Keith Blenman's Blog: This Worthless Life, page 7
March 22, 2014
Working on a story. Don't wanna Jar-Jar Binks it.
So for those of you new to this blog, you haven't heard me mention my upcoming novel, Necromantica, it's about time I told you that I'm working on the third draft of a novel, conveniently entitled Necromantica. Here's a look at the cover design by the lovely, beautiful, and talented Christina Irwin:
Just for a little background, this story pretty much started as a text message. Then it got a little long, so I turned it into an email. But after writing for several hours, I decided I had best just make it a short story. And then it became a novella. And now it's right around fifty thousand words. And I've been editing the thing for something like a year now. Probably longer. I can tell you all, it's one of my most favorite stories. It's a caper. It's a tale of revenge. It's an espionage story, an action packed, brutal love story, and a philosophical play on morality that's just plain old fun. I seriously can't wait to share it with the world, but at the same time, I keep on playing with it and editing it because there's a part of me that doesn't want to finish. Every time I read it, I find some new direction to go or thread to pull on. It's a favorite place of mine to visit so calling it done is proving difficult.
The narrative is pretty well set in stone. It has a third person introduction and epilogue (the epilogue taking place two thousand years after the climax). A bulk of the story takes place at the beginning and end of a decade, bouncing back and forth in time. And if that doesn't sound confusing enough, it's told in a blending of first and second person.
It actually works a lot better than you'd think.
So as I've been developing the story and editing away, I keep coming up with all of these little side stories. Because of time frame and limited perspective of the story, there's a lot I have to leave out or it would turn into a disaster. So as I'm editing Necromantica, I've also started developing a series of short stories that go along with the novel. Or rather, tease around the events of the novel. Like I said, the bulk of the story occurs over a decade. There's a lot of space in the middle to explore and have fun with. I've finished one and am hoping to publish it soon. I'm midway through another, and have just begun outlining a new one, which is what we're discussing tonight.
As a rule, as a writer, always have your main project, but never stop coming up with side projects. Have a set time for the main project, and do the side stuff whenever you find an opening. The idea is that you never let yourself stop creating. Even when you're editing and refining, always make time to come up with new stuff.
That said, I've been pitching this latest side story to people for a week now and am always met with quizzical looks. Expressions that say, "You're writing what?"
Here's my pitch:
"Okay, so an entire kingdom has been butchered off in an orc invasion. One city after another fell, and all communication and trade from this kingdom has stopped. On other continents, other kingdoms and lands are starting to ask what happened. 'Is the king alive?' 'Is the war even over?' It all happened so fast, there was no time to send for help. There was no evacuation plan. All anybody knows is that orcs invaded, followed by silence. So on the northern continent, a queen decides to have an exploratory expedition to find out what happened. She doesn't want to send in the army, or even put her people at risk, but she decides that she needs to send in the best she has to find out what happened. So she recruits her mightiest warrior, an immortal ferret."
And as soon as I say ferret, the reaction is, "Huh?"
Here's my reasoning. I've had this story planned for a good eight months, but finding the right protagonist has been a bit of a challenge. I mean, I could write any old ranger, dwarf, or elf. The hardened warrior who's maybe seen a bit too much in his day, suddenly walking through a kingdom the day after the apocalypse. And of course, what he finds there is even worse than he could've imagined (but it's also really, really awesome! Promise!). But that's boring. That's typical. It's one thing to have anybody walk through a destroyed kingdom. It's something entirely different to have a happy, little fuzz ball playfully venturing forth in this strange new land of death with an attitude of, "Ooh! Fun!" As a writer, it's a lot more challenging to pull off, which of course makes it all the more appealing.
So my basic character is what I thought I would cleverly call a Ferrelf (Ferret/elf. Get it! Har har!) which I thought I was really clever in coming up with until I did a Google search on the word. Turns out, the Internet's already got 'em. Although I've only seen them described online as pets that elves enjoy because of the shared immortality and they're probably pleasant to snuggle. For mine, I wanted to create something of a warrior/monk. Still do the warrior that's seen everything and faced death countless times, but is totally at peace and gives off those happy vibes playful pets often do.
At this point, the story is still in an experimental phase. I'm not convinced I can pull the character off. The story itself will be written in the third person, but I'm trying to find this ferret's voice. How does he talk? What makes him interesting? I want to slave away on a character for a couple of months that I think is fun, adorable, and somebody that everybody would like to read more of, only to discover I inadvertently created something awful and annoying. Like young Anakin Skywalker. So to test the character out, for myself to find his voice, his attitude, and overall perspective, I decided to have him write a little letter to his queen about his voyage. To be honest, I'm not sure if he's even readable. For inspiration I watched clips of John From Cincinatti and a particular episode of Fringe with the alternate Astrid, basically just looking for a rhythm to his voice. Something artful, fun, and unique. I hope it paid off. But before I continue with the story, I want to gain a consensus on the character's tone. So if you enjoy this little letter I've written, if you're curious for more, just give a little comment below, on Faceboook, or Twitter. Also let me know if it's garbage. That's most helpful as well.
That said, here's Moete:
To Queen of People, Lilth Kuromorrik,
I write you with a quill of the last carrier pigeon. I was right to save the plumpest for last, the meatiest for the finale. Fear not. Your tales of a southerly continent were true. Or perhaps I have made may way around to North. In one truth I am the most southerly ferrelf there’s ever been. In another, the most northerly. In either truth, I found land and my murder found me. So I am not without messengers. I will dispatch crows most troubled without roosts for future correspondence. From the ocean encounter of my last letter, I confirm the woes shared to me from the fleet. As the refugees and traders warned I might, the place you call the Pure Kingdom is a place I have to myself. Orcs brought bows. Bows brought arrows. Arrows were chased by swords. I have seen brown stains that smell like old red puddles. I have seen things that used to be people, marked by weapons both inside and out. I have seen things that used to be orcs be more rotted than orcs, run amuck with holes unlike orcs. It’s funny how holes keep us from being whole. They make us waterfalls and then they make us earth. We water the ground we become, the things that holes make us. But holes are made from nothing, like the black sky people say they return to when they die. They say they become the sky. I see them become the earth and I say people have holes in them.The southern continent makes me think on holes a lot. It has lots of things that used to be people and used to be orcs and all of them are filled with holes.Rats are fatter in cities and I’ve no doubt eaten meat forged by both sides of battle. I have eaten well because rats have eaten better. I apologize for the pigeon. I know it was meant to carry words but I made it carry me instead. I’d eaten the meat of war for days and wondered if I forgot the taste of peace. I hadn’t and it was leaner than war but more savory. I’d have offered some to my crows but a murder wouldn’t know the difference. Crows are funny for not being picky. My journey through Fortia has been silent. But silence gives adventure to the mind and mine is entertaining. Yesterday I saw blue flowers that weren’t hydrangeas and easier to pluck apart. I saw floating petals and thought the earth told me it felt like sheets of music blowing from their stand. The earth tells me and my murder things I know how to feel but not how to draw in people tongue. But the things with holes enjoyed my breath and the earth enjoyed my feet.Land is better for me than oceans, and when I left the merchants they left me and I spent an afternoon feeling sand in my toes. I ran. I rolled. I found the driest spots and enjoyed the dusk while digging. Sand is funny because it fills its own holes. No matter how much I changed it, it always fills itself full. It’s not alive so it doesn’t become a waterfall, and only the tides can ask it to change. I could play in sand forever and never again make holes. I am eager to bound through it again on my return journey. Fear not, Queen of People. I will bring you a satchel. I could never carry enough to for digging you may always admire the way that it is sand. I have left tokens behind in your honor. Should this message find you, dispatch men to the land that I assume is Fortia. Thus far there are no dangers. Only things with holes. And your men will find a forked tree with a deserted rabbit hole in its fifth root. There I have stashed an ivory dagger with three turquoise stones that match your eldest son’s eyes. Also a plush cat no longer needed from a thing that used to be a little girl but now is becoming earth marked by holes and arrows. Once cleaned, it would be a fitting plaything for the infant prince and my short blooded cousins. Two days march from there, I have placed a nine spoons in holes in a stone wall. My murder was most excited about their reflections in the spoons and I promised them to their roost. If we do not collect them on the return journey, please suggest the men you dispatch retrieve them for me. Also two days travel along a river I encountered things with scale skin that tried to eat me. They thought me a snack, and I thought them ambitious. Their pelts now dry on rocks and would make for a handsome outfit for either you or the king. Two days journey north, I found clams in a lake and fought them for pearls. There were none, but I left the shells disguised under a pile of seaweed. Four days journey northwest, I followed a road with a sign that says I’m approaching Dromn. I will post the pigeon’s head atop the sign should a messenger wish to collect it for proper burial. I’d leave more but I asked the pigeon to carry me. Then I felt sorry it would never carry words so I found its quill and waterfall puddle. I write you now so the pigeon can be words before the puddle dries. And now I am happy and the pigeon is words and carries me so I may make more words. Soon I will arrive at Dromn, the holy city of the Pure Kingdom. If the war between people and orcs continues, I will join the people and save their city. If the fighting is over I will ask the victor for a further account before returning north. Unless the victor is orcs. Then I will make many holes.
Your faithful servant, Moete
Just for a little background, this story pretty much started as a text message. Then it got a little long, so I turned it into an email. But after writing for several hours, I decided I had best just make it a short story. And then it became a novella. And now it's right around fifty thousand words. And I've been editing the thing for something like a year now. Probably longer. I can tell you all, it's one of my most favorite stories. It's a caper. It's a tale of revenge. It's an espionage story, an action packed, brutal love story, and a philosophical play on morality that's just plain old fun. I seriously can't wait to share it with the world, but at the same time, I keep on playing with it and editing it because there's a part of me that doesn't want to finish. Every time I read it, I find some new direction to go or thread to pull on. It's a favorite place of mine to visit so calling it done is proving difficult.
The narrative is pretty well set in stone. It has a third person introduction and epilogue (the epilogue taking place two thousand years after the climax). A bulk of the story takes place at the beginning and end of a decade, bouncing back and forth in time. And if that doesn't sound confusing enough, it's told in a blending of first and second person.
It actually works a lot better than you'd think.
So as I've been developing the story and editing away, I keep coming up with all of these little side stories. Because of time frame and limited perspective of the story, there's a lot I have to leave out or it would turn into a disaster. So as I'm editing Necromantica, I've also started developing a series of short stories that go along with the novel. Or rather, tease around the events of the novel. Like I said, the bulk of the story occurs over a decade. There's a lot of space in the middle to explore and have fun with. I've finished one and am hoping to publish it soon. I'm midway through another, and have just begun outlining a new one, which is what we're discussing tonight.
