Dateline: Tuesday afternoon, driving to lunch/errands. I change the radio (I cannot abide a certain Taylor Swift song unless it is the goat version) and land smack dab in the middle of an advertisement for Northwest Surrogacy Center. A suspiciously animated-yet-serious female is talking about how fulfilling it was for her to serve as a surrogate for a gay couple. Her story ends with a brief/odd comment on how handing over the baby was “…the easiest part.” An official (male, ahem) announcer takes over, and talks about how the center is looking for women between the ages of 21 – 40 who have already had one “easy” pregnancy, and how surrogates can make “up to $27, 000.”
“HA!” I hear myself say, [1] as I pound the steering wheel. “Like that’s a reasonable reimbursement.” I must pull over to the side of the road and do the math.
Gestation is no 9-5 show. It’s not even back-to-back swing shifts. When you are pregnant you are pregnant 24 hours a day (and during the last month it can seem like 48 hours a day). Forty weeks of pregnancy = 5,720 hours; thus, being paid $27k for the gig works out to less than $5/hour, less than minimum wage. Even less than that, when you factor in what the post-preggo Pilates [2] are going to cost. The never ending story, of how anything considered “woman’s work” is undervalued.
My short story “Maddie is Dead” has been reprinted in a new book: Joy, Interrupted – An Anthology on Motherhood and Loss. The anthology is released…uh…just in time for Mother’s Day? Rather peculiar timing, considering the subject matter. From the book’s press release:
Joy can be interrupted – but not lost. Most people think of motherhood as a joyous experience, but for some it can be an experience of interrupted joy. This anthology delves into the subject of motherhood and loss from different perspectives of authors and artists from all over the world. This anthology includes Short Stories, Poetry, Art Work, Essays, Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction and more. Contributors explore such topics as Adoption, Death, Infertility, Disabilities, Illness, and Estrangement. Various themes addressed include Coming of Age, Identity, Recovery, Connections, and Forgiveness.
But wait, there’s more:
The internationally acclaimed contributors are: (snip snip of a whole lotta names that are not mine), Robyn Parnell, (more snip snip)…
Internationally acclaimed? This is news to moiself. But if it’s in writing, it must be true, right?
Still, I await the multilingual kudos. Having heard none, I’ll furnish my own:
Συγχαρητήρια [3] Ole! Felicitations! Chúc mừng! Pongezi! Gratulerer! Cestitke! Kung hei lei! Donadaliheligv! Comhgháirdeachas!
The Mighty Quinn is available now at Amazon , Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers, in both paper and eBook formats. Starting May 14 it will be available at your regular brick and mortar bookstores.
Of possible interest to you locals (local as in Portland metro area): As part of the celebration for National Children’s Book Week I’ll be doing a reading-book signing event with another local author at Powell’s Books Cedar Hills Crossing (Beaverton) on Tuesday, May 14, beginning at 7 pm. Another Local Author is Heather Vogel Frederick, who’ll be reading from her newly released book, Once Upon a Toad. [4]
After the reading and signing my family and I will be de-stressing celebrating at Peachwave Frozen Yogurt afterwards (Cedar Hills Crossing Mall, enter by the Starbucks) – stop and say howdy if you can!
“Caveman Matt” Chapter 5, The Mighty Quinn
* * *
From their halcyon days as America’s sweethearts to their current status as superstars who pioneered a genre, The Go-Go’s preside over an amazing three-decade reign as high pop priestesses….
(from The Go-Gos website, re their upcoming concert tour)
That is what I want to write, and get paid for doing so: hyperbolized press releases.
I’m trying to imagine phrases like “halcyon days” and “amazing three-decade reign” – not to mention “high pop priestess” – being used in conjunction with my name. Not to get all philosophical or nothin.’
I couldn’t find a High Pop Priestess Picture. But the green telephone is worthy of royalty, don’t ya think?
You may remember [5] the Halibut That Ate My Daughter’s Brain (April 19 post). I have been experimenting with halibut chowder/soup/stew variations every Sunday since, with the apparent approval or at least toleration of our regular Sunday dinner guest, the lovely and talented (and patient) LAH. I have been tormenting son K, a lover of all things seafood chowder-y, with information re my culinary concoctions. Next week is finals week for K, and he’ll be home from college for the subsequent Sunday dinner, the 19th. There is enough halibut and fish stock left in the freezer to make him his very own tastefully-sized tureen trough-full of whatever version I shall deem as the best-est. [6]
* * *
Remember to get your pet halibut his fish license, and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] Actually, I hear myself say a stronger version of HA: the version that rhymes with, HORSESHIT!
[2] Or whatever exercise regimen you’ll undertake in a futile attempt to undo the damage done to your body in order to give someone else “the gift of life.”
[3] Acclamations are in Greek, Spanish, French, Vietnamese, Swahili, Norwegian, Croatian, Cantonese, Cherokee, Irish Gaelic.
You, too can be an author! At least, you can share in the experience shared by authors well-known and obscure, established and wannabe: the rejection letter.
In the tradition of the preemptive strike, the literary journal Stoneslide Corrective provides a vital public service, the generosity of which cannot be overestimated. The Rejection Generator Project eliminates the need for you to take the time and energy (and whiskey) to actually pen an emotionally searing short story, witty roman à clef or evocative poem.[1] Simply type in your email address and a terse and snarky rejection, composed by Certified Rejected Authorial Persons, [2] will be winging your way.
As part of the local marking of Children’s Book Week celebration, Oregon authors Heather Vogel Frederick and moiself will be reading excerpts from and signing copies of our books (The Mighty Quinn, in my case, and Frederick’s Once Upon a Toad). I am told that attendees will may be able to receive complimentary Children’s Book Week posters and tote bags [3], not to mention the one-of-a-kind opportunity to be misted by the spittle [4] of a Real Life Author ®, should you be in the first row during the reading.
Mickey’s pasta emoting (from The Mighty Quinn, chapter 4)
* * *
This Stupid Week In History…which happens to be this week
From the Miami New Times : 16-year-old Kiera Wilmot, known at Bartow High School for being a “model student,” has not only been expelled from school, she faces felony charges for an “experiment” that went wrong.
Wilmot reportedly mixed toilet bowl cleaner and aluminum foil, causing the top of a plastic bottle to rupture and smoke to emit. Wilmot says she did it because a friend told her to, believing it would only cause smoke.
Bartow High School’s assistant principal called police when Wilmot’s science teacher said he wasn’t aware of any experiment.
Leah Lauderdale, spokeswoman for the school district, calls Wilmot’s actions “grounds for immediate expulsion” because they violate the school’s conduct code. Section 7.05 of the school’s conduct code, Lauderdale says, mandates expulsion for any “student in possession of a bomb (or) explosive device… while at a school (or) a school-sponsored activity… unless the material or device is being used as part of a legitimate school-related activity or science project conducted under the supervision of an instructor.”
A sixteen year old girl did something most kids do at some point: mixed up common household products in a plastic bottle because they heard that something amusing might result (how many baking soda and vinegar “volcanoes” did you try to make?). She did this outdoors. The resulting “explosion” was not even adequate to burst the bottle, but merely popped off the top and generating some smoke.
No one was injured (save for the plastic bottle, which, as of this reporting, is refusing to comment), the principal was quoted stated that Wilmot simply made a “bad choice” and wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, but Wilmot was still expelled because school administrators are spineless fear mongers who have abdicated their responsibility to judge actions in light of context rules are rules. Wilmot, described by the school principle as “a good kid,” who has “never been in trouble before. Ever,” will now reportedly have to complete her education in an “expulsion program” and may face a criminal conviction.
Mandatory expulsion for being “in possession of a bomb or explosive device?” There goes every high school biology, chemistry and physics classroom, or certain students’ digestive tracts after burrito day at the cafeteria.
The student in question didn’t seem to be knowingly in possession of or trying to fabricate a WMD. Rather, she did a dumb thing. The punishment should fit the “crime” – perhaps a suspension, or a week of after school detention at a plastic bottle recycling facility.
The overreaction of administrators in this story reminds me of something that befell daughter Belle during her sophomore year in high school. Ah, but when this happens to the child of a writer…. I’ve taken notes for a follow-up book to The Mighty Quinn, which just may include subplot involving false accusations brought against Neally [5] by school staff. Let me just say that the adults involved in the debacle will not come out smelling like roses – more like a science project gone awry.
Oh yeah, and no plastic bottles will be injured during the making of the book.
“Stand back…” from webcomic xkcd [6]
Have a great weekend, and let the (non-explosive) hijinks ensue.”
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] works which will probably be rejected anyway, I mean, whom are we kidding, are you that good, huh?
[5] The title character’s friend and (unintentional) mentor.
[6]Randall Munroe’s xkcd is a webcomic of “romance, sarcasm, math, and language.” You’d be way cooler than you already are if you’d it on a regular basis.
Nice way to start the week. Really! This (part of the) post is sarcasm-free! And full of exclamation marks! Because, why not?!
On Monday Scarletta Press’s publicist forwarded the following email from the Children’s Book Council. As for the CBC’s Tweet suggestions, the mere thought of that particular networking service gets me all twitter-pated, but any of you readers are also tweeters, feel free to pass along the news. [1] Especially if you have Michelle Obama’s ear. [2]
Congratulations, The Mighty Quinn was selected for the CBC’s Hot Off The Press and is featured on our homepage! Here are some sample Tweets to help you promote your title’s feature. We’ll be spreading the word on Facebook and Twitter!
