” flavors. But pumpkin soup? Pumpkin martini? Shaken, not seeded.
Turkey and gravy figgin’ holiday cola???
As for fruitcake, no one has actually eaten any in all of recorded history. Oh, some people claim they have—but they’ve never produced proof. The truth is, the same dozen fruitcakes have been exchanged across the country every holiday since fruitcake was invented in 1866, by a guy who was drunk on eggnog.
(I kid. The first fruitcakes were “consumed” by Romans, just before the empire fell. Coincidence?)
Personally I’ll add to the list of weird holiday food: candied yams, which are just wrong, and cranberry sauce, which only exists in this dimension from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Also banana nut bread ice cream, which I realize isn’t so much holiday only, and certainly beats the heck out of pumpkin spice Eggo Waffles.
“Leggo my pumpkin spice Eggo!”
“Um … ok, it’s all yours.”
Well, every flavor has its advocates, and it’s not like I don’t enjoy questionable snacks. I used to eat salted pumpkin seeds by the ton. At one point my blood pressure was higher than the national debt, although they’ve since traded places. Still, I think I’ll pass on the idea I once read, to stir cranberry and ginger into mayonnaise, making a holiday themed sandwich spread. It goes on pumpkin bread, I assume.
I’ll stick with the basics: Fudge, no-bake cookies, and my personal choice in foods that are holiday only and a bit ridiculous when you think about them: peanut brittle. I can break my teeth and stop my heart at the same time!
Sheesh … I gained ten pounds just writing this.
People, we need to talk about holiday food.
I know what you’re thinking: “The holidays are over! Don’t make us rehash holiday hash!”
Yeah, well, these days you’re never far from the next holiday. We have to nip this problem in the bud, before we’re all eating rosewater Valentine soup.
(Yes, I’m late posting this column. Like the TV networks, I dropped everything important and fun in favor of the Olympics.)
It used to be simple, if strange. Pumpkin cookies at Halloween. Cranberry sauce and stuffing at Thanksgiving. Eggnog at Christmas. Spice flavored crap here and there. (Not literally crap. Ew.)
It was, quite frankly, food most of us wouldn’t even think of consuming any other time of the year. But during the holidays it was a “special treat” that somehow we felt duty bound to try despite our better judgment.
Most holidays have some questionable variation on this. Much as my brother and I liked to blow things up as kids, we didn’t consider going out looking for fireworks once Independence Day was past. New Year’s Eve party hats look ridiculous on January 2nd, especially once the wearers sober up. On Halloween we get away with stuff nobody even tries the rest of the year, unless they’re in San Francisco or a Washington, D.C. hotel room.
But now it’s out of control. For instance, in late summer last year Starbucks started selling Pumpkin Spice Latte.
I’ll leave off the debate about whether latte, by itself, it inherently ridiculous.
Dunkin’ Donuts pimped its pumpkin products in September. Brueggere’s Bagels has a pumpkin bagel. A pumpkin bagel! Oh, the humanity.
Now, some of this doesn’t bother me much. After all, it’s a free country when it comes to food, as long as you escaped the spice scented reach of the Bloomberg Administration. You want pumpkin yogurt? More power to you; as far as I’m concerned, yogurt joins buttermilk among those items that I refuse to taste because it’s impossible to tell if they’re spoiled.
But come on. Pumpkin Pringles? Ice cream? M&M’s? Good ingredients are being wasted. There’s only so much chocolate in the world.
There’s pumpkin-spice flavored vodka, and a beer made with pumpkin and cranberry juice, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I suppose, as with the non-holiday version of those products, they taste better the more you drink.
If you’re full but still craving, you can get a pumpkin scented room deodorizer. You’ve long been able to get holiday spice scents, although the eggnog scented candle wasn’t a huge success.
Once Christmas approaches, you can leave the pumpkin and go to eggnog, which at its best is enriched in some nice, holiday buffering booze, and at its worst makes people violently ill. After all, it’s got milk, cream, and whipped eggs in it. And, of course, you can get it with pumpkin spice.
If you’re not careful, it’s a recipe for a sweet treat and a sour stomach. I’ll stick with hot chocolate, because … hey, chocolate.
But people love eggnog, to the
extent that you can now get it in cupcakes, marshmallows, cake mix, bubblegum, popcorn, and of course milkshakes. You can even get eggnog flavored candy corn, thus taking you all the way through the fall and winter holidays. Next they’ll be dying it green for St. Patrick’s Day.
And why do people go for all this stuff they wouldn’t touch in June? White chocolate peppermint Pringles? Gingerbread shakes? A turkey shaped ice cream cake? (Although still – it is ice cream.) White hot cocoa lip balm?