As a rule, as a writer, always have your main project, but never stop coming up with side projects. Have a set time for the main project, and do the side stuff whenever you find an opening. The idea is that you never let yourself stop creating. Even when you're editing and refining, always make time to come up with new stuff.
That said, I've been pitching this latest side story to people for a week now and am always met with quizzical looks. Expressions that say, "You're writing what?"
Here's my pitch:
"Okay, so an entire kingdom has been butchered off in an orc invasion. One city after another fell, and all communication and trade from this kingdom has stopped. On other continents, other kingdoms and lands are starting to ask what happened. 'Is the king alive?' 'Is the war even over?' It all happened so fast, there was no time to send for help. There was no evacuation plan. All anybody knows is that orcs invaded, followed by silence. So on the northern continent, a queen decides to have an exploratory expedition to find out what happened. She doesn't want to send in the army, or even put her people at risk, but she decides that she needs to send in the best she has to find out what happened. So she recruits her mightiest warrior, an immortal ferret."
And as soon as I say ferret, the reaction is, "Huh?"
Here's my reasoning. I've had this story planned for a good eight months, but finding the right protagonist has been a bit of a challenge. I mean, I could write any old ranger, dwarf, or elf. The hardened warrior who's maybe seen a bit too much in his day, suddenly walking through a kingdom the day after the apocalypse. And of course, what he finds there is even worse than he could've imagined (but it's also really, really awesome! Promise!). But that's boring. That's typical. It's one thing to have anybody walk through a destroyed kingdom. It's something entirely different to have a happy, little fuzz ball playfully venturing forth in this strange new land of death with an attitude of, "Ooh! Fun!" As a writer, it's a lot more challenging to pull off, which of course makes it all the more appealing.
So my basic character is what I thought I would cleverly call a Ferrelf (Ferret/elf. Get it! Har har!) which I thought I was really clever in coming up with until I did a Google search on the word. Turns out, the Internet's already got 'em. Although I've only seen them described online as pets that elves enjoy because of the shared immortality and they're probably pleasant to snuggle. For mine, I wanted to create something of a warrior/monk. Still do the warrior that's seen everything and faced death countless times, but is totally at peace and gives off those happy vibes playful pets often do.
At this point, the story is still in an experimental phase. I'm not convinced I can pull the character off. The story itself will be written in the third person, but I'm trying to find this ferret's voice. How does he talk? What makes him interesting? I want to slave away on a character for a couple of months that I think is fun, adorable, and somebody that everybody would like to read more of, only to discover I inadvertently created something awful and annoying. Like young Anakin Skywalker. So to test the character out, for myself to find his voice, his attitude, and overall perspective, I decided to have him write a little letter to his queen about his voyage. To be honest, I'm not sure if he's even readable. For inspiration I watched clips of John From Cincinatti and a particular episode of Fringe with the alternate Astrid, basically just looking for a rhythm to his voice. Something artful, fun, and unique. I hope it paid off. But before I continue with the story, I want to gain a consensus on the character's tone. So if you enjoy this little letter I've written, if you're curious for more, just give a little comment below, on Faceboook, or Twitter. Also let me know if it's garbage. That's most helpful as well.
That said, here's Moete:
To Queen of People, Lilth Kuromorrik,
I write you with a quill of the last carrier pigeon. I was right to save the plumpest for last, the meatiest for the finale. Fear not. Your tales of a southerly continent were true. Or perhaps I have made may way around to North. In one truth I am the most southerly ferrelf there’s ever been. In another, the most northerly. In either truth, I found land and my murder found me. So I am not without messengers. I will dispatch crows most troubled without roosts for future correspondence. From the ocean encounter of my last letter, I confirm the woes shared to me from the fleet. As the refugees and traders warned I might, the place you call the Pure Kingdom is a place I have to myself. Orcs brought bows. Bows brought arrows. Arrows were chased by swords. I have seen brown stains that smell like old red puddles. I have seen things that used to be people, marked by weapons both inside and out. I have seen things that used to be orcs be more rotted than orcs, run amuck with holes unlike orcs. It’s funny how holes keep us from being whole. They make us waterfalls and then they make us earth. We water the ground we become, the things that holes make us. But holes are made from nothing, like the black sky people say they return to when they die. They say they become the sky. I see them become the earth and I say people have holes in them.The southern continent makes me think on holes a lot. It has lots of things that used to be people and used to be orcs and all of them are filled with holes.Rats are fatter in cities and I’ve no doubt eaten meat forged by both sides of battle. I have eaten well because rats have eaten better. I apologize for the pigeon. I know it was meant to carry words but I made it carry me instead. I’d eaten the meat of war for days and wondered if I forgot the taste of peace. I hadn’t and it was leaner than war but more savory. I’d have offered some to my crows but a murder wouldn’t know the difference. Crows are funny for not being picky. My journey through Fortia has been silent. But silence gives adventure to the mind and mine is entertaining. Yesterday I saw blue flowers that weren’t hydrangeas and easier to pluck apart. I saw floating petals and thought the earth told me it felt like sheets of music blowing from their stand. The earth tells me and my murder things I know how to feel but not how to draw in people tongue. But the things with holes enjoyed my breath and the earth enjoyed my feet.Land is better for me than oceans, and when I left the merchants they left me and I spent an afternoon feeling sand in my toes. I ran. I rolled. I found the driest spots and enjoyed the dusk while digging. Sand is funny because it fills its own holes. No matter how much I changed it, it always fills itself full. It’s not alive so it doesn’t become a waterfall, and only the tides can ask it to change. I could play in sand forever and never again make holes. I am eager to bound through it again on my return journey. Fear not, Queen of People. I will bring you a satchel. I could never carry enough to for digging you may always admire the way that it is sand. I have left tokens behind in your honor. Should this message find you, dispatch men to the land that I assume is Fortia. Thus far there are no dangers. Only things with holes. And your men will find a forked tree with a deserted rabbit hole in its fifth root. There I have stashed an ivory dagger with three turquoise stones that match your eldest son’s eyes. Also a plush cat no longer needed from a thing that used to be a little girl but now is becoming earth marked by holes and arrows. Once cleaned, it would be a fitting plaything for the infant prince and my short blooded cousins. Two days march from there, I have placed a nine spoons in holes in a stone wall. My murder was most excited about their reflections in the spoons and I promised them to their roost. If we do not collect them on the return journey, please suggest the men you dispatch retrieve them for me. Also two days travel along a river I encountered things with scale skin that tried to eat me. They thought me a snack, and I thought them ambitious. Their pelts now dry on rocks and would make for a handsome outfit for either you or the king. Two days journey north, I found clams in a lake and fought them for pearls. There were none, but I left the shells disguised under a pile of seaweed. Four days journey northwest, I followed a road with a sign that says I’m approaching Dromn. I will post the pigeon’s head atop the sign should a messenger wish to collect it for proper burial. I’d leave more but I asked the pigeon to carry me. Then I felt sorry it would never carry words so I found its quill and waterfall puddle. I write you now so the pigeon can be words before the puddle dries. And now I am happy and the pigeon is words and carries me so I may make more words. Soon I will arrive at Dromn, the holy city of the Pure Kingdom. If the war between people and orcs continues, I will join the people and save their city. If the fighting is over I will ask the victor for a further account before returning north. Unless the victor is orcs. Then I will make many holes.
Your faithful servant, Moete
March 21, 2014
In traffic on my way to work
I drove over what appeared to be a used condom wrapper on I94. A Trojan. I can now with complete certainty say, "There were some real fuckers on the road today."
March 16, 2014
Office politics are like fire hydrants
Last night, a coworker called me "Dog!"
I couldn't help but feel that mutt was more accurate. I also found it peculiar that a man in a sweater vest was calling me... any form of slang at all.
But it didn't stop there. He said his department has officially adopted the dog system in employee ranking. I was about to mumble something sarcastic about vying for an iguana based system, but he was too excited to include me in the conversation and proceeded to explain exactly how the dog system works. It went as such:
"See, if you're new -like totally new- and you don't know anything, you're called a guppy. But then once you start getting a hang of these, we call you a gup-dog. After that, when you've been here a while, it's little dog. And guys that have been around and definitely know what's up? They're dogs. And if you're a manager or have been here so long that you might as well be, you're a big dog."
"...Your lowest level of dog is a fish."
"Well, yeah. Like 'new fish.' That's just a thing we've always had. That's not going anywhere."
"Little dogs are called puppies."
"Come on, man. It's a ranking system. Not an age thing."
"You just defined everything there by age. From new to old. In that order."
"It's not like that though, man. It's big dog. Little dog."
"I'm going to call you bitch."
Just a side note, I actually make a point to not use that word. Not even entirely as a feminist, equality thing. I do agree, people sound stupid when they casually refer to women as bitches. At the same time, I think everybody's been called one kind of curse or another in anger. Sticks and stones. Get over it. But as bitch was my nickname during my entire freshman year of college I maintain a special dislike for it. That said, as long as we're degrading each other with the most idiotic ranking system in history, use of the word felt in the spirit of things.
And it was more or less ignored.
"See. You've been here a while. You know what's up. That's why... you're a dog!"
And at that he left me to my work. Also to contemplate that I've only ever really heard the phrase new fish as a slang in prison movies and -given its meaning- we probably shouldn't be throwing the term around in reference to the newly hired employees.
"Hey, new fish! You're gonna love it here. You and me... We're gonna have some fun..."
Yeah, it wouldn't work out too well.
So I started considering what sort of dog I wanted to be at that moment...
...Sorry, guys. That was fucked up.
I couldn't help but feel that mutt was more accurate. I also found it peculiar that a man in a sweater vest was calling me... any form of slang at all.
But it didn't stop there. He said his department has officially adopted the dog system in employee ranking. I was about to mumble something sarcastic about vying for an iguana based system, but he was too excited to include me in the conversation and proceeded to explain exactly how the dog system works. It went as such:
"See, if you're new -like totally new- and you don't know anything, you're called a guppy. But then once you start getting a hang of these, we call you a gup-dog. After that, when you've been here a while, it's little dog. And guys that have been around and definitely know what's up? They're dogs. And if you're a manager or have been here so long that you might as well be, you're a big dog."
"...Your lowest level of dog is a fish."
"Well, yeah. Like 'new fish.' That's just a thing we've always had. That's not going anywhere."
"Little dogs are called puppies."
"Come on, man. It's a ranking system. Not an age thing."
"You just defined everything there by age. From new to old. In that order."
"It's not like that though, man. It's big dog. Little dog."
"I'm going to call you bitch."
