Severe Christmas Ettiquite Violation Involving Cookies

It is with great trepidation that I make my annual visit to my birth home to visit my biological parents (I consider the Earth to be my "real" mother, and the passing of time to be my "real" father with the infinite wisdom it conveys.)  for Yuletide Evening celebrations.  I want you to understand why I am so fearful of these particular encounters.  We'll start with my father, a gruff, muscular union boss with a penchant for swearing in a brutish, very non-genteel manner who's favorite pastime it seems is to tell dirty jokes to make me blush, which he follows up by mocking my girlish giggle.

My (much younger) brother has been a thorn in my side since the day he was born. He was literally my exact size when he was born, and kept pace with me over the years.  As soon as he started teething, he started biting me with his powerful jaws.  Have you ever had to smack an infant savage off your bleeding arm?  I have! I have multiple times.  As we grew older, he first outgrew me by a sizable margin (think ogre dimensions,) then developed a preternatural penchant for firearms, which he used to terrify me with by displaying in his bedroom.  He now works as a police officer, and I cower under his questioning gaze.  He is eternally suspicious of my activities and likes to glower at me from across the room whenever I visit.

My sister?  She is an impish prankster and a surgical assistant who enjoys cooking family meals as a hobby.  I don't know where she procures her meats, but it's at no grocery store at which I shop.  I dread she may be slipping me human body parts, and worst case scenario she's serving me unethical, non-organic foods.  I saw a plastic bag with "Safe Way" written on it in the back of her boyfriends Mustang (he is a gun-toting security guard who also scares the hell out of me,) so I dread to think what I've put in my body when I'm there.

But the most terrifying one of all is my mother.  In addition to being the sternest nurse you ever met in your life, she was also an aggressive professional, a "C-level" executive of her own corporation, a "Hammer" society in which unexpectedly mean older ladies gathered to play celtic instruments.  I remember during their meetings my father would drag me and my brother out to the theater, almost always to a terrifying movie.  During the film, my brother would pluck hairs out of my head one at a time, (to which I attribute the current state of my hairline,) and I dared not speak up in my defense lest my father "shush" me over the roar of terrifying cinematic machine-gun fire and all-too memorable bad guys dying.  Of course, I'd come home pale and shaking in shock, my hairline a few millimeters further back from my eyebrows.  These rogue musicians would still be pounding on their instruments and would just laugh at me when I very politely told them to leave.  My mother would then come scold me.  She was the leader of these people, CEO - CFO - COO - CSO, all of it.  And on the soft canvass of my feelings, in full view of all, she would paint her minions a verbal picture of precisely why they had sworn their fealty to her.  This predated Xanax and even Prosac was new at this time. So my only coping mechanism was to wrap myself in a blanket and hide in my tree fort outside.

Which brings me to this year's yuletide.  Amongst other fine things fit for a writer, such as classical literature, my mother baked me several dozens of a particular kind of cookie I enjoy.  Because Katie distracted me while we were saying our goodbyes that evening, I neglected to carry the confectionery bounty out to the car with the very heavy load of gift my parents had furnished me.  But not to worry - my cookies would surely be safe in the hands of my loving mother right?  I could retreive them at any time in the pristine state in which I had left them, could I not? Well then, explain this cell phone photo message I got this morning (the text is included in the caption):

Snooze: lose.  Har!

My mother, my own mother, DEVOURED the Christmas gift she had procured for me!  I'd head over right away to salvage that last one, but I KNOW she's only saving it so she can mockingly pop it in her mouth when she sees me come huffing and puffing up the walkway.  Then my dad will laugh at my girlish crying, my sister will take a picture and post it to my facebook page, and when I try to assail my mother for her crimes, my brother will counter-assault me leaving me covered in bleeding bite marks.  Oh no, I am NOT falling for this ploy a second time.  I hope you ENJOYED those cookies, I do!  The jokes on you, you didn't use organic walnuts!  I can tell because I've been fighting off a bout of diarrhea that extends beyond my usual nervous diarrhea!

Welcome to the New Æon of Enlightenment!!!

Genteel Readers,

Like many of my fellow literati I have often pondered what the end of the world might entail, and what any prophesies regarding such might mean.  The banal prefer to think of the apocalypse as widespread barbarism and destruction, but one must remember these same people have similar philosophical approaches to things such as music (as in ROCK music or gangster rap,) dining (non-organic foods purchased at non-artisan grocery stores,) or entertainment (watching television when reading the likes of Tolstoy or Dickens can provide literal hours [LOL!] of entertainment for pennies in the bargain-bin at the local Barnes & Noble.) I prefer to think of the apocalypse in terms of it's original meaning, which loosely translates to "world enlightenment," and hoped the noble Aztecs in their infinite wisdom before disappearing behind the veil of matter into the next world were simply indicating the moment at which the crazily acting, brutish assholes of the world would finally get their due, leaving the more refined and genteel person to his organic chamomile tea and Virgina Slims (I am pleased to report I am already up to two packs per day and have never felt more creative nor at peace, and the gas station pumpmistress has finally forgiven me for pointing out that she was smoking whilst pregnant out of wedlock, more on her later though!  I have certainly become quite the squalor buff through my association with her!)

Last night, however, I was afraid the neckbeards were correct about the impending destruction of the world.  I sat wrapped in my threadbare quilt, thumb in mouth, cigarette dangling out the corner of of my lips (I mastered this feat of oral dexterity quicker than one would expect,) sitting on a lawn chair on my back porch in the freezing cold, as Katie has been sneering at me in a condescending manner every time I smoke in the house.  Every time I saw an airplane or heard a car in the distance, my wild creativity turned against me and told me it was some kind of UFO from outer space, or perhaps the first salvo of a barrage of nuclear cruise missiles, or a tank - you get the idea.  I was terrified all because I had listened to the wrong kinds of people and allowed myself to become convinced that some horrible end was nigh.

Concomitant with my anxiety and the subsequent need to smoke my 'Slims, (yes, I call them that now!  Kitschy, yes yes?!) combined with the early hours of the morning and all the exercise I had received that day from pacing to and fro in my house while smoking, I fell asleep.  In the cold.  On my back porch.    Lit cigarette loosely dangling from my lips. As you might assume, my quilt is made of what?  That's right, 100% natural organic cotton fibers sourced from fair trade plantations from some delightfully ethnic corner of the world which escapes my memory at the moment.  Due to my sensitivity to all things unnatural, I ensured it had NOT been treated with cancer-inducing, flame retardardant chemicals as I knew straight away that I was going to find a corner and suck on it along with my thumb as I have been wont to do since I was a child.   Since I've had it for a few years, it has acquired a great deal of natural oils (one should NEVER wash their security quilt,) and so naturally, when the lit cigarette fell upon it in my slumber it ignited quite violently.  Apparently, though the shell itself was cotton, the stuffing was a polyester of some variety, because it burned and melted itself to me as I woke.

And so, I awoke to flames tickling my chin, and without a split second of hesitation reacted, running as fast I could to extinguish the flames.  Apparently I need to work on my sprints, because the fire grew in intensity despite my efforts.  Surprisingly, the incident ended when I slipped in one of puppy bear's delicate shits Katie had neglected to pick up, and landed on my lawn in a hiss as as the frozen turf quenched the flames.  I sat there, stunned, then deeply angry at Katie for her sloth and irresponsibility.  So of course I went stomping over to her room and knocked loudly on the door.  Ricardo told me to go away, so I knocked even louder and demanded an audience with my ridiculous trollop of a spouse.  She came to the door with her usual sneer, and her eyes widened in horror when she saw me wrapped in a smoking, damp quilt smeared with mud, dog shit, and grass stains.

I unwrapped myself and hurriedly shoved it into her hands.  "Wash this!  At once!" I bellowed.  She sneered again and shoved the blanket back at me, which was very rude of her.  But then I realized I was right - about the apocalypse.  I was finally saying what was on my mind without inhibition!  As the literary enlightened emissary of the world, my heart has been freed to ask - nay - DEMAND I receive that which I justly deserve.   First of course on my own behalf, but eventually on behalf of all of you, the little people.  This was a moment as significant as the transfiguration of Jesus, and I anticipate my writing will start to become brutally honest and edgier as I develop this powerful spiritual gift and spend further time smoking cigarettes at the gas station in the company of the pumpmistress. (She can swear like you wouldn't believe, and I may just start doing it too as an experiment in colloquial expression!) Eventually, I am certain the fruits of my labor will change the world along with the collective human consciousness.  And, you will note there was little violence and destruction in the world today!

Aside from my quilt, which I have thrown in the trash to shame Katie.  When she sees me without it, she will be overcome with remorse and do as I ask.  I just know it!

