Undeserved Christmas Blessings: A Few Yule-tide Thoughts

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The lovely and talented Jess and I have had a tough time getting into the holiday spirit this year. It’s not really that unusual for me (I’m kind of a natural-born Grinch), but Jess is usually pretty into it – always making me put up the tree and hang lights on the house.

This year however, we’ve decided to just forgo all that. The prevailing thought is that if we skip it this year, then we’ll miss it and really be into it next year. We’ll see.

But at any rate, Christmas isn’t about Griswalding the house, or the tree, or any of the paraphernalia. It’s about the birth of our Saviour, and the wonder of undeserved blessings – of which I have an abundance.

I’ve got the best and most beautiful wife in the world (sorry fellas, but that’s just the fact). I’ve got a few friends who see pretty much eye-to-eye with me on most things, and just as good, I’ve got a lot of friends who disagree with me on virtually everything, but still love me as much as I love them.

I’ve got so many friends who are so much more talented than I am at the things I love: writing, music, photography, but genuinely seem excited when I produce a new piece of writing.

I’ve got a great extended family, that loves me and accepts me for all my Uncle Buckness without the rejection that the actual Uncle Buck had to put up with (and that includes my awesome church family who take me for what I am, and love me despite myself).

I’ve been lucky that, even though my financial mistakes and fiascos are many and varied, none have been serious enough to keep me behind the 8 ball, and we’re able to live a pretty comfortable, low-key life.

My life is pretty short on want – I’ve got everything I need, and not enough of what I don’t need to weigh me down.

I’ve got kids who love me, even though they have every reason to hate my guts, and wonderful grandkids, and if we don’t see each other as often as we’d like, it’s not really anyone’s fault.

I’ve got a pack of unnecessarily over-enthusiastic dogs constantly trashing the house, getting underfoot, driving me crazy and reminding me of the rarity that is unconditional love.

I’ve got more books than I could ever read, a wide-ranging library of music, and a wife who doesn’t object to my constant, compulsive enlarging of both collections (told you she was the best).

I’ve also got you: the 19 or 20 people who take the time to read this blog – even when you disagree with me. I hope it’s worth the time.

Best of all, I’ve got a Saviour who loves me as I am – despite all my many weaknesses, shortcomings, and failures.

One of the things that occurred to me the other day at Church (and I realize I’m probably late to the party on this one) is that not only was Jesus born, lived life as a man, and died to pay the price for me that I could never pay for myself, and defeat death that I might live forever with him, he knew, even before he was born how it was all going to end.

To me that’s amazing. I mean I love my kids, but if I knew my kids were going to do to me what we were going to do/are still doing to him, I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t even think about it.

I might have gone along with the being born, living, and telling them how to get their shit together, but I’d have drawn the line waaaaaaaay short of allowing them to crucify me. That’s just nuts – or real love.

Talk about undeserved blessings.

Anyway, I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Thanks for reading.

This One’s For You: You Know Who You Are

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You know, it’s hard being funny on demand, even in a good cause. I don’t know if this is particularly funny, but I know a lot of you could stand to have something to take your minds off things today. Enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think:

NOTE: This is not Theology.

Prologue

In the beginning,

             I died. I have to say I met my death with a certain degree of ambivalence. On the one hand, it was what I’d always hoped; a surprise.  On the other hand, there were way too many bodily fluids involved – and none of the fun ones.  Like most people, I’d managed to get through life without an abundance of dignity, but some things are just too much to bear.  I believe I may be the first person in history to actually die of embarrassment. 

Chapter 1

            I awoke, for lack of a better word, in the middle of a desert. I have to say, the afterlife was pretty disappointing, at least at first glance. I’d hoped it would be a lot greener (like Ireland, maybe), and feared that it’d be a lot hotter (like – you know – hell). Instead, it looked and felt like . . . Arizona? I lay there looking at the sky and feeling the earth below me. I felt better than I had in years.  My arthritic joints didn’t hurt, my smoker’s wheeze was gone, and the only bodily fluid on me was sweat.  I felt peaceful despite the geographical confusion. It was hot, but not unbearable.  Not at all what I’d expected, although, truth to tell, I hadn’t had a lot of expectations.  After a while, l realized that wherever I was was where I was, whether I understood it or not, and laying here was not going to change the situation, so I stood up and had a look around.  Yep, it looked like Arizona.  Kind of disappointing, really.  Still, I told myself, it could be worse.

            I saw a group of backpackers about a quarter-mile away. Waving my hands and yelling got no response at all. Maybe they were farther away than they looked.  I was about to try again, when a voice behind me said, “They cannot hear you.”  Startled, I yelled and jumped about four feet straight up.  When I landed, I looked around and saw an Indian guy (of the Asian persuasion), about 50 years old, dressed like an Amish farmer, complete with the beard, straw hat, suspenders, and heavy brown brogans on his feet, crouched down along a cliff wall, poking around in the brush with a stick.

            “Listen,” he said without looking up, “you want to quit fooling around and help?  We don’t have a lot of time.” His voice had a lilting accent that matched his face and clashed with his clothing.

            “What are you looking for?”

            “Snake.”

            “Any particular kind?”

            “Rattlesnake.  A really big rattlesnake.”

            “Why?”

            “It is my job.” He smiled. “Well today, it is our job.”

            “I kinda feel like I’m missing something.”

            “Just help me find it please.” He went on poking around in the brush.  “I was going to tell you all about it, but you lay there so long I was beginning to think you were dead.”

            “No kidding.  I thought I was dead too.”

            “Please. Less talking, more looking.  There are only a couple more minutes before they get here.”

            In fact the hikers had approached to within 50 yards or so, close enough that we could hear their voices.  One of them, a pretty blonde who looked strangely familiar, was complaining that she really had to go, and the others were teasing her, telling her not to think about waterfalls.  She didn’t seem particularly amused.

            Well, I didn’t understand any of this, but I decided to play along, at least until a better option presented itself.  I made a show of searching for a snake while keeping one eye on my new companion.  While working my way around behind a large boulder (I like to keep large, solid barriers between myself and any possibly unbalanced persons whenever possible), I heard a rattle like a castanet player on speed.  Looking down, I saw what was possibly the largest rattlesnake on the planet coiled up in a hollow under the rock.  Trying to stay calm, I said quietly, “I think I found it.”

            “What?”

            “I think I found it.”

            “Oh good. Please grab it then.”

            “Hey man, you want it, you grab it.”

            “Hang on.”  He eased around the rock and stood behind and a little to the side of me, “Where is it?”

            “Right there!”  I pointed.

            He craned his neck, “I still don’t see it.”

            “How can you not see that thing?  It’s the size of a baseball bat!”   Exasperated, I pointed again, “It’s right . . .” The snake struck, and I was running across the desert with a baseball bat-sized rattlesnake waving like a flag from my hand.  It’s hard to say who was less happy about this, me or the snake, whose fangs were apparently stuck in the bones of my hand.  I made it about one hundred yards before everything went black.

            I awoke, for lack of a better word, face-down in the hot desert sand. With a groan, I rolled over and sat up. I looked at my hand – at least the snake was gone. I crawled a few feet to a large rock, and sat on it.

            Looking back to where I’d landed, I realized that the snake wasn’t gone.  It was still attached to my hand. The hand of the me which lay where I had done the nosedive.  The me that was stone dead (again?). This was shaping up to be a tough afterlife. On the upside, I was apparently in much better shape than I had been ten minutes ago. Before I died (the first time) I’d have been lucky to make it twenty-five yards. Maybe things were looking up.

