Bloggity Blog Blog

Since this is a blog about my journey as a writer....

2011-02-02T19:43:00.001-05:00

Today I came home. I cleaned my bathroom and then made a turkey burger - not in my bathroom mind you, in my kitchen. I poured a glass of wine - also in my kitchen. I went into my room and turned on my computer and opened my email. I read my email and then proceeded to do the robot all over my apartment like a cracked out version of the chick from The Ring who walks down the steps all weird. Shoot, I even had T-Rex arms going for a little bit.

The email:

Hi Daniel,

I would like to run “Elephants Got Big Dirty Feet” on March 9th.

Please send a brief reply to fictionatwork@gmail.com so we know you have received this.

Thanks,

Toby

Editor, Fiction At Work

I'll post a link to my story once it's up and if you'd like to read the edited version that made the cut, I'd be happy to get some page hits on my story over at Fictionatwork.com

Thanks for your support friends. I feel like this might be a good year.

Four Score and many months ago....

2010-10-28T19:43:00.001-04:00

Hello? (Hello....hello.....hello....) Is anybody still there? I haven't updated this for many reasons. But instead of boring you with all the details of my traveling abroad ("traveling" has one 'L' but "traveller" has two?? Language is goofy sometimes... these are the things that keep me up at night...maybe I'm the one who is goofy)...where was I? Oh, right, right, not boring you. I've been writing a lot lately. Mostly short little snippets of things. Remember my post on flash fiction? That's what I've been writing mostly these days. I present to you two of my most recent scribblings - little flashes of ideas really. Comments and suggestions are of course always welcome.

The Ballad of Tom Cassidy
By Daniel DiFranco

Nobody particularly liked Tom Cassidy, because Tom Cassidy didn’t particularly like nobody. One day a bouquet of flowers showed up on his porch. Everyone knew that Tom didn’t care for flowers and peeked from behind their curtains waiting for him to return home. He walked up to his porch with a bag in his hand and stopped at the flowers – he looked down at them and then went inside. He came back out with a vase. For the next week he sat on his porch in the evenings next to the flowers until they died.

The End

Elephants Got Big Dirty Feet

By Daniel DiFranco

....Can be read at Fictionatwork.com on March 9, 2011.

The End

What the Deuce!!

2010-04-16T18:06:00.001-04:00

Wow, look at time (whistle whistle).... it sure does fly around here. It's been 4 months and 16 days since my last post. What can be viewed as pure laziness I will attribute to a desire to not post anything unworthy of your time. Sound fair? Good. Now that that is settled, let's move on, shall we?

First thing: This summer I will be travelling through Europe. My plane arrives in Lisbon, Portugal on the morning of July 3rd. Gonna spend some time in Portugal, then make my way over to Pamplona in Northern Spain by July 9 to watch and revel, partake mayhaps?, in the Running of The Bulls. Maybe I'll write a novel about my time in Spain. Call it something like, The Sun Will Rise, or, Riseth Will the Sun,... Also. I'm still working on it...I'll get there.

After that, my sail is up and it will take me to these places: France, Belgium, The Netherlands, Luxembourg, Italy, and Greece. All I know is that I need to be in Greece by the second week of August, and that I need to be in Rome by August the 29th to board my flight back home. I will be travelling with a good friend, Seth.

More details to come as they emerge. I think maybe I'll turn this into a travel blog for the summer. Write it under the name of "Travelity Log Blog". Catchy, no? To prepare for the trip I have been taking French lessons with a tutor and doing the Pimsleur method as well. I can read the shit out of French right now, but speaking it, and dear God, understanding it is a little bit slower.

One more thing on the trip. If any of you who read or stumble across my blog would like a postcard, let me know your address and I'll be happy to write one and mail it. As I am not a wealthy man, I intend to spend most of my days enjoying the countryside and street cafes writing and reading. Also, I will rent a scooter at least once. It's been my life's goal to scoot around Europe.

Second thing: Next month I take the GRE. I've decided I will begin applying to graduate school. If I get accepted anywhere I will go to earn an MFA in creative writing so I can up my chances at getting published and finally be able to teach at the college level. You see, I have all these blazers and they don't seem to fit my job description as a substitute high school teacher right now.

