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.

You idiots...

So when I look at my analytics, I noticed most of you idiots aren't using http - secure on your facebook accounts.  You idiots!  That's a good way to get hacked you know!  I ought to know a thing or two about computer hacking - I am on chapter four of neuromancer and am in the process of writing a novel that basically plagiarizes the same. So you idiots need to fix this.

How to Utterly Devastate and Bring Total Ruination on your "Personal Brand."

See previous posts.  Do as I have using your real-life name.  Post it to your facebook page.

First Chapter of my Novel...

This is my work so far on the first chapter of "Jordan and the case of the injured brain."

"The night was"

I can't think of the next word.

My dogs

I have two.

The first is a beagle named Howie.  When I am whimsical I call him "toopy" so I can sing songs about him that easily rhyme with "Snoopy" since the legendary cartoon dog was also a beagle.  Some people think it's childish of me to get all whimsical and sing songs about my dog.  Well, I think those people are assholes.

The other is a border-collie pit bull mix named "Penny."  She is a stage 5 clinger and a bastard coward.  But, she is also the best dog I ever had.  She eats crane flies, then spits them out on Katie, which I think is funny.  Katie doesn't though, she can be such a bitch about those kinds of things.  I don't understand why.  I call her "Puppy Bear" (invariably in baby talk!) which makes the above people think I am effete and untrustworthy.  Again, it is my personal opinion that those people are assholes.

P.S. - this is the blog where I am going to blog about writing the next great sci-fi novel.  It will be set in a Japanese slum in the near future, about a guy who's selling drugs to get his brain fixed so he can computer hack again.  I'm going to call it "Jordan and the case of the injured brain."

My new life...

I going to be a blogger and drop out of school and quit my job!

I can't wait to tell Katie!