Get mighty! ‘The Mighty Quinn’ by Robyn Parnell is on @CBCBook Hot Off The Press! http://bit.ly/14JshQB #HOTP
This book is hot! ‘The Mighty Quinn’ was chosen for @CBCBook Hot Off The Pess! http://bit.ly/14JshQB
* * *
Rewind to Saturday, which had served as a more humbling reminder of the realities of publicity events. My press’s publicist had arranged for me to do a reading at an elementary school’s Earth Day project, to tie-in with one of The Mighty Quinn’s subplots. [3]. The school’s students and parents would be working with coordinators of an environmental stewardship group (which I’ll refer to as Greengood. Sorry.) to plant trees and otherwise “beautify” their schoolyard.
We (MH, daughter Belle and moiself) showed up at the time suggested by the school’s Greengood coordinator. It took several minutes to find the Person In Charge; the event was, uh, disorganized, to say the least…which I’d expected as per past experience. [4]
The event organizer and her comrades were Bright, Perky and Chirpy. And young. Very young. Nothing wrong with that, but did I mention that they were young?
Although the BPCs had placed signs up all over the school (“12: 30 p special event: Robyn Parnell, Storyteller”), they hadn’t given any thought as to where I would do the reading.
The Storyteller spot they decided on at the last minute was in front of a bunch of picnic tables outside the school gym, from which recorded music was blaring. Horrible, as in, really awful acoustics (I did get them to turn off the music).
Adults and kids were taking a break from tree planting, and some twenty boxes of pizza had arrived. Two BPCs said they’d organize the adults to do cleanup/lunch prep and call in the kids from the playground for the reading. That didn’t go exactly as planned.
The adults (and many kids) kept wandering in and out of the picnic table area, before and during my reading, and the noise level was quite high. It became obvious to me that most of the kids had their eyes and attention spans focused on the pizza to come. Fortunately, the excerpts I’d picked were short…and I made them even shorter when I realized that some of the adults (who had not listened to the BPC instructions, imagine that) had begun to pass out the pizza.
Life Lesson, #367 in a series: Prose is no competition for pepperoni.
My reading began and ended with excerpts of a chapter in the book where students are doing a community service project and one of the characters asks, “Is it time for lunch?” That segue seemed to be appreciated by the, oh, six kids who were actually paying attention at that point.
The highlight: one kid, as I was setting up, asked if I would be doing a puppet show. S/he [5] seemed disappointed when I explained that I would be reading a passage from my (puppet-free) book, and s/he asked if it would be okay for to leave “if it gets boring.”
Yeah, sure, kid. Don’t let the seesaw hit you in the *&# on your way to the playground.
I did not say that. I did let the kid play with the frog clicker I’d brought along (no puppets, but a prop!), and s/he stayed for the reading.
During the reading MH & Belle distributed flyers about community service ideas (the flyers were provided by Scarletta Press, quite beautifully done…with a couple of mentions of the book, of course). After the pizza break MH, Belle and I helped mulch the newly planted trees. The reading break may have been disorganized but the adults and students had done a lot of work: over 70 trees planted on the school yards and perimeter!
Highlight, the sequel: the kids who planted the trees got to name the trees, which I thought was a delightful way to have students make a connection to the tree, and thus be more likely to care for them. A Douglas Fir was named…wait for it… “Dougie,” and a red maple was named “Elena,” and so on. One tree was named “Bob,” a cause for an apology of sorts from one of the parents, when she saw me reading the tree’s name tag.
“It’s, uh, not a very distinctive name, is it?” she stammered.
“What’s wrong with Bob?” MH (son of Robert, aka “Bob”) wanted to know.
* * *
Gracefully segueing to another school-related topic (and, as it happens, another Bob). Bob Davis, this Asshat’s for you:
Minnesota radio host Bob Davis said he would like to tell the families of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting victims to “go to hell” for infringing on his gun rights. Yep, Bob Davis’s message for the bereaved parents is that having to submit to a background check is a greater tragedy than them burying their children.
There are no words for this. Although a few enthusiastic hand gestures come to mind.
* * *
As per enthusiastic gestures, I’d like to ask a certain group of public servants to run their priorities up their flagpole and salute ‘em.
Calling all Oregon State Legislators: the Capitol House janitorial staff has found your cojones, concealed behind the sawdust-filled barf bucket in the Capitol Rotunda’s broom closet.
The great and groovy state of Oregon faces many contentious challenges, including updating our aging infrastructure, grappling with the dilemma of underfunded and underperforming public schools, and fixing a dysfunctional Public Employees Retirement System. Thus, our intrepid legislators, forging new pathways in the spirit of the Oregon Trail, decided to devote time, energy and $$ during the recently convened 2013 Legislative Session to a bill to require all Oregon school districts to display the US flag in each classroom and have students salute it once daily during school hours.
Really. House Bill 3014 passed the Oregon House of Representatives and is now headed for the State Senate.
Photo showing the old salute, taken in May 1942 in Southington, CT
Caption: Photo showing the old salute, taken in May 1942 in Southington, CT, just one month before the new salute became official.
Rep. Sal Esquivel, (R – Medford) is the bill’s chief knuckle-dragger in charge of do-nothingism masking as patriotism sponsor. Esquivel believes the Pledge of Allegiance teaches students about the nation’s legacy. “We need to teach kids the symbolism of that flag,” Esquivel said. “That flag stands for America. That flag stands for your freedoms. That flag stands for everything this country’s ever done, has been or will be in the future.”
It might behoove Esquivel to teach himself the literal meaning behind that flag symbolism. Is he unaware of our country’s history of civil and constitutional rights? Does he understand that the right to free speech includes the freedom from making loyalty oaths to the king government, particularly when those oaths violate that very government’s constitution by promoting religion? Are Esquivel and the bill’s supporters going to mandate that schoolchildren be taught the history of The Pledge to That Flag, including:
“We’re dealing with schoolchildren and with role models in schools who are required to lead it. The circumstances are inherently fraught with compulsion or coercion and we feel that’s a violation of church-state separation.” (Anti-Defamation League, Nov. 14, 2003)
My own OR State Representative, whose energy and idealism I respect – and whose pragmatism I grudgingly understand – voted for the bill. Ick ick ick, I sez, even I realize that once such a piece of festering crap legislation is introduced it’s a no-win situation for any representative – particularly a newbie to the game [9] – to oppose it, or point out why such provisions are unnecessary, wasteful, silly and even sinister distractions from the real, pressing issues at hand. Any politician doing so would be subject to knee-jerk disloyalty accusations from the why-do-you-hate-America, drool bucket for brains crowd, and political rivals would relish the chance to use a “He voted against the flag! And the Pledge!” sound bite during the next election.
I can’t help but wonder what the legislature’s next efficient use of taxpayer monies might be. Perhaps they’ll form a committee to find and replace all the currency we frisky Freethinkers have been desecrating correcting; i.e., the dollar bills with “In God We Trust’ scratched out on the back.
I can only be pissed off at politicians for so long — this weekend is the Oregon Potters Association convention! The annual Ceramic Showcase, the nation’s largest exhibit and sale of pottery items ranging from sculpture to garden art to home accessories, is at the Oregon Convention Center, Friday through Sunday. Pottery-loving friends and I have made it a yearly tradition to mark our calendars and attend on the opening day. After years of showcases I’ve no room in the house for pottery, be it decorative or functional…ah, but what do I see outside my office window? An artless yard? [10] And there always seems to be room for just one more visage on the Wall of Faces.
* * *
Wishing y’all a weekend of friendly faces. Let the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] This is as close as I’ll get to groveling. Until next week.
[2] Or whatever part of the body one uses when tweeting.
[4] I’d given a mild warning to my publicist; still, it had been years since I’d had anything to do with a Greengood event, and I hoped for the best.
[5] Not to get all Gender Police, but really, I couldn’t tell. Nor could MH and Belle, when I later (and discretely) consulted with them.
[6] The pledge of allegiance was originally written in 1892 by Francis Bellamy, a socialist magazine writer.
[7] In 1954, amid the anti-commie hysteria, by Pres. Eisenhower and Congress, at the urging of a minister.
[8] Someone in the 1940s noticed that it resembled that, uh, other salute, and it was formally replaced by Congress with the now-customary, hand-on-heart.,
[9] Ben Unger ( D- Dist. 29) is a first-time representative, elected last November.
No matter what your plans, on this upcoming Earth Day weekend there are plenty of other ways to Love Your Mother (Earth, that is).
* * *
“There’s pretty much sloths everywhere you look around here.”
Does that quote sound familiar? If you think heard something like it, perhaps from the HR person during your interview tour of your company’s cubicle land, then it’s time to look for a new job. Here’s the title of my dream job: Baby Sloth Wrangler, at the Costa Rica Sloth Sanctuary.
School spirit: Try to contain your enthusiasm.
