Some Have Hats

The Prosecution Rests

Or, at least, wishes she could.

Someone in the combox posted a "has anybody heard of this guy?" link.  I clicked on it.  I kid you not, it was my priest.  Pictured below.

But this is the must-see photo.

But wait, there's more:

Click here for his lyrics.

Click here to see his memorabilia.

Click here for a wide assortment of articles about him, and photos of him wearing Bruce Springsteen's  hand-me-downs.

I am very grateful to the person who supplied this link, because I have spent three years now, sitting in the pew, trying to figure this guy out.  The website was an eye-opening experience in that regard. 

Not comforting, but definitely eye-opening.

 

Warning: Stay Away From Beverages While Watching the Following

It is possible that you have to be a Facebook type in order to understand this, but I don't think so.  I laughed so hard I missed half of it and will have to go back and watch again.

(p.s. This and the new Charlie made me decide against suicide. Oh yeah, and the threat of Hell.)

Bye.

Thanks to Diogenes, this will be my last blog post.  Because I have to go kill myself now.

Way Too Good to Be True: Charlie, the Sequel!!!!

Another One Bites the Dust

Deadline that is.  Actually, that had long since come and gone. But I just finished my first draft of my first Brotherhood script.  I am a happy camper.  At least, I am between now and 2 p.m., when I get notes on it.

But even then, I will be happy.  There is NOTHING worse than a first draft.  If I ever drive my car into on-coming traffic, I can promise you that there will be a half-finished first draft in the seat next to me.

Tonight I'm celebrating with Nicolosi. Tomorrow night with Matt Lickona and the lovely Mrs. Matt Lickona. 

Barbara and I have been invited (by a "fan" -- I'm not sure of whom or what, but I do NOT look gift food & wine in the mouth) to this restaurant, which is supposed to be one of the best in L.A., if not the country, if not the world, if not... you get the drift.  I just love the fact that it's called Providence, and I'm celebrating finishing a script that is both set in and completely about the city.  And then there's, you know, Providence.

I'm trying to decide which of my favorite restaurants the Lickonas would like to try. 

I like this part of writing!

p.s. Only my husband could tell you how accurate that picture is.

It Ain't Shakespeare, But...

I'm always a little touchy about people using words like "stupid" and "garbage" when talking about what I do for a living. In large part because it is and always has been factually incorrect.  Yes, there are always embarrassing examples of the art form, out there for everyone to see and scoff at. But as I've said for three decades, read me the current NYT bestsellers list.

I'm not here to pick a fight. But it was on my mind as I returned to the office today.  Because here's how the first five minutes went:

[Exchange of amenities and "You're FINALLY here!" etc.]

Me: So how's it going?
Writer A (indicating Writer B): He made me lose my Hobbesian run.
Me: (looking at Writer B): You didn't. Why?

Writer B gets a smirky look on his face.

Me:   It must have been for length because it couldn't have been for lack of brilliance.
Writer B:  No, it was too brilliant.
Writer A: He thought it wasn't believable.
Me: Oh. This doesn't bode well for my Marcus Aurelius run and call-back.

Writer B gives me a look.

Me:  It's motivated.  There's a statue of him at Brown.
Writer B: Okay... I guess that could work.
Writer A:  Hey, wait a minute!
...

(For the overly curious:  Hobbes is gone. Jury is still out on Marcus Aurelius.  Stay tuned.)

Update on Mars...and L.A.

I am FINALLY in L.A.  I am typing like mad to finish my script before midnight so the guys can read it in the a.m. and I can get notes tomorrow afternoon. 

My flights were very nice today.  LAX, on the other hand, was a ring of Hell Dante somehow missed.  Forty-five minutes for the bags to show up. (There was some kind of mechanical malfunction in the belt that drops them down the slide to the passengers.)  Another half an hour of standing on the curb waiting for the Avis shuttle.  Meanwhile, the Hertz, Dollar, Budget, National, Enterprise, and several unknown (but prompt) shuttles passed me four times each.  I finally called Avis' 800 number and expressed displeasure.  The nice lady transferred my call to the L.A. office at LAX.  It rang a lot and finally I hung up.  I stood there for another ten minutes and had many uncharitable thoughts that involved the stock market and the Avis' CEO's. 