Just a side note, I actually make a point to not use that word. Not even entirely as a feminist, equality thing. I do agree, people sound stupid when they casually refer to women as bitches. At the same time, I think everybody's been called one kind of curse or another in anger. Sticks and stones. Get over it. But as bitch was my nickname during my entire freshman year of college I maintain a special dislike for it. That said, as long as we're degrading each other with the most idiotic ranking system in history, use of the word felt in the spirit of things.
And it was more or less ignored.
"See. You've been here a while. You know what's up. That's why... you're a dog!"
And at that he left me to my work. Also to contemplate that I've only ever really heard the phrase new fish as a slang in prison movies and -given its meaning- we probably shouldn't be throwing the term around in reference to the newly hired employees.
"Hey, new fish! You're gonna love it here. You and me... We're gonna have some fun..."
Yeah, it wouldn't work out too well.
So I started considering what sort of dog I wanted to be at that moment...
...Sorry, guys. That was fucked up.
March 7, 2014
Elmore Leonard on the rocks
When I was a child I would talk to rocks.
I have some vague memories -some images- of water colored, baseball sized rocks drying on a dock. Blue and red lines, faces, and pictures on gray stones. My parents, aunts, and uncles tell me how I used to carry on conversations with them. Everything, really. Rocks, trees, the mail chute. Name it.
When I was a child, the whole world had something to say. It still does. I just don't always make the time to hear it.
Anyway, it's funny how certain things just speak to you. There's no real reason for something as ordinary as rocks to appeal. When I was a kid they were just stones from a lake. Not even quartz crystals or petoskeys. There weren't embedded fossils or anything special. But we'd go on and on. Something about rocks just made sense. Years later, I even wrote a little story about it. Where Dogs Sweat, about a little boy learning about global warming. You'd like it. You should read it.
Now, if you don't mind something of an awkward transition...
I was first introduced to Elmore Leonard when I was fourteen. Right around the same time I was introduced to Tarantino. Pulp Fiction and Get Shorty were two of the biggest movies around that time, and still all time favorites. It's actually kind of an interesting side note that Get Shorty was at the time thought of as the next Pulp Fiction, despite being based off a book from 1990. But when Tarantino made Jackie Brown very few people recognized it as Leonard's work despite that he was a producer and credited for writing the script, as well as the story being based off his novel Rum Punch.
For anybody curious as to why my fiction is generally first person and focuses heavily on dialogue, Quentin Tarantino and Elmore Leonard had a way of speaking to me. They were my rocks.
Fans of Roadside Attraction, how could Gus and Millie have ever existed without those influences?
Anyway, Elmore Leonard was introduced to my brother, Josh, and I in 2012. He was a guest speaker at the War Memorial in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, which was broadcast on the local TV station. I believe he was eighty six years old. My brother worked at the TV station, so he filmed the event, as well as put a mic on Mr. Leonard. I sat with him in the production booth for the entire talk. It of course ended with a discussion on the success of Justified, and Leonard's latest book, Raylan. The last question from the audience was simply whether, at his age, he was going to continue writing or had any other books planned. He got quiet for a minute and then smiled. "I've already started one." To much applause, of course.
Afterwards I stood in line for half an hour or so just to meet the man and ask him to autograph a copy of Get Shorty that I'd been carrying around for years. An old, beat up, water damaged copy I liberated from the Grosse Pointe library during my senior year of high school to be specific. Keep in mind, prior to his talk, I'd purchased his 10 Rules of Writing and Josh gave me a copy of Raylan. Had I asked, he could've signed all three. I get funny about book signings though. An autograph should mean something and not feel like an assembly line. The woman ahead of me had ten books for the man to go through and had never read a word of his work. She just wanted the signatures for eBay. For myself, this was the book I'd read five times. This was the book that traveled across the state with me and I was certain to never let anybody borrow. Get Shorty was special, magical, and spoke to me. To ask him to sign it was as good as asking him to move heaven and Earth.
The whole time I was in line, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to say.
"You were a huge influence on me."
"You're the reason I focus on dialogue and develop characters the way I do."
"I saw you interviewed once for a TV movie version of Pronto and although the movie itself, as you said in your talk just now, was pretty awful, the interview all those years ago stayed with me."
Well, true to form, any time I'm in a group of people or even the slightest bit nervous for any reason, I choke. Or go into function-only mode. My capacity to speak is pretty much lost. And in the event that I do speak, it comes off awkward and bizarre. When my turn finally arrived and I finally got to meet the man who was a major influence on my entire life, he looked at the old, beat up book with a degree of puzzlement. And when I should've said, "I've checked that book out twice and then just kept it. I've kept it close for half my life. You were a major influence on me and writing, and it all started with Get Shorty," I instead said something slightly less cunning like, "Um."
He looked at the book. He signed it.
My hands were shaking but I still managed to say, "Thank you, sir."
I left, telling myself that pussying out didn't matter. With all those books he signed, he probably wouldn't remember me anyway. I got share a space with the legend and he actually signed the book that I've kept sacred. Beaten up. Water damaged. I hardly open it anymore out of fear of destroying it. But Elmore Leonard signed it. I got to hear him discuss his career. All and all, not a bad night.
He passed away the following year from a stroke. August 2013. And I remember when I found out I kept thinking about that talk he gave at the War Memorial. Somebody had asked if he was going to continue writing or had any other books planned. "I've already started one."
I'm still hoping he finished enough of a draft for somebody to publish it posthumously. As a writer it makes me wonder how much fiction I'm not going to leave behind some day. I wonder how many of the stories I have planned will actually get out there before my time is up.
That reminds me, I've got something around the corner. A story about a man posthumously fighting for sacred rocks. Or at least, a community of miners. That's all I'll tease for this entry. Well, that and the title. Whisper. Although it was nearly called Puppet.
Anyway, I found out about an estate sale for Elmore Leonard going on over the next few days. I was deep in my work when I found out. Busy as all hell. Absolutely couldn't be interrupted except for occasional glance online. And on Facebook I see that all of Elmore Leonard's possessions are being sold in Bloomfield Hills.
It probably took about twenty seconds before I was out the door.
There's a few ways of viewing a celebrity's estate sale, and I think I experienced them all this afternoon. We'll start with the negative. The vultures and looters eager to eBay everything they can get their claws on. Then of course the admiring fans longing to hold a piece of personal history. To have something, some final hoorah from their hero can mean the world.
"I have an Italian painting of a grape that was owned by Elmore Leonard."
"I have Elmore Leonard's bathmat."
It's silly in some ways, but there's no wrong to it. To be a fan. We all have our pedestals and can't help but take pride in admiring the things we place on them.
Now, personally, had it been offered I'd have gladly accepted Mister Leonard's writing desk. If he even used a desk. I know I do most of my writing in bed or on the couch. But you have to understand, I'm a writer. A part time teacher. And I work in retail. Elmore Leonard's writing desk probably wouldn't be purchasable from my pockets. I'm not sure I could rightly afford Elmore Leonard's bic pen. The one he once made a grocery list with or whatever. So I hadn't gone with any intention of making a purchase. I just wanted to see where my hero lived. I wanted to stand in his home and... I don't know... respect him... maybe see if there was anything left to discover.
Driving out there, I had the dumbest little daydream of being on the news. Like, interviewed. "Indy author Keith Blenman pays respects to Elmore Leonard." Which in reality would be reported more like, "Chubby probable hobo was found wandering the home of famous author. Surprisingly not while eating a donut."
Yeah, my going out isn't exactly as noteworthy as when the Kardashians stay in.
So I was sad to see the entire street in Bloomfield Hills lined with cars. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was in something of a "going to a memorial" state of mind. It's not the sort of place you want to be all loud and busy. When you go to homage someone, you want to be able to take it all in and really absorb the feeling.
It felt more like watching a museum get eviscerated.
I'm not even saying it's bad thing. This man entertained so many countless people and told so many wonderful stories. For people to flock toward his house, all hoping to walk away with one last piece of him has a certain loveliness to it. It's easy to see the vultures, but even they wouldn't be there if he wasn't so revered. That in itself is testament to his legacy. You can't help but feel a sadness over his picked over bookshelves and almost empty record collection. The sign in his garage that read All Hoses: $5 perhaps lacked the linguistic artistry of the author who watered his lawn with said hoses. But on the other hand, it's an interesting send off to anybody who works to entertain others. He gave us all pieces of ourselves. Now that he's gone, we're all trying to preserve a part of him.
Nobody doubted the one thing of true value in that house passed away last August. But he did leave behind some pretty nice kitchenware.
So I explored a bit. I took a few pictures. It was lovely home for having been ransacked by an adoring public. I scoped out the kitchen, the basement, and a few other rooms. I took some pictures, all the while imagining how he lived in those spaces.
I sat down for a few minutes on a sofa in his living room. And from there I watched the people come and go. I saw them pick through his books and examine furniture. He had a Justified poster hanging over the fireplace, and I wondered how often he sat right where I was, taking in what's quite possibly the most celebrated achievement of his career. I imagined the sort of guests he'd have over. Or if he read on the couch often, or preferred some of the other furniture. I wondered if he used the fireplace all winter or seldom bothered with it.
There was some news reporter walking around, taking in sights and asking people questions, gathering his story. I started to imagine the things I'd say, but then realized I was still me and determined it would be better if I just avoided him. The last thing I need to see is myself on the news choking and saying, "Um."
"On tonight's broadcast, indy author Keith Blenman chokes and is edited out of the news. Along with both shreds of his self esteem."
Anyway, in exploring Elmore Leonard's estate, enjoying the Ozymandias of it all, I couldn't help but notice the man had a thing for decorative rocks. Several of the planters in the garage all had colored stones. In the basement there were multiple bags of aquarium gravel and assorted polished rocks.
Have you guys seen or read Out of Sight? Here's a few clips.
I recommend both the book and movie. For different reasons. But to give a major spoiler, there's this lucrative millionaire in the story who loves fish. He has them smuggled into prison. There's a tank in his office. There's one at home. And blended into the gravel of one tank is a couple million dollars in diamonds. Out of sight. Right where everyone can see it. And as I'm noticing all these decorative rocks around the house, I keep thinking back to that story. Nobody saw the value in the gravel. And both Leonard and I seem to have a thing for rocks.
You see where I'm going with this.
I had absolutely no intention of purchasing anything when I went to the estate sale. I just wanted a moment to rediscover my gratitude. But in the end I paid for bag of rocks.
"These are Elmore Leonard's aquarium rocks. They don't just make them anywhere you know. You have to loot a revered author's basement for those bad boys."
Lovely rocks. But, yes. Rocks.