Third thing: I have been writing. Not as much as I would like, but more than I have been. The longer piece I started in November is just about half way done I'd say. I know where the rest of the story is going and I just need to finish writing the damn thing. Also, on that frontier, I have received today the most personal and "inspiring" rejection letter from a journal to which I have submitted my work. (That sentence sounds snobby as hell, doesn't it? Damn prepositions. I think Winston Churchill was right when he said, "This is the sort of English up with which I will not put!"*)

I think the recent shift in more personal rejection letters can be attributed to two things: I am submitting to smaller markets too, instead of just the big ones. Also, and I say this with humbleness to the long and many hours I've spent at my desk, my writing/storytelling is getting better.

I present to you, my most happily received rejection letter:

Dear Daniel,

Thank you for your fiction submission to the Ante Review.

I'm sorry to say that your piece is not quite right for us, although we did enjoy the unique combination of narrative detachment and vivid detail.

Of course, this has no bearing on your talent as a writer. Please keep writing, and we hope to see more from you in the future.

Sincerely,

Rachel Lim

Editor

http://theantereview.com/

ante@scs.student.virginia.edu

Well, that concludes this, my first blog of 2010. I hope all is well with you, dear readers.

Until then,

Dan

*FOOTNOTE: Yeah, I'm getting fancy these days. Footnotes to my blog. At least it's not a footnote in a novel. Yeah, I'm talking to you Junot Diaz and your Oscar Wao book. What the shit was that about? If you need to put footnotes in a story you made up, well, maybe you need to do a better job of making shit up..... Oh, the footnote... The Churchill quote has many variations, all of which have been attributed to the him in some regard. Though, there is none that can cite a direct source. I find it interesting what we believe and accept just because.

The year in blog...

2009-12-31T20:08:00.000-05:00

It's been a helluva year my good friends. Thank you for your support of my page and following me on my journey to becoming a writer. I feel good things for 2010. Just the name of it brings that little tingly feeling to the part of my soul that says, "you're closer to death." It's only up from here!

Well, I'll not keep you. There is drinking and merry making to be had.

Happy New Year!

Oh, I also started another blog: Ye Olde Philly Boot Scrape Blogge
Any good writer will tell you that they have many, many distractions to keep them from actually writing. Check it out. It's of a different nature than this blog.

Be safe and live well.

Until then,
D

The Fleeting Blog...

2009-12-08T11:22:00.002-05:00

Where'd it go?

If you are saying that in regards to the blog I posted yesterday, I deleted it. What may seem like a good idea can seem stupid and maybe not so funny once it is in "print". Tis the nature of the beast.

If you are saying that in regards to something else, check under the couch.

And since we're here, I, umm, totally failed to reach the 50,000 word mark for November. I'm up to about 22,000 good words with a couple thousand bad ones floating around the bottom of the document. But I won't delete them until the thing is done. "Use all parts of the buffalo," I say. I'm thinking about posting the first chapter in all it's bad metaphor, awkward sentence, and poor plot device glory. The first draft is never pretty. It's the skeleton. The story doesn't begin to come alive and take shape till the 5 or 6th draft I think. If I remember correctly, Whitman worked on "Leaves of Grass" his whole life. There were something like a half a dozen or more printings of it. Not rewrites and drafts, but actual printings.

But I digress. I will finish the thing. I like my characters and I like my story. I want to see where they go and what they'll do. Hopefully you will be able to as well in a few short months.

Until then,

Hello Window,... (hello, hello, hello)...

2009-11-24T12:13:00.005-05:00

There's nothing like the fresh smell of a rejection letter in the morning. I love it. It makes me feel like I'm doing something right. I'll not dwell on it though, in as much as posting it and talking about it on here. The only reason I give this one more attention is because it is the first one that has actual comments from the editors about my story. They are short one line comments, but it is something. Baby steps my friends, baby steps.

Here is my newest letter, complete with comments:

Thank you for your interest in flashquake. Our decisions were difficult, but we have decided not to use your submission(s). We have included below our editors' comments on your work; we hope you find them useful. Please note that we are closed to submissions until December 1, when our Spring issue reading period opens.