            My new snake-hunting buddy was examining the snake. “Oh dear. I think it had a heart attack, the poor thing. That really was not necessary you know. Also, you scream like a girl. They’re very sensitive to vibrations and noise, you know.”

            “Well, it killed me too ya know! I’m very sensitive to venom.” I’ll admit it, I was not taking this well at all. “And I didn’t scream, it just surprised me was all.”  

            “It certainly sounded like a scream.”

            “Well you get bit by a snake the size of your leg, and see how you respond, huh?”

            He laughed. “Yes, you are right. I would probably piss down both legs, especially back when I first got to this side.” He patted my shoulder. “Hey, check out our hikers.”

            They were standing stock-still in a tight group.  “Did you guys hear that?” asked the blonde, who looked strangely familiar. 

            “Hear it?  I felt it.  What the hell was that?” said a tall, skinny kid in a red muscle shirt, with matching hair and complexion. He looked like the “before” picture of spontaneous combustion.

            “It sounded like a little girl screaming.” This from a stocky kid struggling to loosen the grip of a tiny brunette who was frantically trying to climb him like a tree. “Ellie!” he begged, “Will you please let go!”

            She clung to him like a gargoyle on a cathedral roof. “It went right past us! Did you see anything? I didn’t see anything! What was it?”

            Skinny Red said, “I saw something, but it couldn’t be what I thought. There’s just no way.”

            “What? What did you see?”

            “Well…it looked like a flying snake.”

            “A flying snake? Oh shiiiiit! We need to get outa here!”

            “Ellie get offa me! I can’t breathe. Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

            Skinny Red stepped in to help the stocky kid. “April,” he called, tugging at Ellie, “help me get her off Warren.” As the three of them struggled to disengage Ellie, April said, “Well it sure solved one problem.”

            “What’s that,” asked Skinny Red.

            “I don’t have to pee anymore.”

            As Ellie, Warren and Skinny Red took a couple steps back from April, I turned to my reptile-loving associate, “Okay, will you please tell me what’s going on?”

            “You see – you did scream like a little girl.”

            “Fine.”  I grabbed him by the lapels, “I screamed like a little girl. Wanna find out what you scream like?”

            “All right, all right, don not get so worked up…”

            “I’m not worked up. I’m confused and pissed off. Ten minutes ago, I was driving a school bus in Indiana. Since then, I’m pretty sure I died, woke up in Arizona, got bit by a snake, died again, got bitched at because the snake died, and had my masculinity questioned by a bunch of college kids who can’t see me.”

            “They should not be able to hear you either. In fact, they cannot hear you now. You certainly have some set of pipes. That is the first cross-dimensional scream I have ever heard. I have never even heard of such a thing before.”

            “I swear to God, I’m gonna…”

            “Okay, I apologize. There is no need for all this violence.” He pried my hands loose and made a show of straitening his suit. “All right, this is the deal. You died. Now you work with me – if you want to, that is. We work for God.” A grin slid slowly across his face, “You could say we are on a mission from…”

            “Please don’t say it.” I wasn’t too sure how much more I could take.

            “You really should try to lighten up. It does not pay to take things so seriously.”

            “But –but – what about heaven and hell and judgement and all of that stuff?”

            “That is all still to come, I guess,” he said soothingly. “Listen, this is how I understand it. When you die, a lot of different things can happen. Some go straight to heaven or hell, some just stay in their bodies sleeping, some become ghosts, and some of us get jobs. To be honest, I do not really know what all the options are.  Remember those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books? I think it’s kind of like that, but in real life – er, actually afterlife, I guess.”

            “And you chose to spend your afterlife doing reptile removal?”

            He smiled. “No my friend, it is not about the snake, it is about the people. It is always about the people. You see that blonde? Remember she was saying how she had to pee? Well she was going to go behind that boulder for a little privacy and get bitten by that snake. We were just supposed make sure she didn’t get bitten and die. How we did it was up to us, and I thought moving the snake was the simplest way, so mission accomplished I guess, although we do usually try to work casualty-free. Still, high marks for originality.”

            The hikers were hurriedly making tracks back along the trail the way they’d come, already arguing about what they had or hadn’t seen and heard.

            “What was so special about her?” I asked.

            “I do not know. Maybe she is going to discover a cure for cancer or be president or invent a new ice cream flavor or something. Maybe God just likes her. You know, mysterious ways and whatnot. All I know is that she is your granddaughter, and the dispatcher thought it would be a nice way for you to start your afterlife.”

            “Wait. What?”

            “I said I do not know what is so special about her, that maybe she is going to . . .”

            “I don’t mean that! I mean the bit about her being my granddaughter. There’s no way. My granddaughter’s only five years old.”

            He looked at her retreating figure. “You are sure about that? Because she is awfully tall and smart to be five.”

            “Don’t you think I know how old my own granddaughter is?”

            “Well, you know how old she was when you died.”

            “Yeah, which was just a few minutes ago!”

            “Well, about nine million of them, actually.”

            “What?” I felt like my head should be getting ready to explode. A few minutes ago, before I died, my blood pressure would have been reaching critical mass, but instead, I just felt annoyed. “Nine million what?”

            “Minutes. As in how many have passed since you died. Actually, that is just a rough estimate. Math was never my strong suit, in any of my incarnations.”

            I resisted the urge to strangle him. “What – exactly – are you saying? How long ago did I die?” It seemed like kind of a stupid question to ask.

            “About 17 years, give or take.”

            “You’re telling me we’ve been hunting that snake for 17 years?”

            He laughed. Apparently at least one of us was finding all this funny. “No, no, no. We only spent a couple minutes looking for the snake. By the way, really good work on that. I was beginning to worry that we would not find it in time, but you . . .”

            Maybe begging would help. “Please – PLEASE – just tell me how 17 years passed in the blink of an eye.”

            He looked puzzled for a moment, and then a look of realization came over him. “Oh. OH! Yes, I see what you are getting at.” He smiled in what I could only assume was meant to be reassurance. “You see, time works differently on this side of death. Did you ever hear of the theory that time is circular?”

            “I’ve heard of it. I didn’t understand it.” Actually, I never actually tried very hard. It had all sounded like scientific wonkitude. I hated wonkitude of any kind.

            “Well, it is not circular. It is more of a kind of really tight spiral, like a watchspring – I mean, I guess it is like a watchspring, I’ve never actually seen one. Anyway, you know what I am saying, correct?”

            “Not even a clue.”

            “Well . . . try not to let it worry you too much right now, eh?”

            I felt like I was starting to figure this out. “This is hell, isn’t it? One of those ironic hells, where I know I’m being tortured, but can’t figure out how? And you’re my seemingly benevolent guide, who’s actually a malevolent demon in disguise?”        

            He thought about it for a moment. “You do know that’s just a show right? But to answer your question, I do not think so. It certainly does not feel like punishment. We get to go around and help people, get to see the world, do not have to worry about making a living or where we are going to live or what we will wear or eat. We do not have to worry about our cholesterol or blood pressure or what is this lump or that rash. We do not get sick, and if we die, we just get back up and get on with our work. Maybe this is not what you expected, heaven and all that, but as far as I am concerned, it will do until something better comes along.”

            “So I’m really no-kidding, no going back, dead.”

            “Yes, but do not take it so hard. It could be worse. Do not think of it as being dead, think of it more as being existentially evolved.”