Not that I have any fish. But for whatever reason, probably something obscure and going back to my childhood and sentimentality, out of everything and everybody in that house, the rocks are what spoke to me. The rocks were my connection. And yes, I transplanted several of them into my bamboo plant's vase. Now, mixed in with Maokai's gravel, are several decorative white stones. And whenever anybody else looks at them they'll say, "Nice gravel." And I'll always see something of a greater value, totally out of sight.
But why end on such a hammy note?
Remember how I mentioned the reporter? I did my best to avoid him. I really did. But for those of you who saw the local news this evening, you'll see my effort didn't entirely work out.
No, thankfully I wasn't interviewed. But I still saw myself on TV. Twice.
Note the highly attractive blue booties I was wearing so as not to leave shoe prints on the floor. Just to give you an idea as to how much traffic was going through that house:
That's one side of the front hall. On the opposite side there was another box and a garbage bag full of them. When I showed up I asked the lady at the door which were the clean ones and she shrugged. "We gave up on sorting them hours ago."
But back to the news. I love this:
Yep. That's me walking up to the table, nonchalantly setting down my purchase, just about to say, "One bag of rocks, please." and being awkwardly stared at by several people. Like, the people selling off Elmore Leonard's estate were totally thinking, "My god, the vultures are really coming out today." They had to have been.
What a strange, strange, creepy man.
So on the plus side, I was actually on the news, standing within Elmore Leonard's home. Not being interviewed. Not discussing how brilliant his dialogue and characters are. Not explaining how the man was a major influence on me and my chosen career (those who know me laugh whenever I use that word to describe my writing). Not even choking and saying, "Um."
Nope. Nope. That's me buying a dead man's rocks.
I have some vague memories -some images- of water colored, baseball sized rocks drying on a dock. Blue and red lines, faces, and pictures on gray stones. My parents, aunts, and uncles tell me how I used to carry on conversations with them. Everything, really. Rocks, trees, the mail chute. Name it.
When I was a child, the whole world had something to say. It still does. I just don't always make the time to hear it.
Anyway, it's funny how certain things just speak to you. There's no real reason for something as ordinary as rocks to appeal. When I was a kid they were just stones from a lake. Not even quartz crystals or petoskeys. There weren't embedded fossils or anything special. But we'd go on and on. Something about rocks just made sense. Years later, I even wrote a little story about it. Where Dogs Sweat, about a little boy learning about global warming. You'd like it. You should read it.
Now, if you don't mind something of an awkward transition...
I was first introduced to Elmore Leonard when I was fourteen. Right around the same time I was introduced to Tarantino. Pulp Fiction and Get Shorty were two of the biggest movies around that time, and still all time favorites. It's actually kind of an interesting side note that Get Shorty was at the time thought of as the next Pulp Fiction, despite being based off a book from 1990. But when Tarantino made Jackie Brown very few people recognized it as Leonard's work despite that he was a producer and credited for writing the script, as well as the story being based off his novel Rum Punch.
For anybody curious as to why my fiction is generally first person and focuses heavily on dialogue, Quentin Tarantino and Elmore Leonard had a way of speaking to me. They were my rocks.
Fans of Roadside Attraction, how could Gus and Millie have ever existed without those influences?
Anyway, Elmore Leonard was introduced to my brother, Josh, and I in 2012. He was a guest speaker at the War Memorial in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, which was broadcast on the local TV station. I believe he was eighty six years old. My brother worked at the TV station, so he filmed the event, as well as put a mic on Mr. Leonard. I sat with him in the production booth for the entire talk. It of course ended with a discussion on the success of Justified, and Leonard's latest book, Raylan. The last question from the audience was simply whether, at his age, he was going to continue writing or had any other books planned. He got quiet for a minute and then smiled. "I've already started one." To much applause, of course.
Afterwards I stood in line for half an hour or so just to meet the man and ask him to autograph a copy of Get Shorty that I'd been carrying around for years. An old, beat up, water damaged copy I liberated from the Grosse Pointe library during my senior year of high school to be specific. Keep in mind, prior to his talk, I'd purchased his 10 Rules of Writing and Josh gave me a copy of Raylan. Had I asked, he could've signed all three. I get funny about book signings though. An autograph should mean something and not feel like an assembly line. The woman ahead of me had ten books for the man to go through and had never read a word of his work. She just wanted the signatures for eBay. For myself, this was the book I'd read five times. This was the book that traveled across the state with me and I was certain to never let anybody borrow. Get Shorty was special, magical, and spoke to me. To ask him to sign it was as good as asking him to move heaven and Earth.
The whole time I was in line, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to say.
"You were a huge influence on me."
"You're the reason I focus on dialogue and develop characters the way I do."
"I saw you interviewed once for a TV movie version of Pronto and although the movie itself, as you said in your talk just now, was pretty awful, the interview all those years ago stayed with me."
Well, true to form, any time I'm in a group of people or even the slightest bit nervous for any reason, I choke. Or go into function-only mode. My capacity to speak is pretty much lost. And in the event that I do speak, it comes off awkward and bizarre. When my turn finally arrived and I finally got to meet the man who was a major influence on my entire life, he looked at the old, beat up book with a degree of puzzlement. And when I should've said, "I've checked that book out twice and then just kept it. I've kept it close for half my life. You were a major influence on me and writing, and it all started with Get Shorty," I instead said something slightly less cunning like, "Um."
He looked at the book. He signed it.
My hands were shaking but I still managed to say, "Thank you, sir."
I left, telling myself that pussying out didn't matter. With all those books he signed, he probably wouldn't remember me anyway. I got share a space with the legend and he actually signed the book that I've kept sacred. Beaten up. Water damaged. I hardly open it anymore out of fear of destroying it. But Elmore Leonard signed it. I got to hear him discuss his career. All and all, not a bad night.
He passed away the following year from a stroke. August 2013. And I remember when I found out I kept thinking about that talk he gave at the War Memorial. Somebody had asked if he was going to continue writing or had any other books planned. "I've already started one."
I'm still hoping he finished enough of a draft for somebody to publish it posthumously. As a writer it makes me wonder how much fiction I'm not going to leave behind some day. I wonder how many of the stories I have planned will actually get out there before my time is up.
That reminds me, I've got something around the corner. A story about a man posthumously fighting for sacred rocks. Or at least, a community of miners. That's all I'll tease for this entry. Well, that and the title. Whisper. Although it was nearly called Puppet.
Anyway, I found out about an estate sale for Elmore Leonard going on over the next few days. I was deep in my work when I found out. Busy as all hell. Absolutely couldn't be interrupted except for occasional glance online. And on Facebook I see that all of Elmore Leonard's possessions are being sold in Bloomfield Hills.
It probably took about twenty seconds before I was out the door.
There's a few ways of viewing a celebrity's estate sale, and I think I experienced them all this afternoon. We'll start with the negative. The vultures and looters eager to eBay everything they can get their claws on. Then of course the admiring fans longing to hold a piece of personal history. To have something, some final hoorah from their hero can mean the world.
"I have an Italian painting of a grape that was owned by Elmore Leonard."
"I have Elmore Leonard's bathmat."
It's silly in some ways, but there's no wrong to it. To be a fan. We all have our pedestals and can't help but take pride in admiring the things we place on them.
Now, personally, had it been offered I'd have gladly accepted Mister Leonard's writing desk. If he even used a desk. I know I do most of my writing in bed or on the couch. But you have to understand, I'm a writer. A part time teacher. And I work in retail. Elmore Leonard's writing desk probably wouldn't be purchasable from my pockets. I'm not sure I could rightly afford Elmore Leonard's bic pen. The one he once made a grocery list with or whatever. So I hadn't gone with any intention of making a purchase. I just wanted to see where my hero lived. I wanted to stand in his home and... I don't know... respect him... maybe see if there was anything left to discover.
Driving out there, I had the dumbest little daydream of being on the news. Like, interviewed. "Indy author Keith Blenman pays respects to Elmore Leonard." Which in reality would be reported more like, "Chubby probable hobo was found wandering the home of famous author. Surprisingly not while eating a donut."
Yeah, my going out isn't exactly as noteworthy as when the Kardashians stay in.
So I was sad to see the entire street in Bloomfield Hills lined with cars. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was in something of a "going to a memorial" state of mind. It's not the sort of place you want to be all loud and busy. When you go to homage someone, you want to be able to take it all in and really absorb the feeling.
It felt more like watching a museum get eviscerated.
I'm not even saying it's bad thing. This man entertained so many countless people and told so many wonderful stories. For people to flock toward his house, all hoping to walk away with one last piece of him has a certain loveliness to it. It's easy to see the vultures, but even they wouldn't be there if he wasn't so revered. That in itself is testament to his legacy. You can't help but feel a sadness over his picked over bookshelves and almost empty record collection. The sign in his garage that read All Hoses: $5 perhaps lacked the linguistic artistry of the author who watered his lawn with said hoses. But on the other hand, it's an interesting send off to anybody who works to entertain others. He gave us all pieces of ourselves. Now that he's gone, we're all trying to preserve a part of him.
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Nobody doubted the one thing of true value in that house passed away last August. But he did leave behind some pretty nice kitchenware.
So I explored a bit. I took a few pictures. It was lovely home for having been ransacked by an adoring public. I scoped out the kitchen, the basement, and a few other rooms. I took some pictures, all the while imagining how he lived in those spaces.
I sat down for a few minutes on a sofa in his living room. And from there I watched the people come and go. I saw them pick through his books and examine furniture. He had a Justified poster hanging over the fireplace, and I wondered how often he sat right where I was, taking in what's quite possibly the most celebrated achievement of his career. I imagined the sort of guests he'd have over. Or if he read on the couch often, or preferred some of the other furniture. I wondered if he used the fireplace all winter or seldom bothered with it.
There was some news reporter walking around, taking in sights and asking people questions, gathering his story. I started to imagine the things I'd say, but then realized I was still me and determined it would be better if I just avoided him. The last thing I need to see is myself on the news choking and saying, "Um."
"On tonight's broadcast, indy author Keith Blenman chokes and is edited out of the news. Along with both shreds of his self esteem."
Anyway, in exploring Elmore Leonard's estate, enjoying the Ozymandias of it all, I couldn't help but notice the man had a thing for decorative rocks. Several of the planters in the garage all had colored stones. In the basement there were multiple bags of aquarium gravel and assorted polished rocks.
Have you guys seen or read Out of Sight? Here's a few clips.
I recommend both the book and movie. For different reasons. But to give a major spoiler, there's this lucrative millionaire in the story who loves fish. He has them smuggled into prison. There's a tank in his office. There's one at home. And blended into the gravel of one tank is a couple million dollars in diamonds. Out of sight. Right where everyone can see it. And as I'm noticing all these decorative rocks around the house, I keep thinking back to that story. Nobody saw the value in the gravel. And both Leonard and I seem to have a thing for rocks.
