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.
A 55-year-old man was taken to Legacy Emanuel Medical Center Monday after accidentally sparking a fire inside his downtown Portland apartment. Lt. Rich Chatman, a Portland Fire and Rescue spokesman, said Rafael Borgos was smoking while using an oxygen machine, igniting the element and sparking the fire.
JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone was rejected by a dozen publishers before its acceptance by Bloomsbury. Lord of the Flies was turned down by over 20 publishers, one of whom found William Golding’s manuscript “an absurd and uninteresting fantasy which was rubbish and dull.” F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby was dismissed by one publisher with the curt counsel, “You’d have a decent book if you’d get rid of that Gatsby character.”
Besides talent, imagination, hard work and perseverance, you need thick skin to be a writer. The good news: if you are one of those Sensitive Creative Types ® born without a hide as substantial as a rhinoceros’s, there is help for you.
Not content to rest on their laurels as one of the most prestigious online literary journals, [1]Stoneslide Corrective also provides an immeasurable service to authors via their Rejection Generator project:
“The Rejection Generator rejects writers before an editor looks at a submission. Inspired by psychological research showing that after people experience pain they are less afraid of it in the future, The Rejection Generator helps writers take the pain out of rejection.”
It’s really quite simple. Give your email address to the Rejection Generator, and in a few minutes and you’ll receive a rebuff that is as random, dispiriting and annoying as a literary journal’s typical impersonal rejection, and you didn’t have to bother with formatting (or even submitting) a manuscript.
I was thrilled when I received an invitation from Stoneslide’s editor to provide “Guest Editor” rejection letters. Don’t waste another minute of your valuable time trying to actually get some work done – get yourself to the Rejection Generator, and the next snide dismissal of your creative aspirations could be from moiself.
More notes from the glamorous literary life.
Earlier this week I was researching A Certain Literary Agent, checking the agent’s listing on writersmarket.com and other writers’ resources. I vet all agent and publisher listings against their citation on Preditors and Editors, an independent, clearing house-ish site wherein writers report their experiences with agents and publishing services. “We’re hearing good things about this agent” is P & E’s remark about A Certain Literary Agent. Perhaps this is due to ACLA’s list of Recent Salesto Publishers, which, among other intriguing tomes, includes the book How to Light a Fart.
My first reaction was, This is the agent for me! Upon further reflection, an entire book on how to light a fart? That was, at most, five minute tutorial at my grade school. [2]
* * *
Speaking of students and their proclivity for and interest in emissions ignition, finally, a surefire way to get your kids interested in both science and history:
I’m trying for a graceful segue to…something else. Anything else. Trust me. It isn’t easy, once you’ve been bitten by the banana blaster bug. [3] Still, I shall endeavor to address more refined subjects.
Some of our most beloved literary works feature a disconcerting yet truthful depiction of the moral malaise of post-Industrial megalopolises. Brutally accurate renderings of the modern urbanite’s disdain for the ethical strictures of the bourgeois can be found in the novels of
Have you ever seen a cat fart on a waterbed? It’s really funny.
No! Stop!
Can you tell that my forthcoming book’s target audience is ages 9 – 12? [4] Should my publisher and editors come across this blog post, they will no doubt heave sighs of relief to recall that The Mighty Quinn contains no references to characters piloting the posterior crop duster. [5] Belching the Pledge of Allegiance, now, that’s another matter.
Yes, as per subject matter right now I’m in desperate need of an IQ elevation. Where’s the Masterpiece Theatre theme song when I need it?
Much better. Although I’m still in a mood. Perhaps I’ve gone too long without seeing a new screaming goat remix video. [6]
Moving right along to This Stupid Day in Recent History:
April 12 is the birth date of Tiny Tim, American “singer” best known for his taste-free falsetto/vibrato renditions of vaudeville classics, and his many appearances on the 60′s sketch comedy program Laugh-In. T-Tim would have been 79 today had he not died in 1996 from stringy hair syndrome heart disease.[7]
Other notable/cultural April 12 milestones include:
1988: Sonny Bono was elected mayor of Palm Springs California.
1966: Jan Berry of the surf-rock duo Jan & Dean received severe head injuries when he crashed his Corvette into a parked truck near Dead Man’s Curve in Beverly Hills. [8]
1954 – Bill Haley & the Comets recorded “Rock Around Clock.”
1934: Highest velocity wind broke all records at Mt. Washington, NH, 231 mph.
That last citation was NOT a thinly veiled return to fart references. But if you insist.
Breaking (sorry) headline of the week
From a NY Times story about prospective New York City mayoral candidates discussing the possibility that former Rep. Anthony Weiner (you remember the I got a rocket in the pocket of my mighty tighty whitey dude? [9]) might join the race:
[7] His cover of Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” is guaranteed to send Nancy Reagan to a meth rehab facility.
[8] The song Dead Man’s Curve, which included sounds of a car skidding and crashing, was a hit for the duo in 1964.