There’s also roasted turkey Doritos. Perfect for that college kid who can’t make it home for the holidays, or someone who’s been smoking some questionable green leaf and doesn’t much care what flavor his snacks come in. Or both.
I’ll give you milk chocolate Lays potato chips, which at least combine two “normal” flavors. But pumpkin soup? Pumpkin martini? Shaken, not seeded.
Turkey and gravy figgin’ holiday cola???
As for fruitcake, no one has actually eaten any in all of recorded history. Oh, some people claim they have—but they’ve never produced proof. The truth is, the same dozen fruitcakes have been exchanged across the country every holiday since fruitcake was invented in 1866, by a guy who was drunk on eggnog.
(I kid. The first fruitcakes were “consumed” by Romans, just before the empire fell. Coincidence?)
Personally I’ll add to the list of weird holiday food: candied yams, which are just wrong, and cranberry sauce, which only exists in this dimension from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Also banana nut bread ice cream, which I realize isn’t so much holiday only, and certainly beats the heck out of pumpkin spice Eggo Waffles.
“Leggo my pumpkin spice Eggo!”
“Um … ok, it’s all yours.”
Well, every flavor has its advocates, and it’s not like I don’t enjoy questionable snacks. I used to eat salted pumpkin seeds by the ton. At one point my blood pressure was higher than the national debt, although they’ve since traded places. Still, I think I’ll pass on the idea I once read, to stir cranberry and ginger into mayonnaise, making a holiday themed sandwich spread. It goes on pumpkin bread, I assume.
I’ll stick with the basics: Fudge, no-bake cookies, and my personal choice in foods that are holiday only and a bit ridiculous when you think about them: peanut brittle. I can break my teeth and stop my heart at the same time!
Sheesh … I gained ten pounds just writing this.
February 25, 2014
Girl Scout story blurb
I foolishly asked everyone to vote on a title for my “Girl Scout” novella without actually telling anyone what it was about! So here’s a quick blurb, which might very well find its way to the back cover:
Fifteen year old Beth Hamlin is horrified to discover her beloved summer camp must go without campfires this year, thanks to the fire hazard from a drought. At first she and her friends try to perk up the other campers, but Beth isn't one to just sit (or swim, or boat, or horseback) around, when there's a challenge to be met.
Beth discovers her new cabinmate, Cassidy, knows a local Cherokee who claims the ability to do a rain dance. Now all they have to do is trick the Camp Director into letting Running Creek do the dance there, avoid the local bully and a flying arrow or two … and keep from getting caught plotting with the local fire captain on a forbidden cell phone. With luck southern Indiana will get a nice, soaking rain, and when it's over Camp Inipi can have proper campfires again.
But when things go horribly wrong, the whole area is endangered by a double disaster. Now Beth, Cassidy, and the rest of their unit may be the only people who can save not only their camp, but everyone in it.
When Beth's big brother told her being a teenager could be rough, he probably didn't have this in mind.
And here’s the Facebook poll on the title, if anyone’s interested:
https://apps.facebook.com/my-polls/uc...
Fifteen year old Beth Hamlin is horrified to discover her beloved summer camp must go without campfires this year, thanks to the fire hazard from a drought. At first she and her friends try to perk up the other campers, but Beth isn't one to just sit (or swim, or boat, or horseback) around, when there's a challenge to be met.
Beth discovers her new cabinmate, Cassidy, knows a local Cherokee who claims the ability to do a rain dance. Now all they have to do is trick the Camp Director into letting Running Creek do the dance there, avoid the local bully and a flying arrow or two … and keep from getting caught plotting with the local fire captain on a forbidden cell phone. With luck southern Indiana will get a nice, soaking rain, and when it's over Camp Inipi can have proper campfires again.
But when things go horribly wrong, the whole area is endangered by a double disaster. Now Beth, Cassidy, and the rest of their unit may be the only people who can save not only their camp, but everyone in it.
When Beth's big brother told her being a teenager could be rough, he probably didn't have this in mind.
And here’s the Facebook poll on the title, if anyone’s interested:
https://apps.facebook.com/my-polls/uc...
February 24, 2014
What do you call a Girl Scout story with no Girl Scouts?
Okay, so this YA “Girl Scout” novella I’ve been working on is almost ready to go, and it has no Girl Scouts in it.
(That’s for legal purposes. This organization is my own invention, and the fact that some of the proceeds are going toward the Girl Scout camp my wife worked at is completely coincidental.)
So, since the Girl Scout story has no Girl Scouts, I should probably give it a title. I brainstormed, writing down a list of a couple of dozen potential titles, which is what I sometimes do when I’m stuck for one (which is all the time).