How To Punish A Bad Waitress (My 2¢ LOL)

Today for my wife's birthday, (which was technically yesterday but we agreed to celebrate today so she could spend time with some person named "Ricardo," all the better for me to pursue my literary gift!) I accompanied her to Denny's and allowed her to order literally anything she wanted off the menu.  The waitress came up to take our orders, who I could instantly tell did NOT appreciate the health benefits of artisan-crafted produce.  She had skin like an elephant, and frankly looked a little bit like the cryptkeeper.  She was abrasive and curt like him, too!  She asked for my order, and after pursuing the menu I opted to order the organic lumberjack slam with an extra side of organic sausage.  Then I made small talk with Katie, describing the written wonders I was bringing in to being while she dutifully recorded them into her cellular phone, laughing occasionally at my musings and for some reason saying "Oh, Ricardo."  She's weird sometimes, but I digress.

Well, when my meal arrived 20 minutes later (how god-damn long does it take to boil an egg, anyways?)  I instantly noticed something was amiss.  Namely, the meal I had requested was nothing more than four tepid pancakes, dense like concrete and just as warm.  Katie hurriedly ate her grilled cheese whilst I ruefully sulked, and elephant woman did not once return to inquire as to whether or not I was delighted by my meal, which I most certainly was NOT.  20 minutes of sulking passed as the waitstaff just hurried past me, eager to bring chicken nuggets to some screaming brat or an "early bird special" to some doddering table of geriatrics.    Assuming, of course, that all was well with me when in fact I was highly dissatisfied as was obvious by my sad face.

Katie looked at me, breaking 30 minutes of silence from transcribing my literary musings "Are we gonna go?"  Now these neckbeards were frustrating my wife as well.  I looked down at the remnants of my pancakes (yes, I had eaten them,) as Katie handed me the credit card and sauntered out of the diner.

Now in this situation, genteel readers, when the waitress is NOT paying attention and the restaurant is busy, it is a simple matter not to pay.  You see, the waitstaff makes their money off of tips, and by refusing to tip for poor service, and refusing to pay the company that enabled her faineance, I was taking the ethical, moral and legal high ground.   This is the action paradigmatic of what made great Ghandi, Martin Luther King, and other righteous gurus of you're.  Based on all the above, and the fact that I realized I could use the money on a party pack of organic Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I left without paying and without being challenged by the otherwise frantic Denny's staff.  But not before snarkily depositing two pennies on the table for the lousy excuse of a waitress.  I can be so whimsical, I swear!

As I made my way to my car, I received a text message from Katie "gone to work, be home tonight, don't wait up."  She has terrible punctuation, the silly little trollop!  Apparently she had gotten a ride from one of her lady friends, as I saw her on the back of a motorcycle on the other side of the parking lot.  Superb, further peace and quiet for me.  The excellent get what they deserve, and I had an afternoon of contemplative writing ahead of me.  Smirking, I looked back at the Denny's.  The shameful and lazy also get what THEY deserve, I mused to myself.  Karma's a bitch, after all!

I Have Taken Up Smoking Cigarettes.

So it has happened that I have been entirely cut off from my beloved Xanax.  Every physician, dentist, and in fact every illicit pill dealer within convenient walking distance from my home has "cut me off!" in some form or another.  Indeed, even entire medical institutions have me on record as being a "drug seeker" whatever the hell that means.  Obviously, this has had a profoundly negative effect on my persistent, nagging state of anxiety and to make matters worse, those around me seem to be going out of their way to irritate the hell out of me. My right thumb has been a wrinkled raisin as a result, and I've been torquing my quilt so frequently that it's beginning to fray.  All owed to the discourtesy of others in not respecting my highly developed sense of anxiety.

Just the other day the postman left a parcel at my doorstep, knocking then hurriedly scurrying away like a rat dressed in a pale blue uniform.  I regarded the package left behind with great suspicion until I cautiously opened it and much to my relief found a pound of homemade Christmas fudge from Katie's stupid friend (I erroneously surmised based off the consistency and faint almond smell that it was in fact plastic explosives.)

Eating an entire pound of fudge in ten minutes does little to boost one's energy, so after throwing the box and accompanying card in the outside trash bin, (and confiscating the $20 gift card to Bed Bath & Beyond that had accompanied it,) I plodded towards the corner gas station to purchase myself something to boost my creative energies.  Typically this involves a Swiss cocktail called "Red Bull," which I would typically consume in tandem with, (you certainly guessed it!) several Xanax.  Obviously, this was no longer an option.  So after purchasing my Red Bull, I searched around the gas station for any product which indicated it would somehow soothe me.  The canned soda section contained absolutely nothing, and my stomach wretched at the thought of more candy.    I scanned the store interior for the pumpmistress, (who was in fact a young girl who was either pregnant or consumed inorganic vegetables, I was unable to tell.) She was outside, talking on her cell phone and smoking.

She looked me over as I approached, rolling her eyes at whatever the person on the other line had to say.  I asked "Do you have any products which soothe, rather than stimulate?"  Her eyes grew wide and, recalling last week's mishap, I clarified "I need something to remedy the side effects of this Red Bull."  She rolled her eyes once again, dismissed the idiot on the other end of the phone, and accompanied me back inside the store.

"We have cigarettes." she said in a dull monotone that led me to believe she was entirely disinterested in both my personal plight and her career as a pumpmistress.  Now, I have been led to believe by the tobacco industry that cigarettes are dangerous, all the better to cultivate a macho, rebellious image with.  But then I considered my exclusive consumption of healthy organic foods from Earth's bosom, and recalled that some of the world's greatest authors have been smokers, and I was convinced.  Perhaps it would be Xanax like in it's effects.

So I left the store with a package of Virginia Slims (the pumpmistress had explained after an extended period of questioning that this was the sole marque of cigarette that was certified organic.  She continued to be dismissive and curt even after I genteelly congratulated her on her pregnancy.) Upon arriving home, I laid out my cigarettes and matches next to my notebook as I felt the nervousness setting in. I wanted to write, but my hands were shaking.  But after enjoying my very first cigarette, that nervousness gave way to a sense of energy and calm unlike I had ever experienced, and I wanted more.

Four cigarettes in, I began to feel a crescendoing sense of nausea, and immediately suspected Katie's stupid friend had furnished us with tainted fudge, the senile old coot.  I had another cigarette to further soothe myself, to no avail.  The nausea was rapidly rising, I literally felt green and knew I was about to vomit. And vomit I did.

Unfortunately, the forceful expulsion occurred entirely without warning, and I had no time to clear away my beloved notebook nor my newly beloved cigarettes.  Black, likely toxic fudge spewed forth, ruining my life's work to date and along with it disrupting the cigarettes I had so lovingly laid out. This catastrophe is directly traceable to either the negligence or malice of Katie's stupid friend. I suspect both.  Be certain that the instant I mustered the nerves to undo myself from the cozy wrappings of my quilt, I picked the lock to Katie's room,  seized her laptop, and wrote the most cathartic, abusive, yet genteel poison pen email ever explaining both the nature of her misdeeds, as well as the fact that neither Katie nor I wish any further contact with her.

Oh yes, and I sent it from Katie's email account.

Black Friday disagreement with Salvation Army bell-ringer

Being a literary genius, I am often wont to discover the plight of the common man, all the better to portray him in my large portfolio of novels, novellas  and novelettes I have thought of.  I am interested in the colloquialisms, the consumption of unhealthy mass-farmed vegetables, the use of violence and name calling to settle disagreements, and of course the triumphant ascension of the gifted few from this demographic of rudeness, brawl, and toil into a more genteel and enlightened state of hyperliteracy and interpersonal conscientiousness. 

So it was with great interest that I regarded the thin, pathetic shell of a man woefully ringing a bell outside the local Fred Meyer store when I went to purchase some knit mittens along with a fluffy pair of earmuffs, all the better to repel the vile cold weather we've been experiencing of late.  (This was on the Friday following Thanksgiving, when store owners reduce their prices so the poor may afford to purchase them.  It is known as "Black Friday" in such circles, though why it's not referred to as "Pauper Christmas" I shall never understand.)  There he stood in the cold, at once downtrodden and stoic.  Could this person be my literary muse, my Tom Sawyer whom I might transcend into life with my literary gift?  After several moments of staring directly at him without blinking, I made my approach.  The presence of such a staggering literary genius obviously unsettled him, as he took several steps backwards and glanced nervously at the red pot of his earnings suspended in a tripod-like scaffold he had obviously cobbled together with various odds and ends.  I had to put this creature at ease if I were to begin the delicate inception of his deliverance from banality.

"I like your bell."  I said, maintaining a steady yet warm eye contact, which he seemed very wont to avoid.  This compliment actually had the opposite effect of what I had intended, as he began looking to the other Fred Meyer denizens with a frantic expression, silently pleading for aid. A large, burly man with a tight haircut briskly walked by and deposited a few coins in his begging jar without regarding his nonverbal cues, and I think his heart literally broke in that moment.

This was a good thing though, as lower class persons often develop such a degree of stubborn resilience that they often can't be succored until they hit absolute rock bottom.  This poor man was coming to terms with his outcast status, and divine intervention had seen to it that I was there to raise him from the depths of his illusory despair.  I waited a moment or two, not once breaking eye contact, locked in a social stalemate with this vagabond and letting my genteel presence slowly erode the barrier society had erected between our respective socioeconomic classes.

