Dom Testa's Blog, page 7

The Perfect Day

Yesterday I had a pretty good day. The radio show went well, I took a couple of good walks while the sun was out, and I ended the day by reading six or seven pages before I fell asleep.

But what exactly makes for a PERFECT day?

It’s an interesting question, and one that thousands of people were asked. (The fact that the survey was conducted by a council of blueberry farmers somehow makes the whole thing charming.)

Here are the things that should magically transform your day into a perfect one:

Wake up at 8:15am (what a slug)A blue-sky, 74-degree day where you get to spend at least three hours outsideYou see two friends and spend three hours socializingYou spend four hours with familyOne hour exercising, two hours reading, three hours watching TV, three hours listening to music, and four hours “relaxing.”You spend two hours eatingIn bed at 10:50pm

Um, if you add that all up it comes to something like 25 hours of stuff to do, so you’re gonna have a little overlap.

What’s interesting is that none of these things are really difficult to achieve. Well, the weather’s out of your control.

Maybe it’s just a sign of my personality, but I couldn’t help but notice there’s not one thing that involves producing anything. I got no knock on reading, sitting out in the sun, and drinking a few beers with friends, but I believe a perfect day should include something that actually produces something tangible.

For me a perfect day would include finishing a story I’d been working on, or kickin’ out a great radio show with lots of laughs. Something I can actually be proud of. I love eating, but I’m not proud of eating.

Or maybe I’m just a weirdo. What do you say?

Photo courtesy of Pablo Heimplatz on Unsplash

I Was Held Hostage

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This past week I was held hostage for five hours.

The lesson I learned is that there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who love to spend all day on a boat piloted by someone else, and those who would prefer to capsize and drown like rats.

It was a fun trip overall, and this one segment had been billed as “two to three hours” on a boat on the Mississippi. On the surface (no pun intended) it sounded like it could be kinda fun. Grab some beer and snacks and enjoy the scenery, right?

Except our boat was owned and operated by a total stranger, a friend of someone in our group. And she was determined to entertain the shit out of us whether we wanted it or not.

As one hour dragged into the next, puttering along at less than 2 mph, the music blasting from her speakers changed from classic rock to hillbilly fare. I wondered if I’d ever touch terra firma again.

At one point, three hours in, I politely requested to get put ashore — anywhere — to make my way back home by Uber. Or by foot, if necessary. Hell, I considered diving overboard and swimming. I contemplated organizing a mutiny. My sister (damn her) faked an illness at the 2-hour mark and DID get off. The only intelligent person in our group.

Here’s what I realized about myself. I’m not a boat person. If you are, hallelujah and bless your soul. The person driving the boat is not only the captain, however, but for all intents and purposes God. They have your life in their hands and if they don’t want to dock, just what the hell are you supposed to do?

You’re a hostage. A hostage to sun, stale pretzels, and Waylon Jennings. Boat pilots are control freaks and heaven help you if you request shore leave. They have the power to extend your misery as long as the smelly petrol lasts.

That was the last boat ride of my life. Unless I’m at the wheel, of course. Then I’ll undoubtedly lose my mind, too, and torture the shit out of every passenger. Why? Because I can, dammit. I’m the captain! Bwahahaha.

Cheering For The Bad Guy

I like to think I’m a pretty good guy, but I must admit I love a cool movie villain. It’s not like I’m cheering for the bad guy to win, but usually the actor has way more fun with the character when it’s evil.

These days there are spinoffs for everything, but the one place I thought Hollywood dropped the ball was by not producing a prequel of the original Die Hard. Hans Gruber (played by the incredible Alan Rickman) was so fascinating that we should’ve had a film about his background. What was that dude’s story?

What does it say about us when we think the bad guys are way more interesting than the good guys? Sorry, but the backstory of Darth Vader was far more intriguing than Luke’s story.

Broadway at least understood it by creating shows devoted to the Wicked Witch.

And who can deny that Silence of The Lambs would’ve been Silence of The Yawns if it wasn’t for Hannibal Lecter? Yeah, Clarice was pretty good, but we couldn’t stop watching whenever Anthony Hopkins was on the screen.