The story revolves around 15 year old Beth Hamlin’s misadventures when she gets to camp and discovers they can’t have any campfires that year, due to a drought. She and her friends work to keep everyone’s spirits up while also taking steps to make it rain—steps that lead to disastrous consequences.
Some of the titles I came up with were discarded because they gave clues about things that happened late in the book, so those were the easy ones. For obvious reasons, I’m not going to tell you what they were.
Others were a bit too bland: “The Year Without a Fire”, “Rain Dancing”; or dependent on wordplay: “Weather … Or Not”, “Where There’s Smoke, It’s Dire”.
Some titles the reader wouldn’t figure out until they’re well into the story:
“If You Don’t Like The Weather …”
“Dance, Wind, And Fire”
“Don’t Kill The Messenger”
“They Don’t Listen To Teenagers”
“Totally Not An Emergency”
“Four Friends and a Drought” (A little shout-out to a fanfiction series of mine.)
“Riot Prevention Badge”
For you “Walking Dead” fans (and only you will get it) I found a title that fit the story and was also a shout-out: “Heroic Stuff, Dangerous Things”.
Two titles I discarded because they referred to a supporting character, and would be considered un-PC to our more delicate readers. I just didn’t feel like arguing. But the character, a half-Cherokee owner of an Indian-themed souvenir shop, also appears in a YA mystery I’m trying to sell—and will refuse to be silenced.
Toward the end I got a little silly:
“If You Like Your Weather, You Can Keep Your Weather.”
“Mary Potter and The Rain Dance Of Doom.”
Sadly, the story doesn’t have a character named Mary Potter.
When I was done winnowing the list, which I believe is also a dance move in Philadelphia … there wasn’t much list left. This is what I ended up with:
“Have a Safe Summer”
“Who Keeps Singing?”
“Best Session Ever”
“No Campfire, Girls”
They speak to the story and Beth’s character. Emily was leaning toward “No Campfire Girls”, which left me wondering exactly how that title would go on the cover. We don’t want people to think we’re banning Campfire Girls, for instance. It could be:
“No Campfire, Girls”
Or, “No-Campfire Girls”
Or maybe an emphasis with bigger letters or italics: “No Campfire, Girls”.
So, what do you think, Title-wise? The Girl Scouts are counting on this … even though the story’s not about Girl Scouts. Honest.
(That’s for legal purposes. This organization is my own invention, and the fact that some of the proceeds are going toward the Girl Scout camp my wife worked at is completely coincidental.)
So, since the Girl Scout story has no Girl Scouts, I should probably give it a title. I brainstormed, writing down a list of a couple of dozen potential titles, which is what I sometimes do when I’m stuck for one (which is all the time).
The story revolves around 15 year old Beth Hamlin’s misadventures when she gets to camp and discovers they can’t have any campfires that year, due to a drought. She and her friends work to keep everyone’s spirits up while also taking steps to make it rain—steps that lead to disastrous consequences.
Some of the titles I came up with were discarded because they gave clues about things that happened late in the book, so those were the easy ones. For obvious reasons, I’m not going to tell you what they were.
Others were a bit too bland: “The Year Without a Fire”, “Rain Dancing”; or dependent on wordplay: “Weather … Or Not”, “Where There’s Smoke, It’s Dire”.
Some titles the reader wouldn’t figure out until they’re well into the story:
“If You Don’t Like The Weather …”
“Dance, Wind, And Fire”
“Don’t Kill The Messenger”
“They Don’t Listen To Teenagers”
“Totally Not An Emergency”
“Four Friends and a Drought” (A little shout-out to a fanfiction series of mine.)
“Riot Prevention Badge”
For you “Walking Dead” fans (and only you will get it) I found a title that fit the story and was also a shout-out: “Heroic Stuff, Dangerous Things”.
Two titles I discarded because they referred to a supporting character, and would be considered un-PC to our more delicate readers. I just didn’t feel like arguing. But the character, a half-Cherokee owner of an Indian-themed souvenir shop, also appears in a YA mystery I’m trying to sell—and will refuse to be silenced.
Toward the end I got a little silly:
“If You Like Your Weather, You Can Keep Your Weather.”
“Mary Potter and The Rain Dance Of Doom.”
Sadly, the story doesn’t have a character named Mary Potter.
When I was done winnowing the list, which I believe is also a dance move in Philadelphia … there wasn’t much list left. This is what I ended up with:
“Have a Safe Summer”
“Who Keeps Singing?”
“Best Session Ever”
“No Campfire, Girls”
They speak to the story and Beth’s character. Emily was leaning toward “No Campfire Girls”, which left me wondering exactly how that title would go on the cover. We don’t want people to think we’re banning Campfire Girls, for instance. It could be:
“No Campfire, Girls”
Or, “No-Campfire Girls”
Or maybe an emphasis with bigger letters or italics: “No Campfire, Girls”.