You see where I'm going with this.
I had absolutely no intention of purchasing anything when I went to the estate sale. I just wanted a moment to rediscover my gratitude. But in the end I paid for bag of rocks.
"These are Elmore Leonard's aquarium rocks. They don't just make them anywhere you know. You have to loot a revered author's basement for those bad boys."
Lovely rocks. But, yes. Rocks.
Not that I have any fish. But for whatever reason, probably something obscure and going back to my childhood and sentimentality, out of everything and everybody in that house, the rocks are what spoke to me. The rocks were my connection. And yes, I transplanted several of them into my bamboo plant's vase. Now, mixed in with Maokai's gravel, are several decorative white stones. And whenever anybody else looks at them they'll say, "Nice gravel." And I'll always see something of a greater value, totally out of sight.
But why end on such a hammy note?
Remember how I mentioned the reporter? I did my best to avoid him. I really did. But for those of you who saw the local news this evening, you'll see my effort didn't entirely work out.
No, thankfully I wasn't interviewed. But I still saw myself on TV. Twice.
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Note the highly attractive blue booties I was wearing so as not to leave shoe prints on the floor. Just to give you an idea as to how much traffic was going through that house:
That's one side of the front hall. On the opposite side there was another box and a garbage bag full of them. When I showed up I asked the lady at the door which were the clean ones and she shrugged. "We gave up on sorting them hours ago."
But back to the news. I love this:
Yep. That's me walking up to the table, nonchalantly setting down my purchase, just about to say, "One bag of rocks, please." and being awkwardly stared at by several people. Like, the people selling off Elmore Leonard's estate were totally thinking, "My god, the vultures are really coming out today." They had to have been.
What a strange, strange, creepy man.
So on the plus side, I was actually on the news, standing within Elmore Leonard's home. Not being interviewed. Not discussing how brilliant his dialogue and characters are. Not explaining how the man was a major influence on me and my chosen career (those who know me laugh whenever I use that word to describe my writing). Not even choking and saying, "Um."
Nope. Nope. That's me buying a dead man's rocks.
March 5, 2014
I was given a sex toy
My girlfriend gave me a penis for Christmas.
Not a dildo, mind you. Not a butt plug. Just a rubbery little prick with balls, evidently listed as X-small Mister Limpy on the Fleshjack website.
Go ahead. Take a look. Order one for yourself and complete your “reading Keith’s blog” experience.
Did you get one yet?
Okay, now that we’ve added that to your browsing history, let’s go ahead and discuss it.
First of all, it came in a box nearly the size of a shoe box. And while the rubbery dick and balls was surrounded by layers and layers of protective paper…for rubber… right on top was a big ol’ pamphlet for fleshlights. So for a brief moment there I thought, “She actually bought me a fleshlight?” Which given that we’re two mildly twisted individuals doing the whole long distance thing; I suppose it wouldn’t have been too shocking.
The receipt was kind of mixed with the ad so I pulled them apart to see if there was a note or anything. Also, because I was alone, to glance at the fleshlight ad. I’ve heard of these things. I met a guy once who has one and was incredibly excited to discuss it.
“Glad to hear it, fellow Tigers fan. I just realized I need to buy a pretzel and beer in a different line that isn’t this one.”
Just as a side note, soft pretzels are quite nearly the greatest thing that’s ever happened. The fact that we’re making hamburger buns out of them, even better. But why the hell can’t I find a place with soft pretzel pizza crusts? Come on, Domino's. Dream big.
But speaking of soft things, I believe I was blogging about the limpy penis I received in the mail. And haven’t even gotten past the fleshlight ad. If you haven’t figured it out already, perusing the Fleshjack website above, it didn’t take long to realize the ad was designed for gay men. Well, probably longer than it should have. I didn't connect the dots at first. I was mystified at the concept of the ad itself. So I’m glancing at the pamphlet, looking at pictures of incredibly happy buff dudes with these close ups of fleshlight holes (featuring an assortment of lip and anus designs) next to them. And my thought process was, “Wow, these gentlemen sure are excited about their orifice simulating sex peripherals. But why aren't there any pictures of the women who modeled for the- oh.”
So if any of you were ever wondering just how slow and naive I am toward the world, please see the above paragraph.
So I set the ad aside and dug through virtually an entire newspaper’s worth packaging to arrive at a rubbery penis.
Thankfully my girlfriend didn't include a note along these lines:
Or this:
Or this, although I recommend it if you're mad at someone:
And especially not this:
So none of that. It was a penis sent in good jest and entirely random merriment, I’m sure. When I asked her about it she said, “I've actually been trying to get that for you for a long time but it’s ALWAYS sold out.”
Evidently her sister also has one and always keeps it in her purse. Just in case she ever needs to throw a dick at somebody. Or gets carded. Or has to rummage through her purse and starts handing the nearest person things to hold on to.
And now I have one too.
A hilarious gift. Totally unexpected. Never in a million years did I think, “I wonder if a rubbery penis is going to show up in my mail today!” But now that it’s here, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. For a moment I thought it might be fun to leave in random places as a sort of random joke on my roommate.
The thing there is, I’m trying to pay for graduate school out of my own pocket. And financially I thought it’d be a lot easier to afford if I lived at home. So my roommate is my mother.
Right there, any and all penis related pranks stop being funny and just get creepy and weird.
I mean, I guess I could take the penis to my brother’s house or one of my friend’s places, cleverly stashing it somewhere to be found later in good fun. But there’s two problems with that. First, it’s a gift. I don’t want to just leave a penis someplace and not come back for it. Nor do I want to be the guy who had a penis in his pocket the whole night and left it somewhere. Imagine that phone call.
“Keith? You left a rubbery dick at my house. My kids found it. It wasn't funny. It was just immature. And weird. And I'm thinking about pressing charges.”“Yeah, but before we discuss it any further just know I’m going to have to ask for the penis back.”
Gauging how strangers would react is all over the place.
Setting it the mailbox for the lady who delivers my mail probably wouldn't go over well. Probably more so for the guy who sometimes substitutes for her. I can already hear him cursing to himself up and down the street. Who knows what kind of violence and/or criminal charges might follow?
Having it set up over my doorbell for the pizza guy?
What if I just approach a random stranger in a coffee shop, sit down across from him or her at his/her table, stare at who ever straight in the eye and without so much as blinking slam the penis on the table? And keep staring?
I have a strong feeling such jokes would backfire. I’m already the dude in his thirties living at home. Being the guy who throws random penises at people might be a little more off putting than amusing. People already seldom return my calls. These are the sort of pranks and oddities that work if you have a film crew. Just me, some oaf on the street randomly assaulting people with genitals: not funny. Being able to point at a camera afterwards with three or four people laughing: whole new direction.
But I still don’t see myself calling friends and saying, “Hey, do you have a video camera? I want to see how people react to this shlong.”
It’s not even really something you can just have around the house with the family photos.
Not that I have a lot of company coming over, but this is something I definitely don’t want the pets to learn to play with. Not only is that wrong for every reason imaginable, but at least one of them still has his claws. The last thing I need him thinking when I’m getting out of the shower or changing my clothes is, “Oh. It’s one of those. …I’m going to rip the shit out of it.”
So the point is simply, I'm really, really serious about pretzel crust pizza. I want some. It would be amazing. Also, my girlfriend sent me this joke penis for Christmas. Several months later I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. But I’ll gladly take your suggestions in the comments below...
Not a dildo, mind you. Not a butt plug. Just a rubbery little prick with balls, evidently listed as X-small Mister Limpy on the Fleshjack website.
Go ahead. Take a look. Order one for yourself and complete your “reading Keith’s blog” experience.
Did you get one yet?
Okay, now that we’ve added that to your browsing history, let’s go ahead and discuss it.
First of all, it came in a box nearly the size of a shoe box. And while the rubbery dick and balls was surrounded by layers and layers of protective paper…for rubber… right on top was a big ol’ pamphlet for fleshlights. So for a brief moment there I thought, “She actually bought me a fleshlight?” Which given that we’re two mildly twisted individuals doing the whole long distance thing; I suppose it wouldn’t have been too shocking.
The receipt was kind of mixed with the ad so I pulled them apart to see if there was a note or anything. Also, because I was alone, to glance at the fleshlight ad. I’ve heard of these things. I met a guy once who has one and was incredibly excited to discuss it.
“Glad to hear it, fellow Tigers fan. I just realized I need to buy a pretzel and beer in a different line that isn’t this one.”
Just as a side note, soft pretzels are quite nearly the greatest thing that’s ever happened. The fact that we’re making hamburger buns out of them, even better. But why the hell can’t I find a place with soft pretzel pizza crusts? Come on, Domino's. Dream big.
But speaking of soft things, I believe I was blogging about the limpy penis I received in the mail. And haven’t even gotten past the fleshlight ad. If you haven’t figured it out already, perusing the Fleshjack website above, it didn’t take long to realize the ad was designed for gay men. Well, probably longer than it should have. I didn't connect the dots at first. I was mystified at the concept of the ad itself. So I’m glancing at the pamphlet, looking at pictures of incredibly happy buff dudes with these close ups of fleshlight holes (featuring an assortment of lip and anus designs) next to them. And my thought process was, “Wow, these gentlemen sure are excited about their orifice simulating sex peripherals. But why aren't there any pictures of the women who modeled for the- oh.”
So if any of you were ever wondering just how slow and naive I am toward the world, please see the above paragraph.
So I set the ad aside and dug through virtually an entire newspaper’s worth packaging to arrive at a rubbery penis.
Thankfully my girlfriend didn't include a note along these lines:
Or this:
Or this, although I recommend it if you're mad at someone:
And especially not this:
So none of that. It was a penis sent in good jest and entirely random merriment, I’m sure. When I asked her about it she said, “I've actually been trying to get that for you for a long time but it’s ALWAYS sold out.”
Evidently her sister also has one and always keeps it in her purse. Just in case she ever needs to throw a dick at somebody. Or gets carded. Or has to rummage through her purse and starts handing the nearest person things to hold on to.
And now I have one too.
A hilarious gift. Totally unexpected. Never in a million years did I think, “I wonder if a rubbery penis is going to show up in my mail today!” But now that it’s here, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. For a moment I thought it might be fun to leave in random places as a sort of random joke on my roommate.
The thing there is, I’m trying to pay for graduate school out of my own pocket. And financially I thought it’d be a lot easier to afford if I lived at home. So my roommate is my mother.
Right there, any and all penis related pranks stop being funny and just get creepy and weird.
I mean, I guess I could take the penis to my brother’s house or one of my friend’s places, cleverly stashing it somewhere to be found later in good fun. But there’s two problems with that. First, it’s a gift. I don’t want to just leave a penis someplace and not come back for it. Nor do I want to be the guy who had a penis in his pocket the whole night and left it somewhere. Imagine that phone call.