I’ve occasionally received text messages from my offspring when they were stuck at a mandatory snorefest high school assembly. Typically, they were bored out of their gourds by the blah blah blah from their school’s administrators and/or lame “artistic” presentations from fellow students. I, on the other hand,[1] remember my high school’s assemblies with fondness. The assemblies were rare and welcome breaks from routine, and were also, for the most part, entertaining, with little to no speechifying by adults/administration.
From what son K has told and now daughter Belle is telling me, their high school finds numerous reasons to have assemblies, often merely to disseminate school/logistical information that could have easily been relayed via the teacher, in the classroom…information that is forgotten five minutes after the assembly has ended.
There are those kind of assemblies. And then, there are other assemblies.
Yesterday around noon I received the following text from Belle, during her school’s assembly, at which the choir and band were to perform.
OMG…this assembly is cursed. The color guard did a performance, and one girl got hit with her gun in the face and bled everywhere. Then ___ (Belle’s friend from the track team) passed out in the stands and had to be carried out.
Don’t think they’ll be forgetting this one so soon.
* * *
The Boston Marathon bombs. At the time I’m writing this, those responsible have not been apprehended, nor identified. Much has already been said about the tragedy. One thing hasn’t: that such horrific incidents only go to show, in this Bright’s opinion, how the most basic tenet of a certain theology gets it all dead wrong.
I’m referring to Original Sin and other such mental ass cheek flapping religious doctrines that teach of an innate, even inherited, fallen humanity.
There are seven bajillion of us on this planet. If human beings were truly and inherently evil at the core of their being, we would have blown ourselves up – we would have torn each other to pieces – a long, long time ago.
Look for the good, the kind, the rational, the helpful. You don’t have to look far. Yes, there are some incredibly sadistic asshats[2] fighting for slop space in this world. And there are the others. They don’t usually make the headlines, because there are so many of them.
I saw footage and photos of people in Boston, from professional first responders and civilian bystanders, running to help their fellow human beings. People were running toward the sites of the still-smoldering explosions, even as they had no way of knowing whether there were more blasts to come.
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”
One of my favorite dialog sequences from one of my favorite movies, The American President.
Janie (Presidential Aide) : The 10:15 event has been moved inside to the Indian Treaty Room.
President Andrew Shepherd: 10:15 is American Fisheries?
Janie: Yes, sir. They’re giving you a 200-pound halibut.
The President: Janie, make a note. We need to schedule more events where somebody gives me a really big fish.
Janie: Yes sir. [starts making note]
The President: Janie, I’m kidding.
Janie: [Stops and starts to smile] Of course, sir.
After a trip to our favorite market, the awesome New Seasons, I realized I needed to do more grocery shopping where somebody gives my daughter a really big fish. [3]
* * *
Dateline: long ago in a galaxy far, far away. [4] It was a beautiful, Bay Area day, clear blue skies, mid-70s with no breeze. A co-worker had called to trade shifts at Planned Parenthood, so my morning was free. I had work to do, but even a freethinker like moiself who scoffs at the s-word knew it would be a sin to work indoors. It was the perfect day for one of my favorite drives: taking La Honda Road (highway 84) to the coast.
Sitting in my favorite spot under a sandstone cliff facing the ocean, I had the beach (San Gregorio) to myself. Midway through editing the final draft of a story, I looked toward the water and saw a man and his golden retriever walking in the shallow surf. Man and dog turned inland, headed in my direction, and attempted to make conversation. [5]
“Great day, thought we had the beach to ourselves….” Man’s banter was neither interesting nor original, but also not (intentionally nor particularly) annoying. He was friendly…and also sliding into flirtatious. I was polite but not encouraging. I made a point of petting his dog and shooing his dog away from my manuscript and shaking the sand off of said manuscript with my left hand, making sure that my wedding band was on display.
He soon got around to, “Whatcha working on?,” a question I’ve since learned how to deflect [6] . I thought if I answered him truthfully – if he realized that, indeed, I was not on holiday but was working – he’d half-heartedly apologize for the intrusion and be on his way. Instead, I had found myself in what is a fairly a common experience for writers: receiving unsolicited advice from a non-writer as to how, or what, a writer should write.
He incorrectly assumed that I was a novice, unpublished writer. Wishing not to prolong our interaction, I did not disabuse him of that assumption. “I hear fiction, for adults, is really, like, difficult to break into,” he offered, with a wide-eyed look that was obviously intended to be helpful. “Have you ever thought of working your way up, by, uh, like, writing stuff for children, first?”
He seemed taken aback at my hearty guffaw, and his expression quickly morphed from helpful to confused as he found an excuse to return to his dog walking duties.
“If you write comedy, you’re sitting at the children’s table.”
(Woody Allen)
A common misconception among non-writers is that writing “for children” is somehow easier, and less prestigious, than writing “for adults.” Authors who’ve been published across the various (and somewhat arbitrary) age groupings scoff at the former notion even as they grapple with the latter – that a “children’s author” is a second class citizen in the world of literature.
This snobbery sometimes comes from a select list of fellow writers, those who take themselves and their I Am an Author of Important Lit-ra-chure credentials oh-so-seriously. These writers are invested in this alleged hierarchy of prestige, and wish to maintain what they see as the ghetto of being on the children’s list. And yet, the children’s list is a relatively recent phenomenon. It was only twelve years ago that the New York Times Book Review made the controversial decision to start a children’s bestseller list, separate from that of adult fiction. This was due in part to the rumored complaints by some self-styled Big Boy writers who got their Serious Literary Underpants ® in a knot when they found themselves increasingly sharing (read: ceding) top rankings with Harry Potter [7].
But, apparently, sharing list-space with Fifty Shades of Meh or the latest “adult” schlock literary sensation is reputable…enough.
When I was invited by local schools to do readings of my first children’s book, My Closet Threw a Party, the teachers usually introduced me (to their students, and/or to other school staff) as a writer, or sometimes as a “children’s writer.” When it was the latter, I gently corrected the distinction…and then had to explain why I wasn’t objecting to it, but simply felt that it was inaccurate.
Although I write for all ages, the vast majority of my published works have been for an adult audience. I’m just a writer. I didn’t feel then, nor do I feel now, that being referred to as a “Children’s Author” is in any way depreciatory. Quite the opposite. If anything, I feel I am not deserving of the moniker. I can’t think of a better kind of writer to be. Think about it: who – truly, deeply and loyally – loves a book more than a child?
* * *
“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
(Groucho Marx)
Get your favorite book, for children of all ages (I’m partial to Green Eggs and Ham), turn on the light inside your dog, and may the hijinks ensue.
A woman clad in body-hugging, long-sleeve Nike shirt, Adidas leggings and New Balance shoes, [1] is running toward me. She is pushing one of those baby jogger strollers. You know how a rhythmic, rocking motion can calm and soothe many a fussy infant? Hers is not that kind of baby.
A lone seagull crouches in the grass, extends its necks and emits staccato, croaking calls, as if doing a series of vocal exercises to warm up for the squawking to come. A man who looks to be in his mid 30′s places a duffle bag beneath the canopy of a large cedar tree and begins some kind of martial arts exercises. I hear a wheezing noise coming from behind me; I’m on “alert status,” as one must be when walking in unfamiliar territory, and stop at a fork in the path and turn around. An elderly gentleman is about 20 feet behind me on the path. He’s rail thin, looks as if a strong breeze could knock him over,. He has a thick mass of shock white hair atop his deeply furrowed head, and he’s wearing a bright neon safety vest. He pumps his arms as he strides past me, flashing a beatific smile and greeting me with a cheery, “Good moooooooorning!” I take the fork to the right, and soon I hear the familiar, shuffle shuffle crunch snuffle snuffle that heralds the approach of a biped and its dog, respectively walking and inspecting the twig-strewn gravel path. Ahead of me to the south, a sleek black lab, let off its leash by its human, intensely and hopefully [2] streaks toward two seagulls resting on the grass by the duck pond. The birds watch the rapidly approaching canine, waiting until the last moment before nonchalantly spreading their wigs and rising helicopter-like over the dog, which rockets beneath them. The dog slows down for a nanosecond, glances back at its human, resumes its speed and slightly changes direction – reminding me of how a cat, when it somehow fails, begins to casually groom itself as if to say, Ohyeah, I meant to do that.
The simple sights and sounds of a city awakening to the assurance of a beautiful day.
MH, Belle and I are staying in an olde apartment building (ca 1912) across the street from the perfect venue for a morning – or afternoon or evening – walk. Wright Park is a 27 acre arboretum with a series of gravel loop trails, a duck pond, a lawn bowling/bocce ball court, a botanical conservancy, several themed works of bronze statuary and one seemingly random memorial. As my après-walk internet search later confirms, I’m not the only person to have wondered why, in the middle of a Tacoma park, is there a monument to Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen? [3]
We are in Tacoma[4] for three reasons.
1. to return K to college (UPS).
2. Belle is interested in UPS,[5] and is doing campus tours and other activities UPS offers to prospective students. On our way back to Oregon we will stop at Evergreen College in Olympia, for similar check-out-the-school exploring.
3. there is no third reason.