So, what do you think, Title-wise? The Girl Scouts are counting on this … even though the story’s not about Girl Scouts. Honest.
February 19, 2014
Former Olympic Events Left Fans ... Confused
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
I won’t dwell on the problems with getting the Sochi Winter Olympics ready in Russia, mostly because I dwelled on those last week. Instead, let’s look at some past Olympic sports that are no longer in the games.
Most recently, baseball and softball were pulled from competition. The American women dominated in softball, while in baseball Americans … well, they only got three medals in five tries. The Cuban team grabbed the gold. There’s not much else to do in Cuba, except play baseball and stare longingly toward Florida, where senior citizens have high speed internet and all-you-can-eat buffets.
Lacrosse was a medal event—in 1904 and 1908. It involves people in facemasks hitting their balls with big fly swatters. It died out in the early 1900’s because only the Canadians, British, and Americans were willing to take the punishment; former lacrosse players are now employed as dog catchers and butterfly collectors.
Basque pelota was only a medal event in 1900, because nobody could figure out how to pronounce it. It’s played on a court with a ball, sometimes using a racket, but sometimes not.
In other words, it’s handball. If they’d called it that, basque pelota-ites would be on Wheaties boxes.
Tandem cycling was popular in the Olympics from 1920-72. It’s being considered again with new, more interesting rules: The guy in front steers, while the guy in back can lash out at other competitors with lacrosse sticks. It’s now a favorite of retired hockey players.
Winter pentathlon was a difficult event, although the Russians might beat that with their new sport, team gay-bashing. In 1948 winter pentathlon was put on as a demonstration sport, and consisted of downhill skiing, cross-country skiing, shooting, fencing, and horse riding.
All together. In the same event.
Sweden, which remained more or less neutral through World War II, had a whole army of young men just itching to shoot something: They swept all the medals. However, the sport was discontinued after ski-clad Swedes on horseback shot all the competitors’ horses while jumping over the fencing.
Motorboarding was tried in 1908, and ended with only one boat finishing in each of three races. It turns out the Swedes used their winter pentathlon rifles to shoot up the other boat engines, leading officials to change to rowing.
Polo was a favorite Olympic event in the early 1900’s, but it was canceled after the Swedes sent in their entry forms.
The Olympics also tried an obstacle course … involving swimmers. Competitors had to climb over a pole, go over a row of boats, and then swim under another row of boats. Luckily they had an excess of boats left over from the motorboat races.
Speaking of swimming, in 1984 they tried solo synchronized swimming.
Think about it.
Then there’s the one Olympic sport I actually participated in: Tug of war. Not in the Olympics, but we won, and didn’t even have to borrow Swedish rifles to do it. Between 1900 and 1920 the sport was dominated by Great Britain, which sent teams of police officers. And remember, back then their cops were unarmed. Good thing the Swedes didn’t have a team.
Distance plunging would have been interesting … or not. Athletes would dive into the pool and coast underwater, without moving.
That’s it. The winner is the one who drifted the longest in sixty seconds, or when they floated to the surface, whichever came first. An American won the gold, although it should be noted that this competition happened only once, in the 1904 St. Louis Olympics. It should also be noted that only Americans competed.
I’m not sure how they could tell whether the athlete was winning, or drowning.
Also at St. Louis, another US competitor did an impressive job winning the gold in a sport that gives this old gym class hater nightmares: the rope climb. Why was George Eyser so impressive? Because he had a wooden leg.
In 1906 they tried the sport of pistol dueling. No, it wasn’t won by a Swede. It wasn’t really dueling, either: Competitors shot at a dummy dressed in a frock coat, and by dummy I don’t mean the guy who planned the Sochi games. It’s a good thing they cleared up how they did it, because I was thinking this would be one sport where the silver and bronze medals were awarded posthumously.
Finally, here’s a sport they tried just once, at the 1900 Paris Olympics:
Live pigeon shooting.
When the feathers cleared, a Belgian named Leon de Lunden got the gold for downing 21 birds, none of which had a say in the matter. Then he celebrated with a steak dinner.
Once the onlookers got a look at the mess left behind, they decided the Swedes weren’t so bad.
I won’t dwell on the problems with getting the Sochi Winter Olympics ready in Russia, mostly because I dwelled on those last week. Instead, let’s look at some past Olympic sports that are no longer in the games.
Most recently, baseball and softball were pulled from competition. The American women dominated in softball, while in baseball Americans … well, they only got three medals in five tries. The Cuban team grabbed the gold. There’s not much else to do in Cuba, except play baseball and stare longingly toward Florida, where senior citizens have high speed internet and all-you-can-eat buffets.