[9] In May 2011, the married 46 year old Rep. Weiner tweeted photos of his underwear-clad, I’m-so-happy-to-see-you naughty bits to a 21-year-old female college student who’d been following his social media posts. In the ensuing scandal, dubbed “Weinergate” by a grateful press, other such pictures to other women soon surfaced, and Weiner resigned his congressional seat in June 2011.
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.”
“I always thought lawyers and academics had the markets cornered on meaningless accolades, but writers make them look like pikers. I think there’s an inverse relationship between money earned and laurels cited. I wonder if it could be proved mathematically.”
(SCM, attorney, blogger, writer, Regency Errata warden, astute observer of The Human Condition)
The previous and following exchanges are brought to you via SCM’s[1] e-wondering about the authenticity of a ____ award, claimed by X in X’s writer’s bio (“Do you really think that _____ counts?”).
My reply: Oh my sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, it’s an award winning writer! And another, and another….
These days you can’t spit without hitting an award-wining writer (and I have tried). Of course, X’s “award” it doesn’t count. IMHO, none of them do. It’s this circle jerk game, allegedly to confer honor (read: publicity) upon both the award or contest winner, and the journal or organization that bestows the laurel. Writing awards, prizes, contests — it’s become like the kiddies’ soccer team, where everyone gets a trophy, eventually, just for showing up and paying the participation fee. Hollow decoration, for those who know what be going down.
And yet, editors more often than not ask you to list “any prizes or awards” in your submissions cover letter. In order not to feel like a schmuck and maintain a modicum of integrity (given my rather jaundiced opinion on the literary awards biz), I have to list my brush with honor thusly:
In 2012 I was able to fine tune my I-don’t-care-about-winning-it’s-an-honor-just-to-be-nominated speech when my story “Here is What,” published in Bellevue Literary Review, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
I wrote a snarky essay about the subject, titled “You Can Be (Or Already Are) An Award-Winning Writer!” An article that makes fun of the contests and/or/awards that literally every literary journal has/holds? Yeah, sure. There’ll be massive bidding wars over the rights to print that. I tried to get the essay published, despite my advisory mantra to myself (“this will be impossible to publish — everyone has an awards contest !!!”). I toned down the snark, and appealed to an editor’s sense of Of -course-We-can-laugh-at-ourselves[2] in my cover letter:
Few writers would mind having the description Pulitzer Prize-winning author attached to their name, but what about “Winner of the Punta Gorda Prize for Swamp Prose” [3] as one’s claim to literary fame? The proliferation of literary awards is the subject of “You Can Be (or Already Are) an Award-Winning Writer!”, my essay that takes a good-humored look t this all-too-normal aspect of the writing life.
I sent a copy of the article to SCM, who graciously and enthusiaastically offered to post my essay on her blog. If that wasn’t honor enough, she also bestowed upon it the Atttorney At Large Award for Aimless Accolade Assassinations, or AALAAAA.
Damn the torpedoes and f*** the Pulitzer [4] , I’ve got an AALAAAA.
AALAAAA! AALAAAA! It sounds like the battle cry of literary triumph!
Unfortunately, it also sounds like a terrorist’s last-ditch attempt at self-assurance as he reaches for the grenade strapped to his chest….
Show me someone who is always smiling, always cheerful, always optimistic, and I will show you someone who hasn’t the faintest idea about what the heck is going on.
(Mike Royko, 1932 – 1997)
* * *
MH returned on Sunday from a three day business trip to Texass Texas.[5] It has become our family tradition that when we travel to purchase a deck of cards with some kind of “local” connection. MH returned with an Original-Historical Drawings of Texas deck: each card has a unique drawing of an aspect of Texas history and culture, from the Rattlesnake Roundup to Congresswoman Barbara Jordan to The Yellow Rose of Texas. I got a kick out of the description for the five of heart’s San Antonio Riverwalk: “…known as ‘The Venice of Texas’…”
Talk about damning with praise, faint or otherwise.
Whaddya mean, there’s nothing going on? Upcoming celebrations include Darwin Day, a global celebration of science and reason held on or around Feb. 12, the birthday anniversary of evolutionary biologist Charles Darwin.
There are few things more synergistic than celebrating Darwin’s birthday with discourse about the Flying Spaghetti Monster.[6] In the immortal words of the inimitably interesting, intelligent and impudent [7]Rachael Maddow, “I like my evolution reporting with a side of carbs.”
I still can’t wrap my mind around the phrasing: “lifting the ban on women in combat.” Women have been participating – and dying – in wars, in combat, ever since the sorry concept was constructed by some pissed off Neanderthal. Only now, they can get credit? Lifting the obliviousness about the reality is more like it
The old saw about protecting the women and children flies and spits and shakes its impertinent ass in the face of the fact that, during wartime, civilian deaths always outnumber military casualties. And who are the civilians? The much-vaunted “women and children,” whose protection from the evil, encroaching ___ (insert enemy of choice) is cited as justification for combat.