K came home for his spring break last week. At the end of the week we made a two day trip to Manzanita and then drove the scenic route [6] to take K back to UPS. It seems as though all of Tacoma was out when we arrived on Saturday afternoon. There is something about Tacoma on a sunny day that reminds me of San Francisco. Perhaps it’s the city’s many hills, and the view you have atop them, to the north, east and west, of the bay (Puget Sound’s Commencement Bay, in Tacoma’s case). In cities like Tacoma and San Francisco, which are known for their often overcast/inclement weather, a clear, bright sunny day seems to bring out the best in residents and visitors alike.
Just in case you were wondering, after reading that last comparison, I neither smoke nor inhale. Apologies to San Fransiscoites: the afore-mentioned weather rumination is the only Tacoma characteristic that reminds me of The City. Your beloved Baghdad by The Bay’s charm remains intact, and unique.
Saturday night, after dropping off K at his dorm, Belle, MH & I had dinner at Pomodoro, in Tacoma’s Procter district. Not long after we were seated Belle removed her sketch pad and pencils from her purse. She and MH were seated across from me, and Belle looked in my direction as she began to sketch. I turned around to see if perhaps a cute waiter or bus boy was lurking behind me. Nope. This put me into a rather mild existential panic. I tried my best not to sound like a bad Robert DeNiro imitation as I asked, “Are you sketching me?”
“Yes,” Belle replied. “Hold still.”
I didn’t hold still. None of us held still. We were doing restaurant-things: eating, drinking, lifting napkins to our mouths, answering questions from our server, as well as allegedly conversing with one another. Belle said nothing more, but from her heavy sighs and eyebrow gymnastics it was apparent that she was disappointed with my lack of stillness, and other attributes that render me unfit for sketching.
I do not translate well to photos. I am not a still life, and loathe having my picture taken in any form and for any cause. The reasons for this are not particularly complicated or interesting; they are known to those supposedly closest to me, and in a kind and just world (calling Mr. Rogers) would be respected, even if not “understood.” This is rarely the case.
From the POV of a fotografizophobic, [7] when people gaze at you intently and allegedly dispassionately, judging the contours (read: inadequacies) of your bone structure and other facial features, hearing them say, “Hold still so I can sketch you/take your picture” is the emotional equivalent of hearing, Hold still so that I may throw acid in your face.
Unsolicited, adult-to-adult advice: when any sentient being declines to have their picture taken by you, respect their wishes and move on. Do not whine and wheedle, do not attempt any form of emotional blackmail (“The family reunion shot will be ruined if you’re not in it, and who knows if Uncle Anus will live long enough to attend the next one!”). Unless I am renewing my driver’s license and you are the DMV camera dude, or you are the hospital’s medical photographer sent to document my Mayo Clinic-worthy bulbous axillary tumor, back off. It’s that simple.
* * * We interrupt this family travelogue to bring you a political rant. Your regular programming will return shortly.
Department of I’m glad he didn’t live/I wish he’d lived to see this
My father had an inexplicable, embarrassing (to me) fascination with Richard Milhous Nixon. He’d been to Nixon’s “Western White House” home in San Clemente on official (IRS) business and had met the then Prevaricator Commander-in-Chief. To a man of my dad’s generation who began life as a dirt-poor country boy in a southern family of share croppers, meeting The President must have been seen as a pinnacle of the American dream. Thus, I tell myself my father’s interest was a case of celebrity worship, or that all-too-human fascination with any personal brush with power, and not that he actually admired the lying, venal, foul-mouthed, paranoid, commie-baiting, racist contender for worst president ever.
I thought no new revelations about Nixon could ever surprise me, even though I knew there were more tapes and documents yet to be declassified. Still, it was chilling to read the revelations contained in the LBJ tapes about just how low RMN would go to obtain power. In 1968, fearing that the Paris Peace Talks would end the Vietnam War and thus his election chances, Nixon secretly intervened to sabotage the negotiations. He sent his envoy to get the South Vietnamese to pull out of the talks, promising them “a better deal” if he were elected. LBJ, informed of Nixon’s treachery by the FBI, felt Nixon was committing treason, but feared going public with the information for several reasons, including national security concerns and having to reveal that the FBI and the NSA were bugging the South Vietnamese ambassador’s phone and intercepting his communications. Democratic candidate Hubert Humphrey, informed of the situation by LBJ a few days before the election, decided it would be too disruptive to the country to accuse the Republicans of treason, especially if the Dems were going to win anyway (they were ahead in the polls).
What is that old saying, something about how all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing?
The peace talks collapsed, Nixon ended his campaign by promising an alternative to the inept Democratic strategy – look at them, they couldn’t even get the South Vietnamese to the negotiating table! – and won the election with less than 1% of the popular vote. His “better deal” led to the war dragging on until 1975…which caused the additional deaths of Twenty. Two. Thousand. American soldiers. [8]
Despite – or perhaps because of – being a fiction writer I’m a huge fan of reality. A part of me wishes my father could have read the transcripts, and that he and I could’ve discuss the revelations, and that he would have been able to understand at least a part of my vitriol for RMN, which is best expressed by Hunter S. Thompson’s He Was A Crook. Another part [9] wimps out on reality, and tries to embrace the idea that an old man went in peace, holding on to whatever fantasies he had, the Nixon one (oh….ick) included.
Richard Nixon…He was the real thing — a political monster straight out of Grendel and a very dangerous enemy. He could shake your hand and stab you in the back at the same time. He lied to his friends and betrayed the trust of his family. Not even Gerald Ford, the unhappy ex-president who pardoned Nixon and kept him out of prison, was immune to the evil fallout. Ford, who believes strongly in Heaven and Hell, has told more than one of his celebrity golf partners that “I know I will go to hell, because I pardoned Richard Nixon.”
(Hunter S. Thompson, writing in The Atlantic, May 1, 1994)
“It’s the problem…that no one likes to talk about. No wonder they call it Silent But Deadly.”
How’s that for a commercial lead-in? But really, ladies and germs,[10]The same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons can be yours, with the purchase of the intriguingly named Better Marriage Blanket. Unfortunately, it’s not what you’re thinking. Or, maybe it is. Oh, who cares – any product with the selling point “offending molecules are absorbed before anyone knows they’re there” is worth a moment of your attention, right? Not only that, it’s given me the idea of how to solve the North Korea situation. Get our Navy Seals to wrap Kim Jong-un in a Better Marriage Blanket, and it’ll be like he’s not even there.
Speaking of other problems no one likes to talk about, there are those family road trips that do not end in all sweetness and light and witty anecdotes. Unsolicited adult-to-adult advice, revisited (the photography-free version): do not endure treatment from family members that you would find intolerable coming from anyone else.
Smarter people than us said this:
* Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.
― Alexander Pope
* There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love.
- Martin Luther King Jr
* Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.
- George Carlin
* * *
Joy, Interrupted: An Anthology on Motherhood and Loss. Hmm, not the feel-good title of the year, you say? The collection contains some beautiful, intriguing, moving essays, poems and fiction on the subject of loss in the context of motherhood, including, in the last category, a story of mine. Two years ago I read the editor’s call for submissions and submitted my story “Maddie is Dead.” [11] It was one of those made-me-shiver incidents when the editor contacted me to say that she loved the story and wanted to include it in the collection, and by the way, is the story indeed fiction (it is), and by-the-by-the-way, did I know that her deceased daughter was named Maddie?
The anthology should be in book stores later this year and is available for pre-order on Amazon.
* * *
One last gasp at the road trip story. It was our first night in Tacoma, in the afore-mentioned apartment with Belle & Mark, and Belle was cranky due to a nasty, lingering cold and (gasp) no TV on site. She turned down any suggestion I had for playing cards, games, etc. I passed the time doing an online search for…hmmm, parameters, hmmm. What would be a spirit-lifting image to see? How about sloths wearing onsies?
Best. Search. In. A. Long. Time.
An adorable Bradypodidae, dressed in baby clothes.Hijinks are bound to ensue.
[3] A Norwegian-American artist sculpted a bust of Ibsen, his mentor and friend. Three bronze busts cast from the original ended up in places with large populations of Norski immigrants: St. Paul, MN, Wahpeton, N.D., and Tacoma. Just because.
[4] The Tacoma narrative was written earlier this week, on Sunday and Monday.
[5] to her brother’s genuine if mild apprehension.
[6] Up the Oregon coast, crossing the Clumbia River at Astoria, following the Willapa Bay, cutting over to Olympia at the small town of Raymond. Which led us to wonder if there was a man in the town named Raymond, and if so, do all of the townspeople like him?
[7] Fotografizophobia is the fear of having your picture taken.
[8] .and hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese, Laotians and Cambodians soldiers and civilians.
[9] The part spelled “protective daughter,” no doubt.
[10] A lame popularized by Milton Berle in the 1950′s: “Good evening, ladies and germs. I mean ladies and gentlemen. I call you ladies and gentlemen, but you know what you really are.” It was funnier then. Supposedly.
[11] Previously published in The Externalist, issue 4, October 7.
I love woodpeckers, and the Northern Flicker is especially striking in its coloration and behavior. About that behavior – that striking behavior.
During their March – June breeding season, a flicker calls (makes a loud, rolling rattle with a piercing tone that rises and falls in volume several times) and drums (repeatedly and rapidly pecks a tree or other solid object) to communicate with a mate, or proclaim its territory and attract a mate. But why settle for drumming on a mere tree when you can make a MUCH LOUDER SOUND OMG YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LOUD by using our chimney flashing as a drum skin?