While stuck in traffic on the way to the airport in Orlando this morning, I placed a call to North Carolina -- the one I'd been dreading -- and asked Brandon the caretaker how Mars was doing.  I am happy to report that God answers even prayers about 34 year old horses. Brandon reported that Mars is fine, seems just like his old self.

In honor of that, I'm posting another photo from our glory days.  He's a different color here because it was summer and we were going to a lot of shows and he was shaved as bare as we could get him for expedience in the horse version of a car wash.  For folks who don't know, you actually squeegee a horse after you bathe them, so the short coat helps that process immensely. But Mars' summer coat is not as lovely as his winter coat.  In fact, my friends used to tell me that he looked "tubercular" in the summer. 

(When I first bought him, his name was "Sunny."  I thought that was a dumb name for a big red horse, so I changed it to Mars.  Then I had him clipped for the first time, and it made a little more sense.)

Here is a fact that will be marginaly interesting and will get you nowhere in life: the day after this photo was taken, I found out that Julie was on the way.  (Having lived through a miscarriage exactly six weeks before, I packed Mars up and we went right home!)

For Your (Equine) Edification

A regular reader (hi Rod!) sent me a link to St. Eligius, the patron saint of sick horses.

I also found the following online:

Saint Stephen was venerated as patron of horses from early times. A poem of the tenth century pictures him as the owner of a horse and dramatically relates how the animal was cured by Christ. As there is no historical basis for the tale of the horse, various explanations have been attempted. Some are founded on ancient Germanic ritual celebrations of pagan horse sacrifices at Yuletide. Others mention an obscure Swedish saint called Staffan who was killed by pagans in Helsingland and whose shrine at Norrtalje became a place of pilgrimage to which sick horses were brought. The 'Staffan Riders' parade through the towns of Sweden on 26th December, singing ancient carols in honour of the 'Saint of Horses'.

In Medieval times the farmers in a number of European countries would also decorate their horses on Stephen's Day, and then bring them to the Church to be blessed by the priest. After the blessing, they would then ride them three times around the church, a custom still observed in many rural areas, and later in the day the whole family would go for a ride in a wagon or sleigh (Saint Stephen's ride).

The horses' food, mostly hay and oats, was also blessed on Stephen's Day. In sections of Poland research states that they even toss oats at the priest after Mass. Popular legends say this custom is an imitation of stoning, performed in honor of the St Stephen's martyrdom others say, predictably, that it is the remnant of some ancient pagan fertility rite.

When in the late seventeenth century, the diarist John Aubrey, recorded that 'On St Stephen's Day, the farrier came constantly and blouded all our carthorses', he was referring to the practice of galloping the horses, then ceremonially feeding, decorating and bleeding them to give them good health in the coming year. Ignoring the fact that bloodletting was a common medical practice for humans even in the eighteenth century, some theorise that this too links back to pagan times and the sacrifice of horses!

Other saints I saw listed as the patron saints of horses were St. George, St. Martin of Tours, St. Anthony of Padua, St. Hippolytus of Rome, St. Giles, St. Leonard of Noblac, and St. Vincent de Paul.  So Mars is pretty well covered.

I spoke to the entire committee on Mars' behalf, but I think I'm going to consider St. Stephen my personal representative, since he's also both a martyr and the patron saint of writers (highly appropriate) and since he is a member of the ensemble that lives on my desk and might therefore consider us friends.  So his statue is about to be bubble-wrapped and tucked into my carry-on bag along with some good pictures of Mars for my L.A. apartment.

Life On Mars

My horse Mars (short for his show name, Bound for Mars) had a near-death experience yesterday.  My husband and Mars' caretaker, the vet and the local trainer all conspired against me and didn't tell me until he seemed to be out of danger.  That was a few minutes before midnight last night.  Chris was making coffee in the automatic coffee maker.  It went like this.