Lacrosse was a medal event—in 1904 and 1908. It involves people in facemasks hitting their balls with big fly swatters. It died out in the early 1900’s because only the Canadians, British, and Americans were willing to take the punishment; former lacrosse players are now employed as dog catchers and butterfly collectors.
Basque pelota was only a medal event in 1900, because nobody could figure out how to pronounce it. It’s played on a court with a ball, sometimes using a racket, but sometimes not.
In other words, it’s handball. If they’d called it that, basque pelota-ites would be on Wheaties boxes.
Tandem cycling was popular in the Olympics from 1920-72. It’s being considered again with new, more interesting rules: The guy in front steers, while the guy in back can lash out at other competitors with lacrosse sticks. It’s now a favorite of retired hockey players.
Winter pentathlon was a difficult event, although the Russians might beat that with their new sport, team gay-bashing. In 1948 winter pentathlon was put on as a demonstration sport, and consisted of downhill skiing, cross-country skiing, shooting, fencing, and horse riding.
All together. In the same event.
Sweden, which remained more or less neutral through World War II, had a whole army of young men just itching to shoot something: They swept all the medals. However, the sport was discontinued after ski-clad Swedes on horseback shot all the competitors’ horses while jumping over the fencing.
Motorboarding was tried in 1908, and ended with only one boat finishing in each of three races. It turns out the Swedes used their winter pentathlon rifles to shoot up the other boat engines, leading officials to change to rowing.
Polo was a favorite Olympic event in the early 1900’s, but it was canceled after the Swedes sent in their entry forms.
The Olympics also tried an obstacle course … involving swimmers. Competitors had to climb over a pole, go over a row of boats, and then swim under another row of boats. Luckily they had an excess of boats left over from the motorboat races.
Speaking of swimming, in 1984 they tried solo synchronized swimming.
Think about it.
Then there’s the one Olympic sport I actually participated in: Tug of war. Not in the Olympics, but we won, and didn’t even have to borrow Swedish rifles to do it. Between 1900 and 1920 the sport was dominated by Great Britain, which sent teams of police officers. And remember, back then their cops were unarmed. Good thing the Swedes didn’t have a team.
Distance plunging would have been interesting … or not. Athletes would dive into the pool and coast underwater, without moving.
That’s it. The winner is the one who drifted the longest in sixty seconds, or when they floated to the surface, whichever came first. An American won the gold, although it should be noted that this competition happened only once, in the 1904 St. Louis Olympics. It should also be noted that only Americans competed.
I’m not sure how they could tell whether the athlete was winning, or drowning.
Also at St. Louis, another US competitor did an impressive job winning the gold in a sport that gives this old gym class hater nightmares: the rope climb. Why was George Eyser so impressive? Because he had a wooden leg.
In 1906 they tried the sport of pistol dueling. No, it wasn’t won by a Swede. It wasn’t really dueling, either: Competitors shot at a dummy dressed in a frock coat, and by dummy I don’t mean the guy who planned the Sochi games. It’s a good thing they cleared up how they did it, because I was thinking this would be one sport where the silver and bronze medals were awarded posthumously.
Finally, here’s a sport they tried just once, at the 1900 Paris Olympics:
Live pigeon shooting.
When the feathers cleared, a Belgian named Leon de Lunden got the gold for downing 21 birds, none of which had a say in the matter. Then he celebrated with a steak dinner.
Once the onlookers got a look at the mess left behind, they decided the Swedes weren’t so bad.
February 18, 2014
book review, Camera Obscura
My review of Camera Obscura, by Rosanne Dingli:
http://www.amazon.com/review/R2KEVBY9...
“Rich storytelling, but someone slap the protagonist.”
http://www.amazon.com/review/R2KEVBY9...
“Rich storytelling, but someone slap the protagonist.”
February 13, 2014
I'm not romantic, but ...
I’m not romantic, but …
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2014/...
“I’m going to tell you a secret: A secret that will seem stunning, coming from a man who writes romance novels:”
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2014/...
“I’m going to tell you a secret: A secret that will seem stunning, coming from a man who writes romance novels:”
February 12, 2014
Deconstructing the Sochi Olympics
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
I kept hearing about some disaster that was going to happen in a place called Sochi this winter. Something about gay terrorists with torches attacking bad hotels during a heat wave, or some such thing.
Turns out they’re having the Olympics.
The Soviet Union broke up, but it seems the Russians putting on the 2014 Winter Olympics still adhere to the communist style of efficiency and quality (and personal freedoms). Sochi, by the way, is Russian for “whatever”.