            I sat there on my rock, thought about my life and everything I had done and everything I hadn’t done. I thought about my wife and kids and family and friends. About my successes and failures. About the plans I’d made that had never come to anything, like the novel I never got around to writing, or that cruise I’d always promised my wife we’d take, but never did. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel that bad about it all. I guess being dead changes your perspective somewhat.  I looked at him, “So what do I do now?”

            “Do what you want to do, just like in life. You have a job if you want it, but it is strictly your call. Do the job or do something else. Sit there on your rock and think. Wander around the desert. Go to the moon. Do whatever you want to do.”

            I looked at him, “I can go to the moon?”

            “You can if you want, but it sounds dull to me. Great view, lousy atmosphere.” He smiled, “Well I am going to head back home now, see what is up next. Are you coming?”

            “I don’t know.”

            He shrugged, “Suit yourself. Maybe I will see you around. If not, have a nice afterlife.” He walked away into the setting sun and I watched him go. I looked around and thought about what to do now. I’d have liked to go and check on my wife and kids, but had no idea how to go about it. Other than that, I had no idea what to do. I stood up and looked around. Desert in every direction, as far as the eye could see. Like the moon (apparently), a great view, but no atmosphere. I was getting bored already. I ran after him. Bored seemed a bad way to start an afterlife.

Stupid Technology: Never There When You Need It

All About Me, Wives

Those of you keeping score at home know that lately I’ve been having even more trouble with technology since I had to get a new phone. It hasn’t really gotten any better.

This time however, I’m not whining about how I can’t answer my phone, or how I can’t do this or that with my phone, I’m whining because I frequently refuse to carry my phone, and it turns out that’s not great either.

Every Sunday, I leave my phone at home when we go to church. I consider it my one day of freedom from the electronic leash (plus, my ringer is set really loud, and I don’t think that a robocaller triggering “Slaughter on 10th Avenue in the middle of church would go over particularly well). Also, don’t even get me started on trying to figure out how to turn the volume down. I’ve got enough trouble.

Anyway, a couple Sundays ago, the lovely and talented Jess and I, along with our normal Sunday lunch buddies, Steve and Dot Bickerson, went to our customary Sunday lunch spot, a local diner (not to name names, but it’s got a large, wavy-haired, fat kid in front) where I proceeded to order my customary Sunday lunch – the pork tenderloin, no tomato, with fries and coleslaw. I can’t remember what anyone else had, but honestly it’s not really all that important.

It is commonly known in our small circle of friends (and after this story, our circle may contract even more), that although we really enjoy eating there, the fat boy’s food doesn’t always agree with either of us. It’s not his fault really, nothing we eat agrees with us. We both live in a constant state of digestive crisis. Fortunately, we do like to live dangerously.

On this particular occasion, the food hit me even faster and harder than normal. With no time to even excuse myself, I got up and walked as quickly as it’s possible to walk with your entire body clenched from the jaw down, praying the whole while that the bathroom would be empty.

A dramatic recreation of this traumatic incident.

My luck was in and the bathroom was deserted. I closed myself in the stall, and took care of business (and let me take a moment to mention my gratitude to the laws that mandate those safety bars in public bathrooms. Sometimes it’s good to be able to brace yourself). After the accompanying sigh/groan of relief and a moment of self-congratulation about having the fortitude and kung fu grip needed to make it to the facilities, I’ve got to say, I was feeling pretty good about things. Sadly, that good feeling was too good to last.

If I might digress a moment (and honestly, who’s gonna stop me?), I’d really like to know what jackass designs handicapped bathroom stalls. I mean, come on man, you’re designing this thing for people whose mobility and physical capabilities are already limited in some way. So why in the name of all that’s holy, would you put the toilet paper dispenser UNDER THE DAMNED GRAB BARS?!!!!! It’s not like the wall ABOVE the rails is so cluttered up with stuff that there’s no room for it.

Seriously, can you imagine having to lean over far enough to reach your hand up into a dispenser lower than your knees if your legs don’t work? It’s hard enough to do with more or less fully-functioning legs. It just ain’t right.

It’s also waaaaaay less right when you go through all that only to find out that there’s no toilet paper, which is what happened to me on this particular occasion. I’ve gotta say, the fat boy really lost some points with me that day.

So there I sat, my forehead still damp with a cold sweat, fruitlessly sliding the little door on the dispenser back and forth, as if a roll was hiding in there somewhere, or would magically appear if I really believed hard enough. It didn’t.

Still, I’m not one prone to panic. I know that I can’t be the only one who is adversely and drastically affected by the fat boy’s food. Sooner or later, I told myself, someone will come in whom I can ask for help, so I settled in to wait.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, somebody came in and bellied up to the urinal, just outside the stall. Being the considerate guy I am, I waited to try to get his attention until he got to that sweet spot between flushing and washing hands to say “Excuse me? Hey? Excuse me?!”

“You talking to me?”

Like there was anyone else in there. “Yeah, uh, I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“Maybe?” He sounded a little nervous (as one would, I suppose).

“There’s no toilet paper in here.” I waited for him to stop laughing, then said, “I was hoping you could tell one of the employees?”

“Yeah man, no problem,” and he left.

I waited. I waited some more. Then, for a change, I tried waiting. I was beginning to doubt that my new friend had actually told someone about it. As I sat there with my legs going numb, I could hear the sound of happy families enjoying their meals. I could even – and this part is absolutely true – hear the lovely and talented Jess laughing (she has a hearty laugh that really carries. It’s just one of the many things I love about her) as she and Steve and Dot visited. It sounded like they were having a really good time. It was also like she didn’t even know I was gone.

I thought that surely enough time had passed that she’d come to check on me, or at least send Steve. I was wrong. I actually started thinking about just yelling for help, but I was really hoping to get out of this with at least some dignity. I found myself wishing there were some sort of device, a personal communicator if you will, that I could carry in my pocket and would enable me to contact Jess and let her know of my predicament.

And then, I remembered – my phone! I could just call her – that is, if only it wasn’t sitting on the printer back at my house. Of course, there’s no guarantee that it would have worked anyway; the lovely and talented but frequently uncommunicative Jess is notorious for not answering her phone (at least when I call).

Still, I could at least have left a voicemail, or as a last resort, texted her. Those probably wouldn’t have worked either – She is just as technologically unsavvy as I am, and has no idea how to check either her voicemail or messages. Still, at least there would have been something with which to make her feel guilty about later (althought she doesn’t really do guilt, either).

At any rate, after sitting there for what seemed like hours, but was probably more like only 10-15 minutes, another guy came in, and I went through the previous exchange all over again. This guy however, actually went and got help, and a few minutes later, a roll of toilet paper slid into the stall. Thank God.

Ironically, as I was finally leaving the bathroom, I met Steve coming to check on me. We went back to the table where I told them about the whole ordeal. They laughed and laughed. Steve and Dot eventually stopped laughing, but Jess was still laughing all the way home.

I take some comfort in the fact that there are probably few husbands who make their wives laugh that hard or that often. She’s a lucky woman. Just the same, I’m going to start taking my phone to church from now on.

Stupid technology. Can’t live with it, and apparently can’t live without it either.

Finally, A Triumph Over Modern Technology!: A Stupid Triumph, but a Triumph Nevertheless.

All About Me, Home Life, Music, Wives

It’s no secret that I both hate and fear technology but, like most of you, I find myself forced (okay, that might be a little strong – maybe begrudgingly caving in) to use it. As I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I recently had to upgrade to one of those smartphones.