Chris:  What time do you want this to be ready?
Me:  I don't know...the usual...
Chris: Seven or seven-thirty?
Me: Whatever.
Chris:  Honey...
Me: (uh oh)
Chris: Brandon called me, and Mars had a little touch of colic today.
Me:  He did? (Mars is thirty-four.  Thirty-four year-old horses don't have a "little touch" of anything.)
Chris: Yeah.
Me: Is he okay?
Chris: They think so.
Me:  They think so?
Chris: Miss Collette gave him a shot of something.  They said he seemed to be okay for now.
Me: (for now?) Why did he colic?
Chris: (breaking it to me gently)  Honey...he's old.

I pride myself on the fact that I am sensible about my pets.  They don't have plates with their names painted or engraved on them.  They never got birthday parties when we lived in L.A. I grew up (weekends) on a farm.  Pets die.  You get new pets. I could list cats from here to my Sitemeter button.

But Mars is different.  Someday Mars will be a children's book.  It will contain real-life events like the time that Mars entered the ring as the announcer called his name ("Bound for Mars" ridden by etc.) and some jerk standing at the rail said "Looks more like "Bound for the Glue Factory."  Mars heard him, and placed first.  Mars was absolutely unbeatable...if he decided he wanted to be.  His non-negotiable requirement was that it had to be seventy-five degrees and sunny.  Any temperature above that, he plodded like a plow horse and made sure the judges knew he was miserable.  Anything above it and he kicked up his heels.  Usually his hind ones, at other horses.  And the ring had to be free of puddles, squirrels and any foreign objects.  But luckily, we lives in SoCal and those requirements were not tough to come by.  So Mars won, a lot.

Mars is of questionable lineage -- his mother was a small, black and white Appaloosa who didn't care for arranged marriages and his father was a gentleman caller who was apparently a very large chestnut.  (Mars' mom was 15.3 hands and Mars is 16.1)  Most experts have speculated that he was a Warmblood.  At any rate, Mars is in no way average.  At the 3-Day event where this photo was taken, he won his dressage class -- with no dressage training to speak of -- by 30 points over the horse who came in second.  This probably tells most of you absolutely nothing.  Let me dumb it down: it was really good.

People at that show were accusing Mars of being a ringer trucked in from another state, because they'd never seen him before.  They hadn't seen him because I hadn't taken him on the fancy show circuit.  We had been quietly winning ribbons at little unheard of shows.  My trainer came up with the idea of putting him the Swanky Flintridge Riding Club 3-Day Event, so we did.  Mars is what horse people call a "back yard horse."  That means ... you ride him in the back yard.  You don't take him to shows.  In that event, he was competing with horses whose owners had paid $100,000 and up for their steeds.  Mars' price tag was $1000.  And at the time, the vet who did the vet check told me he wasn't worth it.

He came in second in the novice division.  He absolutely had first place nailed, but in the last event (pictured above), on the last fence, his last foot to go over the fence (which he could have done in a coma) somehow nicked the top pole and knocked it off.  His fans were simultaneously clapping wildly and swearing profusely.  But in that show, second place was just fine, thank you.

I could tell Mars stories all day, but I'll save them for the book.  And the eulogy.  If anyone knows who is the patron saint of horses, please tell me.  I might have to break down and pray for a pet.  I just want him to make it to July, so I can see him again.  I need to say goodbye.

And thanks.

It's All Good.

I don't have much time to comment on Today's Homily at Our Lady of the Building Fund, but I think it doesn't need much.  In fact, I think you can do it yourself.  If not, let me know and I'll return after my script is done.

If Today's Homily had to be given a title that was extracted from the homily, I believe Deacon Happy would have chosen: "Don't look down unless you're hiking in the woods."  At any rate, he was pretty proud of that one.

It was a very easy homily to follow and these Cliff Notes are among the most thorough and trustworthy I've ever written during a homily that was driving me nuts.  I had the benefit of starting early this time, because as soon as I saw that Deacon Happy was going to be the homilist, I got out the paper and pen.  I didn't have to wait to wonder whether or not the homily was going to drive me nuts.  Deacon Happy is the Babe Ruth of heretical homilies. 