A thousand entertainment folks were asked to vote for their favorite movie villains, and my choice of Hans Gruber somehow did not make the top ten. He fell to #11.

Here’s your Top Ten:

Darth Vader

Hannibal Lecter

The Wicked Witch

The Joker (again, played in spectacular fashion by Heath Ledger)

Nurse Ratched, from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest

Miranda, from The Devil Wears Prada

Norman Bates, from Psycho

Annie, from Misery (fantastic performance by Kathy Bates)

Colonel Hans Landa, from Inglorious Basterds

Anton (play by Javier Bardem), from No Country For Old Men

 

Okay, they’re all great choices. But Hans at #11?

Who didn’t make the Top 10 that you would’ve voted for?

Lucky Number

Image courtesy of Karolina Szczur on Unsplash

I feel like such a loser. I don't have a lucky number.

Now, to be honest, there is a number that keeps showing up ALL THE TIME. I'm afraid to tell you what it is because some people are really freaky about numerology and I know what they'd say about my particular combination.

But if I went to buy a lottery ticket there wouldn't be numbers that speak to me. I know that lots of Americans say 7 is their lucky number, but all I think of when I see that number is John Elway.

There was a survey done recently with people from around the world, asking them what number they'd definitely use in a lottery. The number that came up the most often was . . .

Eleven.

That was followed by 7, 17, 27, and 19. The big nerd in me loves the fact that four of the top five are prime numbers. Yes, that's how my mind works. Sorry ladies, I'm taken.

I wonder if I'm missing out on the joy of having a favorite/lucky number. If a certain one doesn't speak to me, would it be artificial if I just chose one at random and declared it to be my number? Would it be cool to pick a different number each year?

Maybe I'll just get on with my life.

Why Do We Suck at Soccer?

Image courtesy of Sam Wermut on Unsplash

I love my country, but I can’t understand why we suck at soccer.

Arguably the biggest sporting event in the world, a tournament that captivates billions of people around the globe, wraps up this weekend when France tangles with Croatia in the World Cup Final.

It’s not embarrassing that the United States didn’t make it to the championship game. But isn’t it humiliating that our country didn’t even play well enough to get into the tournament in the first place?

I say this as someone who doesn’t particularly care about the game. I’m not a fan of soccer, but I am an American and therefore, by nature, a competitive s.o.b.

It’s bad enough that Croatia, a country of 4 million people, roughly equal to the metropolitan area of Detroit, has wildly succeeded. But there were 31 other countries that challenged this year for the Cup, including Iceland - and Iceland’s population is about that of Aurora, Colorado.

So Iceland, with a total of 300,000 people, managed to find 11 guys who could move a ball without using their hands. But here we are with 330 million people in the U.S. and we couldn’t cut it. We are one thousand times larger and they kicked our ass.

Our USA women are beasts - they’ve won the Women’s World Cup three times, including the last one in 2015. But the guys?

Their best finish ever was third place - and that was 88 years ago. What the hell?

I know the old excuses, things like Hey, it’s their national sport. Whatever. Kids have been playing soccer in the U.S. for a long time, and in the last 30 years the soccer fields have been packed beyond belief with American kids going at it. It ain’t new to our shores, folks. Even the term “soccer mom” has been around for generations.

Or, Hey, it’s a sport for rich kids in our country. Oh yeah? Well according to the latest census information, the US of A has about 11 million millionaires. In other words, we have 36 millionaires for every one person in Iceland. We have almost three times as many millionaires in our country as Croatia (in the World Cup Final, remember?) has people, period.

And what makes you think you need to be rich to kick the ball? Equipment for youth football and baseball can be pretty expensive, and with youth hockey it’s downright ridiculous; parents report paying thousands for gear. With soccer you need a ball and maybe a couple of shin guards.

Image courtesy of Ben Hershey on Unsplash

Then there’s the best excuse of all: We love our football in America.

Yeah, we do. But do you know how many kids in this country play football? 3.2 million.

Know how many play soccer? 3.1 million.

I must, respectfully, reject all your excuses. We’ve played it long enough and we’ve got gobs of people toiling away at it. Why do we still suck at soccer?