When I sensed the moment was right, I spoke again in a level calm tone, not breaking my steady gaze. "I like your red begging pot too.  That's very clever of you."

I was completely unprepared for what transpired next. He shrieked "Take it, motherfucker!!!" then wound his arm back like a pitcher and launched the bell squarely at my face.  To no avail, though.  Deep within the refined folds of my hefty brain lies the finely honed reflexes of a warrior, and my motor neurons effortlessly acquired the trajectory of the bell and gently, yet swiftly, guided my hand in front of it to pluck it from it's flight.  The bell glanced off my fingertips and hit me squarely in the nose, but after a small amount of scrambling I managed to trap it between my forearm and belt as it fell.  A rush of rage welled up, but then quickly subsided as I opened my eyes and saw the poor man's intent stare as he tried to assess the mote of damage he had caused.  This was not his fault, these were the death throws of his white trash existence petulantly acting out knowing they were soon to be extinguished.

Of course, now people were staring and gathering around.  Phones were coming out, a phenomenon with which I am all too familiar. With grand aplomb I stepped forward, and kneeling as a knight does, presented the bell to him.

"I believe you dropped this." I said, in reply to which he screamed "This guy is trying to rob me!"

This mendacious utterance was the last straw.  To sully my reputation in public is simply over the line of decency, and with it the realization that this lousy bum was in fact not worth enlightenment came over me like a tsunami, and along with it a very red hot yet saintly rage fell over me.

"I ought to sue you for slander, you unsightly parasite!" I bellowed.  He cowered in a corner while the crowd backed up with gasps and laughter.  "Do you even understand the notion of work? This is what real work entails!"

And I snatched his begging jar and heftily threw it's contents into the Fred Meyer parking lot. There was a surprising amount of coin and small bills in there, and no doubt an afternoon of scrounging hurriedly after it would provide him with an appreciation of the hard work requisite to make an honest living. No longer caring for mittens nor earmuffs (my ears were quite red and hot at this point,) I indignantly stomped off.  But not before confiscating his bell.  "You need not carry hidden weapons such as this, sir!   Beg with your own voice!" I snapped over my shoulder as I triumphantly strutted off.

As I walked home contemplating this damned soul and wondering what kind of cruel God could form such a wretched creature, I noticed several police cars running "code" (that's professional law enforcement officer slang for "driving quickly with lights and sirens aflame,") towards the Fred Meyer.  Obviously the hobo was taking his rancor out on the crowd. I shrugged and waived, though the officer couldn't be bothered to return the kindness from his speeding cruiser.  No matter, I wish them well in apprehending  arresting, and hopefully committing this sick, sad soul to some manner of mental institution where he will no longer waste the effort and charity of others.

Got in a FISTICUFFS with some yokel over Twinkies™

Genteel Readers,

One of my secret vices has always been Hostess™ brand fruit snacks and Twinkies.  Now, before my multitude of detractors starts braying about how they're "not organic" and how they're "full of chemicals," let me explain something to you.  I am a graduate school drop out, which puts me in league with such luminaries as Stephen Jobs and William Gates.  So I think I know what is organic and what isn't.  The recipe for Twinkies actually predates chemical additives and preservatives, and the reason why they last so long even in a compost pile or a fire is they're SO in harmony with nature that they peacefully coexist  as all enlightened beings/snacks are wont to do.  As such, I have been wont to eat several of them every day, purchasing them by the box and stashing them in secret places all over my house so my wife doesn't all of a sudden eat them between waitressing shifts, the selfish harpy.  My very best hiding places have included the toilet cistern and under the treadmill (as Katie is never wont to exercise with the laughable excuse that serving something called an "Awesome Blossom" to local yokels is somehow "exhausting.")

Well, you can imagine my dismay and dread when they started closing Hostess™ factories, and then just weeks later shuttered the entire company!  For the first time since I was a child, I actually sucked my thumb HIDING IN THE CLOSET, wrapped in my quilt.  I will also confess that, upon hearing the horrid news had broken, I lost a few drops as it were.  By which I mean I wet my pants.  If this is unclear, let me clarify by saying I (mostly involuntarily) peed down the front of my sweat pants.  Upon which I quickly snatched up my quilt, dashed into the closet, found my favorite frayed end, and stayed in there sucking my thumb until I could compose my thoughts.  I don't know how long I was in this fugue state, (come to think of it, I don't recall having changed pants,) but suffice to say it must have been several hours.  As emotion waned and genius waxed, I realized I had to get to the Hostess™ store and purchase all the snacks I possibly could!  After putting up with Katie's sneers (she was at the OTHER restaurant she works at, some kind of pancake place with gauche decor and even worse ambiance,) I had a fistful of cash and rapidly power-walked to my destination with the aim of liberating all the delicious Twinkies™ and Fruit Pies™ I could scrounge!

Imagine my horror when I arrived to see the rubes had beaten me to the store, and were scrambling about, shouting at the kind clerks to retrieve goods from the back!  After elbowing and scratching my way to the front of the crowd, I very politely demanded that the clerk bring me his reserve of Twinkies and other such confectioneries  and that he do so right this minute!  Well, let me tell you about this guy.  First of all, he looked like Homer Simpson without the jaundice and smelled like cigarettes.  I had expected the Hostess™ store to be staffed by clean, pleasant, respectable men in bowties, and before me stood this lumbering cretin.  So to get his attention I started poking him in his big fat moobs to get my point across.  I needed my snacks and I needed them NOW!  

"Sir please," he said, "you need to keep your hands to yourself.  I can get you on a wait-list, we have a truck coming in at 6AM tomorrow, I'd be happy to take your name down if you'd like."  My readership knows THAT is exactly the kind of condescension from rubes that really PISSES ME OFF!  As he turned away I shut my eyes, sharply inhaled, drew my clenched fist back to my ear and launched it for his cheek with all my might!  I felt a solid impact, and then a child's scream ricocheted through the small foyer.  Apparently, some fat idiot mother had tried to insert herself between Homer Simpson and I when the fisticuffs began, as women are wont to be peacekeepers.  And I had in turn punched her three-year old in the face, whom she had been carrying.  His nose was gushing blood, he was crying and she was trying to soothe him.  I scowled at her for her idiocy, inserting herself into manly combat like that and recklessly endangering a child!  "You stupid matinee!" I snapped at her.  She looked at me, stunned, so I repeated myself; "You STUPID fat matinee!"  

Of course, the crowd turned hostile at that point. Rubes started hitting me with their purses and other chatelle, nearly knocking me off my balance.  I ran from the store as fast as I could, and a few of them followed me into the parking lot.  Fortunately, I don't own a car so there was nothing to slash and/or key.  These people weren't true Twinkie™ aficionados anyway.  They were just selling them on e-bay for a disgusting markup.  But at least I won my fistfight.  Score one for the manly man of letters!  

Gingerbread home SMASHED by Puppy Bear!

I count among my crafty genteel hobbies the art and science of gingerbread house construction.  Gingerbreads are my bricks, frosting is my mortar, and delightful X-mas ("Christmas" is for fascists,  more on this later,) candies my decor!  This has not only provided hours of relief from reality, but delicious snacking opportunities as I enhance both my creativity and my pendulous abdomen.  This year, I had it in my heart to craft not just a simple gingerbread house, but a gingerbread COMMUNITY replete with multiple houses, several coffee houses with reading/writing rooms, libraries, bookstores, and quiet reading/writing nooks, perfectly manicured parks hosting multiple farmer's markets, kumkwat trees, Xanax trees, anything and everything you could ever want in a higher utopia.  I laid out a vision over an afternoon while Katie worked two waitressing shifts, drew up a stupendous set of blueprints, then I walked to her restaurant and hit her up for some cash so I could go invest it in gingerbread house accouterments (her attitude as she handed over the cash was quite poor.  I do not care to be sneered at.)

The rest of the afternoon was spent haranguing at sweets store owners as only a true artisan can!  The frosting, the candies, the gingerbread all had to be utterly perfect! (Can you believe  genteel readers, that the fat, ignorant, buck-toothed trollop had the NERVE to cut my first order of organic gingerbread with the same knife that had JUST been used to cut a non-organic batch of cookies?  She was also a sloppy measurer as well - a candy architect she shall never be.)   After arbitrarily sending back several orders for contrived flaws, all the better to frustrate the teenage bastard-factory, I finally had the perfect (all organic!) gingerbread substrate with which to build my resplendent confectionery utopia.   Unfortunately, I was low on funds and all my credit card are either maxed out/in collections, so I was forced to shoplift several bags of Halloween candy, which I think makes me quite the Dickensian, just like Oliver Twist. I do not know if the candy was organic or no, but it wasn't labelled such.  Still, I can't see a confectioner using impure ingredients, so I can safely assume they are free of preservatives and are sourced from fair trade coca beans and sugar trees.  I took my "construction supplies" home, and after several dozen minutes of intensely focused effort produced this:

The Nascent Paradise!