Efficiency? Less than a week before the Olympics, this small town has unfinished hotels, unworking Wi-Fi, and TV’s that don’t tele any vision. Gorki Plaza, intended to be a hub of transportation and accommodations, was indeed buzzing with people—all of them construction workers.
Meanwhile the Russians, once masters of propaganda, recently passed a law outlawing “gay propaganda”. No word on whether straight propaganda has been outlawed, but apparently they’re trying to protect minors (Miners are on their own).
If the idea is to keep underage people from being exposed to nasty sex stuff, wouldn’t they already have general nasty sex stuff laws to cover everyone? It would be like a law being passed in America that covers everyone else, but not members of Congress. Oh, wait …
Russia’s no worse than having the Olympics in China, which is still communist, and run by a government that hasn’t discriminated in who it massacres. That’s the thing about the Olympics: They let anybody run it. You know what the really crazy thing about the Sochi Olympics is? It’s that it’s being held in Sochi, which is a Black Sea resort.
A summer resort.
Maybe the Russians will get most infrastructure problems cleared up, especially with Putin cracking the proverbial (and maybe literal) whip. Still, you have to suspect any hotel where the water looks like apple juice, but is deadlier than a masked killer in a woods full of sex-starved teens.
Also, I’d be a bit hesitant to stay in a place where the toilets come with a sign instructing guests not to flush toilet paper down those self-same toilets. You’re supposed to put it in a provided bin—hey, at least they provided a bin—but one wonders what that bathroom’s going to smell like after a few days.
It’ll smell bad anyway, because apparently if you shower the water will melt your skin off. In one hotel, the staff instructed people not to wash their faces with the water because “it contains something very dangerous”. Huh? What does that mean? Parasites? Zombie virus? Siberian potato vodka?
So, no one can take a shower? We’re talking about hundreds of athletes and reporters, two of the smelliest types of people around.
I looked through photos of the “almost” finished living quarters, and was stunned. They looked as if they’d been constructed by … well … me.
At the end of one hallway there were two windows: One set at ground level, the other along the ceiling. I could understand that in the summer Olympics, when you might need one for the basketball players and one for the gymnasts, but still.
Newly installed light fixtures appeared to be falling to the floor in pieces. Have you ever stepped on the remains of a light fixture? Well, for the full experience come to Sochi, or my house.
A CNN reporter tweeted a photo of his hotel room, which looked like the aftermath of a football victory celebration in Seattle.
Ball-shaped toppers on a banister outside a McDonalds just … fell off. I don’t think they’d be good for curling, but maybe they can be saved for the summer shot putt.
One guy had a nice door to his hotel room, but no door handle. Another found orange peels in his closet. Not the orange, just the peels. The hotel lobby … wasn’t there.
You couldn’t always tell if the wireless internet worked, because the power kept going out. But one guy must have had a good signal, because the internet routers were hanging from a hole in his hotel wall.
Around the village, some of the manholes had no covers, which might be the start of still another arcane Olympic event.
Here’s my favorite: In addition to construction workers, the entire area around the Olympics seems to have been overrun by … dogs.
Forget about terrorists: There was no place nearby for them to stay, and the busses they were taking lost their luggage and ran out of gas. I’d say the athletes should worry about going out onto the ice—and sinking.
I kept hearing about some disaster that was going to happen in a place called Sochi this winter. Something about gay terrorists with torches attacking bad hotels during a heat wave, or some such thing.
Turns out they’re having the Olympics.
The Soviet Union broke up, but it seems the Russians putting on the 2014 Winter Olympics still adhere to the communist style of efficiency and quality (and personal freedoms). Sochi, by the way, is Russian for “whatever”.
Efficiency? Less than a week before the Olympics, this small town has unfinished hotels, unworking Wi-Fi, and TV’s that don’t tele any vision. Gorki Plaza, intended to be a hub of transportation and accommodations, was indeed buzzing with people—all of them construction workers.
Meanwhile the Russians, once masters of propaganda, recently passed a law outlawing “gay propaganda”. No word on whether straight propaganda has been outlawed, but apparently they’re trying to protect minors (Miners are on their own).
If the idea is to keep underage people from being exposed to nasty sex stuff, wouldn’t they already have general nasty sex stuff laws to cover everyone? It would be like a law being passed in America that covers everyone else, but not members of Congress. Oh, wait …
Russia’s no worse than having the Olympics in China, which is still communist, and run by a government that hasn’t discriminated in who it massacres. That’s the thing about the Olympics: They let anybody run it. You know what the really crazy thing about the Sochi Olympics is? It’s that it’s being held in Sochi, which is a Black Sea resort.
A summer resort.
Maybe the Russians will get most infrastructure problems cleared up, especially with Putin cracking the proverbial (and maybe literal) whip. Still, you have to suspect any hotel where the water looks like apple juice, but is deadlier than a masked killer in a woods full of sex-starved teens.