It was not an easy transition. It still isn’t. Still, I suppose there are some benefits to it. It’s kinda handy to have when we’re watching tv, and there’s an actor/actress that I know I’ve seen before, but can’t remember where, I can IMDB ’em and stop aggravating myself about it. And yes, I know a simpler, low-tech solution is to just stop being so obsessive-compulsive about trivial things. Like that’s gonna happen.

Another thing I do like about it is being able to have different ringtones for some people. I’ve got Mick Ronson’s “Solo on 10th Avenue (Live)” set as my default ringtone. I can’t help it, I think it’s a great instrumental, and it really freaks out the kids in the writing center when my phone rings.

Photo from thisdayinmusic.com
You probably know him from his work with David Bowie, Mick Ronson, and Mott the Hoople. Great stuff.

It only took me about a week to figure out how to get it from my computer onto my phone, but I did it. I was pretty proud of myself (much like when a toddler actually learns to get a spoon into his mouth with food still on it).

I like to have a different ringtone for some people, especially the lovely and talented Jess. I thought that since she’s the source of most of the joy in my life (and yes, I AM that romantic. Sorry ladies, I’m taken), Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9* would be the most appropriate (you may be familiar with it as “Ode To Joy”).

Photo from Classicfm.com.
I’m also pretty sure that Beethoven looks less grumpy here than I did trying to turn him into a ringtone.

First, I thought, there’s probably an app for that. Apparently there are about 1,000,000,000 apps for that, but after about two hours fumbling around on my phone downloading and deleting and cursing and quitting and trying again, I thought, “Screw it, I’ll just make my own. It can’t be that difficult, right?” Hahahahahahahahahahaha

The first thing (obviously) was to get the Symphony. I’ve got it on cd, but those are all in a box in the attic, and if I recall correctly, my disc got ruined, probably from a combination of beer spilled on it and being dropped on gravel too many times (it’s a long story, but I ruined a lot of cds that way back in the day).

Fortunately, I had mastered downloading music from Itunes years ago. The problem there was finding the right version (there are about 1,000 different versions on Itunes, from different orchestras, composers, etc., and did I mention I might be a little OCD?)

Finally, I settled on the 1968 London Philharmonic version (honestly, I don’t even really know why). I got it downloaded, and thought I had it in the bag.

However, since it’s about an hour-and-a-half long, I thought that might be excessive. Surely, I thought, there’s a way to get just an excerpt (of course it has to be the right excerpt).

I decided I needed an audio editor (I may have one on the computer already, but damned if I could figure it out). Fortunately, I have also mastered the Googling. I googled “free audio editor”, and got waaaaaay too many links.

After another couple hours of self-torture, I finally decided on one and successfully downloaded it. I figured out how to copy the right track into the program, and I really thought I had it whupped. I was wrong.

At roughly the same time that I realized I had no idea how to work the program, I also discovered that neither the program nor the website had any kind of instructions, FAQ’s, or anything helpful (and I picked this one because all the reviews from computer wonks said it was sooooooo easy to use. Freakin’ computer wonks).

By the way, don’t you love it when writers think that EVERY aspect of their activities are so fascinating that that they must be documented in excruciating detail? I don’t know if every writer has an inner narcissist fighting to get out, but I’m pretty sure this one does. My apologies.

Anyhoo, the remaining details are (fortunately for you) pretty fuzzy, even to me. I ended up fumbling around and ended up with about a dozen versions of the same edit, in various formats. I just couldn’t manage to move any of them onto my phone.

I finally managed to get one onto it, and my phone promptly told me it was an “unsupported” something-or-other. So, it was back to the drawing board. I continued to try and re-try every one of them, but my computer would just make a dinging noise and nothing would happen.

Eventually, I noticed that I was accessing them through something Windows File Explorer calls “quick access”. Now I don’t know what that is (and I’ll bet you don’t either!), but it turns out you can’t copy things from whatever it is, even though it shows up as an option.

I tried it again, after finding the actual folder they were in and, after roughly three days of struggle, it finally worked. So now, I’ll know which calls I actually need to answer. Also, you don’t want to know what your ringtone is – you know who you are.

*by the way, this link is to the 1989 Berlin Freedom Concert, performed on Christmas day, and conducted by the great Leonard Bernstein. It was performed to celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall, and Bernstein changed the word “joy” in the singing part to “freedom”. It’s performed beautifully, and worth the time just to watch Bernstein. He conducted it completely from memory, without any sheet music. The look on his face is a thing of beauty. It was the last time he would ever conduct this symphony.

Shelley Gorin’s Review of Thumperica!: Eat It, Kirkus!

Arts, Books and Literature, Culture, Fiction, Politics, Politics & Culture, Religion

Since I’ve already posted the Kirkus review of my novel, Thumperica! A Novel of the Ghost of America Future, I feel that, in the interest of presenting a fair and balanced view, I have a responsibility to post the following review from Shelley Gorin, a woman of undeniable taste and depth. Enjoy!

Thumperica!: A review by Shelley Gorin.

The definitive evidence for me of a book being worth reading, or at least being something I’m connecting with on some level, is that overly-cliche’d “inability to put it down.” No matter how “quiet” I try to get in order to have time to read, my life ends up full of nearly-nonstop interruptions. If I’m not really into a book, those interruptions will have me justifying putting it down constantly, and then having an excusably-hard time getting back into it. If I’m really drawn in, however, I’m shushing the interruptions and sacrificing sleep to get it finished. 

Thumperica was both of those for me, at different times. That’s just the normal consequence, I think, of a major hurdle that naturally has to be overcome when setting the stage for the events of a story that’s just enough outside our humdrum daily life and circle of awareness to require some deeper explanation. America TM’s state at the opening of the book seems almost completely unbelievable without such further explanation… almost.

Due to the nature of having to lay a LOT of groundwork and presenting a rather fantastic world (that most of us would not like to admit openly – or even privately – could actually come true), there was a lot of detail and explanation that came along with the core story, especially at the outset. At the start, copious amounts of footnotes seemed almost distracting. They ended up, however, being one of the book’s strengths, and something I clung onto to help me navigate the difficult groundwork.

The first handful of chapters were admittedly hard for me to stick with – they hit me like Tolkien’s Silmarillion, that was so detailed and so outside my brain’s normal ability to retain an overload of information outside its little bubble, that I had to keep re-reading pages and chapters it to try to get it to stick. There was a LOT of detail in Thumperica’s first chapters that left me going, “Wait, what? I can’t remember what that was. Who was that again?”… and a LOT acronyms. I couldn’t read it, originally, any time my anxiety was flared up, because my brain just got overloaded with info and stopped taking it in. 

However, instead of leaving it and not coming back, I kept going back to pick it up and push through. Part of that was a promise – I said I was gonna read it! Most of what initially hooked me, though, was the hidden humor and the play on names… I’d be reading along, trying to keep up, and suddenly do a spit-take. There were also a few times I thought, “Oh man, Lloyd’s not right in the head,” and smiled. But mostly I stuck it out because there was just enough “could be true” woven in, that I wanted to see just how this whole mess of a nation might turn out.

In all frankness, Thumperica is a WEIRD book. It is clearly written by someone who has little interest in following status-quo success recipes for best sellers. It’s probably not going to make the New York Times best seller list (though who knows?), but it’s a worthwhile read. I want to say it was about a quarter of the way through that I found I was staying up late to finish chapters, or I was shushing interruptions. It happened subtly. But sticking it out through the initial info overload was worth it, once the chess pieces started to move.