“Keith? You left a rubbery dick at my house. My kids found it. It wasn't funny. It was just immature. And weird. And I'm thinking about pressing charges.”“Yeah, but before we discuss it any further just know I’m going to have to ask for the penis back.”
Gauging how strangers would react is all over the place.
Setting it the mailbox for the lady who delivers my mail probably wouldn't go over well. Probably more so for the guy who sometimes substitutes for her. I can already hear him cursing to himself up and down the street. Who knows what kind of violence and/or criminal charges might follow?
Having it set up over my doorbell for the pizza guy?
What if I just approach a random stranger in a coffee shop, sit down across from him or her at his/her table, stare at who ever straight in the eye and without so much as blinking slam the penis on the table? And keep staring?
I have a strong feeling such jokes would backfire. I’m already the dude in his thirties living at home. Being the guy who throws random penises at people might be a little more off putting than amusing. People already seldom return my calls. These are the sort of pranks and oddities that work if you have a film crew. Just me, some oaf on the street randomly assaulting people with genitals: not funny. Being able to point at a camera afterwards with three or four people laughing: whole new direction.
But I still don’t see myself calling friends and saying, “Hey, do you have a video camera? I want to see how people react to this shlong.”
It’s not even really something you can just have around the house with the family photos.
Not that I have a lot of company coming over, but this is something I definitely don’t want the pets to learn to play with. Not only is that wrong for every reason imaginable, but at least one of them still has his claws. The last thing I need him thinking when I’m getting out of the shower or changing my clothes is, “Oh. It’s one of those. …I’m going to rip the shit out of it.”
So the point is simply, I'm really, really serious about pretzel crust pizza. I want some. It would be amazing. Also, my girlfriend sent me this joke penis for Christmas. Several months later I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. But I’ll gladly take your suggestions in the comments below...
March 3, 2014
A quick update to the drinking problems
Maokai is still drinking heavily. Whenever I water him Polaris gazes fondly at the bamboo...
...At least until he becomes distracted by the gong.
...At least until he becomes distracted by the gong.
February 20, 2014
No, YOU'RE the one with a drinking problem!
Meet Maokai:
He's the one on the left.
No. Further left. The cat's name is Polaris. And he's being really, really bad.
Maokai is the bamboo plant. Two of you may know him Vine.
First, let me explain this picture. I received Maokai as a gift a couple of years ago. Complete with name, lucky penny in his gravel, and a little Christmas ornament attached.
I used to keep him on my nightstand, next to my alarm clock. At least until I discovered the cats were drinking from his water. Not because they had to, mind you. They receive a fresh bowl several times a day. Sometimes I even leave the sink on for a minute because they seem to find it fascinating. But for whatever reason bamboo was superior to all other waters. So they'd drink from the plant and then start uprooting him and digging through the gravel to get at even more water.
My solution was simple:
"Ha-haa!" I thought in clever piraty jest. "Surely there's no way my cats can possibly reach the bamboo plant now!"
And the plant thrived at the top of my movie collection for quite some time. A collection I've had to sell about half in the past year. What can I say, I was overzealous with the concept of blu rays and HD movies in recent years. I always have been really. When my older brother and I reached our teens, he started collecting CDs and I started collecting VHS tapes. I love movies. I'm passionate about film. Why I don't post more movie reviews and discussions in this blog I have no idea. But I've always been an avid collector. To the point that it's been discussed in therapy and traced back to my early childhood. When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle had a movie collection my brother's and I would frequently gawk at. They owned, seriously, every movie ever freaking made. And they were arranged in what seemed like its own wall around the stereo cabinet. Each one in a special plastic case, properly labelled and possibly alphabetized (I was pretty young so the alphabet was still something of a mystery).
As a young tyke, this was how I gauged success. "Aunt Nancy and Uncle Jim have more Muppet Capers than I even knew existed! It's like they have their very own video store. Inside. Their. House!"
When DVDs first came out, one of the most exciting features for me was the boxes. "Think of how many movies I can fit on a shelf NOW!"
Then blu-rays happened with somehow even slimmer boxes. To say I was excited to build rebuild my collection with a better format is an understatement. To say I once fell into a blu ray bargain bin while shifting around for a discounted copy of Hero, more accurate.
So Maokai was placed at the tippy tip of my blu ray collection. At the peak. With swords. Which by the way, no, I have no idea how to properly use the katana. A couple of years ago my little brother, Josh, approached me and said, "Hey, my friend is moving to The Philippines or one of those places and he gave me some of his swords. But I really don't know what to do with them. Do you want them?"
Well, how often is a man offered a free set of swords? Especially in this day and age.
"I don't have to -like- slay a dragon or duel some shadow warrior or nothing? I can just have a set of swords? Like- straight up katanas and shit for free?"
So the little fairy tale I've constructed is that Maokai is the guardian bamboo watching over my blu ray empire. He's heavily armed at its peak and the local villagers are to bring him fresh water. Hence the wood carved village person. In exchange for supporting his sacred duties, he doesn't butcher the lot of them. And standing tall over everything, he is invincible.
At least until we got a kitten. The result as you know is:
I couldn't have anticipated this. My cats are older. Fatter. One of them decides against hopping on the couch as its far too much effort. Polaris however -and you can see it in his smug little kitten face- is leaner, faster, and willing to climb any surface. We say to him, "No! You can't do that!" And in response he meows, "Ha-haa! Nobody tells me what I can't do!"
So for months I was at war with this kitten. I moved the movie shelf further from the other furniture so it was a more difficult jump. I placed little knickknacks and such around the shelf to barricade his path. Every time I caught him approaching the shelf I'd spray him with water.
It got to the point where he'd looked at the shelf, at that precious bamboo water, and I'd just reach for the water bottle. He'd freeze, waiting for me to pick it up. I'd freeze, waiting for him to make a move. We'd stare each other down for a minute. Inevitably he'd turn around saunter out of the room. Probably off to stare at faucet water or drink from the fresh bowl in the kitchen.
Still, he knew I wasn't home all the time.
On occasion I'd get home to discover gravel and bamboo stalks scattered around my bedroom. Sometimes with a drying waterfall still dripping down my blu ray collection. Once Polaris was even in the middle of this, lying on his back, purring and scratching himself with all the scattered stones. At least until I spray bottled his belly. And there are two notes about this. First, I'd have to spend the next little while gathering up Maokai and placing him in a damp washcloth while I gathered up all the gravel, cleaned it off, and replanted him with just a little gravel at a time. You really have to make sure the roots are spread out and anchored at various depths. At least, that's what I tell myself. I really have no idea but the plant is still alive after multiple uprootings so I think I"m doing something right. Second, I bet my blu ray collection would look even cooler if it had a waterfall pouring over it.
Anyway, the war over the bamboo plant lasted for around a year. As long as we're discussing it as the guardian of blu ray temple, let's go ahead and describe it as "a period of war" in the history of my bamboo plant.
In the end, I found my victory by relocating to a larger bedroom. The furniture is pushed far enough to make Polaris's jump impossible. There is a nearby windowsill, but I discovered that if I keep the blinds closed with the spray bottle on the sill, angling the blinds out, it makes it appear as though the terrain is impossible.
Also note the assorted figurines blocking the sides. The bamboo plant is guarded by the likes of Batman, Cloud Strife, the crew of Serenity, gargoyles, wooden birds, and Nathan Drake. All of them, clearly an intimidating force. Too much for any one kitten to handle. And I'm proud to say that in the months since I've arranged this set up, I've not once had a problem with Polaris. Maokai is safe, protected, and able to do as plants will. Sit there and grow. Drink. And photosynthesize.
I guess those really are all the things plants are into these days.
I have noticed one peculiarity about Maokai though. He drinks more lately. Like a lot more. At first I thought Polaris had figured out a way to the shelf. But none of the hallmark signs of a cat attack are present. Maokai hasn't been uprooted. There isn't gravel anywhere but the put. The water level just drops quicker now than it used to. I'm uncertain if the green walls slightly different lighting is having some impact. Or maybe it's just winter. But I have to refill his water a day or two sooner than I used to.
To the point where I say things like, "Slow down, bamboo! There are only four oceans, you know."
Of course this means I put too much thought into it. Some people say plants have feelings and can hear your words. What if all those uprootings left some sort of emotional scarring or something? Like he's experienced life without water and is now hording it and desperate. He's constantly afraid of another cat attack or drought, so he's drinking more and more.
What if my bamboo plant has a drinking problem?
I don't know how to intervention that! I could gather all his loved ones, which I suppose would be myself, the wooden figure on his shelf, and the cat. We could all take turns sharing our thoughts which I suppose would consist of me saying, "You're drinking too much! We're all worried you'll become super saturated." All while trying to keep the cat away from his gravel.
But they say people with a drinking problem won't listen until they hit bottom. I doubt he'd even try to turn things around and address the cat's drinking problem.
"Polaris tried to kill me because of a drinking problem!"
And the cat would meow something like, "I know it seems impossible, but I too once overcame a drinking problem. It took time. A lot of barriers had to be established and erected. But I can honestly say that now I can't murder you. I still want to. The demons will always be there. But I can't. You're too high up and I can't make the jump."
So the whole time we're talking to the bamboo I'm sure he'll just keep on standing there, drinking. And drinking. And drinking. And I don't know, maybe looking as though he's trying to flip us the bird with his bamboo leaf.
And he's right. What can I do? Not hydrate him? Let him die? If I even try the drinking will only get worse. My only option is to keep watering him. To keep enabling him. To let the cycle continue where he keeps drinking, keeps growing, and keeps standing over everything else in the bedroom. High on his mighty tower of blu rays, looking down on us all.
I suppose I should just be thankful he isn't driving.
He's the one on the left.
No. Further left. The cat's name is Polaris. And he's being really, really bad.
Maokai is the bamboo plant. Two of you may know him Vine.
First, let me explain this picture. I received Maokai as a gift a couple of years ago. Complete with name, lucky penny in his gravel, and a little Christmas ornament attached.
I used to keep him on my nightstand, next to my alarm clock. At least until I discovered the cats were drinking from his water. Not because they had to, mind you. They receive a fresh bowl several times a day. Sometimes I even leave the sink on for a minute because they seem to find it fascinating. But for whatever reason bamboo was superior to all other waters. So they'd drink from the plant and then start uprooting him and digging through the gravel to get at even more water.
My solution was simple:
"Ha-haa!" I thought in clever piraty jest. "Surely there's no way my cats can possibly reach the bamboo plant now!"