You can tell me it’s not exciting, that we hate nil-nil games in this country, blah blah blah. The point is, we play the game, we’ve played it for a long time, and we’ve got staggering numbers. What do we have to do to find 11 guys who can match up against Panama, or Uruguay, or Switzerland? They all made it.

Japan got in, Saudi Arabia competed this year, and even Senegal made the cut. Don’t lie to me, you don’t even know where Senegal is.

Image courtesy of Click and Boo on Unsplash

I don’t necessarily lie awake at night and think of my favorite thrilling soccer matches, but I do wonder why our country sucks so bad at the game.

We’re sharing the hosting duties for World Cup 2026 with Canada and Mexico, so that gives us 8 years to get our shit together.

Kids who today are 11 or 12 years old better be dribbling their asses off through those orange cones because our country needs them in ’26. We need them bad. It’s time to stop sucking at soccer.

PS: Go Croatia!

Blockbuster Taught Us Frustration

It's the end of an era and a sad day for some. After 33 years of charging late fees, the Blockbuster Video chain is down to one store. Yep, one.

At its peak in 2004 there were 9,000 bustling locations across the United States. But the final two stores in Alaska closed this week, leaving the last, lonely Blockbuster outpost in Bend, Oregon.

Why it has survived in Bend is anyone's guess. It'll probably become a shrine.

Granted, you have to be of a certain age to have memories of these brightly-lit stores, these meccas of movies. But I'll bet your memories are similar to mine.

Throughout the late 80s and early 90s I spent countless evenings wandering the aisles of the Blockbuster near my house, slowly walking by movie titles I'd already passed two thousand times.

That's the one memory that will live on for me: Never being satisfied. Isn't that ridiculous? I must've walked into one of those stores at least 300 times over the years, if not more, mostly because I had a child, and that's just what families did on weekends. We went to Blockbuster.

And yet, with hundreds and hundreds of titles begging for attention from those shelves, I never seemed to see anything that (a) looked remotely interesting, or (b) I hadn't already seen at least three times.

Yet I went back, again and again. I would find something tolerable, walk through the store to find my wife, who would stare at my choice then shake her head. She'd hold up her pick, and I'd shake my head.

Then we'd wander off again, both looking for a compromise.

Okay, so now it's funny to me. But really, have things changed all that much? Instead of strolling up and down the aisles, looking at the same damned movie cases, we all sit on the couch and scroll up and down the Netflix menu, seeing the same thumbnails, over and over again. Scrolling is the new strolling.

Ultimately we try to find the compromise, and you know what compromise means, right? That means instead of one person being unhappy with the choice, both sides are unfulfilled.

So farewell, Blockbuster. Your lasting legacy is that you taught us how frustrating thousands of choices can be. At least when we "scrolled" at your stores we got some exercise.

Getting Past the Mental Roadblock to Write

Two of the best books I ever read about writing didn't spend much time on writing. And that makes sense to me. I’m (mostly) in the camp that you either know how to do it or you don’t. Sure, you can get better. But I'm convinced the biggest obstacle to writing and publishing isn’t on the page/screen, it’s between the ears.

Both of those books spent a lot of time on the mental part. That resonates with me (and maybe you) because, even after publishing 15 books, I still battle fear and doubt. Every damned time. Then I finish writing a book, it’s printed, and I wonder what all the fuss was about.

I won’t beat you over the head with a sales pitch. But I’ll tell you that my latest book, called The Color of Your Dreams, follows the same path: Fix your head and you’ll likely fix your writing.

The book is not quite a memoir, but more of a bullshit session about the nonsense holding you back from following a dream, a dream you may have carried for years. I can’t swear this book will get you published. But it could get you off your butt, and that’s step one, two, and three.

The Color of Your Dreams (named after a John Lennon lyric) is available in print on my web site, which is where I’d personally prefer you grab it. But if you’re more comfortable with Amazon, they have it in both print and ebook formats.

It would mean a lot to me if you tried it out and then posted an online review. That's so important to writers. And if you find it in your heart, share this with anyone in your world who you think could benefit. Thank you in advance.

(Warning: This is not a book for young eyes. Some language may offend. Hey, that’s how the book spilled out of me, so that’s the way it’s printed.)

Here’s a link to get it at my site

Here’s a link to get it on Amazon

Sleeping in Separate Beds - or Separate Rooms?