Also, I’d be a bit hesitant to stay in a place where the toilets come with a sign instructing guests not to flush toilet paper down those self-same toilets. You’re supposed to put it in a provided bin—hey, at least they provided a bin—but one wonders what that bathroom’s going to smell like after a few days.
It’ll smell bad anyway, because apparently if you shower the water will melt your skin off. In one hotel, the staff instructed people not to wash their faces with the water because “it contains something very dangerous”. Huh? What does that mean? Parasites? Zombie virus? Siberian potato vodka?
So, no one can take a shower? We’re talking about hundreds of athletes and reporters, two of the smelliest types of people around.
I looked through photos of the “almost” finished living quarters, and was stunned. They looked as if they’d been constructed by … well … me.
At the end of one hallway there were two windows: One set at ground level, the other along the ceiling. I could understand that in the summer Olympics, when you might need one for the basketball players and one for the gymnasts, but still.
Newly installed light fixtures appeared to be falling to the floor in pieces. Have you ever stepped on the remains of a light fixture? Well, for the full experience come to Sochi, or my house.
A CNN reporter tweeted a photo of his hotel room, which looked like the aftermath of a football victory celebration in Seattle.
Ball-shaped toppers on a banister outside a McDonalds just … fell off. I don’t think they’d be good for curling, but maybe they can be saved for the summer shot putt.
One guy had a nice door to his hotel room, but no door handle. Another found orange peels in his closet. Not the orange, just the peels. The hotel lobby … wasn’t there.
You couldn’t always tell if the wireless internet worked, because the power kept going out. But one guy must have had a good signal, because the internet routers were hanging from a hole in his hotel wall.
Around the village, some of the manholes had no covers, which might be the start of still another arcane Olympic event.
Here’s my favorite: In addition to construction workers, the entire area around the Olympics seems to have been overrun by … dogs.
Forget about terrorists: There was no place nearby for them to stay, and the busses they were taking lost their luggage and ran out of gas. I’d say the athletes should worry about going out onto the ice—and sinking.
February 5, 2014
Forget Pot: Ban Potholes
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Did you hear about the pothole that swallowed Cleveland?
It spit the city back out. Thought it didn’t have good taste.
Actually, a few years ago I wrote a story inspired by a news report I read, in which a hole opened up and really did swallow an entire intersection in Cleveland. Cleveland residents will tell you nobody beats them for potholes, by any measure: depth, width, hang-time while falling into it …
But everyone else in every other community across the country, large and small, will make the same claim.
Potholes are a nationwide problem, like politicians, Obamacare, and bobbleheads. (I can’t help it, they freak me out. Bobbleheads, too.)
Potholes happen due to fatigue. No, not the driver: the road surface develops a crack, and the cracks form a pattern called crocodile cracking. At that point crocodile skin is stronger than the pavement, so the cracks spread until the pressure of passing vehicles pops whole areas loose. They’re usually made worse by large temperature changes, so around here they’re a winter and spring thing. But like politicians, potholes can pop up anywhere, anytime, and cause great damage.
I know it seems like I’m poking a lot of fun at politicians, but in this case there are many similarities between them and potholes: They both cost money, and both have seasons in which they appear more often. Both cause people to curse and demand something be done about them, but most people never actually do anything to fix things themselves.
In some parts of the country potholes are called kettles or chuckholes, and there are other things they’re called that I can’t repeat here. (See above about people cursing.) I don’t know who chuck is, but he must be extremely unpopular.
In the end the only people who like potholes are those who collect hubcaps.
At some point potholes become sinkholes; I suppose that’s when they get through all the road stuff and reach the things that used to be there before the road. There have been cases where people have driven into sinkholes, only to find old Indian burial grounds. I don’t need to tell you that’s not good karma.
But let’s stick to potholes. They’re bad enough by themselves: A pothole on a county road near Huntertown could be seen from space. A pothole on an Albion side street was used for location shooting in an Indiana Jones movie. A pothole on US 33 in Churubusco once swallowed an entire marching band.
(The brave band kept playing, and the echo effect so impressed the parade judges that the band was awarded first place in the three feet down or lower category.)
The good news is that there are ways to repair potholes. The bad news is that the material most often used in repairing potholes consists of toothpaste and ground up material made of former Lady Gaga outfits.
(Ironically, her outfits often do make me say “Gah!”)
Experts say Colgate holds up longer, but Sensodyne doesn’t hurt as much when you hit it.
Actually, the main problem with patching potholes isn’t the material, it’s the time. The throw-and-go method takes the least amount of time, and lasts the least amount of time. I think the name would tend to suggest that.