And the plant thrived at the top of my movie collection for quite some time. A collection I've had to sell about half in the past year. What can I say, I was overzealous with the concept of blu rays and HD movies in recent years. I always have been really. When my older brother and I reached our teens, he started collecting CDs and I started collecting VHS tapes. I love movies. I'm passionate about film. Why I don't post more movie reviews and discussions in this blog I have no idea. But I've always been an avid collector. To the point that it's been discussed in therapy and traced back to my early childhood. When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle had a movie collection my brother's and I would frequently gawk at. They owned, seriously, every movie ever freaking made. And they were arranged in what seemed like its own wall around the stereo cabinet. Each one in a special plastic case, properly labelled and possibly alphabetized (I was pretty young so the alphabet was still something of a mystery).
As a young tyke, this was how I gauged success. "Aunt Nancy and Uncle Jim have more Muppet Capers than I even knew existed! It's like they have their very own video store. Inside. Their. House!"
When DVDs first came out, one of the most exciting features for me was the boxes. "Think of how many movies I can fit on a shelf NOW!"
Then blu-rays happened with somehow even slimmer boxes. To say I was excited to build rebuild my collection with a better format is an understatement. To say I once fell into a blu ray bargain bin while shifting around for a discounted copy of Hero, more accurate.
So Maokai was placed at the tippy tip of my blu ray collection. At the peak. With swords. Which by the way, no, I have no idea how to properly use the katana. A couple of years ago my little brother, Josh, approached me and said, "Hey, my friend is moving to The Philippines or one of those places and he gave me some of his swords. But I really don't know what to do with them. Do you want them?"
Well, how often is a man offered a free set of swords? Especially in this day and age.
"I don't have to -like- slay a dragon or duel some shadow warrior or nothing? I can just have a set of swords? Like- straight up katanas and shit for free?"
So the little fairy tale I've constructed is that Maokai is the guardian bamboo watching over my blu ray empire. He's heavily armed at its peak and the local villagers are to bring him fresh water. Hence the wood carved village person. In exchange for supporting his sacred duties, he doesn't butcher the lot of them. And standing tall over everything, he is invincible.
At least until we got a kitten. The result as you know is:
I couldn't have anticipated this. My cats are older. Fatter. One of them decides against hopping on the couch as its far too much effort. Polaris however -and you can see it in his smug little kitten face- is leaner, faster, and willing to climb any surface. We say to him, "No! You can't do that!" And in response he meows, "Ha-haa! Nobody tells me what I can't do!"
So for months I was at war with this kitten. I moved the movie shelf further from the other furniture so it was a more difficult jump. I placed little knickknacks and such around the shelf to barricade his path. Every time I caught him approaching the shelf I'd spray him with water.
It got to the point where he'd looked at the shelf, at that precious bamboo water, and I'd just reach for the water bottle. He'd freeze, waiting for me to pick it up. I'd freeze, waiting for him to make a move. We'd stare each other down for a minute. Inevitably he'd turn around saunter out of the room. Probably off to stare at faucet water or drink from the fresh bowl in the kitchen.
Still, he knew I wasn't home all the time.
On occasion I'd get home to discover gravel and bamboo stalks scattered around my bedroom. Sometimes with a drying waterfall still dripping down my blu ray collection. Once Polaris was even in the middle of this, lying on his back, purring and scratching himself with all the scattered stones. At least until I spray bottled his belly. And there are two notes about this. First, I'd have to spend the next little while gathering up Maokai and placing him in a damp washcloth while I gathered up all the gravel, cleaned it off, and replanted him with just a little gravel at a time. You really have to make sure the roots are spread out and anchored at various depths. At least, that's what I tell myself. I really have no idea but the plant is still alive after multiple uprootings so I think I"m doing something right. Second, I bet my blu ray collection would look even cooler if it had a waterfall pouring over it.
Anyway, the war over the bamboo plant lasted for around a year. As long as we're discussing it as the guardian of blu ray temple, let's go ahead and describe it as "a period of war" in the history of my bamboo plant.
In the end, I found my victory by relocating to a larger bedroom. The furniture is pushed far enough to make Polaris's jump impossible. There is a nearby windowsill, but I discovered that if I keep the blinds closed with the spray bottle on the sill, angling the blinds out, it makes it appear as though the terrain is impossible.
Also note the assorted figurines blocking the sides. The bamboo plant is guarded by the likes of Batman, Cloud Strife, the crew of Serenity, gargoyles, wooden birds, and Nathan Drake. All of them, clearly an intimidating force. Too much for any one kitten to handle. And I'm proud to say that in the months since I've arranged this set up, I've not once had a problem with Polaris. Maokai is safe, protected, and able to do as plants will. Sit there and grow. Drink. And photosynthesize.
I guess those really are all the things plants are into these days.
I have noticed one peculiarity about Maokai though. He drinks more lately. Like a lot more. At first I thought Polaris had figured out a way to the shelf. But none of the hallmark signs of a cat attack are present. Maokai hasn't been uprooted. There isn't gravel anywhere but the put. The water level just drops quicker now than it used to. I'm uncertain if the green walls slightly different lighting is having some impact. Or maybe it's just winter. But I have to refill his water a day or two sooner than I used to.
To the point where I say things like, "Slow down, bamboo! There are only four oceans, you know."
Of course this means I put too much thought into it. Some people say plants have feelings and can hear your words. What if all those uprootings left some sort of emotional scarring or something? Like he's experienced life without water and is now hording it and desperate. He's constantly afraid of another cat attack or drought, so he's drinking more and more.
What if my bamboo plant has a drinking problem?
I don't know how to intervention that! I could gather all his loved ones, which I suppose would be myself, the wooden figure on his shelf, and the cat. We could all take turns sharing our thoughts which I suppose would consist of me saying, "You're drinking too much! We're all worried you'll become super saturated." All while trying to keep the cat away from his gravel.
But they say people with a drinking problem won't listen until they hit bottom. I doubt he'd even try to turn things around and address the cat's drinking problem.
"Polaris tried to kill me because of a drinking problem!"
And the cat would meow something like, "I know it seems impossible, but I too once overcame a drinking problem. It took time. A lot of barriers had to be established and erected. But I can honestly say that now I can't murder you. I still want to. The demons will always be there. But I can't. You're too high up and I can't make the jump."
So the whole time we're talking to the bamboo I'm sure he'll just keep on standing there, drinking. And drinking. And drinking. And I don't know, maybe looking as though he's trying to flip us the bird with his bamboo leaf.
And he's right. What can I do? Not hydrate him? Let him die? If I even try the drinking will only get worse. My only option is to keep watering him. To keep enabling him. To let the cycle continue where he keeps drinking, keeps growing, and keeps standing over everything else in the bedroom. High on his mighty tower of blu rays, looking down on us all.
I suppose I should just be thankful he isn't driving.
February 19, 2014
Self debasement and the shogun making angry duckface in my shower curtain.
I'm a complete zombie in the morning.
Actually, I'd say my body wakes up a good hour or two before my brain.
Okay, fine. My body wakes up at least five to seven hours before my brain.
The first hour is an initial boot up sequence. Fingers and toes become operational enough to scratch my various places. The neck is tested in a series of motions designed to either get blood back into brain or find an optimal position for my head to continue pretending it's asleep. The next forty five minutes are spent trying to convince myself that my comfort level beneath the blankets supersedes the drive to urinate.
When I finally do stumble out of bed it's a zombie walk to the bathroom. This typically involves bumping into furniture, animals, or other parts of myself. All to the tune of whatever song is stuck in my head. In this case:
I should point out, "Hooked on a Feeling" wasn't stuck in my head because of Reservoir Dogs, but rather from watching the trailer for Guardian's of the Galaxy a couple of times before bed. Not that I've always been a fan. I only recently started reading the comics and mostly because my girlfriend has informed me, "I AM GROOT!" So I felt like it's something I should do. Anyway, why don't you keep that song playing as you read to immerse yourself in the full "early morning experience." And just to pick back up, I bump into things. Quite often.
Sometimes I stub my toe on the chair that some idiot decided would look good by the bedroom door. That same idiot who refuses to move it elsewhere every day.
Once I'm awake it's always the decision that it really does look good there.
I don't know what motivated me, but I decided to make a small recording to see just how pathetic and seemingly under sedation I am in the morning. Although I don't want to put the video on YouTube, here's how horrible it looks while I brush my teeth and slap on deodorant:
See. Not even awake. Also I should point out the shower curtain. The story you can tell your friends is that I went to the shower curtain store and demanded, "The absolute most regal shower curtain known to man. I want the wealthy elite grandfathers of the world to be humbled in my bathroom!"
Seriously though, when I stare at the pattern in the curtain I can see what looks to me like a well endowed shogun making an angry duck face.
Don't see it?
Now I'm beeeeeping his nose.
I don't know why he's a shogun. The whole upper half to me seems like a samurai helmet with a ton of ornamental flash.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes:
It could be argued I'm either applying deodorant or fainting. Perhaps lamenting the fact that I clearly decided to skip my shower today.
I don't know why I do that. It's almost as though I'm pretending to still use my pillow. Some backwoods part of my mind is going, "If I just place my hand here it's like I never got out of bed!"
Stupid, stupid man.
And it only gets worse from there.
I mean, seriously. I look like I'm saluting there. THAT kind of saluting!
Oh don't even try to pretend like you didn't notice! We all saw it! Right now the whole Internet is noticing that deodorant applied salute. Just what was going through your head there?!
INNOCENT, MY ASS!!! If I hadn't noticed my arm doing that, this wouldn't even be a blog right now!!!
Oh, sure! NOW I feel ashamed! Not at the start of this when I decided to blog topless! NOW! "Everything is fine and wonderful until you accidentally salute the The Third Reich in the morning!" Perfect! That'll sell the books. Because everybody knows how much we want to see flabby dudes brush their teeth on the Internet.
...Yeah, that's helping. That totally makes up for not going to the gym there, Chunkers. Good job.
February 13, 2014
My funny Valentine
I told my girlfriend I love her with all my heart and a bagful of human hearts I've been collecting.
In my own way, this is an apology for knowing her gifts are going to show up late this year.
And last year.
I have to be honest. I'm normally not much of a fan of Valentines Day. The crappy cards. The dying flowers. It's a charge card holiday that pulls at people's strings. Single people get annoying for all sorts of proud and lonely single reasons. Couples in general are only adorable to themselves and should just stay inside.
Instead they all go to dinner and not talk.
Don't get me wrong. Love is a beautiful thing. For all the songs and stories written about it, none of them can fully capture the magic of an intimate moment between you and the one you cherish. For as little as I enjoy the holiday, I can't help but smile at happy couples and loving parents with their kids and pets.