There were many moments where I felt the plot was over the top – a country couldn’t POSSIBLY become THAT effed up. And yet, if Scripture tells us that things like adultery actually occur in the heart, or that a man is as he thinks in his heart, Thumperica is a frightening exposure of just how dark, depraved, and gluttonous mankind can be, if we are brutally honest with ourselves. And if that fantastic and depraved world is unrealistic, the fantastic and depraved thoughts in our own minds are not. As such, Thumperica is a book that might make you a wee bit uncomfortable, if you’re prone to self-examination. And if our basest human instincts (not simply sexual, as some might assume, but greed, power, control, all-who-aren’t-like-me-are-bad, or mine-is-bigger kind of thinking) are left to run amok; if we become, personally or as a country, increasingly desensitized over generations to things like basic human conscience and dignity, and we re-write the rules or re-spin the sacred to support such things, is it truly that far-fetched?

Is that not exactly what we’ve already done as a nation? We can’t be naive enough to think that we as a people have not been guilty of genocide, degradation, or humiliation of races and peoples on the scale of Hitler, in our past. The kind of world presented in Thumperica is certainly extreme, but it is already in existence; it already HAS been in existence. And it may be in a bit of existence in each of us. 

Further back in mankind’s history, “civilized” humans once killed other humans for entertainment; they certainly have killed for lust or power or greed in our generation as much as in the first. If someone held a magnifying glass to our basest thoughts or perhaps gave them free reign, it’s frighteningly possible that things could decline to the state in which Thumperica begins. They seem too far-fetched and yet too near to what we wish not to see in reality; they could have easily been predicted by Irving’s Owen Meany, and it feels as though they were. There are elements of this book that seem to be a nod that one. And though my first instinct was to laugh and how absurd it all sounded, there is enough in my life experience to say that the comedy of it all reveals a real tragedy underneath.

I am left wondering what my own part might be in the macabre play, if I keep my eyes closed.  I truly did not know where this book was going, or could possibly go; it certainly didn’t go where I thought it would. It didn’t wrap up with a neat little bow, and it didn’t follow predictable patterns of overused plot devices. But that’s the reality of the world in which we live – rarely does anything go as expected, and even knowing that mankind repeats itself endlessly (“nothing new under the sun,”) that knowledge doesn’t help us prevent those twists and turns, or even stop the unfairness of it all.

But sometimes…. sometimes, evil will overreach and be its own undoing. And that is the hope for those seemingly doomed under it all in this book and in life – if we question those things our conscience can’t abide, and we’re willing to risk fighting for it, even when the odds are stacked, maybe evil things will stumble.The book certainly leans strongly left, but even those leaning strongly right can find good substance here, if they’re willing to set aside party and politics enough to let it simply be a magnifying glass on mankind left to its own devices. It wouldn’t matter what party or what political leaning a person claimed, the potential is there for anyone willing to question what blind allegiance to blind national ambition can lead to.

Thumperica is NOT a book I’d recommend my mother read, or a Sunday School class, or anyone easily offended – unless being offended is the very thing they need. There are elements to the book that won’t be fitting for the book club, but they just might be the food for thought we need in the days and years ahead. 

Rejection: Just a Fancy Word For “You Suck, and I Refuse to Have Anything to do With You”.

All About Me, Home Life

Nobody likes being rejected. Well, that may not be true, there are probably people out there who enjoy it. I, however, am not one of those. I think I deal with it pretty well – God knows I’ve had enough practice – but it’s still not something I enjoy.

However, lately, I’ve gotten the feeling that I’m being rejected by an entire century, and that’s really a tough one to take.

My old flip phone, which I did not love, but with which I had at least managed to have reached a kind of detente with (there’s that word of the day calendar kicking in!), had become obsolete, i.e., the manufacturer’s planned obsolescence was kicking in.

In short, I had to get a new phone.

The thing I liked best about my old flip phone was that it was simple: I could make and receive calls and voicemails, and, if absolutely necessary, I could text. I really hate texting, not least because with the flip phone, it took me forever to send one. I don’t think I ever sent one without ending up cursing angrily at the phone, at whoever I was having to text, and at the ghost of Alexander Graham Bell for starting all this nonsense in the first place.

However, I know that time waits for no one. I had seen first-hand how one of those smart phones could be really handy, especially in event of vehicle trouble. On one of our mission trips to S. Dakota, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, Iowa, with a flat tire and no lug wrench that would fit it.

My buddy Kyle had a smart-phone, and just googled the nearest Walmart (turned out to be around 20 miles away, in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska). Then he used the GPS on the phone to find it, and find our way back.

We’ve had a lot of these experiences in which those phones’ capabilities have made a bad situation at least a little more manageable, so, I decided to bite the bullet, get one of those, and join the 21st century.

And that’s when all the trouble started.

The lovely and talented Jess’ phone was also dropping dead, so we decided to replace both of them. We found phones that we figured would do what we needed to do, and were satisfied.

The latest bane of my existence. The dogs look good though, don’t they?

Then, the Verizon guy mentioned this “Hum” gizmo that you could plug into your car, and it would act kind of like the Onstar system that some cars have. It would also do diagnostics and send them to my phone so I wouldn’t just be driving around like everyone else, just wondering why that “check engine” light was on.

It could call roadside assistance, and I think even automatically call for help in case of an accident. Suffice to say that it did a lot of stuff that could come in really handy on those long cross-country hauls. My truck has almost 400,000 miles on it, so I said, “what the heck,” and got it too.

The Verizon guy went on and on about how easy it was to install and set up, and said if I had any trouble, to just come back in and he’d take care of it. Famous last words.

Installing it did seem really easy, but I just couldn’t get it to work. I took it in to the Verizon store, and they couldn’t get it to work either. Turns out, it wouldn’t work on my truck’s model. Aggravating, but not a show stopper.

The phone however, was another matter. I fumbled around with it for a couple days, and thought I had it under control. Then I had to clock in at work. In order to clock in, the system calls you and you answer, hit a button (any button), and it clocks you in.

The problem was, I couldn’t figure out how to answer the damned phone. It was ringing, and I was poking the green button for all I was worth, but nothing was happening. Then the system timed out (or just gave up), and I had to try it again. Same result. I was getting really pissed now, and my sotto voce cursing was becoming a lot less sotto, which was becoming pretty distressing to my colleagues in the writing center who aren’t really used to that level of vehement profanity and obscenity.

Finally, on my third try, I gave up, held up the phone, and asked loudly, “Can someone please tell me how to answer this F%#$ing thing!”

Turns out, as my buddy Caleb quickly pointed out, you don’t poke the button, you “swipe” it. “Swiping” what the hell is that about? Everything I’d done previously was done by poking it. How in hell am I supposed to know whether to poke or swipe?

Am I the only one who feels stupid just for having to ask this question?

I know I’ve always been one to lag behind the curve when it comes to new technology: I’ve always told myself I’m waiting for “them” to work the bugs out before I commit, but I’ll get there eventually. I’m not so sure about that any more.

I kind of feel like I tried to join the 21st century, and the 21st century decided it doesn’t want anything to do with me. It’s kinda hurtful, really.

I’m beginning to think the bugs are built-in, intentionally, just to keep me in my frustrated, angry, always-a-bridesmaid place (and I don’t look good in tickle-me pink taffeta – not even metaphorically).

They keep changing things that don’t need to be changed, things that there’s no reason to change, but never fixing the things that do need to be changed.

I mean, why do they keep moving the buttons around, or changing them when they worked fine in the first place, but now I’ve got to figure out which of the new buttons I have to use to do the same damned thing I’ve been doing for years with the old button, but they won’t figure out a way to stop those damned talking ads from popping up all over the place when you’re just trying to read a news article?