Just as I was admiring my work, Puppy Bear came sauntering over with her tennis ball, as Puppy Bear is wont to do.  She dropped the ball at my feet and did the cutest little play-bow dance, tail gesticulating, sharp canine eyes flashing.  I placed my creation on the floor and took several steps back to create distance whence I tossed the ball.  Then, Puppy Bear being a dog sniffed at the gingerbread house.  Anyone who owns a dog knows what was to come next, and so boldly I acted!

I hurled the tennis ball square at Puppy Bear's head!  "PUPPY BEAR NOOOOOO!!!" I shrieked.  The idiot mutt ran off with her tail between her legs, retreating to the safety of under the bed (she can entertain herself there for hours when I hold one of my tizzies.) I ran after her to give her the spanking she had earned, when I placed my foot directly onto the roof of my gingerbread mansion - no - PALACE!  And this was the result, stupid fucking dog!  

Stupid Goddamn Dog! 

She crawled under the bed as I pounded my fist against the drywall, screaming at the top of my lungs in agony over what had happened to my candy castle.  I tried to lift the bed, but alas I was too feeble (fucking crossfit!) Of course, this is when Katie comes home, starts comforting and cuddling MY dog and doesn't at all attend to my grieving process!  I threw the rest of my frosting againt the wall!  I threw the gingerbread!  I threw the candies!!  In my blind agony, I tore up the detailed blueprints I had drawn out!  Sprinkles?  I THREW THEM AGAINST THE WALL!!

When I opened my eyes I thought I was dreaming.  I was in my candy paradise!  Colors and frosting and lick-able architecture!  I whimsically danced through the house!  Kaloo!  Kalay!!  I opened the door to the master bedroom, and to my horror saw a shaking puppy bear and a Katie with tear streaked eyes.

"Oh, it's YOU." I said flatly.  I realized she did not appreciate the cathartic creation of my utopia.  The rage precipitated by Puppy Bear's idiocy had been transformed and transcended by me, the artist, into a living paradigm of paradise.  And all she could do is cry and scold my about my temper.  All Puppy Bear could do is sit there quivering, and I think she peed under the bed because there is the awfullest smell coming from under there at this time right now.

I do have a new idea for a book.  It's a series of (get this!) prequels to Twilight AND Fifty Shades of Grey!  The nexus between the two universes?  It's FRANKENSTEIN!  I will have Edward fall in love with a Frankenstein!  This is going to sell, people!  

Mother Earth Strikes Back Against The Machine!

Genteel Readers;

I must warn you, the following video is graphic and disturbing in the extreme.  Just watching the first part caused me to bite my fingernails down to nubs, (Ba Tran, my nail lady, is going to be furious with me!)  But wasting gas like these guys are and putting CFCs into the atmosphere is simply unforgivable.  But then, then mother nature strikes the most horrific blow I've ever seen.  To wit;

I literally fainted when I saw this.  Fortunately, I had time to limply put the back of my hand to my forehead first, which is the universal sign for fainting.  (Afterwards, I called 911 to report I had fainted.  The paramedics were at first annoyed and then spent most of the ambulance ride making fun of me.  After I had a hysterical melt-down in the emergency room, they discharged me without letting me see a doctor.  Obamacare my ass, all I wanted was a Xanax or two!)

He just can't stop staring at it!

Mother Earth's Revenge!

It is obvious that Mother Earth is angry, and is striking back against these rubes with a vengeance previously unforeseen.  So now we have Katrina, Sandy, and this as evidence that Earth is mounting a psychic attack against those who deny the truth of global warming.  Even my small community (Bellevue,) is likely to see temperatures BELOW FREEZING tonight, and it's only November!  Genteel persons of the world, I fear for our future.  It appears as though I'm going to need to suck my thumb wrapped in TWO quilts tonight, as I am loathe to waste energy on heating my home, as true environmentalists are wont to do. Be well, for as it says in the Bible, these are just the beginnings of birth pains!

The Presidential Election

Genteel Readers;

Do you, in your private thoughts, ever speculate about a time in the future when the genteel and intelligent and intellectual persons of the world will finally tell all the crazily acting and backwards persons of the world to rot in hell?  I do.  I am wont to do such things all the time.  But we must remain steadfast and strong, and extricate ourselves from their lunatic "whooping" and name calling.  We will not create a better world by hurting the feelings of persons with whom we disagree!  Even if they cause us to go into a livid tizzy of nerves! That will just create further ruckus and fuss, exactly the things of which we wish to rid the world! But there is hope yet, and I hope with this post to offer some inspiration and genteel hope.  Not fake "hope" like The Machine does.  But real, human, loving hope.  As Jesus would in times of yore.

Like all my intelligentsia and literati brethren, I voted for Jill Stein and the Green Party.   Because she is the only presidential contender who is an actual Doctor (and therefore is quite learned,) and also because she wants to protect the Earth and all the living things in it, rather than exploding things and shooting guns at poors and otherwise good people who made a series of honest mistakes.  There is, after all, only one true law, NATURAL LAW.

As it so happened, Jill Stein got only 377,536 votes.  104 of which came from me.  118,462,645 people voted for "The Machine" (and probably went to McDonald's in their Wal-Mart sports attire afterward to whoop it up and get domestic beer drunk,) and 1,134,830 braying idiots voted for some fucknut then went home to make sexual love to their machine guns.

My state also voted to get stoned on reefer like a bunch of twittering hobos.  (And I am NOT talking about the social network.  I'm talking about laughing at NOTHING!  And using freight cars as your primary means of transportation!)  I think this is outright barbaric.

So here is my final analysis;

Am I better than the vast majority of people?  Yes.

Am I smarter than the vast majority of people?  Also yes.

Am I more moral than the vast majority of people?  Quite yes.

Am I stronger and more courageous than the vast majority of people?  Absolutely.

So you see, genteel readers, there is nothing to fear.  We are as a light in the darkness, pushing the darkness back with our brightness.  And if you voted Green as did I, I offer you a figurative organic kumkwat in salutation to your superiority to the inbred rubes of the world who do nothing but go to some banal job every day and raise ragamuffin inbred rube sperm into mature rubes.  There is SO MUCH MORE in life that is SO MUCH MORE important, like literature, exploring far away and exotic locales via the internet, and of course writing NEW literature to inspire the little people of the world.

I am working on a new one right now!  It is a novel about two transient farmers, one retarded yet strong, who is shot in the head by the other after he fondles a farmer's daughter to death.  Thoughts?

My Spouse and Our Relationship

Genteel Readers;

Now, important to any genius is a diet of nutritious and delicious food (I find the two often go hand in hand,) all the better with which to whimsically spin fanciful tales which inspire you, the little people, to live moral and fulfilling lives.  Anyway, my spouse (I prefer "spouse" over the degrading, sexist and barbaric term "wife") has made the little error of choosing to be a vegetarian, thus depriving her of one of the four food groups (the meat one.)  Obviously, this is deleterious (bad,) for both her health and vitality.  However, not wanting to stifle her creativity, I must at least feign to support her vegetable-loving tendencies without letting her starve and waste away for lack of animal products (all organic and raised cruelty-free, mind you!)

Fortunately for both her and I, she tends to sleep with her mouth open.  I will admit that, early in our marriage, I would take advantage of this in the worst way.  I did so by feeding her long-dead flies in her sleep when she angered me, which was much more often than I care to admit.  I must have cleaned out every single outdoor porch light in the first few months of our marriage.  I got vindictive satisfaction in the form of watching her eat crunchy dead flies, while she never had to experience the outcome of my rancor.  Nowadays, we sleep in separate beds in different rooms, (actually, she sleep in the bed and I prefer the quilted coziness of the couch.) She has her three waitressing jobs, I have my writing career, and I am pleased to say we have reached a steady yet loving equilibrium.

But that is beside the point of this essay, which is to discuss how I manage my partner's health in spite of her gauche vegetarianism.  The mechanics are simple, and consist of Spam blended with water in a turkey baster, surreptitiously gavaged to her at night in her slumber.  Originally I did have to use an eye dropper, but as she grew accustomed to me dripping emulsified spam into her mouth as she slept, I was able to use a higher throughput method.  Additionally, making sure to slip some benadryl into her dinner helps her sleep soundly through her nocturnal feedings (I shall make such an excellent father one day!)

She has of course attempted to thwart my efforts.  Can you believe she actually thought a LOCK on her door would deter me?  Ah, no!  Locks are simply a mechanical expression of cunning and sensitivity, and I possess both in spades!  After several nights of unsuccessful attempts to pick the lock, I simply stole the key during the day and had it copied.  So is my formulae; benadryl in the soup, hidden key to her room, and a turkey baster full of spam and water.

Katie's favorite pastime is nagging.  "We never go out anymore." and  "I've been on my feet all day would you mind going to the grocery store?" and "A 35 year old should not need Cialis." are the skewers she uses to distract me from my writing craft, as spouses are wont to do.