“Yo, Freddy. Flicker,” I said, while pounding the exterior of the chimney with a pole to convince him to seek friendlier territory. “I understand that this is your equivalent of placing an ad on perfectmatch.com, but your strident call is going down our chimney and into our house, where the residing, non-flicker females neither understand nor appreciate its intended implications. And that repeated bashing of your beak against the chimney flashing sounds incredibly loud and is incredibly annoying for us bipeds, not to mention what it must be doing to your tiny avian brain…and are you perchance a mentally challenged flicker? Just asking.”
Oh, he’s not stupid, and he’s not pecking on metal because he can’t find a suitable tree, according to a Jackson Bottom Wetlands Friendly Biologist ®. A metal object allows Freddy Flicker to make the most noise in the flickerhood. An accessible chimney flashing – jackpot! That is one awesome find for a flicker, who uses its acoustic amplifications to announce to nearby flicker friends and foes, “Here I am! Everything around here is mine, mine, mine!”
Friendly Biologist said flickers will return year after year to the same house if it works for them. And indeed, we’ve seen a flicker pair, and their offspring, at our suet feeder for the past couple of years. I’m firmly in the pro-woodpecker procreation camp. I could just do without them using our chimney for their pre-coital garage band rehearsal, ya know?
What We Talk About When We Talk About Us
We had a dinner party on Sunday to honor son K, who was home from college on spring break and who had recently celebrated his 20th birthday.[1] Seeing as how Sunday was the 17th, That Irish Day, we had an Irishy menu [2] and MH made seating cards with shamrocks or some other leprechaun-worthy fauna decorative picture next to each guest’s name. Our youngest guest was the adorable, precocious, getting’-down-with-the-alphabet, 5 year old “Peach.” P had a minor dramatic episode when she noticed her mother’s name card, and she fussed to her father about it. “That can’t be where Mommy is sitting because it doesn’t start with an ‘M.’”
Her mother (whose name begins with S) relayed that story a couple of days ago, and I laughed to read her email. I was older than Peach but way younger than K when I first reflected upon the discrepancy in how adults address children and children address adults. Why was it, I ventured to ask certain tall people, that parents may and in fact do call their children by name, but kids are supposed to address their parents by their relationship? Mom calls me Robyn, not “second daughter,” but I must call her some variation of Mom, [3] even though her name is Marion. I didn’t see what respect had to do with it, but the tall people always included that word in their answer to my question.
A few years back a friend of mine shared this observation with me, about me: When I’m talking about my husband to my kids, I call him by name if I’m speaking about something between he and I (“I’m going to get M a book on owl pellets for his birthday”), and I refer to him as “Dad” if I’m talking about something between him and our hatchlings [4] (“Are you planning on getting Dad an owl pellet for his birthday?”). If MH calls on the phone and wants to speak with Belle or K, I vary the name-thing: “Mark wants to talk with you,” or, “Dad’s on the phone for you.”
I hadn’t noticed that, nor even thought about it, until said friend brought it up.
When I talk about my parents, sometimes I use their names and sometimes their parental “titles,” and sometimes upset my elder sibling, NLM, by doing the former. N was especially sensitive to this after our father’s death, four years ago. To her, N explained to me, it sounded less-than-appreciative of what a wonderful dad Chester Bryan Parnell was, to call him anything other than what we called him when we were kids, which was “Dad.” I reassured her that I have nothing but love and respect in my heart when I call our father by his given name…and warned her that I will likely continue to do so (although, in consideration of her feelings, I try to remember not to do it around her).
I love my father’s name – always have, for many reasons, including that it was unusual, and that he had acquired various nicknames he had over the years. [5] For whatever reasons, his smiling face and gentle, laughing green eyes become even more vivid to me when I think of him, my beloved Dad, as Chet.
* * *
Speaking of my father, I know he would have appreciated the following blurb, for both content and tone.
* * *
Hands free, my ass
To the guy who almost t-boned my vehicle when you turned left, at a stop sign from a side street onto a busy street, and my Madza 3 [6] was so right there, in broad daylight, lights on, no excuse not to see me unless you were distracted, and you looked right at me, or rather right through me, and even though our eyes made contact your brain was somewhere else. Your window was down and your mouth was moving – your car passed so close I could see your ear bud headset and hear you talking to someone who wasn’t in your vehicle – as I slammed on my brakes and swerved.
You are, apparently, yet another fool who has fallen for the lie [7] that hands-free cell phone devices are a solution to the risks of driver distraction. It doesn’t matter if it’s technically legal – once again, the law lags behind to the science. The law will catch up, and using a phone with brains hands-free anything will, eventually, be outlawed. Until then, dude, educate yourself as to the science behind distracted driving. Or don’t educate yourself. Stay ignorant if you must, but stay off your fucking cell phone, in any manner whatsoever, while your vehicle is moving.
* * *
Last weekend provided one of those last minute treats (besides escaping being taken out by a careless driver): friend Suzanne Mathis McQueen drove up to the Portland area from her home in Ashland for a quick weekend visit. The reason for the quickie was both personal (her two all-growed-up sons live nearby) and professional. The pro part involving Suz’s promotional activities in the Portland area for her book, 4 Seasons in 4 Weeks. One of the few people who looks as fine in real life as she does in her author’s photo (I could slap her for that, but I’d rather hug her), Suz is a wise, witty and compassionate person, a pro-woman, pro-man advocate who is also a kick in the pants to be around. Her book uses the unique, even poetic metaphor of the four seasons to characterize the cycles and rhythms of human life (think circadian, and expand). Along with her positive illuminations of life’s phases, the book’s pictures and illustrations are amazing. Flipping through the pages, I felt like I was in an art gallery.
* * *
Department of Even writing fiction you can’t make this stuff up
A deep, robust belly laugh strengthens the core/abdomen, makes your teeth look whiter and brighter and your children and spouse seem smarter. And cancer – it helps cancer, somehow. Etc. etc. A true belly laugh is a rare thing, as is lucid feedback for a writer. Feedback itself is hard to come by, and when you get it, ’tis sometimes constructive, sometimes neither here nor there, sometimes remarkably irrelevant, and sometimes downright face-palm worthy. As for the latter, my abs are firmer, my teeth whiter, I am cancer free and live with geniuses as per the laughter provided by the following incident.
Last July I’d queried a literary press to see if they’d be interested in considering a short story collection of mine. As per their guidelines I sent a sample story along with the query. They held on to that story for several months, and replied in October that they liked the story but didn’t understand it. I found this amusing; even so, at their request I sent them another story from my proposed collection.
(Note: that second story was published in the summer. One of the editors of the publishing journal told me they particularly liked the story’s narrative structure.)
This week I received an email from “The Editors” of the press. They wanted me to know that they’d given the story to their readers, many of whom liked it and some of whom didn’t. Thus, the editors felt “stalemated” and decided not to pursue my collection, but had asked one of the readers “who liked your work the most” to provide a short note of feedback for me.
Indeed, the feedback was short, although reading anything with the following WTF? gems seemed to last a lifetime. (my comments)
“Her (the story’s protagonist) flashback with ___ needs to come later. I feel like there is going to be a robbery, because she’s a convent store and there’s no conflict, but bring it in sooner. “
(* These “sentences” are almost incomprehensible to me. * The flashback is exactly where it should be. It would make no sense to have it later in the story, as it sets up subsequent action…which the reader should know, assuming the “reader” actually read the story. * Reader “feels like” there is going to be a robbery? Gee, maybe that’s because there is a robbery, in that very scene to which the reader refers. * The protagonist is not “a convent store,” whatever that is. * And if there is no conflict, how am I to “bring it in sooner”
“My biggest concern is that I don’t have a feel for ___. At first I think she’s kind of sad and structed and wimpy, but then she so boldly goes after the crook….What is her motivation for attacking him? …It’s all conflicting to me.”
(* My biggest concern is that I have a strong feeling that this press is seriously considering feedback from a remedial adult literary program dropout who thinks “structed” is a word. * What is her “motivation” for attacking him {the would-be robber, aka, “crook” – a term which, BTW, is never used in the story}? Uh, the fact that the robber threatened and then injured the clerk, and the protagonist had the means and opportunity to do something – maybe, that had something to do with it. Ya think? * Yeah, it’s all “conflicting” to me, too. Probably because I’m kind of “structed.”
The CPAC (Conservative Political Action Committee) convention, highlights of which included why-won’t-she-just-go-away Sarah Palin mocking Karl Rove and a straw poll in which Rand Paul narrowly defeated Marco Rubio for…for best Conservative Straw, is certainly worthy of commentary. [8] And speaking of gasbags, [9] although I am still enamored of singing goat videos – relax, you’re safe, none embedded here [10] – nothing quite brings a spring to my step as periodically viewing the compilation of the best of The Farting Preacher, aka Robert Tilton. [11] A fitting tribute for the infamous evangelical cheekflapper, and good wholesome fun for everyone.
Wishing you a weekend of love and laughter, and if you’re feeling “structed”, well, let ‘em rip. The hijinks will surely ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] My proud FB announcement of the occasion: Today my son is old enough to be the son of a mother who has a twenty year old son.
[2] Wine and honey glazed salmon; colcannon, soda bread, orange and green and white veggies.