Objective consideration of a person’s ability to do a job, any job, should be gender-blind. Most of us civilians – and even a few former and active soldiers, it seems – forget that the majority of those in the armed services never set foot on what used to be called the front or battle lines [8] ; the majority comprise the support staff, on which the “warriors” depend. Every soldier has to be prepared to fight, but most contribute to the fight through transport, medic, food, equipment procurement, distribution and maintenance positions. Or, as Napoleon Bonaparte, famous miliitary leader and infamous sufferer of Short Man’s Syndrome put it, “An army marches on its stomach.”
Not every male soldier makes the cut (or desires to) for combat positions, and the wash-out rate for the so-called elite combat units is high (the all-volunteer paratroopers units, in which my father served during WWII, had a wash-out rate of over 80%). Review the standards for the job. Keep the physical and mental standards truly appropriate to the job, and have only those who meet the standards, men and women, young and old, gay and straight, qualify for those positions.
One bubagoo the silly voices raise: okay then, all of you miss smarty-panties, if all military positions are open to women, what about women registering for the draft?
Well, what about it? The U.S. Constitution (Article I, Section 8) authorizes Congress “To raise and support Armies…” and goes on to permit the regulation and training of such armies [9]. Nowhere is the gender (or age or ethnicity) of these Armies mentioned. Of course, we can assume that the framers assumed an all-male (and Caucasion) army; nevertheless, but all it says is Congress has the power to raise Armies.
If it served Congress to do so, I have no doubt that women would be drafted in a heartbeat. Or so was my argument in the late 1970s-early 1980s, when some of us were still trying to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed. Register for the draft? Pass the frigging ERA and I’ll register for your friggin’ draft.
About the appropriate standards. Police academies used to have minimum height standards which effectively screened out most female – and Asian and Hispanic male – applicants. Thirty-plus years ago I remember reading an article in the Orange County register about a Vietnamese-American man who desperately wanted to be a cop. This was at the time when police and fire agencies in California were desperate to increase the number Asian and Hispanic officers. The man was intelligent and independent [10] and eager to serve, kept himself in awesome physical shape — he did everything he could to qualify, and he would have, except that he was ~ an inch shorter than the minimum height requirement. And, okay, so maybe this part of the story tempers the previous remark about his intelligence, but he decided to re-apply to the academy, and before taking the next physical exam he had his wife repeatedly bonk him on the head with a wooden plank, to try and raise a bump that would get him to the minimum height level.
I don’t know what happened to the bonkers-for-cops dude, but it wasn’t long before anti-height discrimination lawsuits provided the nudge for the police to evaluate their policies, and most agencies subsequently, eventually, eliminated the minimum height requirements. Unlike the cinematic shoot-’em-up image, the majority of police work involves negotiation skills, keeping cool under pressure, the ability to quickly evaluate and de-escalate dangerous situations…and, yes, kick ass if and when necessary. As police departments around the nation have discovered, if you can pass the police academy training, assessment and examinations (including lifting and dragging a 160 lb dummy, weapons and marksmanship training, tolerate getting pepper-sprayed and tasered), the fact that you’re lacking an inch doesn’t matter.
Which, of course, women have been telling men for years.
Should someone ever insult me in a most egregious manner, there is one thing that could make it better: if I could get George Takei to call that person a douchebag. No one does douchebag like George, as you may recall when he famously took down the Arkansas school board member who called for gay teens to kill themselves.
Ain’t nobody out to get me that I know of. But there are no shortage of botox-brained blowholes worthy of being Takei-shamed, including Alabama high school football coach and psychology (I kid you not) teacher, Bob Grisham.
(From salon.com articleAn Alabama high school football coach has been suspended for 10 days without pay for making anti-gay comments and for referring to the first lady as “fat butt Michelle Obama” during a class last week. It was in the middle of a class discussion that Bob Grisham told his students: “I don’t believe in queers. I don’t like queers. I don’t hate them as a person, but what they do is wrong and an abomination against God,” the Times Daily reports.
I’m trying to imagine a classroom discussion in which a teacher thought it relevant to comment on the First Lady’s posterior, disparage “queers,” and blame justify his hateful, paranoid ignorant opinions to his Imaginary Friend. But that would require more drinking than I’m willing to do right now. Instead, let the hijinks ensue and take it away, George.
[2] A quality which few Serious Literary Lions (editors, publishers, or writers) are known for.
[3] The actual title of an actual, if erstwhile, literary award.
[4] At least until people agree on how to pronounce it.
[5] Well, he was in Austin, which, I am told, is more like the People’s Republic of Texas.
[6] In yet another Oregon Claim to Fabulousness ® , the Church of the FSM was started by Oregon State University physics graduate student Bobby Henderson
[8] with today’s increasing use of kill-from-afar technologies, and wars of terrorism and insurgencies, “front line”-style warfare may soon be an exhibit in the Smithsonian.
[9] Interestingly, it also states that “no Appropriation of Money to that Use shall be for a longer Term than two Years;” which seems to make our maintaining of our standing armed forces unconstitutional.
[10] He defied his relative’s wishes by wanting to become a cop, a profession seen as dishonorable by many Asian immigrants, who came from countries where the police forces were corrupt.
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)