And so he began.  (I paraphrase, but not very much at all. I write quickly and I got most of it word for word.)

"People today need to be given courage.  And it's hard to give people courage these days."

I mean, look at all the gloomy news these days.  Global warming and economic disaster and ... and just look at this political circus that's on the television every night.  How are people supposed to have courage in the face of all of that?  It's up to us to give them courage. That's our job.

How do we give people courage?  Here are four steps.

(1) Be pleasant to them.
(2) Be kind to them.
(3) Be understanding of them.
(4) Remind people of their great qualities.  Don't tell them what's wrong with them.  They already know.  Tell them about their great qualities.  This gives them courage and confidence in themselves.

I have a friend who is looking for work.  I gave her some advice.  I told her to do two things.  (1) Every day get one prospect. And (2) Go through employment interviews without worrying about the results.  Give the results to God.

Now, what am I doing here?  I'm encouraging her.  I'm giving her courage.  You will never be defeated until you believe you are.  So look up.  Never look down.  The only time you should ever look down is when you are hiking in the woods.  Always look up.  Christ wants you to always look up. 

And that brings us to the Ascension.  Why did he ascend publicly?  Because he wants you to have courage.  He wants you to look up at God. 

And we must also look back.  [so much for always looking up] History is a great fortune teller.  Winston Churchill said, "The more we look backward, the more we see forward." [So we can look backward, forward and up.  Got it.  Just not down.  Unless we're hiking, in which case, we can look in all four directions.  Although backwards might slow us down, especially if we walk into a tree.  So I guess we should stick to forward and down while hiking, and up all other times, except for when we're looking backward and therefore forward.  Is anyone besides me confused?]

God has given you a glimpse of the glory you will share with Him and forever.  Doesn't that make you feel GOOD?   If it does, then take it home, and give it to somebody!

******

On that strong note, he concluded and left the microphone. The lady sitting next to me gave it a loud, "Amen!"  Then we said the Creed (during which I was completely distracted, by questions like "are deacons really supposed to give the homily and if so, couldn't we at have one who has read the Bible at least once? Maybe even one who holds the Apostle Paul in greater esteem than he does Oprah?) Then we prayed for the oppressed (exclusively) and sang "Be Not Afraid" (a song that I, not being Jesus, always feel like an idiot singing -- which might have something to do with why the Pope asked us to stop singing it.)

Credit where credit is due: we actually  sang two hymns today! We sang "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" (my first time the whole Easter season!) and "Holy God, We Praise Thy Name" (I was amazed the roof didn't cave in) and the choir sang Ave Maria.  The music director must be on vacation.  Singing hymns is something I miss ferociously, so that part was great.

The homily made me think of Adlai Stevenson's quote: "Speaking as a Christian, I find the Apostle Paul appealing and  the Apostle Peale appalling." 

Aside from the banality of it all, the main thing I detest about modern liturgy is that it is just a big mess.  If it were a television show, someone would be firing the producer and bringing in someone who knows what they're doing.  If it were a script, a network exec would be saying (correctly) that it's "all over the map." There's no logic, no consistent through-line, the character arcs make no sense, the big moments are unearned and the major themes are lacking a consistent voice.  The whole thing reads like it was put together by a robot who had been programmed only in the mechanics of getting 50 pages together in chronological order.

One easy example:  the "only look up" thing.  And then we prayed for the oppressed.  How do we know they're oppressed?  We're not looking at them.  We're focused on the pie in the sky.  We have to look down to see the DOWNtrodden. Don't we?

Let me just leave you with a line from today's (if you're celebrating the Feast of the Ascension, as we were/are) Gospel reading.  Which, as you know, came RIGHT BEFORE the "Don't Look Down" homily:

"...Ye men of Galilee, why stand you looking up to heaven?"
 

With Apologies to Jeff Miller

It must be time for another "Gather Us In" parody.  I say this because one has been forming itself in my head every Sunday for the last few of weeks as I've made my way through the parking lot construction to the Happy Clappy Mass at Our Lady of the Building Fund.  Today I decided to declare it finished and post it.