Other than that, we occasionally watch some television.

Writing a Romance novel, more on that later, perhaps.

I Tried Crossfit™....

Genteel Reader;

I have not updated this blog for quite some days, because I have been utterly losing my religion over the last week or so!  The story I am about to relay to you is not for those with a highly astute sense of decorum (it involves poop,) so please don't continue perusing this entry if you're prone to bowel problems when upset.  

Basically, I decided I had to quit my gymnasium, or at least that's where this all starts.  Basically, I felt so disrespected by having a little brat ruin the laptop I use for research and then being intimidated by The Ice Queen afterward that I wanted to really stick it to them.  I called a lawyer and he had the god-damn nerve to say I was lucky they hadn't sued ME over the alleged incident before very rudely laughing in my ear.  He was being an asshole, as attorneys are wont to be. After slamming down the phone, I paused and thought with logic and intelligence, and realized the only thing left to do was go stomping in and quit!  

When I got to the gymnasium parking lot, I spent several minutes deep-breathing and lathering myself into all kinds of a tizzy, rehearsing all the mean things I was going to say/write on my "I quit" card.  I got out of my Prius and slammed the door, not caring that I had dented the paint on the vehicle next to me.  Angrily, I went stomping into the lobby and told the receptionist I was quitting "NOW!"  I sat and scowled at him while he stared at me with a smug look of amusement, then picked up the phone to call the person whose job it is to help people quit.  

I feel a shadow over my shoulder.  My knees grow weak and my eyes start to water.  I turn around to see The Ice Queen, beaming at me with a smile that chills me to my core. 

"What seems to be going on?" she asks in a way that is at once sunny and earnest.  I am confused, completely off my intellectual equilibrium.  My tirade evaporates in my mind.  I had come in expecting a cathartic confrontation, and she is being pleasant.  The wicked bitch.  I find myself scrambling, using all my intellectual to get this fabricated tantrum back on track.  She is being so kind.  I fucking hate her.  I am trying so hard not to look down her shirt.  

"I don't get very good workouts here." I reply.  That is all I can manage.  After all the pre pondered tantrum I had built up inside me, this was what was coming out.  I am utterly and completely without power.  I have no negotiating fulcrum.  I feel my cheeks flush with mortification, and Ice Queen smirks a condescending smirk, knowing she's won.  "Have you tried our Crossfit™ class?"...

That afternoon, I am in my sweatpants surrounded by skinny people with this contrived, whatever - smile, none of whom have probably ever even read a work of classical fiction, like mine.  Ice Queen actually met me at the door and escorted me to the class.  This irritatingly perky MILF explains we're going to be doing something called the WOD, and right away people start doing power cleans, pull ups  and running back and forth on the gymnasium floor, cheering each other on like a bunch of cheery, idiot apes on crack. It's so overt that it smacks of insincerity.  

Everytime I try to quit, they come over and start taunting me, things like "You can do it!" and "keep it up!"  To show them their bullying does not effect me, I continue to perform the exercises.  If these droll idiots can crank this out, surely a rotund genius such as myself certainly can too. 

I feel a rumbling in my tummy I know all too well. My ego has surpassed my abilities, and these pissant idiots, with their smiling and encouragement have pushed me to my limits.  I need to quit.  I need to stop and get to a toilet as fast as I can.  But I am all dizzy, the room is spinning and I can't focus. All I see are the various exercises as I perform them and my fellow Crossfit™ denizens with their encouraging and jeering.  I start screaming at the top of my lungs as loudly as I can, "I'm sensitive!"  It's all I can muster.  I scream it again and again and again. The rumbling in my tummy must be contained!  

I start for the door, oh my kingdom for a toilet!  Some perky dick gets in my way, "Just two more to go, you can make it!"  I kick him in the shin as hard as I can, and the rest retreat in wide-eyed surprise.  I am almost at the door.  The world is blurry.  I trip and fall.  I catch myself, and on the way out, I feel myself cut a little fart. 

Except it's not a fart at all, and I feel that fart running down my leg.  I am mortified to admit this, but the truth about the bullies at Crossfit™ must be told!  They made me perform calisthenics until I shat myself, and didn't listen when I tried to tell them I was sensitive.  I did not even try to go to the restroom.  I just went running out, cursing the fact that the elastic on my sweatpants was very effectively blousing my sweatpants around my chubby cankles.  The good news is I called that lawyer back, and after agreeing to a tidy sum (which will be nothing once I am a famous author,) he agreed to press my lawsuit against the gymnasium because I suffered emotional damage from being made to work out until I crapped my pants.  

That is my tizzy, my literary tantrum, and I thank those of you genteel enough to take the time to read through the whole thing.  I am currently accepting gift baskets, flowers, and other forms of well wishing, provided that they contain organically grown and ethically farmed produce only.  Any sympathy cards must be printed on ethically sourced recycled stationary only!!  I thank you in advance for your kind condolences.  

Presidential Debates Redux.....

Genteel Reader;

Thank my stars this nightmare is nearly over...

So after last week's debacle with the presidential debates (for those of you who don't know, I'm prone to getting a case of loose stools when something upsets or frightens me,) I nearly decided to sit out the final debates on foreign policy.  But, being a good citizen and a professional writer means that I need to stay abreast of current events, so as I can write about them.  Therefore I watched the debates.

I did undergo a few extra preparations though.  For starters, I scheduled a teeth cleaning so I could stay calm throughout the day.  Nothing like a clean mouth of chompers to soothe the spirit, I always say! (Not to mention the Xanax they give me.)  I also took a few Immodium and spent the day sipping Pepto Bismol to make sure my tummy stayed calm and the nervous diarrhea wouldn't get the better of me, as nervous diarrhea is wont to do.  Instead of sitting in my usual chair wrapped in my usual quilt, I fashioned myself a sort of "debate bunker" out of blankets and pillows.  That way, if I got overwhelmed I could just hide in the bunker.  I also wore earmuffs and a sleeping mask in case I needed to block sight or sound.  Finally, I prepared my usual feast of organic kumkwats and chamomile tea.

Last minute and without good reason, I brought my pistol out from the upstairs closet, an M&P .45 compact.  Sometimes fear, Xanax, and opiate anti-diarrheals make you do crazy things.  I only keep that damn gun around to help the high school kids listen to what I have to say when they drive around my neighborhood with their loud stereos. They get very interested in the gun when I show it to them, I think it's because kids of today like to listen to that gangster rap.  They can't look away, watching the pistol in my hand with the wide-eyed fascination of youth!  They're polite too, when you give them a chance.  The kids always call me "sir" once I bring out the gun. (Kids today also stutter a lot, which I attribute to hormones in milk, and cry a lot too, which I attribute to that whole "emo" thing.) The pistol is a positive tool that really helps foster productive dialogue, but I digress.  

The debates, in my opinion, were fucking outrageous.  I watched in detached horror as two powerful men shouted in an attempt to intimidate one another, but only wound up intimidating me.  What's worse is they were basically shouting about which members of our human family they were going to bomb into oblivion or shoot to death, Iran or Russia?  This set my lower lip quivering (and for some reason made me drool, too. Xanax + Immodium is what I think caused this.)  Instead of engaging humankind with love and loving respect, they were going to just threaten and kill in the name of money, as I suppose powerful men are wont to do.  People, this is not how we wont to shape our foreign policy, is it?  All these pundits talking about "nuking this guy" or "taking out that guy," when the best way to solve our differences is with a genteel chat over a nice cup of chamomile tea and maybe even some crackers?  Nobody even mentioned that as a possibility!  Assholes.

Then, I heard something that pushed me over the edge!  Obama said the word "bayonet."  I won't get into the specifics of why, but the mere mention of bayonets puts me into all kinds of a tizzy. Immediately, I clamped the earmuffs over my ears and lowered the sleeping mask over my eyes.  The sensory depravation caused a really bad flashback where I was clutching a rifle with a bayonet on it whilst yelling vicious capitalist slogans like "KILL KILL KILL WITH THE COLD BLUE STEEL!" and "BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD MAKES THE GREEN GRASS GROW" (actually organic manure fertilizer and plenty of water makes the green grass grow.)  I felt myself curled up in a little ball, rocking back and forth, kind of whimpering a little about all the plastic dummies I was forced to gore by George W. Bush! And these two assholes were taking us down EXACTLY THE SAME PATH! And all of a sudden I felt this red-hot surge of manly anger take me over!

Genteel readers, I am ashamed to admit this.  But at this point I charged my pistol (yes, it was loaded I suppose,) and shot the TV.  Not once, not twice, not thrice.  From what the detectives tell me, I put a full 16 rounds through it.  Which is funny, because I only have 8 round mags. At some point I must have reloaded as I completed my despicable chore.  If it's any consolation, most of my rounds missed (which is actually to be expected when firing at a 46" TV from three feet away.)  The TV did not deserve what I did to it, no excuses.  I blame years of government-sponsored conditioning for what I did.  Folks, it was a fuge - I was literally out of my body at the time. It wasn't me.  I didn't do it.