Daniel DiFranco

fiction

Waiting For Kairos

Editor 3 Vote: No

Ed. 3 Comments: The writing seemed a little plodding.

Editor 4 Vote: No

Ed. 4 Comments: Intriguing, but some of the writing feels awkward.

Who's writing seems plodding and awkward, yet intriguing? Mine. That's who. And you know what? I reread the story and they're right. Back to the editing table with this one while I juggle my NaNoWriMo story.

Someday soon,.....someday soon......

I Think I Can...

2009-11-21T21:36:00.004-05:00

Current word count: 19,299.

Words left: 30, 701.

Days left: 9.

Words per day needed to 50k: 3412

Average words per day: 919.

I hired Will Smith to sit behind me and yell, "I ain't heard no fat lady!" Strangely, I found Jeff Goldblum wandering the streets and muttering, "Forget the fat lady. You're obsessed with the fat lady. Just get us out of here!" while feeding geese on the toe path by the canal behind Main St. I lured him back to my house with a trail of circus peanuts (he likes the styrofoamy squish noise they make).

Well, back to writing, or in the words of William Goldman in Which Lie Did I Tell?, it is time to "get those fucking toys over the mountain".

NaNoWriMo

2009-10-31T15:53:00.003-04:00

What the hell is that you ask? It is National Novel Writing Month over at Nanowrimo.org. And what is that you ask again?

"National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30."

I've been rolling the idea around in my head for the last month on whether or not I'd do it. Well, I just signed up. Check out me profile here.

I now have the impetus to finish this idea for a story that I've been chewing on and false starting for a while now. It's a little more "non-literary" in the sense that it is not like "Waiting For Kairos" from my 10.24.09 blog.

Think Roald Dahl's works for adults and that will give a better sense of where I'm at. I'm just trying to tell a story and tell it the best I can. So, if I disappear for November it's because I have 30 days to write 50,000 words.

Wish me luck on finishing.

At the very least, I will be the proud, public symbol of abject failure. And who doesn't like a good train wreck every now and again?

Until then,

-D

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble."

2009-10-30T12:24:00.008-04:00

We've all seen the countless variations of the pumpkin throwing up. It's funny, but, after a couple hundred times it gets a little old. Not to discredit it. I love seeing pumpkins throw up - probably one of my favorite things. But, like all things that become viral, its moment in the sun wears off. Though, I'll still never not laugh at The Grape Lady.

I found these pictures the other day. They just tickle me. They remind me of my favorite Calvin and Hobbes comics with the snowmen.

I present to you, Pumpkin Man the Destroyer and Cannibal Pumpkin (If these have been out for a while and have had their moments already, I apologize for my lameness).

Happy Halloween friends.

Until then,
-D

Here, There, and Everywhere

2009-10-24T18:12:00.002-04:00

I have recovered from my sombre mood - at the very least, I have the fortitude to present my outwardly self as other. I just submitted the short piece I wrote about last night. The site I submitted to doesn't consider "publishing" on a personal website the same as it being published on a site that is selective. Neither do I. This is more of an open journal of sorts. Not a venue for publication. I digress. I present to you my latest completed piece. Comments are welcome (I am always open for constructive criticism. Don't fret - I am the harshest critic of my own work. There is nothing that could be said that wouldn't be a mere reflection or intimation of things I have already thought). Enjoy and wish me luck.

Waiting for Kairos

By Daniel DiFranco

There wasn't much he could do by way of his profession. The man had been dead for hours. Even if the roads had been clear and he arrived the night before as was planned, he was certain he could have done nothing but alleviate some of the man’s suffering as death spread through his body. His instruments were crude. They were nothing like the type he would have had in a hospital in the States. It was hot here. The people wore the heat like a shiny coat they were born with and have never taken off. He could sense a distrustful reverence in the way they looked at him. The sun had just come up and he was already sweating. He thought about the air-conditioned tent back at camp. The next bus wouldn't come through until mid day. He would have to stay.