[3] Or, “Moth-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” when disgusted as only an indignant child can be with her parent’s cluelessness.
[4] It’s flicker breeding season, perhaps you’ve heard? I’ve got birds on the brain.
[5] Chet was ahead of his time, going for daily runs when…well, when no one else did. An out-of-shape neighbor saw him heading for a run one afternoon and snickered, “There goes Chet-the-Jet.” The nickname stuck.
[11] Televangelist Tilton’s Success-N-Lifeswindle theology taught those so dumb they couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel gullible, credulous people that their burdens, in particular poverty, were a result of sin, but if they made certain “vows” (i.e. donations to Tilton’s ministry), God would reward the vow-maker with material riches.
The main reason my elderly mother should have internet access.
Forget all the practical reasons: the mental stimulation provided by keeping up with technology, promotion of intellectual vigor and independence, facilitation of communication, including keep up on the family news and receiving the pictures of grandkid that, these days, we tend to take (and send) digitally…. None of these factors have convinced her. Perhaps if she knew, if she really understood, that she’s missing out on the viral video memes, including my favorite: singing goats. There’s even a French version.
Happy belated Pi day, y’all
The Mighty Quinn got a review in Kirkus Reviews, [1] The review is live now for Kirkus subscribers, and will be available for anyone to see two weeks before the book’s scheduled publication date (so ~ May 1). Here are the quotes Scarletta Press is pulling from it:
“For her first middle-grade novel, set in Hillsboro, Ore, Parnell creates interesting child and adult characters and confronts them with serious issues, including child abuse, care for the environment, ethics and even skin color.” — Kirkus Reviews
“…it will certainly provide food for thought.” — Kirkus Reviews
“…one of the few books for the audience that discusses the possibility of not practicing a religion. (Fiction. 9-12)” — Kirkus Reviews
Further on in the review there is a mention of the action being “often humorously interrupted by the realities of family and school life,” but, golly gee, nothing about belching the Pledge of Allegiance or cultivating the friendship of dead mice or the applesauce-diarrhea art project (it’s not all serious stuff, folks)….
‘Tis a good thing – the review itself, and even getting a review, especially considering the chances any book has of getting reviewed by a legitimate book reviewing outlet. The stats, from Publishers Weekly via the Authors Guild Bulletin, vary only slightly year to year:
“Three thousand books are published daily (1,095,000 per year) in the U.S. Six thousand are reviewed, less than one percent of the total published.”
For someone who close-to-never reads book reviews,[2] my own or anyone else’s, this whole getting-a-review thing [3] is going to be an interesting experience for me. Interesting as in the actual meaning of interesting, rather than as how some people employ it as a passive negation of all things exciting or note-worthy. When my mother an older relative of mine remarks, as per the exotic [4](to her) dish I’ve cooked, “Isn’t that interesting?” she really means, “I don’t like the way that smells.”
My first book, This Here and Now, a collection of short fiction, was statistically consistent in that it was one of the 99+ percent that didn’t get reviews [5] . My Closet Threw a Party managed to get a couple,[6] although my editor didn’t bother to alert me to them.
About that pesky legitimate adjective, as per reviews. What with self-publishing and e-publishing, the reviewing game [7] has changed. There are services now that, for a price, will give your work a flattering review. The most recent Authors Guild Bulletin alerted me to an article in the New York Times, “The Best Reviews Money Can Buy“, which focused on one such service:
”Todd Rutherford offers a service that provides glowing “reviews” of self-published books. He charges $99 for one review, $499 for 20…. All of them will say your book is terrific. His reviews will say your novel is “shattering.” Or your book is a “classic memoir. Will change your life. Lyrical and gripping. Studding and compelling. Or words to that effect.”
Have the reviews in publishers weekly and the few newspapers and magazines that still review books become irrelevant?
The Times article said: “Consumer reviews are powerful because, unlike old-style advertising and marketing, they offer the illusion[8] of truth. The Federal Trade Commission has stated that all online endorsements need to make clear when there is a financial relationship, but enforcement has been minimal. So forget about the old-fashioned, serious reviews. They are barely clinging to life. From now on, selling a book will be just like selling perfume or breakfast cereal.”
A coda, of sorts: The guy in the article, the composer of for-hire rave reviews? He says that he is now suspicious of all online reviews — whether of books or of anything else. As my mother might say, isn’t that interesting?
* * *
Smarter People Than Us Said This
* If we are to keep our democracy, there must be one commandment: “Thou shalt not ration justice.” ~ Sophocles, Greek playwright
* It is certain, in any case, that ignorance, allied with power, is the most ferocious enemy justice can have. ~ James A. Baldwin, American Novelist, poet, social critic
* Corn can’t expect justice from a court composed of chickens. ~ anonymous African woman
* * *
Justice, schmustice. And by the way, what spirits were consumed by our spirited forefathers [9] that led to them to think ’twas a good idea to allow Supreme Court Justices to serve until they die or retire?
Nine of the most powerful people in the country are not elected by the people. Rather, they ascend to their position of power via political appointment. Supreme Court Judge is the only position in the federal government appointed for life. Once they’re there, there are no competency tests, no opportunity of voter recall.
Which brings me to SCOTUS Justice Antonin Scalia, aka the Rush Limbaugh of the Supreme Court. When it comes to being the poster boy for arrogant, white male privilege blindness Scalia has a litany of the-rules-don’t-apply-to-me incidents and statements, including his refusal to recues himself from a case involving his good friend and duck hunting buddy, Vice President Dick Cheney. More recently, Scalia criticized and quoted parts of the “Obamacare” law that weren’t actually in the law, admitted he hadn’t even read the law he’d criticized and was about to rule on, and laughed at the notion that he should actually attempt to read the Affordable Care Act before ruling on its legality.
Scalia’s most recent face-palming pronouncement came during the SCOTUS hearing on the renewal of the Voting Rights Act, one of the most successful pieces of civil rights legislation in U.S. history. Scalia said “This is not the kind of question you can leave to Congress,” [10] and labeled the continued existence of the Voting Rights Act a “perpetuation of racial entitlement.”
Emergency call for all budding inventors: please, ASAP, devise an intellectual equivalent of Depends for the mouth of Justice Scalia.
The only way Supreme Court Justices can be removed from office is via impeachment by the House of Representatives and conviction in a Senate trial, but only for the types of offenses that would trigger impeachment for any government official under Articles I and II of the Constitution. Such offenses have been interpreted by the courts to equate to “high crimes and misdemeanors.” Really, shouldn’t embarrassing themselves be somewhere in the criteria?
I don’t know which is more indicative of Scalia’s declining mental fitness, his (most recent) racial entitlement blather, or the fact that he thought a miniature pillow sham was fitting head ware for the Presidential Inauguration.
* * *
The sighting of the first purple crocus breaking through the topsoil – ah, the harbinger of spring! For one brief shining moment there is the reminder of the season to come…and then there is the reminder of the season to come. In my nose.
I used to love Spring, until my beloved Oregon [11] decided that the tax for residency for this ex-pat Californian would be levied in the form of fucking fauna sperm pollen allergies. I feel like a kind of seasonal Scrooge when I find myself reacting to the first series of sunny days with a Bah humbug! attitude toward the imminent nasal mucosal assault.
Last Saturday MH and I were treated to have a behind-the-scenes tour of the Oregon Zoo‘s updated Humboldt penguin habitat and facilities. Through our Conversation Circle membership and K’s and Belle’s involvement with Zoo Teens we’ve had many opportunities to go where no zoo guest has gone before, but this one was my favorite. I finally got to meet Mochica! Mochica is a penguin who imprinted on and was hand raised by humans – he seems to think he is human. I’d heard so much about him over the years, particularly from K, who’d done an internship with the penguin keeper. Mochica was just as described: observant, friendly, curious, intelligent, and with just enough eau d’herring to give one’s nasal passages a good workout. I got to scratch his favorite ahhh spot (the back of his neck…so soft), and Mochica gave me the high honor/vote of penguin confidence by grooming me, which in his case consisted of gently nibbling my forearm.
As you might imagine, much penguin hijinks ensued.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] One of the oldest book review magazines, Kirkus, reviews ~ 5000 titles per year.
[2] The two times a year times I read book reviews, I am reminded of why I don’t do it more often.
[3] Translation: reading reviews TMQ may get, and, frankly, convincing myself to care about them. Yep, I’m cranky that way.
[4] To her, cooking with spices other than Morton table salt and black pepper = exotic.
[5] Other than by its editor (which doesn’t count as objective, does it?) and consumer reviews on book sites.
[6] School Library Journal and Publisher’s Weekly.
[7] Given the statistics, I have always considered it a game.
[8] My emphasis, ad my comment: all reviews offer the illusion of truth. It’s all they can offer; it’s all an illusion.
I’ve lost track of how many and micra-leathermans I’ve had stolen by TSA agents and sold on ebay confiscated for national security purposes. Thus, I greeted the recent TSA Announcement – that they are lifting the ban on small knives and various sporting equipment in carryon luggage – by opening a can of It’s About F**ing Time.
The policy change, which will bring US airports in line with international standards, is based on a recommendation from an internal TSA group, which decided that nail clippers, tiny pocket knives and corkscrews represented no real danger, said David Castelveter, a spokesman for the department of Duh the agency.