(On my next procrastination break, I'm going to post the homily almost word for word.  It's a beaut.  But for now, I offer this humble little ditty.  Don't blame me, I just take dictation.)

*****

Here in this place, a new light is streaming
That's the new gym, the roof's almost done.
The spa's had a setback, the sauna's not working
Let's offer it up for the souls who have none.

Gather us in, the tank tops and sneakers
Gather us in, the flip-flops and jeans
You love us all and your only requirement:
We show up 'n kinda know what stuff means.

Here in this place, we turn off our cell phones
Here in this place, we chat with the folks
Monday's the car wash, Tuesday night's Bingo,
Right after Mass we've got donuts and Cokes.

(chorus)

We stand for the Gospel, we sit for the pep-talk,
Pray for the oppressed, the illegals, the Pope
And all of the pols, especially Obama,
What's a few babies when people have hope?

(chorus)

Here in this place, where everyone's welcome
Despite what they think, or where they have been
Unlike those creepy orthodox wackos,
Oh thank you Father that we're not like them.

[chorus; then:]

Gather us in, the wise and learned,
Gather us in, thinking people who know
You gave us minds to see which rules are for us
And which are for people who lived long ago.

But I digress.

I stumbled upon the following, written by my sister. (You can read it in its entirety on her Random House site.)  I am always ranting that no one outside of the South understands the Civil War, because no one outside of the South wants to.  She touches on some good points here.  And I'll do a full rant someday when I'm not on a deadline. 

I believe that few people understand the South very well these days. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter, and I notice how she is taught about it in school. They brush past the Civil War, and no one talks about the South much because no one really cares about the losers. The Civil War was not only about slavery, it was also about state versus federal rights. The South wanted to rule itself badly enough to go to war; that gives you an idea of what a proud society it once was. One important part of history that had a great impact on my ancestors was the era of Reconstruction. That’s when the North tried to help the South put the pieces back together, but their efforts were not always admirable. It was a terrible period in our history, and people still remember it and talk about it. In The Noah Confessions, I decided to write a little bit about the Reconstruction in an effort to help myself and others understand how it affected my life.

Everything in the South is gothic. There is a heightened sense of drama carved out of a history of gentility and manners. Southerners turn small things into big ones; at the same time they deal stoically with larger matters. Insults are big on the scale; death is matter of fact. Southerners are not afraid of salt, grease, dirt, germs or alcohol. They are afraid of lawyers, doctors and pills. It still seems like a sound philosophy to me.

Secrets are big in the South, and they are often confused with privacy, which is how I ended up writing a book on that subject. Secrets create mystery; people who do not like to keep secrets or become the victims of them naturally become detectives in their own lives. Children should never be asked to keep secrets, particularly the secrets of their families.

Many aspects of my family were shrouded in mystery because the habit of secrecy was passed down over generations. When I would ask about my ancestors my mother would often say, “We didn’t know much about that side,” or “You might want to be careful what you go digging for.” I don’t believe my family was aware of being secretive; I think they believed they were being private or minding their own business...

[snip]

Much of the history of the South became lost or distorted because of the Civil War. During Reconstruction, the real secrets began. People had to hide things so that they wouldn’t be taken or stolen. Confederate money was worthless, so other valuables had to be buried. Property had to be disguised. In many cases, entire families were turned out on the streets, having lost everything to the war. And sometimes, oftentimes, people had to resort to illegal activities to survive. Bootlegging, smuggling, black market schemes, secret societies. Eventually the South regained its respectability by rebuilding proper industries. But for a while, for many families, the only way to survive was to live outside the rules.

Read the rest here.

I swear (no matter what Barbara Nicolosi tells you ) I'm leaving for L.A. tomorrow.

The #1 thing on the list of what I'll miss about Orlando while I'm gone:  the SOUND of CALEB BLOWING THINGS UP in the other room.

The #1 thing on the list of what I will not miss about Orlando while I'm gone:  "YMCA, it's fun to pray at the YMCA..."  (Link posted for pop culturally ignorant readers who shall remain anonymous.*)

"Gather us in, the sick and the tired...gather us in, the weary of chirp...I used to frown at the folks leaving early...now I admit I'm the number one perp."