Why is it that you buy a new version of something you’ve been using, it takes a week to figure out how to do the same thing you’ve been doing all along?

If these tech wonks were designing cars, I’m pretty sure that every year, they’d be saying, “Hey, where should we put the wheels this year? That whole ‘one on each corner’ thing is so 20th century. How do we make it look new and cool?”

I just want to grab them by the throats and scream, “Who cares how it looks! I just want to be able to go for a drive without having to look for the steering wheel! And why is the gas pedal in the glove box and the brake in the back seat?”

Sometimes, I think that I’m not adapting to the changing times very well. All I know is that, at this rate, by the time I’m 80 I’ll need my grand-children to come over to turn the TV on or change the channel.

I’m starting to think of rejecting the 21st century right back. That’ll show it.

And Now for Something Not Completely Different: A Few Recommendations

All About Me, Arts, Books and Literature, Culture, Movies, Music

Enough with dwelling on politics and all the bad stuff in the world. Also, I don’t want you guys thinking I’ve just turned into an Andy Rooney-type grouchy old dude who just hates everything. I’ve recently read, or watched, or listened to some really good stuff that has actually made me feel better.

Books:

I’ve got to admit, a lot of the books I’ve read lately have not been what you’d call “feel-good” reads – a lot of history books, particularly about the Indian wars. After reading a lot (a LOT) of that stuff (research for a new novel), I needed some lighter fair, so I read The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window And Disappeared, by Jonas Jonasson.

It is a really funny novel that’s sort of a mix between a caper novel and Forrest Gump (if Gump were Swedish, 100 years old, and a demolitions expert). It’s just a really fun novel to read, and surprisingly reassuring.

It’s also a very nice novel: little to no cursing, no sex, virtually no violence (lots of explosions, however), honestly, I can’t think of really anything objectionable about it. It is literally suitable for everyone. Seems a little weird to be recommending something like that. Anyway, it gets my highest recommendation. If you need a good laugh and some relief from the daily horrorshow of social media and 24-hour news, this is the book for you.

Next up, The Android’s Dream, by John Scalzi. I’m no huge fan of science fiction, but Scalzi is a really funny writer. I loved his novel RedShirts, which not only made me laugh, but made me think.

The Android’s Dream is about a guy who has to save humanity from interstellar war by saving a woman who – as a result of genetic experimentation and mad-sciencetry- has no idea that her DNA contains a specific kind of sheep DNA.

It’s pretty weird, and very funny, with lots of bad guys, some violence and bad language (nothing really gratuitous or extreme), a little romance, some interstellar political intrigue, and at least one extremely unusual and funny way of assassination. Highly recommended, especially for sci-fi fans.

Movies

We Have Always Lived In the Castle. Based on a novel by Shirley Jackson (The Haunting of Hill House, “The Lottery”). A really creepy story about two wealthy sisters living in the house where their parents were poisoned. Although the older sister was tried and acquitted of the murders, the girls are hated in the village. Things go from bad to worse when a cousin comes to visit.

Little to no sex, nudity, bad language. Some mob violence (old-fashioned pitchforks and torches type, not Godfather). Not particularly scary, but very unsettling, in a good way. Available on Netflix.

The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared. Okay, yes, it’s just the film version of the book, but for those who don’t have time to read, it’s a really faithful version, and maintains the spirit of the book. In Swedish with English subtitles.

Ready or Not. A poor girl marries into a wealthy board game family. Whenever someone marries into the family, they must draw a card from a magic box and play the game indicated. There’s only one bad card, and this poor girl draws it. A really funny horror-comedy, and lots of fun to watch. One of the few movies I’ve seen in the theater that I didn’t regret going to see.

Lots of gratuitous almost everything: violence, bad language, bad behaviour, violence, bloodshed, violence, and a huge splatter factor. Oddly enough, no nudity, but plenty of everything else.

Should be coming out on video and streaming soon.

TV

Marianne. French tv show about a horror novel writer who is being tormented by a 16th century witch who wants her to keep writing. Not a great show – it’s French, dubbed into English, so the dialogue doesn’t always carry the emotional impact the scenes deserve – but it is very creepy, with some decent surprises.

Quite a bit of nudity, bad language, bloodshed, and violence. Available on Netflix.

Good Omens. Based on the novel by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, it’s all about the endtimes. Really funny stuff, with a great cast, and a lot of heart. It shares quite a few plot points with The Omen and Rosemary’s Baby, but it’s much funnier than either of those.

I don’t really remember much in the way of violence, profanity, or nudity/sex, but then again, I’m probably pretty jaded. The whole thing is probably pretty objectionable for the more fundamentalists out there, but I think it asks a lot of questions that we ought to be asking.

Norsemen. Sort of a cross between Vikings and The Office. Really funny. Can’t really remember anything too objectionable, but then again, I’m pretty jaded.

Music

YYNOT. Kind of a strange band, at least for an old-timer like me. They started out as a kind of internet-based Rush cover band, but have coalesced into an actual band. They do awesome covers of Rush songs, and have now released two albums of original (heavily Rush-influenced) material. Both albums are really good. If you’re a fan of Rush, chances are you’ll like YYNOT. If you’re not a fan of Rush, you should give them a try anyway.

Bob Mould. If you like hard-edged, punk-tinged, pounding-but-melodic music, then check out Bob Mould. Whether as a solo act or part of the bands Husker Du and Sugar, he won’t let you down. Husker Du has been cited as very influential on the alt-rock scene of the 90’s. I highly recommend the Husker Du album Warehouse: Songs and Stories, the Sugar album Copper Blue, and his solo albums Patch the Sky and Silver Age.

The Wood Brothers. A great jazz/blues/folk band, similar to the Avett Brothers, but honestly, their songs are (to me anyway) much more memorable. Some really great stuff. I recommend the albums The Muse and Ways Not To Lose. If you like those, then go crazy.

Finally, the strangest of the bunch, Cynthia Hopkins. I think she’s really more of a performance artist than just a musician, but she makes some really great, weird, challenging music. I don’t really think she’s an acquired taste, I think she’s one of those that you either like or don’t like, at the first listen. At any rate, I really like her, and recommend the album The Truth: A Tragedy.

Anyway, I guess that oughta be enough for now. Remember, no matter how much bad crap gets flung at us, there’s a lot of good stuff out there too. Enjoy!

Not Really A Political Post: Still, You’ve Been Warned!

All About Me, Culture, Politics, Politics & Culture

Until today, I’ve been largely undecided on who to support in the 2020 election. I’ve favoured Warren, but I also like Sanders, Biden, and several other Democrats. I haven’t heard anything from any Republican candidate that makes me feel like they won’t either all be behind bars or camping out in a non-extradition-treaty country.

Today however, I saw news that has definitely swung me further in Warren’s favor: Jeff Zuckerberg has insinuated that, if Warren wins and attempts to “break up” the bit tech companies like the Facebook, he’ll have to sue the government.

Why has this swung me further in favor of Warren? I’m glad you asked (for Pete’s sake, just go with it). Is it because Warren wants to bust up the big corporations? Nope. I already knew that (and think it’s a pretty damned good idea).

Is it because I dislike the Zuck? Nope. Although, I’m pretty sure that, if I ever met him, I wouldn’t like him.

No, I’m moving farther into Warren’s camp simply because it will finally give me a strong enough reason to boycott the Facebook. Right now, I find myself spending way, way, way too much time on there (oh yeah, like I’m the only one). Honestly, it’s really kind of embarrassing. I am – theoretically anyway – a full-grown, adult, man. I should have better things to do.