Don’t you just feel like booking the next flight to wherever, and boarding with the largest allowable carryon bag filled with two golf clubs, a toy bat, ski poles, a hockey stick, a lacrosse stick and a pool cues…and, of course, your USS Enterprise pizza slicer.
Speaking of national security issues, a New York man was arrested for laughing too loudly. In his own home. [1] Yep. Robert Schiavelli was charged with acting “in such a manner as to annoy, disturb, interfere with, obstruct, or be offensive to others,” after Daniel O’Hanion, Schiavelli’s next-door neighbor, complained to police that the man’s [2] laughter could be heard – gasp – across the driveway.
I’ve always assumed my driveway to be an impenetrable, almost sacred barrier protecting me from the giggles, chuckles, titters, tee-hees, chortles, and unrestrained mirth of my neighbors. But…really?
I keep hoping to read a follow-up report, in which the complaining neighbor is arrested and charged with with acting in such a manner as to “in such a manner as to annoy, disturb, interfere with, obstruct, or be offensive to the non-douchebag population of America.” But until that glorious day, there must be a way to find this woman and pay her to stand in front of Mr. O’Hanion’s.
* * *
Son K turns twenty today. It seems like only yesterday I was screaming obscenities at the delivery nurses and threatening to castrate MH counting the seconds until I could hold my widdle cootie wootie snookums ookums in my arms. Happy Birthday, my boy. This Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan’s for you.
* * *
On Monday I did my first volunteer shift at Jackson Bottom Wetlands, where I will be helping collect data for a small mammal survey. While I was there I saw at two groups of small mammals: first graders [3] on a field trip, traversing the trails with their teachers and adult chaperones. One of the adults walked ahead of her group, to where I sat (just off-trail) with my data cards and supplies, and asked what I was doing. I showed her a data card and started to explain that I was helping with a biologist’s small mammal survey. She waved her hands above her head, exclaimed, “Kids, come here, it’s a scientist!” and then quickly whispered to me, “I’m going to say you’re a scientist, okay?
Not wanting to act under false pretenses, I made no dubious claims for myself, but did my best to don the veneer of a madman bent on world domination a friendly, responsible scientist.
I showed the students one of the tracking papers, upon which was imprinted the paw prints of voles and other rodents that had sampled the tracking tube’s bait. There were ooohs and aaahs for a minute or so, then their teacher led them down the trail, toward one of the wetland’s bird viewing shelters. A little boy turned around as his group was leaving and stepped back toward me. He made eye contact, smiled shyly, looked at his shoes and said, “Good scientist-ing!” I returned the smile, and the compliment: “Andgood student-ing to you!”
One boy and his father apparently stayed behind after their group had returned to their school busses. I saw exploring the trails, just the two of them. They came to where I was finishing up refitting the last of the tracking tubes. I gave the boy an inside look at the contraption, and told him how we used an upended film canister was used to hold the bait. As soon as the words had left my mouth I flashed a knowing glance at his father and said, “What am I saying? It’s a digital age – he probably doesn’t even know what a film canister is.” The boy’s eyes widened and he started telling me, in the great and glorious detail that can only be provided by an enthusiastic six year old, about how he uses a film canister to hold his “special dice collection.”
* * *
I assume y’all have made your plans for Pi day? The symbol pi, from the 16th letter of the Greek alphabet, (π) is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. Pi is usually calculated to 3 digits, 3.14, thus Pi Day is celebrated March 14 (which also happens to be Albert Einstein’s birthday). On the annual celebration commemorating the mathematical constant π (pi), you can eat pie, discuss the discussing the significance of the number π ,listen to the pi song…and have plenty of time left over to eat more pie.
In the past few years I’ve made special dinners on Pi day, serving different combinations of foods that are not necessarily pie but that are…well…round food. I’ve no menu plan for next week, and haven’t yet decided how much thought I want to put into it.
When I can’t or don’t want to think too much about what to make for dinner, I have a fallback dish that I’ve come to think of as my Portlandia special: put a bird on it.
I love my Portlandia dinner because it’s easy, tasty, healthy, and I can cuisine-it up or down: Italian, Spanish, Indian, Mexican, Moroccan, pacific Northwest …. even Norwegian [4]. Gather finely diced onions; carrots; celery; garlic; peppers; ginger – whatever base your cuisine fancy requires. Sauté your aromatics[5] in a large cast iron skillet. Add other sliced and/or diced veggies, greens, whatever you have on hand, whatever spices fit the taste you’re going for, some cooked grains or leftover plain pasta you have in the frig. Or you can skip the stovetop and go the roasting route: toss everything together with some EVOO and stick the skillet in the oven. When the veggies are done to your preference, add the eggs. One egg per person; crack each egg into a small bowl, gently press down with the back of a spoon to make a “nest” for each egg in the pan, add the eggs, and return the pan to the oven (if on the stove, cover it and turn the heat to low) until the eggs are set.
Top it all with a light sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan if you’re going an Italian or Mediterranean route, or a dollop of Greek yogurt thinned with lemon or lime juice (for Mexican or Indian flavors), or other cheeses, any fresh herbs, and a good grind of black pepper.
* * *
The SCM Department of Because I’m Petty That Way
Ah, the cheap thrill, remembering that feeling akin to schedenfraude…. How do I adequately describe the perverse satisfaction I received the other day when I was driving home from an errand and had to stop at the stoplight by an LA Fitness Club? I looked at just the right moment at just the right place, and saw a young(er), moderately fit woman attired in fashionable exercise togs exit the club, pull a bag of Cheese Doodies [6] (not to be confused with Cheetos ® [7]) from her purse, and begin noshing like a bulimic on death row.
* * *
It was a slow week for politics…oh, that’s a lie. I just wasn’t paying attention. Until this caught my eye.
Karen, I’d advise you to aim the knife a good deal lower.
Although literary and publishers have the (deserved) reputation for being resistant to change and slow to adapt to technology, the past few years have seen even many of the olde-time journals modify their guidelines. Publishers and journals who only accept hard copy/snail mail queries and submissions have become, in my experience, the minority.
Being able to submit manuscripts and correspond electronically has significantly reduced business expenses for me and other writers. I enjoy the lowered postage and paper and toner costs, and increased efficiency of correspondence. But, I miss the postage stamps.
I’m no philatelic by any stretch of the definition. Still, on the increasingly-rare opportunities when I have to mail a manuscript, I enjoy choosing the stamps for the task. A sixteen page story, plus cover letter and SASE, requires 4 ounces of postage, and as much as possible, I will “customize” choosing the various stamp combinations which will total the necessary $1.50 for the first class/large envelope fee.
My customization is idiosyncratic, peculiar, [1] sometimes admittedly petty, and until this daring revelation, known by and meaningful to only moiself. It includes such “guidelines” as:
* When submitting to journals with all-male names on the masthead, I choose stamps featuring female authors and artists
* When sending materials to publishers located in southern states with a history of slavery and/or segregation, I go for stamps honoring African-Americans and/or civil rights.
* For journals whose guidelines have overt or implicit religious or spiritual overtones, I choose stamps honoring scientists or other secular achievers.
And now you know.
* * *
I don’t often watch the network news or any TV news. For a reason that now escapes me I turned on ABC World News Tonight earlier this week and saw, for the first time, substitute host David Muir. Muir is apparently a legit reporter [2] and not a Chippendale’s model posing as a newsman on special assignment for Donald Trump’s latest reality show. I was taken…aback? affront? a-sideways? by his nudge-nudge-wink-wink delivery style. His sly glances, his way of slightly turning to the side and then looking directly into the camera made me think there was some off-mic photographer urging him on (in a heavily exaggerated fake Italian accent):
“Yes, yes, zer zey are, give zem more, you makealove de to de camera…”
Hmmmm. Maybe it’s just me, I thought. Or, it’s something to do with the specific story he’s reporting. I changed channels for a few minutes, then returned to ABC. There he was, on with another story, and those playful intonations and coy mannerisms. Every man, woman, and golden retriever staring at their television set was receiving this unmistakable subtext: “Yes, it’s true, I know what you look like naked.”
A Google search revealed that Muir is considered something of an “info Hunk,” a category I heretofore had no idea existed, by both gay male and straight female news groupies devotees. Ah, the joys perils of enlightenment.
Should the USA and its allies prevent Iran from developing nuclear weapons and thwart North Korea’s series of underground missile testing? Can the Social Security system be reformed, or should it be gutted and redesigned? How can renewable, non-polluting energy sources be developed in the face of ongoing budget crises and societal inertia? The answers to these and a myriad of other pressing questions are complex almost beyond belief. But, thank the FSM [3], there is someone willing to tackle one of life’s most insidious dangers: demonic possession of used goods.
Y’all might need to get out the smelling salts for this revelation. You know that hideous vintage Rudolph the Red-Nose reindeer Christmas sweater you got for next to nothing at the thrift shop? Did you think you were being a smart consumer when you got that crockpot at a garage sale instead of buying a new one? A certain religious evangelist, whose thoughtful intellectual discourse is rivaled only by that of a weed whacker, has some news for you.