The rational path is always superior.  Had I wanted to silence the debates,  I could have reached for the remote instead of my pistol and simply turned the TV off, instead of dumping two mags into that motherfucker.  I think what I did though, was accomplish a sort of performance art piece, a kind of moral fable about thinking your way through problems and using your words instead of going straight for your sidearm and dumping mags as barbarians and assholes are wont to do.  In THAT respect, I think what I accomplished was moral and worthy of praise.  Perhaps one of you could suggest a forum wherein I could perform this piece publicly?  I can foresee the candidates catching wind of my work and doing a great deal of soul-searching once they discover the impact their words and deeds have had on me.  Hopefully, this will be the fertile organic garden from which world peace is finally wont to grow.

As an aside, no diarrhea! Woot woot! In fact, I haven't had to do a #2 for quite some time now!

Crafty Hobbies for the Genteel Writer

Sometimes, the exhilarating rush that comes with the thrill of putting ink to paper as I am so often wont to do upsets my mental balance.  I find I get over-excited and my hands start to shake, my vision blurs, and I often get a headache behind my eyes, where headaches are wont to go.  What I need is a creative, meditative outlet that doesn't involve so much stress and laborious effort, one where I can freely be creative and make things that I can tell my friends about.

Now, in my previous life I used to do a lot of things like shooting guns or martial arts.  These days, both are too loud and too painful (though I do wonder about Tai-Chi at times,) and most certainly too violent for my tastes.  Back in grad school I DID used to work a little bit of chemistry to keep my manual dexterity sharp for the rigors of corporate research (I don't know what the fuck I was thinking) and I enjoyed adding a drop of this, a drop of that, etc. to a beaker full of gently boiling vodka. (Mind you, this was before I was capable of appreciating the harmony inherent to all things natural.)  

I considered taking up the culinary arts, but you know what?  It turns out cooking was invented by tribal indigenous peoples to render meat safe to eat before the advent of farming.  We no longer live in a world without vegetables, and consuming animal products of any kind is therefore unethical, and I view cooking as an extension of consuming animal products.  So that was NOT an option, and I was slightly offended that I even thought of that in the first place.

Unable to concentrate on thinking of a hobby because I was overwhelmed with umbrage at what society had just caused me to consider, I retired to my bedroom only to find puppy bear chewing on a black permanent marker, reposed on the duvet cover which now had a spreading black stain on it.  I shrieked loudly and dove at her, but she was too quick and ran into the next room with the pen in her mouth.  Exasperated and at the end of my emotional rope, I resignedly fell backwards onto the bed, lower lip quivering and jonesing for a trip to the dentist so I could get a Xanax.  My eyes wandered to the coal-colored blemish on the duvet cover when it hit me - what better hobby for a professional writer with a chemistry background than making his own ink!

I rushed to askjeeves.com and looked for a good organic ink recipie.  Several searches yielded this result from National Geographic: How to Make Ink from Recycled Berries  It was perfect! I put on a floppy straw hat and  set out to collect as many different kinds of berries as I could.  Maybe I could make a rainbow-colored ink!  That would be truly exciting and make a wonderful gift to give my friends as well!  My Russian neighbor has a well-stocked garden, and I spent the afternoon picking through her extensive selection of deeply-colored berries to get just the right hue to my rainbow ink. She spent the whole time watching my labor from her window, and I occasionally waved in acknowledgement.  Strangely, she never waived back. Must be a Russian thing or something.      

 Now, when I got home I just needed to adjust the recipe (I don't say "formula" or "synthesis" anymore,) to fit my needs for a fast-drying ink so that I could give it as a gift to my left-handed friends (they tend to smear ink as they write, the poor slobs.)  So, I substituted a measure of acetone for the vinegar in the form of nail polish remover.  I also did an extra step called "driving the pigment into solution," where you boil the mixture so all the pigment can dissolve into the liquid.  Very technical, I know!

I prepared about a half-gallon of crude berry mash in vinegar and acetone, and started driving the pigment into solution on my stove, as writers who make ink as a hobby are wont to do.   Strangely though, it didn't start boiling even though the thermometer said it should have been.  So, I turned up the heat a little bit to encourage boiling.  Nothing.  So, I turned up the heat a LOT.  Just then, puppy bear asked to be let out and I went scrambling to the rear door to let her go and frolick in my backyard, as puppy bear is wont to do.

As I was watching her antics in my neighbors garden, (digging for bones, etc.) I suddenly heard a dull BAWOOMP! and a sharp hissing sound from my kitchen.  The air instantly permeated with a familiar fruity smell.  I ran into the kitchen and as soon as I hit the linoleum (I was wearing Argyll wool socks) my feet fell out from under me and I slid through a steaming puddle of freshly rendered ink.  Hitting my head on the floor hard.  I immediately disrobed, throwing my ink-soaked clothes on the carpet and took a long shower which did almost nothing to remove the ink stains from all over me.

Now, the stove, the kitchen, my finest clothes, the carpet, the ceiling, and some of the walls are covered in ink stains.  This is all puppy bear's fault - she can be so stupid as dogs are wont to be.  I had to put the clothes in the donation bin, and Katie refuses to speak to me.  I do however like the ink on the ceiling and walls.  It's fun to pick out shapes of what I think the ink stains look like, like I am wont to do with clouds.  Now, I can do it anytime, and so that is my new hobby.  I call it "ink gazing."

One Final Postscript on the Presidential Debates...

All those kumkwats I ate combined with the anxiety induced from watching powerful men shout at one another has given me a scorching case of nervous diarrhea.

Further Opining on the Presidential Debates

Genteel Readers:

I would like to share my thoughts on the travesty which was last night's presidential debates.  I found it very disappointing that they chose to speak harshly, rather than actively listening to one another in such a way that is wont to resolve the differences between them.  From the very beginning, the overtly hostile tone rattled my nerves.  The abrupt timber of President Obama's tone on more than one occasion caused me to jump and bite my tongue, (I had prepared a feast of organic kumkwats and chamomile tea for the debates, nature's popcorn!) and the cold, steely gaze of Mitt Romney caused me to clutch my quilt even more tightly around me, riddled with anxiety.  These men are fearsome competitors who thrive on confrontation, not the gentle, sensitive  highly evolved kinds of beings I prefer to watch on television or read about in novels.  As usual, I will be casting my vote for the Green Party candidate this election cycle, and while my candidate will surely lose as the Green Party is wont to do, I will at least be voting with a clear conscience.

One particular aspect of the debate that concerned me mightily was the put-downs that seemed to center on jobs and the Chinese.  America is supposed to be the land of opportunity and equality, yet when a job opening is filled by a person of Chinese ancestry, that seems to be the basis for some kind of criticism?  I'm surprised that nobody else sees the outrageous racism here.  If this so-called "controversy" is even remotely acceptable to you, I encourage you to take an honest, painful look at what lies in your filthy heart and do some earnest housekeeping.

Another absurd and ridiculous debate centered around taxes and federal spending.  Neither candidate has caught on to the fact that the government itself is who physically makes money.  If there is some kind of shortfall, it would be a simple matter to print money until the budget deficit is covered.  Of course, this would cause an excess of money, and soon everyone would be rich.  This is why the 1% don't ever want to embrace this strategy - they're fearful of allowing persons of working-class background into their expensive social clubs and golf courses. This would also cause the price of gold to rise, methinks.

Once again, my nerves are too rattled to embrace any kind of sincere and earnest writing, and the blossoming of my genius upon you, the little people, will have to be further delayed.  Thanks to two brutish contenders for the Presidency who have to talk loudly and gesture wildly whilst speaking, likely to cover the fact that they're lying from highly acute and sensitive persons like me.   We, the good people shall someday prevail, gentle readers!  So fear not.  Soon my works will be completed and the real revolution, the revolution of the soul, will be wont to begin!  Until such time, however, I shall retire to my recliner and quilt to calm my nerves with chamomile tea and ample red wine.

Dentist's Office Visit

Every other month or so, I like to report to my local dentist's office for a deep cleaning of my teeth.  I find the combination of bright lights, laughing gas, comfortable dentist's chairs, Xanax, and a little bit of novocaine to boost my creative reflexes to near superhuman levels.  The problem has always been that I can't remember the things I thought of after the gas and Xanax wear off.  (Don't laugh about my use of anesthetics, I have very sensitive gums as it would happen.)

As the dental technician goes about her work, I usually use the time to regale her with tales of my personal exploits, as well as explain the precise nature of my professional work (writing!) They are usually so enthusiastic about my work that they turn the concentration on the laughing gas to full blast, all the better to enhance my creativity. In this mentally ensconced state, I weave gorgeous literary creations on the loom of my mind, only to see them evaporate as the anesthetics and anxiolytics fade.