You're in a happy relationship, and you'd never dream of hurting your partner's feelings. But there's this little matter of sleep. If they're keeping you awake, is it time to think about changing your sleeping situation?

I'm talking about finally breaking down and sleeping in separate beds. Or, in some cases, even separate rooms. It's something we've covered many times on the radio show, and it's an interesting exploration of a social custom.

Because, for whatever reason, our society has the notion that sleeping apart somehow means you don't love the other person anymore. Which is funny. It's just sleep. You're unconscious. Why is it so important to be unconscious together?

A new survey found that 12% of couples do sleep separately. But when the question became "Would you LIKE to sleep separately?" almost half of people said "Hell yes."

Half. And that's just the ones who admit it.

The reasons for doing it make sense. Either your partner snores (that's a biggie), it's too hot with double the body heat, someone's a cover hog, or they simply go to bed and/or wake up at different times.

So I'm wondering: In our sleep-deprived society, what will it take for this to become acceptable? What will need to happen before people stop equating separate beds with separate lives? What if some high-powered couple (think George/Amal, Kim/Kanye, Barack/Michelle) came out and said, "Hey, we sleep in separate beds. What's it to ya?"

I think that's what we need. We need Separate Sleeping Role Models.

If someone's worried about the loss of intimacy, well, there's no rule that says you can't treat it like a boxing match. Get together, tangle for a few rounds, but then go to your separate corners.

Perhaps it's time for you to approach your sweetheart and start a dialogue. You can use this story (and the link to the study) to show them it has nothing to do with love - or a lack of.

It's just sleep, man. Go get you some.

 

 

Cart napper pic courtesy of Mika on Unsplash
Sleeping seal photo courtesy of Jackman Chiu on Unsplash

Popcorn Costs HOW Much?

The other day I was on the fence about whether or not to go see a movie. There wasn't really anything showing that Gretchen or I wanted to see, but it was a cloudy, rainy day - the kind of day you don't mind sitting inside and enjoying mindless entertainment.

But that wasn't the deciding factor. It was the fact that once I got the notion of movie popcorn in my head, it wouldn't go away.

We went to a movie. And the popcorn was heavenly.

(My weirdo rule is that I won't touch the popcorn until the actual movie begins. I don't understand sitting there for 20 minutes of trailers, munching away, and essentially having no popcorn left when the movie starts.)

Anyway, I think we all accept that the theater has to make some money, so we know they mark up the price of popcorn. But wait a minute.

Granted, this is an old story, but I just saw it. A professor in California compared the cost of popcorn with other food choices, and he found that - per ounce - movie popcorn actually costs more than filet mignon.

And based on what theaters are paying to buy the unpopped kernels, as a consumer you're paying a 1300% markup. Holy extra butter, Batman!

Doesn't seem to stop us, though. Each year Americans spend over a billion dollars on movie popcorn. Hey, look at me - I paid for a couple of movie tickets just so I could get that medium bucket.

Am I a sucker? Maybe. But I sure was a happy sucker.

 

Popcorn pic courtesy of Christian Wiediger on
Theater photo courtesy of Kilyan Sockalingum on Unsplash

RIP: The Writer Who Kicked My Ass

Harlan Ellison died last week. Perhaps you knew of him, perhaps you didn’t. I knew him for two reasons:

First, he was one of the most celebrated writers of speculative fiction, winning every award imaginable. I had several of his books.

More significantly, though, he kicked my ass. In person.

Figuratively, of course. I could’ve taken him in a fistfight, but he eviscerated me with words. Physically he was of small stature, creatively he was a volatile giant.

The story made its way into my latest book, The Color of Your Dreams, which came out just two months before Ellison’s passing. It’s a memory that, to this day, inspires me to write and publish. And yet that wasn’t Harlan Ellison’s intention. Or was it?

I mourn his passing, even after the tongue-lashing he delivered. If you’d like to hear the story, enjoy this free audio sample from Chapter 19 of The Color of Your Dreams.

Then I think you should go download the whole book. (Print and ebook are available. The audio book is coming shortly.)

Farewell, Harlan Ellison. And thanks. This very book might never have happened without your petulance.

Dom