Seriously, my muse sends me a picture of herself holding her ferret and I melt.
That's my problem. I have a heart the size of Mars and a mind that would incorporate space travel in trying to describe it.
Yes, that made complete sense to me. I'm kind of a weird guy. Get used to it.
Thankfully, I'm dating a twisted girl.
She's the kind of girl I can text, "I love you with all my heart and all these other human hearts too!" and follow it with a description of myself holding up a large bag packed with an excess of human hearts, and know that she feels special for it.
But why stop there? Love is, after all, complete madness. So let's get a little mad with it.
My ideal valentine for her?
Personally, I think the best gifts are made. I'd want to take all those hearts I've been collecting, cut them down, and stitch and duct tape it all back together into one giant heart to love her with.
And maybe it's me, but with that new crap Frankenstein movie staining theaters, I'd want to give her a twisted valentine monster worth watching.
I'll start with the giant heart, and then dig into all those piles and piles of heartless zombies I've been stockpiling. And with them I'll stitch and weld a giant Frankenstein/zombie monster together. Something the world has never seen before. Fingers and toes made of zombies. Other fingers and toes made of zombie finger and toes. One eye made of patchwork quilts of zombie irises and white parts. But because that takes so long to make, the other eye will just be a bunch of zombie eyes glitter glued together. Their optic nerves will be braided together and lead into a giant brain of duct taped brains. And it'll be supported by a skull and bones made of a ground up marrow paste caked around zombies with muscles and whole zombies stapled all around them. And the genitals-
...Actually, I think I'll skip over that part.
Anyway, I'll make this giant monster mash conglomerate of monsters and dress it in a bright red suit with a matching top hat. It's tie will light up hearts and Cupid arrows. It'll have a twenty-two carot gold framed monocle over its good eye (figure out which one that is!) and I'll too the whole thing off by teaching the beast to smile.
And then I'll take my girlfriend and sit her on a hillside as we share a picnic at sunset, watching as the zombie monster rampages through florists and card shops and the offices of your local credit card companies. And as the military rolls in and the city explodes in chaos -because it's a crazy, crazy world- she'll look at my twisted smile. And I'll give her a little wink. She'll see how I'm a screwed up mess of parts that can be kinda scary, a little weird, but still fun and strangely funny, and I'll see all those same things in her, and we'll clink our sake glasses and not say anything. Because sometimes it's just about sharing the quiet, little moments with the one you love.
Happy Valentines Day, everybody.
In my own way, this is an apology for knowing her gifts are going to show up late this year.
And last year.
I have to be honest. I'm normally not much of a fan of Valentines Day. The crappy cards. The dying flowers. It's a charge card holiday that pulls at people's strings. Single people get annoying for all sorts of proud and lonely single reasons. Couples in general are only adorable to themselves and should just stay inside.
Instead they all go to dinner and not talk.
Don't get me wrong. Love is a beautiful thing. For all the songs and stories written about it, none of them can fully capture the magic of an intimate moment between you and the one you cherish. For as little as I enjoy the holiday, I can't help but smile at happy couples and loving parents with their kids and pets.
Seriously, my muse sends me a picture of herself holding her ferret and I melt.
That's my problem. I have a heart the size of Mars and a mind that would incorporate space travel in trying to describe it.
Yes, that made complete sense to me. I'm kind of a weird guy. Get used to it.
Thankfully, I'm dating a twisted girl.
She's the kind of girl I can text, "I love you with all my heart and all these other human hearts too!" and follow it with a description of myself holding up a large bag packed with an excess of human hearts, and know that she feels special for it.
But why stop there? Love is, after all, complete madness. So let's get a little mad with it.
My ideal valentine for her?
Personally, I think the best gifts are made. I'd want to take all those hearts I've been collecting, cut them down, and stitch and duct tape it all back together into one giant heart to love her with.
And maybe it's me, but with that new crap Frankenstein movie staining theaters, I'd want to give her a twisted valentine monster worth watching.
I'll start with the giant heart, and then dig into all those piles and piles of heartless zombies I've been stockpiling. And with them I'll stitch and weld a giant Frankenstein/zombie monster together. Something the world has never seen before. Fingers and toes made of zombies. Other fingers and toes made of zombie finger and toes. One eye made of patchwork quilts of zombie irises and white parts. But because that takes so long to make, the other eye will just be a bunch of zombie eyes glitter glued together. Their optic nerves will be braided together and lead into a giant brain of duct taped brains. And it'll be supported by a skull and bones made of a ground up marrow paste caked around zombies with muscles and whole zombies stapled all around them. And the genitals-
...Actually, I think I'll skip over that part.
Anyway, I'll make this giant monster mash conglomerate of monsters and dress it in a bright red suit with a matching top hat. It's tie will light up hearts and Cupid arrows. It'll have a twenty-two carot gold framed monocle over its good eye (figure out which one that is!) and I'll too the whole thing off by teaching the beast to smile.
And then I'll take my girlfriend and sit her on a hillside as we share a picnic at sunset, watching as the zombie monster rampages through florists and card shops and the offices of your local credit card companies. And as the military rolls in and the city explodes in chaos -because it's a crazy, crazy world- she'll look at my twisted smile. And I'll give her a little wink. She'll see how I'm a screwed up mess of parts that can be kinda scary, a little weird, but still fun and strangely funny, and I'll see all those same things in her, and we'll clink our sake glasses and not say anything. Because sometimes it's just about sharing the quiet, little moments with the one you love.
Happy Valentines Day, everybody.
February 9, 2014
Darth Beagle is plotting to murder me.
So I was sitting at my desk, working on a PowerPoint presentation on asphyxia, when I noticed Darth Beagle had decided to occupy my ottoman.
As an aside, I don't understand why more people don't keep an ottoman at their desks. It's less rude than putting your feet on the desk, and more relaxing when you have spend your days typing and writing. Also, anybody who notices you keep an ottoman at your desk immediately feels jealous.
Evidently it's also a convenient space for cats to hang out while you're writing. I can only assume it's because they find the noise of my constant typing soothing. Like the bubbling of a little waterfall in a zen garden.
...Yes, this is my equivalent of "take your child to work day."
Anyway, I'm working on my lecture. And for those of you who've never seen my desk, it's quite probably the single biggest disaster ever to to have occurred in the history of all mankind. With the obvious exception of Michael Bay's take on Transformers. Spread around me I have multiple books ranging from modernist poetry to crime scene investigation, an empty Smart Water bottle, near-empty glass of Kool-Aid, TWO Dr. Pepper cans, lens spray for my glasses, a coffee mug, several buttons I leave in random places advertising Siren Night and Bonnie Before the Brain Implants, my friend Tom's The Octopus album 888 (If he only knew the conditions I'd subjected his music to), an empty HP ink cartridge, mail, tax forms, a portable microscope, a PlayStation controller, a lens cap (I lost the camera), a black cat pencil sharpener that meows when you shove a pencil up its butt (thank you, my darling muse), a Galileo thermometer, a scientific calculator, a hole punch, three flash drives, four pens, a screwdriver, two USB cables (I think one plugs into a USB mini port), a half dozen purple bass guitar picks, several stacks of flash cards, a little plastic penguin, and a little San Juan Apóstol shrine.
At this point, it shouldn't come as any shock to any of you that this weekend's mess has spread off my desk and is nudging its way onto the ottoman. Which as I mentioned, currently features the biggest, blackest cat you've ever seen, Darth Beagle.
I didn't think much of it at first. Between PowerPoint slides I gave him a little scratch on the ear and pat on the back. He purred. I smiled, continuing my work. Then after a little bit I glanced down and noticed his fat little cat head was moving. Catching my curiosity, I tried to figure out if a fly had entered my room or some bit of light had his attention.
Nope. Nothing was moving.
In fact, Darth Beagle's seemed pretty transfixed on the book occupying the ottoman with him.
At first I thought, "Oh my god! He's reading! He thinks he's people!"
Naturally I took a couple of pictures, proud of my wise, learned little feline. And then I realized what he was reading...
Page one hundred and fifty nine of Forensics for Writers , which goes over the details of strangulation.
...
Anyway, I decided to take a short break from my lecture to write this blog and price neck braces on Amazon.
As an aside, I don't understand why more people don't keep an ottoman at their desks. It's less rude than putting your feet on the desk, and more relaxing when you have spend your days typing and writing. Also, anybody who notices you keep an ottoman at your desk immediately feels jealous.
Evidently it's also a convenient space for cats to hang out while you're writing. I can only assume it's because they find the noise of my constant typing soothing. Like the bubbling of a little waterfall in a zen garden.
...Yes, this is my equivalent of "take your child to work day."
Anyway, I'm working on my lecture. And for those of you who've never seen my desk, it's quite probably the single biggest disaster ever to to have occurred in the history of all mankind. With the obvious exception of Michael Bay's take on Transformers. Spread around me I have multiple books ranging from modernist poetry to crime scene investigation, an empty Smart Water bottle, near-empty glass of Kool-Aid, TWO Dr. Pepper cans, lens spray for my glasses, a coffee mug, several buttons I leave in random places advertising Siren Night and Bonnie Before the Brain Implants, my friend Tom's The Octopus album 888 (If he only knew the conditions I'd subjected his music to), an empty HP ink cartridge, mail, tax forms, a portable microscope, a PlayStation controller, a lens cap (I lost the camera), a black cat pencil sharpener that meows when you shove a pencil up its butt (thank you, my darling muse), a Galileo thermometer, a scientific calculator, a hole punch, three flash drives, four pens, a screwdriver, two USB cables (I think one plugs into a USB mini port), a half dozen purple bass guitar picks, several stacks of flash cards, a little plastic penguin, and a little San Juan Apóstol shrine.
At this point, it shouldn't come as any shock to any of you that this weekend's mess has spread off my desk and is nudging its way onto the ottoman. Which as I mentioned, currently features the biggest, blackest cat you've ever seen, Darth Beagle.
I didn't think much of it at first. Between PowerPoint slides I gave him a little scratch on the ear and pat on the back. He purred. I smiled, continuing my work. Then after a little bit I glanced down and noticed his fat little cat head was moving. Catching my curiosity, I tried to figure out if a fly had entered my room or some bit of light had his attention.
Nope. Nothing was moving.
In fact, Darth Beagle's seemed pretty transfixed on the book occupying the ottoman with him.
At first I thought, "Oh my god! He's reading! He thinks he's people!"
Naturally I took a couple of pictures, proud of my wise, learned little feline. And then I realized what he was reading...
Page one hundred and fifty nine of Forensics for Writers , which goes over the details of strangulation.
...
Anyway, I decided to take a short break from my lecture to write this blog and price neck braces on Amazon.