Today, I had a plan to remedy this however.  I would instruct the technician to write down my musings as I recited them out loud, and request that the attending dentist only administer just enough narcotics to keep my at my mental limen, a figurative foot in both world of conscious and unconscious thought.  Right away, the resistance begin though - the receptionist pointing out that I had my teeth cleaned the week prior when I attempted to make an appointment, and reminding me I had yet to settle the bill from THAT session.  Never the less, I insisted and she acquiesced, explaining that my insurance would not cover this particular visit.

I explained my plan to the dentist, who said he "understood" what I was requesting.  Narcotics were administered, and soon I found myself floating on a cloud of valium and laughing gas, and could hear in the distance the technician prepping her tools. I began to scan the landscape of my subconscious for inspiration, which suddenly burst forth from my mind like the morning sun over the horizon.  Sticking to the plan, I began describing in explicit detail what I saw, my notions on life, romance, God, and what it means to be human.  It was indescribably gorgeous.  In another universe, I felt the technician began working on my teeth.  My recitation continued as she dutifully recorded every utterance and detail.  I felt a warm cloud wrap around me and gently lift me out of my seat, then out of my body.

NO.

I became acutely aware of a presence surrounding me.  Godlike, perfect in logic and spirit.  It spoke to me through my mind with words that reverberated through my soul.  Every sentence perfect in grammar and punctuation  with the most lucid, otherworldly intelligence.  I have come into contact with my higher self.

HOW CAN SHE WRITE DOWN WHAT YOU'RE SAYING WHEN SHE'S CLEANING YOUR TEETH, DUMBASS?

The realization was like an earthquake in the depths of my heart.  I was being betrayed by this harpy.  I felt the fog of sleep begin to take me over, wantonly pulling my into oblivion.  This cannot be.  I must intervene  I must rescue the truth that has come before my eyes.  I must punish the betrayer...

I rally my will.  I fire every nerve I can.  I muster whatever strength is left within me to oppose the injustice occurring while I am chemically bound in the dentist's chair.

I bite.  I bite down as hard and fast as I can.  In a parallel dimension, I can hear startled shrieks of agony as I grind my jaw side to side.  There is a slap across my face, then several smacks with a closed fist.  They do not affect me.  I continue my grim mission.  My teeth are a vise. I must. I must....

I open my eyes.  I am in the dentist's chair, alone in the room.  There is a commotion in the front lobby.  I find my feet and clamber out of the chair, my gums dimly aching.  The dentist is suturing the technicians hand in the back office.  I join them and calmly explain that I need her to please tell me everything I said while at my psychic limen.  She looks at me with the kind of contempt only low-class people experience, and stammered through tears "You kept saying 'Poop! Poop! Poop!' and then out of nowhere you called me a bitch then bit the hell out of me!"

Useless, lying rube! I stand to admonish her and the dentist pushes me into the lobby in a way that almost knocks me over.  "GET THE HELL OUT." he snarls   Being too genteel to engage him in his idiotic physical confrontation, I opt to leave instead.  At least the drive home was inspiring - the narcotics made the concrete streets move like waves at sea, and inspired me to write a book about a whaling ship hunting an especially valuable whale, which I shall begin shortly.

Gymnasium incident....

I am often so wont to find a quiet place where I can write/think about ideas that the stress gets to me.  When this happens, I find that vigorous exercise is the only thing that keeps me on an even creative keel.  I am too chubby to jog of late.  Lifting barbells and other very heavy things is the very definition of barbarism as far as I am concerned, and this includes "machine" weights.  I prefer nonviolent forms of Tai Chi and yoga, as I find these both vigorous and soothing, which in addition to making me physically lithe and limber, puts me in an ideal state of mind to conduct my writing.  My gym also has a cozy and a (usually) quiet lounge, where I can ply my craft of writing as often as I am wont to.

One very serious problem I have is with the evening receptionist, who may be about the worst listener I have ever encountered. She towers nearly a full foot over me like some kind of WNBA center, which by itself is intimidating. In my head, I call her the "Ice Queen" because the more dire/desperate the circumstances I describe to her (i.e. a typo on the latest newsletter, the music from an aerobics class interrupting my concentration) the more dismissive and ignorant of me she becomes. On one occasion  I politely asked her "why they let all these God-damn children run around like a bunch of inbred apes" and she just stifled a sneer and walked away without another word and without doing anything to address the problem!

I have done everything to put her at ease and be friendly that I know how to do; described various ideas for novellas or chapters from the same, explained several times that I am a professional writer, and even loaned her brochures from writer's workshops which I find interesting.  During my attempts at intellectual conversation, she just sits there at her desk going through a stack of papers that I am convinced she keeps hidden at her workstation for occasions where she needs to ignore me, and any reply at all is a monosyllabic "uh-huh" and frankly, dismissive. She simply shuts me out and continues to focus on her "work."

Everybody else there is kind and polite, I once had a 45 minute conversation about my literary ventures with a personal trainer while he was working with a client.  On another occasion, one of the gym's managers invited me into his office to "have a quick talk" wherein I shared my writing aspirations, suggested several kinds of writer's workshops I'd be willing to teach (for very little money, given the value of my services,) and also described several structural improvements that needed to be made to the gymnasium.  At the end of the conversation, he mistakenly gave me a brochure for social and health services, and has not yet followed up on my request to furnish me with the brochure on local writer's workshops I'm certain he intended to give me.

The other day I arrived at my usual time and to my horror, someone was sitting in MY seat.  The big cozy one facing AWAY from everyone else so they can't bother me.  Worst of all, the only other seat was pretty far away from the outlet so I would have a hard time plugging in my laptop (which I like to keep nearby so I can use askjeeves.com for any questions about scientific accuracy during my writing, which I do by hand, as true genuises are wont to do.)  Now, my cord COULD have reached one of the plugs behind the reception desk, but Ice Queen was working and when I asked to plug my computer in one of those outlets she just flared her nostrils at me and made up some lame excuse about needing them for the gym's computer, and kept saying "no" even when I very genteely asked her several times.

Well, it so happens I keep a 30' extension cord in the trunk of my Prius just for emergencies like this.  I ran out into the parking lot, brought the cord back and ran it across the breezeway to plug in my laptop.  Perfection.  I spend the next several minutes putting the pencil to the paper, recording my musings, thoughts and ideas for posterity with the occasional askjeeves search to verify I was, indeed, correct.

Then without any warning, my laptop goes flying off the little table!  I watch in total horror as some little idiot, who was running and carelessly wrapped himself in my extension cord, goes careening into an elderly woman carrying a cup of hot coffee with my beloved Dell Laptop in tow!  Warrior instincts rising within me, I leap out of my seat and grasp for the laptop, which just escapes my grip and smartly smacks the edge of the next table over, slightly cracking the frame around the keyboard.

Time stands still.  I am furious beyond words.  The collision of youth and crone is creating a cacophony of howling and crying that is grating on my nerves like some kind of cheese grater. "SHUT THE HELL UP!"  I snap at the petulant pair as Ice Queen comes striding over to see what has transpired.  I can tell by her outraged expression that she's just as mad as I am at the little brat who has ruined my laptop, and she quickly rushes over to soothe and hopefully silence them while I collect my thoughts and come to terms with the vandalism the little hooligan has inflicted on me.

After several moments, the confusion is ceased.  Junior has fled the scene with his mother, and you would have thought he would wet himself with the way he was carrying on crying.  The elderly woman is getting her hand bandaged and pressing an ice pack into her forehead, being tended by one of the staff whose name I can't be bothered to learn.  Ice Queen comes striding over, as Ice Queen is wont to do, with my extension cord coiled around her arm.  She stands towering over me from a good three feet away like some kind of stoic tree, like a villainesque version Wonder Woman.   Her gaze is lowered in a way I imagine an executioner looks at the condemned.  It chills me to my very core, and the realization hits me that - true to form and despite my optimism, Ice Queen blames ME for this entire debacle!

"Is this your extension cord?" She asks flatly.  I stifle a whimper and clench down to avoid soiling myself.

"No." I reply, voice wavering under the crushing weight of my unfettered sense of intimidation.

"Then whose is it?" she asks through clenched teeth, her voice dropping an octave. Her glare bores into me as though it's physically pushing me back. I feel like a four-year old little boy.

"I don't know." I replied sheepishly.  That's all the response I can manage. My lower lip is quivering as I attempt in vain to imitate composure.  Ice Queen goes striding off - with MY extension cord!  I gather my belongings and head out the side door, using my askjeeves app to find a local attorney who specializes in lawsuits. You do not break MY laptop then humiliate ME and steal MY extension cord and not be taken to task for your temerity in a court of LAW!!

This isn't over.  Not by any measure.

Idiot Barista at Starbuck's

Sometimes I don't like to write at home, because Katie won't stop nagging me, telling me about recipes or asking me for kisses, etc.  Penny also likes to try to jump up in my lap, bring me a ball to play with, or ask to be let out to potty.  Annoying!  So I like to go somewhere with an ambiance appropriate for writing, and with it's dim lights, sophisticated clientele and occasionally attractive baristas, Starbuck's is the perfect place for a literati such as myself to ply his craft, as writers are wont to do.