I do, of course, have better things to do: writing, laundry, dishes, playing with the dogs, cleaning up after the dogs, feeding the dogs, letting the dogs in, letting the dogs out, wondering where the dogs are, etc., and my world would probably be better if I spent my time doing those things. I’d probably be happier too. But I just don’t wanna!!!!!

Also, DAMN!!!!, the Facebook is addictive. It sucks you in with the Ozzy-man videos, the cute critter videos, the idiots-falling-off-things-they-should-have-known-better-than-to-get-on-in-the-first-place videos, the family updates, etc. (you know, all the reasons you signed up in the first place), and then you find yourself trapped (or at least I find myself trapped. From here on out, I’ll just talk about myself. Feel free to feel the same or differently than me).

Trapped by the endless barrage of political bullshit, some of which I’ll agree with, and therefore specifically avoid attempting any kind of fact-checking, and some of which I’ll disagree vehemently with, leading me to:

a) fact-check the shit of out of it so I can post a snide “hahaha, this proves your post is bullshit!” response (I have to admit, that’s a personal favor of mine, although I do try to restrain myself), or

b) post a calm, erudite, well-thought-out response (a seldom-used technique) that will trigger a storm of angry, name-calling, poorly-thought-out responses, or

c) Skip the calm, erudite, blah, blah, blah, and just jump right into the on-line shitstorm with my own favorite brand of venom (I make a real effort to steer clear of this option but, in my feed anyway, this is clearly the most popular choice among other users of the Facebook).

I’m also trapped by an incredible amount of passive-aggressive behaviour: passive-aggressive Christianity (I’m not ashamed of Jesus, and not afraid to post it! Who else isn’t afraid?), passive-aggressive patriotism (I’m not ashamed of the USA-the Constitution-flag-military-president-whatever, and not afraid to post it! Who’s with me!). Passive-aggressive support (there are both secular and Christian varieties of this: a typical secular post reminds you that YOU are the storm, the Christian variety reminds you that God’s using this storm to protect you, make you grow, teach you to trust him, etc.) All essentially meaningless pablum or self-justification.

I’m trapped by a seemingly endless parade of people who seem to believe that growing up without computers and cell phones, and getting our asses beat confers some sort of moral superiority on us crusty old farts, without acknowledging that WE were the ones who gave all that crap to our kids, often because we wanted them to have all the things WE never had.

But mostly, I’m trapped by my own sort of spiritual or mental ennui. I’ve got things I want to say, but don’t know how to say them without getting pissed off, or without pissing off the very people I’m trying to reach. So, I find myself just endlessly scrolling, scrolling, scrolling my life away. At least that’s how it feels sometimes. What’s even sadder is that I’m pretty sure that the spiritual/mental ennui is actually generated by looking at the Facebook. It’s a vicious circle, and just like any other addiction, damned hard to break.

Now I realize that at this point, you’re all probably saying, “well then, just quit the Facebook, dumbass” (seriously, you guys need to start watching your language), and you’re absolutely right. The problem is that I’m just not good at doing anything good for me. The only thing that seems to work for me is anger.

And THAT’S why I want a good reason to boycott the Facebook (and don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking anyone else to join me – I don’t need to. The last thing I boycotted was Papa John’s pizza because, in my opinion, Papa John was a rich dickhead who cared way more about making money than about taking care of his employees. I boycotted Papa John’s on my own, and lo and behold, four or five years later, Papa John was ousted. That’s right – that’s the kinda power I’m wielding*). The Zuck suing the government to protect his right to exclusively violate my rights will really piss me off.

Maybe then I’ll develop enough character to get out of the social web. On the upside, bitching about it here has kept me from indulging it there. Of course, I’ll have to get on there to let you know I’ve written this. It’s a vicious circle.

.

*Yeah, yeah, I know. Just let me live in my ridiculous little fantasy, will ya?

Leaning Into It: On Writing and Taking Criticism

All About Me, Arts, Books and Literature, fiction, Fiction, ,
Bloodied but unbowed

Okay, let me first say that I have virtually no idea what I’m talking about (of course, you probably already knew that).

That said, it has recently occurred to me that in order to be an artist, whether a writer, painter, musician, dancer, sculptor, or whatever, you’ve got to have some seriously thick Rhino skin.

A little while back, discouraged by the lack of sales of my novel Thumperica! A Novel of the Ghost of America Future, as well as my inability to get anyone to read it even if I gave it to them, I realized that basically, nobody wants to read my shit. I even thought about writing a post with that theme (more on that later).

The cover of the ebook edition, designed by yours truly.

I was really having a hard time getting any feedback on it, and many of those who had read it didn’t really seem to know what to say about it. When asked about it, they’d say things like “Wellllll, it was certainly interesting” or “Ya know, I’m still processing it” and they had the sort of look you get when a new parent is showing off their brand-new baby that looks like a cross between E.T. and an orangutan. You know what I mean – when you grit your teeth and say “Oh isn’t it – I mean she- precious!?” or, the non-committal, “You must be so proud.”

You know what I’m talking about. We all have babies like that in our families. Some of us were those babies. And we turned out alright – well I’m sure most of the others did.

Even those who seemed to genuinely like the book seemed at a loss as to why exactly. It was a little disconcerting. I also realized that my book would not be to everyone’s taste, and especially to most of the people who read this blog – after all, who am I kidding – most of you only found this blog because you were googling “Rich Mullins”, and those of you who stuck around probably only do so out of pure morbid curiosity. It’s okay, I’m not proud – I’ll take what I can get.

Finally, I decided to bite the bullet and send my baby off to a professional reviewer, Kirkus Reviews, to get an unbiased opinion on it. After all, your friends are probably too polite to mention that your bouncing baby boy looks like a scrofulous blobfish, but a doctor’s gonna say “Holy smokes, that thing ain’t right! We need to do something about that”

Conversely, your friends might simply be too jealous to give your pride and joy the effusive praise it deserves. Anything’s possible right?

Well, as it turns out, according to Kirkus Reviews, one of the biggest names in the book-reviewing game, my baby is . . .

. . . A scrofulous blobfish!

And this is an unscrofulous blobfish! Photo from Smithsonianmag.com

Not only that, but a pedestrian scrofulous blobfish! Note that in this case, “pedestrian” is defined as “lacking inspiration or excitement; dull”, and synonymous with “dull, plodding, boring, tedious, monotonous, uneventful, unremarkable, tiresome, wearisome, uninspired, uncreative, unimaginative, unexciting, un-interesting, lifeless, dry; unvarying, unvaried, repetitive, repetitious,  routine, commonplace, average, workaday; ordinary, everyday, unoriginal, derivative, mediocre, run-of-the-mill, flat, prosaic, matter-of-fact, turgid, stodgy, mundane, humdrum . . .” (Lexico.com)

Ironically (not to mention adding insult to injury), when I looked “pedestrian” up, an add for Kirkus Reviews popped up on the Lexico.com page.

Honestly, I thought it started out promising: ” A futuristic farce explores the dystopian nightmare that results from one man’s ascendancy to the Oval Office,” but that first line turned out to just be a little decorative paint on the edge of the cliff.

I suppose it could be considered a compliment to have both Kurt Vonnegut and Jonathan Swift mentioned in the review, even if only to point out how far short I fell of my ambitions. At least that’s what I tell myself.