There’s also the throw and roll, which my brother and I used to do until my mom got tired of buying bandages and made us stop. It takes about two minutes more per pothole, which doesn’t seem bad until you get a big outbreak (think teenage acne) and crews are filling them as fast as compact cars can disappear.
The other time is the time of year: No matter how they’re patched, repairs don’t hold up as well in the winter as they do in the summer. That being the case, road repair crews often don’t even try to make permanent repairs during bad weather – they just want it to hold up until some other poor sap has to deal with it when the weather gets better Unfortunately, unless they’re job-hoppers, the first poor sap often has to deal with the same hole more than once.
So what can we fill potholes with that will do the job but be more permanent? We can’t use politicians – their spines aren’t stiff enough.
After a great deal of thought, I’ve solved the problem. I came up with something that never deteriorates, something harder than asphalt, and something that is in plentiful supply in winter, right when it’s needed most:
Fruitcake.
You’re welcome.
Did you hear about the pothole that swallowed Cleveland?
It spit the city back out. Thought it didn’t have good taste.
Actually, a few years ago I wrote a story inspired by a news report I read, in which a hole opened up and really did swallow an entire intersection in Cleveland. Cleveland residents will tell you nobody beats them for potholes, by any measure: depth, width, hang-time while falling into it …
But everyone else in every other community across the country, large and small, will make the same claim.
Potholes are a nationwide problem, like politicians, Obamacare, and bobbleheads. (I can’t help it, they freak me out. Bobbleheads, too.)
Potholes happen due to fatigue. No, not the driver: the road surface develops a crack, and the cracks form a pattern called crocodile cracking. At that point crocodile skin is stronger than the pavement, so the cracks spread until the pressure of passing vehicles pops whole areas loose. They’re usually made worse by large temperature changes, so around here they’re a winter and spring thing. But like politicians, potholes can pop up anywhere, anytime, and cause great damage.
I know it seems like I’m poking a lot of fun at politicians, but in this case there are many similarities between them and potholes: They both cost money, and both have seasons in which they appear more often. Both cause people to curse and demand something be done about them, but most people never actually do anything to fix things themselves.
In some parts of the country potholes are called kettles or chuckholes, and there are other things they’re called that I can’t repeat here. (See above about people cursing.) I don’t know who chuck is, but he must be extremely unpopular.
In the end the only people who like potholes are those who collect hubcaps.
At some point potholes become sinkholes; I suppose that’s when they get through all the road stuff and reach the things that used to be there before the road. There have been cases where people have driven into sinkholes, only to find old Indian burial grounds. I don’t need to tell you that’s not good karma.
But let’s stick to potholes. They’re bad enough by themselves: A pothole on a county road near Huntertown could be seen from space. A pothole on an Albion side street was used for location shooting in an Indiana Jones movie. A pothole on US 33 in Churubusco once swallowed an entire marching band.
(The brave band kept playing, and the echo effect so impressed the parade judges that the band was awarded first place in the three feet down or lower category.)
The good news is that there are ways to repair potholes. The bad news is that the material most often used in repairing potholes consists of toothpaste and ground up material made of former Lady Gaga outfits.
(Ironically, her outfits often do make me say “Gah!”)
Experts say Colgate holds up longer, but Sensodyne doesn’t hurt as much when you hit it.
Actually, the main problem with patching potholes isn’t the material, it’s the time. The throw-and-go method takes the least amount of time, and lasts the least amount of time. I think the name would tend to suggest that.
There’s also the throw and roll, which my brother and I used to do until my mom got tired of buying bandages and made us stop. It takes about two minutes more per pothole, which doesn’t seem bad until you get a big outbreak (think teenage acne) and crews are filling them as fast as compact cars can disappear.
The other time is the time of year: No matter how they’re patched, repairs don’t hold up as well in the winter as they do in the summer. That being the case, road repair crews often don’t even try to make permanent repairs during bad weather – they just want it to hold up until some other poor sap has to deal with it when the weather gets better Unfortunately, unless they’re job-hoppers, the first poor sap often has to deal with the same hole more than once.
So what can we fill potholes with that will do the job but be more permanent? We can’t use politicians – their spines aren’t stiff enough.
After a great deal of thought, I’ve solved the problem. I came up with something that never deteriorates, something harder than asphalt, and something that is in plentiful supply in winter, right when it’s needed most:
Fruitcake.
You’re welcome.
February 3, 2014
My Funny Valentine for a buck
I’m a little late getting to this (okay, a lot late), but for about another day you can buy the humor anthology My Funny Valentine as an e-book for just 99 cents. A great seasonal read and a fun gift:
http://www.amazon.com/My-Funny-Valent...
http://www.amazon.com/My-Funny-Valent...