In the World According to Telewhackadoodlery,[4] not only do demons exist, but these evil spirits can attach themselves to inanimate objects. That classic thesaurus you found at the Goodwill for only $1.50 – you don’t really know where it has been, do you? You’d better pray the second hand Roget away , lest it rise up in the night and unleash its demonic [5] powers upon you.
Thus, the return of the Horseradish-and-Batshit Crazy Yap Flapper award goes to perennial award contender, Pat Robertson
Last weekend MH and had lunch at PF Chang’s. As usual, fortune cookies came with the tab. MH opened his, and unlike many fortune cookies, this one contained an actual fortune; i.e., a forecast or prediction.[6] He read his aloud, we both had a laugh, and I eagerly tore my cookie in half and discovered…nothing. No fortune; it was empty. Apparently, there is no future for me.
The busy week: Monday, Belle and I had our last CAT volunteer shift. Due to financial considerations, the feline-exclusive, no kill-shelter is closing a couple of its outreach adoption sites, including the one at the Hillsboro Petsmart, where we’ve volunteered since 2007. We’re still in a bit of shock and mourning over this, and hope to be able to volunteer for CAT in some other capacity in the future. The closing of one volunteer opportunity freed me up for another one, and on Monday, I fulfilled a long-time I-should-do-this goal and interviewed at Jackson Bottom Wetlands Preserve. I will assume weekly volunteer duties there starting next Monday, where I will be helping gather information for a biologist’s small mammal survey. My new motto is: I Love Voles.
This week also saw the beginning of high school track season, which means Belle juggles two hour daily track and field practices with an afterschool job, her Oregon Zoo Teen volunteer duties, and the homework that comes with taking a bajillion AP classes…and which means MH and I juggle the resultant teen conveyor duties.[7] Where is the transporter promised by Star Trek? Where is the Jetson’s Jetpak? Dammit, the future was supposed to be here, by now.
Thursday night we had a most yummer dinner with friends, the lovely and talented couples MB & RB, and JR & DC. After dinner we all attended the opening preview reception for the Celebration of Creativity, an annual art show that, this year, runs through Sunday 3/3. This juried fine arts exhibit and sale features original works from 80+ artists in 15+ different media categories, from photography, jewelry, sculpture, fiber, glass, oils, wearables, acrylic, water color, pastels, garden sculptures, woodworking, pottery, mixed media…. Friend and artist LAH has a variety of pieces in this year’s show. MH & I have purchased many objects ‘d’art at the show (read: there is no more room on our walls), and look forward to seeing this year’s works.
As a patron of the arts [8] I often find myself thinking about the differences between fine art and fiction, especially when it comes to public showings or “sales.” At an art show, the art is right there – it is immediate. You see a painting or sculpture in its entirety. You can walk away from it, or it can grab you by the throat right then and there, or come back to haunt you as you peruse the other booths but keep thinking, I really, really love that enormous cable fish. There is little or no leap of “faith” required in its purchase.
In my few experiences at book fairs, both as a buyer and an author, I’ve come to think of them as dicey ventures. You walk by a table, there’s an author with a book, you see the author, you see the book and its jacket illustrations…but there are a whole lotta pages in between the front and back covers. Perhaps you can scan the cover blurbs [9] , perhaps the author reads select passages from the work, but you don’t know you’re going to like (or loathe) it until after you’ve bought it.
FYI, Cable Fish was rubber chicken-free at time of purchase.
May your weekend be artful, and may the hjinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] And also limited by the currently available stamp selection. I hate it when they discontinue my favorites.
[2] which is probably no news to everyone except moi, who, as stated, does not kept up with TV news.
[6] Attention, fortune cookie makers: complimentary statements are not fortunes. “People like you,” is not a fortune. “People like you are destined for disfiguring automobile accidents,” now, that’s a fortune.
[7] thanks to budget cuts, the bus doesn’t go where she needs to go at the times she needs to get there…and she still hasn’t taken her driver’s license test.
[8] My definition: I buy stuff. Art stuff. From artists whose works make me go, “Wooooo!”
[9] Hardly the place for objective recommendations. When’s the last time, after reading a mediocre novel, you realized you should have heeded the quotation on the book flap, which warned, ” Destined to become a classic the truth is, the prose is boring and derivative, the plotting is plodding. Get yourself a book of KenKen puzzles instead.”
Monday, February 11. I headed upstairs (where the backup TV/DVD player resides), a glass of champagne in my hand.
“You’re going to watch something – what?” K asked me.
“Band of Brothers.”
“Oh,” she replied. “Of course.”
Monday was the four year anniversary of my father’s death. He’d called the night before, and we talked for a long time, longer than usual (we talked on the phone at least once a week). He was in a reflective mood. [1] One of the many things we talked about was the HBO series, Band of Brothers. The year after the series came out on DVD I purchased the set for my parents – a Christmas gift, I think. Besides being one of the greatest mini-series in the history of the genre, B-B was the impetus for many detailed conversations between my father and me, about his experiences as a paratrooper in WWII [2] and also those of another paratrooper, his brother-in-law, my Uncle Bill. [3]
My family hears the elegiac, haunting main theme wafting down the stairway, and they know where I am. And what I’m thinking about.
I don’t know how to describe the greatness that is Band of Brothers. So I won’t. Just watch it, if you haven’t already. Were I ever to meet Steven Spielberg and/or Tom Hanks, I would thank them, profusely, for producing that series. Not a word about Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull or The Money Pit would cross my lips.
* * *
Tuesday morning I had leftover frittata for breakfast. Earlier in the week I’m made a kale,[4] potato, onion, Spanish (smoked) paprika, parmesan cheese frittata for dinner. I don’t know if my father ever had a frittata, for any meal. I do know he would have liked it.
A great scene in a greatly underrated movie, Morning Glory:[5] Grouchy, veteran, respected but currently unemployed television journalist Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford, in a credible Mike Wallace mode) has been essentially blackmailed into becoming the co-host of DayBreak, a ratings-poor, national morning show of the “infotainment” style Pomeroy despises. Pomeroy tries to sabotage the show by getting drunk, refusing to banter with co-host Colleen Peck (a cheerfully acid Diane Keaton), and by making use of a clause in his contract that allows him to refuse assignments, like cooking segments, that he considers beneath him. Pomeroy eventually forms a mutual if grudging admiration with Becky Fuller, (Rachael McAdams), DayBreak’s new, “Energizer Bunny” producer. When DayBreak begins to rise in popularity and ratings, Becky receives a job interview from a rival show. Colleen tells Mike that his refusal to adapt has driven Becky away. He goes to the TV set kitchen where food segments are done, and Becky watches in shock as Pomeroy shows the viewers how to make a frittata.
* * *
Always nice to have something to look forward to, and I – we – have May 13 – 19, which is Children’s Book Week.
CBW is the yearly celebration of “books for young people and the joy of reading.” Every year during CBW author and illustrator appearances, storytelling, parties, and other book-related events are held at schools, libraries, bookstores, museums across the country.
Mark your calendars, if you are a local. Tuesday, Tuesday, May 14, starting at 7 pm, moiself and two other authors will be doing a reading and book signing at Powell’s City of Books, at their Cedar Hills Crossing (Beaverton) location. This event has just been scheduled; I don’t yet know all the logistical details it will involve (walking up and down the book stack aisles, wearing a sandwich board advertising The Mighty Quinn?), but you can be certain I’ll post further harassments reminders as the date approaches.
Powell’s is the largest independent new and used bookstore in our solar system, and if you don’t know this, well…. Even if you’re from waaaaay out of town (any New Hampshire readers out there?), you need to make a pilgrimage to Powell’s if you are any kind of a book lover. If not for my event, then soon. So, you can’t fly to Portland in May? Not to worry, there is a Children’s BW event somewhere near you.
Whatever your favorite childhood book is, was, or will be, may the remembrance of it be worthy of the Pretty Purple Toe award.
* * *
No political commentary, nor rehashes of the latest misogynist pinhead proclamations in this week’s post. I am too focused on fathers and frittatas and positive memories to celebrate, say, the resignation of the leader of one of the most wealthy, opulent, hypocritical, corrupt cults on the planet one mere pope. Now, if we could get all priests, imams, preachers, lamas, gurus, popes — and the ovine followers who give them “authority” – to resign…. Yeah, you can wake me for that breaking news.
* * *
In honor of Valentine’s Day, a reminder of that most romantic of date movies, When Harry Met SallySnakes On a Plane Snakes In a Dish.
Because I can only imagine that when Samuel L. Jackson gets serious about love – about anything – hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] The temptation, of course, is to think he had some kind of premonition. No evidence or proof of that, on my part. Just gratitude.
[2] In his case, training for the invasion of Japan that never came, due to Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
[3] Bill somehow survived actions from North Africa to Italy to D-Day to the Battle of the Bulge. Not surprisingly, he was hospitalized after the war for what was then called “Shell Shock”, now understood as PTSD.
[4] Observant readers will note that it is bok choy, and not kale, in the picture. What can I say – all the kale went in the frittata.
[5] I love Roger Ebert’s review of what makes the comedy so enjoyable: “It grows from human nature and is about how people do their jobs and live their lives.”
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.
!["Stand back…" from webcomic xkcd [6]](http://blogimnotwriting.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/standback-002.jpg?w=500&h=287)