So I drove far away and found a nice quiet Starbucks across from a high school, took the table with the "disabled" sticker on it and comfortably spread my stuff out all over it.  I wrote for several hours (I use a hand written notebook, hence the "pencil" part of this blog, as I find word processors to be barbaric,) and must have had six or so cups of coffee when out of nowhere these loud little pricks wearing letterman's jackets come barging in, braying about things that are only of interest to the unsophisticated teenager set.  So I politely "shushed" them as loud as I could.  They looked at me, then at each other and I could tell by the looks of confusion and surprise that things were going to go my way.  Or so I thought at the time.

Well right away they start talking about "chrome rims" again, only this time loudly and smirking.  I could tell they were doing it on purpose, to make me irritated.  I get no respite!  Not at home, not in the library with all the God-damn elementary school children, and not even at Starbucks which was founded primarily to give writers like me a nice place to work with a sophisticated ambiance. After shushing them again (and not so politely this time!) I decided to go use the bathroom and maybe when I came out they'd be gone.

Except when I came out after 15 minutes, they were still there and were just finishing their drinks.  When I returned to my table, by hand-written notebook was gone!  They were all looking at me with that apelike smirk jocks have in highschool, before they become drunks or common suburban parents.  I know they were the ones who took it, I just knew it!  All those hours of work and inspiration would be completed and likely published, accredited to some smirking teenage ape when it was my genius that engendered the whole thing!  The mere thought outraged me.

I stomped over to them and DEMANDED they return my notebook! But all they did was look at each other and laugh, and tell me it wasn't them.  Well, I've watched enough episodes of "24" to know how to use "enhanced interrogation" effectively, so I kicked the biggest one in the shin as hard as I could.  She winced and yelped in agony. Then I asked her friend "You want your friend to get some more of that, or you gonna tell me where my notebook is?"  I tried sounding like Jack as hard as I could.  But she just turned to her friend "Kenzie, are you allright?"  At this point, tears were welling up in "Kenzie's" eyes and it was obvious my interrogation was going nowhere.

Then the manager came over and started shouting at me.  He said I had to leave or he was calling the police, and that Kenzie was going to have to miss her shift to get her shin looked at.  I told him about the notebook, which he pointed out had been in my hand the whole time.

So now I am banned from Starbucks and have nowhere quiet to write.  I've thought about my actions, and you know what?  I should have let the police arrest me.  Novellas are always more compelling when the author was in prison when they were written, and I'm certain the crime of "assaulting a cheerleader" is heinous enough to get me thrown in the hole!  Even though SHE started it with her loud talking and poor manners.

Dog Park Incident...

There was an incident at the dog park yesterday afternoon and I am a wreck of nerves about it!  I was going for an afternoon stroll in the dog park, patiently waiting for literary inspiration (as writers are wont to do,) watching my canine companions gayfully frolick and romp about in the off leash area, as dogs are wont to do.  So out of nowhere comes this - I hate to use the word to describe a fellow human being - but this asshole.
 
Now, I didn't see him first, I saw his big German shepard come bounding out of the bushes ahead of him.  He takes one look at my puppy bear and right away starts trying to hump!  She gets away, but he chases her down and keeps trying to mount her. She is clearly frightened. I am running after the two of them, huffing and puffing, carrying a baggie of dog waste and screaming for Penny to come towards me.  I am vaguely aware of a 300lb, 6'3" asshole behind me, running towards them as well, calling to HIS undisciplined mutt to leave my dog alone!

I catch up to them first, reach down and grab a handful of gravel and dust, and throw it in the german shepard's face as hard as I can. He yelps and starts pawing at his eyes while I squat down to comfort puppy bear and smugly assess my work.  This moment is ruined by a 6'3" fat man in sandals who comes storming up and yells "What the fuck you do to my dog, bro?"  It is this moment I realize he is "open carrying" a Glock pistol, as assholes are wont to do.    

Now, I am a sweet and genteel man.  But a decade of training as a government enforcer of various stripes does things to your mind.  I can't even say the word "guns" with stammering these days.  He turns around to call to someone, and like I'm on autopilot I quickly and noiselessly slink up behind him and slam the web of my right hand, fingers extended, to where the receiver of his Glock meets the slide. This knocks asshole off his balance. My fingers curl around the grip and I pull the weapon clear of the holster, and sidestep away bringing the pistol facing the ground into my sternum and covering into a sul stance, baggie of shit between my fingers, swinging like a pendulum from my left hand.   

Time stands still.  To my horror I feel myself grinning like loon.  A lot of kind dog park denizens are looking at me, deciding whether or not to be frightened.  I know the second one of them screams they're all going to panic, and I will forever be known as the man who ruined a pleasant October evening at the dog park, which is not fair because I wasn't the one who started this whole thing.  Penny will be a dog park pariah, and I will have to write with a pseudonym.

Asshole regains his balance, and seeing that I am armed, starts fumbling around his empty holster.  His chubby fingers close around empty air, and it dawns on him what has happened.  Then?  Then he has the goddamn nerve to reach out his hand and say "Gimme back my pistol, bro."  I feel an icy, livid rage well up inside me as my brain starts telling me all the wound patterns I can put on him:  The Zipper.  The Stockton Hobbler. Stigmata.  The Failure Drill. The E.T. Split.

But, I am a genteel writer now. So I smile my smuggest smile and breezily throw his little Glock, that psychological extension of his penis, into the river.  When he tries to punch me?  I sidestep and smack him between the mouth and nose with the flimsy bag of dog waste in my left hand. It bursts and covers us both with lukewarm, softer than usual Howie-do, with the difference being that enough of it goes up his nose and into his mouth that his startled gasp has him choking on dog poo.  I took my dogs and ran back to the car as everyone started whipping out their cell phones to either record the incident or call 911.                

I have since been sitting in my rocking chair at home, sipping chamomile tea, cuddling puppy bear covered in an old quilt trying to bring my stress levels down to where I can be whimsical and creative again.  Worst part is I can't go back to the dog park until the heat is off and there is only so much October left.  At least I can take small comfort in the fact that asshole will never, ever be a writer.  Or that I also took the keys to asshole's BMW (they fell out his pocket when I snatched his weapon,) and threw those in the river while he was melodramatically hacking and gagging on poo, drama-whoring it up for the small crowd that had gathered.

New book idea...

I can't get past this one part of the novel I'm writing. It goes "The night was" and then I can't think of the next word.  I am forced to abandon it, which is a shame because as you can tell that novel had a HUGE amount of potential.  Instead of writing genius, as I am wont to do, I will instead write for commercial appeal.  Here are some of the ideas I am tossing around which I believe will sell.

A story about a young orphan boy with a mysterious past and magical gifts who is recruited into a "School for Sorcerers" and becomes the fulcrum of conflict in an unseen sorcerer world.

A story about a highschool girl who falls in love with an ancient vampire disguised as a high school boy and has a baby.  Then a werewolf falls in love with the baby.

A story about a ditz who dates a powerful business pervert and the process of him ruining her life followed by the establishment of some semblance of equilibrium. 

If you guys have any more ideas for books I should write, please let me know.  I will bring your story to life, and as payment will even base a character in the book on you!

What I think of the Presidential debates.

Frankly, I did not understand any of what either candidate said.  It was all just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo as far as I was concerned.   I think people ought to be treated as equals and with respect.  I do not like it when police spray hobos with pepper juice or hit them with big sticks just for occupying wall street.  But on the other hand, I don't like it when hobos throw water balloons full of pee at the police, or attempt to stab them with sharpened toothbrushi, as hobos are wont to do.  I guess in the end, what it boils down to is "Who started it?"  That question will be answered this Novemember.  But until then, here are some facts to consider:

First of all, those pee-filled water balloons are not "full of pee."  You cannot strain hard enough to piss a water balloon full.  I don't care if you're Ron Jeremy.  There is maybe some pee, but the hobos fill up the rest with water using an ordinary garden hose.  So mostly, it's water. (This does not even begin to take into accoount that urine itself is MOSTLY WATER.) I hope this fact soothes what I imagine must be some hurt feelings.

Secondly, (I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but it just so happens I have a background in chemical warfare, law enforcement, and drug development so I KNOW what I'm talking about here,) there's not much "hot stuff" in that pepper spray at all.  Less than 1%.  Again, the rest is MOSTLY WATER.  It's not so hot when you think about it like that.

Food for thought.

I am up at 4:55 in the morning...

No real reason, except I just wanted to brag about how early I wake up.  Not really wake up, but just like, get up to use the bathroom and maybe eat a little something?  I don't know.  I'm tired.  I want very much to be a writer.  Mine is a gift I MUST share with the world.  I'm going back to bed - this post might be quick reading to YOU, but this took me an HOUR to write.  People never appreciate how hard it is to become a great writer and write great things.