To be honest, I was a little hurt. But that’s where the rhino skin comes in. After reading (and compulsively re-reading – I’m pretty sure I gave the review much more attention than the reviewer gave my book), I realized that it doesn’t really matter what this clown thinks of my book. In fact, I’m pretty sure that he/she didn’t even read the whole thing (every every instance cited in the review occurs in the first 124 pages of a 295-page book).

In all fairness, the Kirkus folks were very upfront about not guaranteeing a good review (if they did, their reviews would be worthless), but I have to say I still feel a little bit cheated: if I’m going to pay way too much money to have my work insulted, I at least expect it to be insulted in its entirety. Not only that, but, in order to use excerpts from the review, I have to give them permission to publish it (not sure if that counts as adding insult to injury, or injury to insult).

But enough about that. If you want to read the review in its entirety, here’s a link: Thumperica! Kirkus Review. Enjoy!

But that’s what I mean about rhino skin. To do this sort of thing, you’ve gotta be tough. You’ve gotta be able to take the hits. Of course, you could be reasonable, and just not read reviews, much less pay for them, but let’s face it, “reasonable” is not really in my toolbox.

I do take comfort in the knowledge that many classic, influential novels have gotten lousy reviews, including Moby Dick, The Handmaid’s Tale, Catch-22, The Great Gatsby, For Whom the Bell Tolls, etc. (and don’t get me wrong, Thumperica! is NOT in their league, but “pedestrian”? Man that hurts).Many of the world’s greatest artists labored in obscurity, only becoming rich and famous after they were dead (at which point it didn’t do them much good).

No, I think the most important thing is that an artist of whatever variety needs to have something to say, confidence that it’s worth saying, and the courage to say it, and damn the torpedoes.

But it’s not easy. Like I said earlier, in a fit of depression (self-pity), I was tempted to write a post entitled, “Nobody Wants to Read My Shit”.

Then a friend pointed out to me that somebody (actually, best-selling novelist Steven Pressfield) has already written that book: Nobody Wants to Read Your Sh*t: Why That Is, and What You Can Do About It.

I have to admit that, when I looked it up, I was a little hurt. Not only had he stolen my idea preemptively, but how did he know nobody wanted to read my shit? I mean, I was flattered that he’d heard of me, but did he have to be so hurtful? After all, I’m pretty sure he’s never read my book.

Anyway, after reading the subtitle, I thought, well, maybe he’s just trying to help. So I bought it. I’ll let you know if it does.

I’m a Bigot, He’s a Bigot, She’s a Bigot, We’re a Bigot: You are Probably a Bigot too!

All About Me, Arts, Books and Literature, Culture, Politics & Culture

Okay, first and most importantly, if you’re old like me, you’ve probably already read the title to the tune of the old Dr. Pepper jingle. If you’re not that old, here’s a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvCTaccEkMI (and yes, that is David Naughton, of American Werewolf in London fame). Also, now you’re probably gonna have that stupid song stuck in your head. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! You’re welcome.

Secondly and probably much less important is this: A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post on the advantages of acceptance over tolerance, and one of the comments I got was from a very nice woman who is very tired of all the bashing people by accusing them of being racists, bigots, etc.

She was making a very good point that it is entirely possible to dislike someone based entirely on their personality, and that doesn’t necessarily make them a bigot. It is a point on which she and I agree.

However. I also don’t want anyone thinking that I believe we should accept bigotry, in any of its forms: racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. I want to be clear that I believe that that stuff is not okay.

The problem is that we’re all bigots, in one way or another.

In all fairness, if you’re like me, you live in an area where it’s easy to believe you’re not bigoted. I mean, in my personal circle, everyone is pretty much just like me. We’re all white, middle- to lower-middle class, moderately educated, Christian (at least nominally), rural, straight, patriotic, and reasonably conservative (even me, although I’m more of an Eisenhower era conservative).

It’s easy to fool myself into thinking that, yeah, I’m one of the good guys. I don’t hate/dislike/distrust black folks, Asians, Muslims, Hindus, Catholics, LGBTQ folks, women, immigrants, asylum seekers (by the way, those two are not the same thing) hard-core rednecks, dazzling urbanites, rap music artists, owners of small dogs, or even Baptists.

The thing is, I can’t really say that if I don’t have to live it fairly regularly. Just because I like Aretha Franklin, have gone to a Black barber, and drive through the north side of Richmond with my windows down and my doors unlocked doesn’t actually make me not a racist. It just means I’m not unreasonably afraid of them.

Lemme tell you a little story: A few years ago, in one of my college literature classes, the discussion turned to why do we have to read all this weird stuff like international literature, stuff we would never normally read.

In my standard, bull-in-a-china-shop way, I mentioned that I have never liked reading books by women. I had forgotten that I was sitting in a class full of very feminist women, four of whom sat right behind me, and all of whom were in much better physical condition than me. If it hadn’t been for the diplomatic skill of the Professor (shoutout to Dr. Steven Petersheim!), I’d never gotten out of that room alive.

Eventually they calmed down enough that I could get to the point that I was trying to make (getting to the point is sometimes a problem for me, in case you hadn’t noticed), which was that, with the accidental exception of Andre Norton (who I didn’t realize was a woman until recently) when I was a kid, I’d always avoided reading books by women BUT, thanks to being forced to read novels by Doris Lessing, Jean Rhys, Willa Cather, Zora Neale Hurston, Elizabeth Gaskell, Buchi Emecheta, Ama Ata Aidoo, and others, I’ve learned to really appreciate female writers. That appreciation has led me to voluntarily read books by Margaret Atwood, Shirley Jackson, and others.

I would never have discovered what I was missing had I not been “forced” to read those books. The same goes for international writers: I’ve always been a very American/Eurocentric reader. If it wasn’t written by an American or a European writer, I wasn’t going to ever read it.

But college also opened up the world of international literature for me, and I’ve really enjoyed reading works by Salman Rushdie, Chinua Achebe, Aravind Adiga, and others.

Even so, before you start patting me on the back about what an unbigoted reader I am, I have to confess that I’m much more likely to give a neew male, American/European author a chance than I am to try a new male/female international author, or even a female American/European one.

Now I know that I have a lot of bigotries and biases about things other than literature, it’s just that, being a word guy, that was a bigotry that became pretty obvious to me, and even that came as a surprise. It’s the ones you don’t notice because they’re never really put to the test that are hard to find.

Getting rid of bigotries requires a constant effort, and (I think) that those bigotries we’re least aware of prevent us from enjoying and understanding much of the world around us.

I think that the trick of getting rid of bigotry is not to point it out in others (after all, the most bigoted are pretty obvious about it, even proud of it, and therefore easy to avoid), but to look for it in ourselves and work diligently and perpetually to root it out of ourselves.

One of the things that I try to do is whenever I see something that I don’t understand, or that bothers me, I ask myself why it bothers me, and whether it is really something worth being bothered about. That goes for the excessively tattooed, the really low-hanging jeans crowd, the abundantly pierced, the ear-gauged, the all-of-the-above group, along with the carrying a gun everywhere including church crowd, the clearly-not-thinking-about-what-their-latest-Facebook-post-says-about-them corps, etc.

Usually, it turns out that I just need to get over myself. I think we could all stand to do a lot more of that. Maybe the verse should go “Judge yourself before you judge others,” although I’m pretty sure that there are several other verses that cover that territory (something about a log in your eye rings a bell).

Anyway, I guess I’ve beaten that dead horse enough. Also, good luck getting that stupid Dr. Pepper song out of your head. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!! Some things never stop being funny.