(*Barbara Hall used to refer to me as "My sister the queen of A.M. radio."  The only thing that has changed is that A.M. is now all talk.)

Jerk of the Week. Month. Year. Oh, why give it a time limit?

With Junior, who hasn't won a race since 2006 and has been through all manner of hell since then, having very recently taken the lead, which was followed immediately by a HUGE ROAR from the crowd... (We Junior fans had our hearts in our throats; only three more laps and he'd be thanking the National Guard!) Kyle Busch comes up with this little move.

If you're a visiting Junior fan and you need a good photo for your dartboard (or, better yet, to take with you to the gun range) here's a particularly good one.  It captures Sir Asshat at his smarmiest. 

As does this quote:

"Everybody probably is racing around the race track scared to death of wrecking Dale Earnhardt Jr., so why wouldn't I be any different?"

Thank you for the clarification, Kyle. Otherwise we'd have thought you meant Dale Sr. and we would have been confused.

Here are Junior's comments, when interviewed immediately after the race, in their entirety:

“The worst part about it, is that I have been priding myself on running good all year and I was in position for a win. I ran hard and got wrecked. I had a top-three car and should have finished in the top-three. So, I was going for the win. Just ended up on the hook today. Just disappointed.”

CAN YOU DESCRIBE THE LAST COUPLE OF LAPS: “We weren’t that great on restarts and new tires. We had a run there where we had been running for a while and got the lead and was driving away. The No. 11 had the flat and parked on the race track. That was unfortunate. We ended up, on that restart, I ran the bottom through a couple of corners, Kyle (Busch) was beat me like that, because he could get to the outside and pin me down because I was tight. I moved to the top, I got a little deep in to one corner, and he almost cleared me off of two, but I got back side-by-side going in to three. I tried to run him pretty tight running up top, and he just ran in to me or got loose or whatever.”

JUST TALK ABOUT YOUR RUN: “I am pretty disappointed to say the least. I had a good race all night. I had a good top-three car most of the night. I just don’t like it, well, to me it is just disappointing to not get what you can get out of the race car. Me and Kyle got together down there, not sure why it happened or how it happened. But, it is definitely unfortunate for us. “I am and have been preaching how good we have been running, We are sure happy about that.”

Some guys have enough sense (and class) to know what to save for the bar.

Other endearing quotes from Smarmy Asshat Man:

"I don't know why they were telling me I was number one, I was in second place. Clint Bowyer got the lead from me. They were all confused I guess, too many old [Dale Earnhardt] Jr. Budweisers."

And before I'm done, let's not forget Saturday's race:

RICHMOND, Va. -- If Rusty Wallace ever thought about inviting Kyle Busch to a family dinner, plans have changed in the aftermath of Friday's Lipton Tea 250 NASCAR Nationwide Series race at Richmond International Raceway. After Busch tangled with Rusty's son, Steve Wallace, on the final lap of the event -- with Busch finishing third and Wallace fifth -- the two drivers engaged in a helmet-grabbing, insult-trading argument in the pits.

Busch didn't stop with the younger Wallace, who had tapped Busch's No. 32 Toyota and nearly turned him on the final circuit. Asked whether he and Steve would talk during the week and resolve their differences, Busch had some disparaging things to say about his rival's lineage. "That's Rusty Wallace's kid, so I'm not sure you're going to be able to talk to him much and get through his head, but we'll see," Busch said, referring to the 1989 Cup champion and current ESPN broadcaster.

Presumably, those are liberties you can take when you've already won seven races in NASCAR's top three series this season. Busch has two Cup wins, three Nationwide wins and two Craftsman Truck Series victories in 2008.

Here's the clip from that:

Anybody spot a trend?

PLEASE INSERT...

Many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many many (insert many many's) expletives.

And STRONG ones.

And...

I HATE KYLE BUSCH EVEN MORE.

This just in...

I hate Denny Hamlin.

Because I Care

Caleb and I went birthday shopping for Chris last night.  Probably a bad idea, since Caleb was already tired from a day of school and other taxing activities, and I was tired from writing.  But I'm leaving at 0'Dark-Thirty on Monday morning (this time I really, really mean it), so we had to celebrate Chris' birthday early.

We spent about an hour in the bookstore, by the time we (a) bought refreshments at the embedded Starbucks (b) picked out this month's read-aloud book for Caleb (c) argued over whether or not he could have every single Magic Reading Castle (or some such thing) book and finally -- in a negotiation that would put the recent WGA talks to shame -- settled on three (d) found an employee who could help us ferret out a Pokemon book (e) made an emergency trip to the restroom (f) had the same argument we always have as to why he can't go into the men's room by himself (g) finally got around to the purpose of the trip and picked out some books for Chris (h) made our choices from the vast selection of wrapping papers, bows and cards (see "c"), and, an eternity later, checked out.  ("Yes, I do have a Border's rewards card, but I don't have it with me... Sure, here's my phone number... Okay, try this one... Okay, it might be this one... Can you check it by e-mail address?  Good.  ... Okay, try this e-mail address..")

From there, we headed to Best Buy to look for a video cam thingy for Chris' computer, so we can actually see each other every night when we do the long-distance chapter book/Bible/prayers ritual.  That part was easy.  But I made the mistake of walking us out past the video game aisle.  (How many times does it take to learn that one?)  So we start the video game negotiations.  Which began with, "But you just got books" and went downhill from there, because (a) like all our other children, Caleb is the kind of negotiator who will not give up until you weep and beg for mercy and (b) I was too tired to be at the top of my admittedly limited Mom the Disciplinarian game.  So we quickly degenerated into "You can have ONE of the cheap ones on the sale rack" to a bitter squabble about why he had to choose between the two on the non-sale rack that he had to have or life as we know it would come to an abrupt end.

He finally gave in, chose his video and prepared to march off in an indignant huff with, "Fine, I'll get this one!"  (To the tune of "And I'm never speaking to you again.")  Even given my lousy disciplinarian skills, that one didn't go over well with me.  I took both of the videos and put them back on the shelf.  This prompted the reaction you might imagine.

And that brings me to the point of this post, which is to give a little friendly advice to teenagers who work in retail.  Let's call this lesson "How to Avoid Being Snarled At by a Woman with a Small Child."

So here comes Bob the friendly Best Buy Guy.  Can he help us?

Me: No thanks, we're fine.
Caleb:  (semi-crying) I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'll never do it again I swear I'm sorry I'm sorry...
Bob: Were you looking for a video game?
Me:  We were, but we changed our minds. Thanks anyway.
Caleb:  NOOOOO!!!!  I'm sorry, I mean it, I'm really sorry, I just want one...etc.

Bob starts away, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I see him head back toward us. 

Bob:  Have you heard about our Best Buy Rewards Card?
Me: (as Caleb continues his routine) Um...I don't know...(to Caleb) Stop.  Calm down and I'm going to explain it to you.
Caleb: (continues as before)
Bob: It's free.
Me: I might already have it, I have everybody's card.

Hoping he'll take the hint, I turn back to Caleb and launch into my parable of the certain boy who only wanted to draw ONE picture for his mom, but his mom insisted on having two...)

Bob:  The way it works is, whenever you make a purchase...
Me: (to Bob) I really can't talk to you about it right now.
Caleb: Nobody in this family loves me...etc.
Bob: Like I said, it's free...
Me: (to Caleb) Daddy and I have talked to you about the "nobody in this family loves me" thing...
Bob: ...and you don't even have to make a purchase to get the card.
Caleb: But it's the truth!
Bob: All you have to do is (shoving it at me) take this application and fill it out...
Me:  (in a tone not entirely charitable) I CAN'T THINK ABOUT YOUR CARD RIGHT NOW!
Bob:  Okay.  I understand.  I know how it can be.
Me: (obviously you don't)  Thank you.  (and then, to Caleb)  So the mom got really mad because the son only wanted to draw one picture for her, and she yanked it out of his hand and said, "Fine, I'll just have one!"  Would that be very nice of the mom?"
Caleb (sniffling):  No...
Bob: (handing me a brochure) Just take this home and read it...

I am absolutely positive that had I picked up a microwave and bashed in Bob's skull, no jury of my peers  would have made me serve an hour for it. (My peers being almost 52 year-old working mothers of almost 7 year-old boys)

Note to Bob:  Trust me. No matter how much extra break time they're giving you for every application you give away, it's not worth risking your life.  Now.  Make copies of this blog post for your friends.  Tell them all to take it home and read it.

Paul Guyot's First Book Signing

Unattented by me.  Rats.  But I'm sure it's the first of many.  Unless "Vows" gets on the air and I keep him too busy to write books.

That's Paul in the red hat, looking adorable and like he's dying to move back to L.A. to work on a cable show.

Buy his book.  (Michael Connelly thinks its his book. It's a collection of short stories and I'm sure every contributer thinks its his/her book. But it's Paul's. Because he's the coolest, that's why. Just look at him.)

Paul Guyot is one of my favorite writers, and also one of my personal heroes.  He is one of those people who just opens his mouth and says what everyone else is thinking but is afraid to say.  This has caused him to change agents more than once. We currently have the same agent; obviously they have a strong stomach for clients of that description.

Congrats Paul! Cool threads. Très smack-my-ass-and-call-me-fanny.

XXOO

(More photos here.)

Occasionado

It's like a pornado, only...different.

I have explained before the nature of a pornado, for those who have not had the misfortune to be caught up in one.  (They don't come with sirens.)

For those who missed the previous explanation, or those who need a review, here it is:

A "pornado" is sometimes a virus, or so I'm told, but my one experience was when at "Judging Amy" -- we were doing a story about Tyne Daly's character (a social worker) wanting to take a foster child away from a couple she'd run into at a hotel that happened to be hosting a convention of plushies. (Surely I don't have to explain that one too.)

The network axed plushies because CSI had already done them, so we had to come up with some other kind of weird adult...um...role playing convention. As was often the case on that show, research was difficult. I mean, you'd be amazed, and horrified, at what you come up with when you put "gifted children" into a search engine. (We were trying to do a story about parents who were pushing a prodigy too hard.)

Anyway, while trying to come up with an entire new subplot in three hours, which necessarily involved googling weird sex, we clicked on a link that opened a pornado.  A pornado starts as a photo that, speaking for myself, you instantly wish you could un-see. But when you click on the "X" to close it, a worse picture opens. The pictures get worse and worse and bigger and bigger, and if it's your first pornado, you tend to panic because all you can think is "what if someone walks into my office right now?????" 

I've never had it happen again, but I think having experienced it once, it wouldn't take me long to go to "turn off the computer."

The reason pornadosare on my mind this morning is that it strikes me that the thing that takes over our family every year, beginning on May 1st, is not unlike a pornado.  I have chosen to dub it an occasionado.

Like the first box of a pornado, an event suddenly appears before us.  It's May 1st, our anniversary.  We celebrate it (click that box shut) and another occasion immediately pops up: May 5th, Chris' birthday.  Click that box, it's May 8th, Julie's dad's birthday.  (Poor Julie called me in tears two days ago, about the fact that she has to spend every year buying birthday gifts for both dads while she is trying to study for finals.  I said the same thing I say every year: "That's why God made giftcards."  And, like every other year, she explains why that's a horrible idea and goes off in a fit of put-upon-ness.)  Next box up: May 11, Brian's birthday.  This year also falling on Mother's Day.  We get to catch our breath during the end of May, but then up pops my birthday (June 2nd) followed by a number of "good friend" birthdays, and ending in Caleb's birthday on June 30th. We have barely paid the Chuck E. Cheese bill when it's the 4th of July, followed quickly thereafter by the Highland Games. It all finally ends on Julie's birthday, August 8th.

Just in time for back-to-school (in Florida, they go back that week) and we get to return to the day-to-day routine and stop planning festivities.

Just in time for the holidays!