The family crowded around the dead body while a man with paint on his face chanted and performed rituals that seemed strange to the doctor. He thought about Julia and the last conversation they had. They would stay friends even though they both knew they wouldn’t. She didn’t blame him for her father’s death but she did blame him for not being there when she needed him. He couldn’t tell the difference in the way she spoke to him. It was hotter in the hut than it was outside. He made awkward half bows and attempts to let someone know he was leaving. No one looked at him. He might as well have not been there. Flies landed on the dead man and on the mourners. They landed on him too. He swatted them away and backed out of the hut onto the small bamboo porch.

There was a boy, squatting down, looking in the hut. Curiosity and sadness taunted comprehension. Julia wanted children. They said they’d wait until the time was right. The divorce came before the right time did. The air was still. He tried to convince himself that it was not as hot as he thought. The boy looked up at him. The doctor said, “Hello.” The child did not respond. The doctor went to the edge of the porch and sat down next to him. The child did not move and the doctor made no attempt to talk to him. They sat there, surrounded by thick air, the doctor looking past the small village into the forest, and the boy looking into the hut. The sun was beginning to come through the sparse leaves of the Palo Santo trees. It would get hotter as the day went on. The shadows of the leaves rippled against the dusty ground.

The doctor opened his bag and took out a cherry flavored cough drop. He unwrapped it and held it out for the boy. The boy took it and smelled it. The doctor motioned that he should put it in his mouth. The boy turned around and hung his legs over the side of the porch. He held the cough drop and studied it before he put it in his mouth. A small breeze picked up and excited the shadows. In the distance, a margay cat climbed down a tree and leapt at a moving current of light while the boy still sat, rolling the cough drop around in his mouth, and the doctor felt grateful for the small wind cooling the back of his neck as chants rose outward and upward into the past.

The End

"When I have Fears that I may cease to be..."

2009-10-23T23:53:00.010-04:00

It's been a while my friends. Tonight finds me in a disposition rather less than cheery. Be it the weather, the impending Halloween holiday, missing people who are not near or no longer of this earth - or the weight of years to come pressing down and forcing indecision to take hold, pushing out all motivation but that of contemplation. This post, my return to this blog, is a bit on the morbid side. Read on if this is the kind of thing that interests you.

But first, an explanation of my absence. I began writing a screenplay, at the bequest of a fledgling filmmaker friend, back in the spring. Several re-writes took me through the summer and filming begun a month ago. The good: I finished something of substance and of a length and arc I have never done. The bad: It was exhausting and did not afford me any time to really work on anything else. When I finished I wrote a very short piece of flash fiction (see blog "Good writing for people who like bad writing" for more)that I will submit to an online journal. Since I have not fared too well with the print world, I figured I might scale back my aspirations a notch or two and let the dice fall where they may. I have high hopes for this piece. Maybe I'll post it here after I submit it. Well, I promised you morbidity, and by Jove, morbidity you shall have.

I stand on the precipice of my third decade of life in this world. I have done nothing great or of substance. My life has not been marked by any great tragedy or triumph. I have done things. But in the grand scheme these things are mediocre and without significance other than the small fleeting sense of accomplishment and fulfillment that accompanies my recollection of these things. If life quite this body of mine tomorrow, my life, the memories of my existence would be nothing but a faint etching on the tablet of time eroding away year by year until not even the echoes of my being would remember what they were repeating.

.....

I was engaged into a conversation the other week with some friends about how we would like our funeral arrangements. Not that we were all planning on dying together from drinking poisoned kool-aid like some whacked out over zealous cult. It was typical Friday evening, wine and cheese, cigarette smoking conversation. That's what everybody talks about, right?

I know how I want to be buried. I want to be buried by a stream, feet down, so to make my body erect as if I were standing upright in the ground. Above me I would like planted a willow tree. Seeds, a young sapling perhaps. I would like my body to fertilize the soil that feeds the tree. I want the roots to entangle my bones. I want children to think the tree is haunted. Circle of life kind of shit.

My friend was so taken by my wish that she, later in the evening, after I had already left and her boyfriend had retired, drafted a poem about my wish. I present to you, 100% unauthorized by Miss Ellen Brown, the final "stanza", which I thought captured the essence of my upright tree planted burial:

"his thoughts will grow up into the trunk and weave into the limbs and spread through to the leaves and in autumn the leaves will fall upon the children playing underneath, his soul and his talents his childhood and friendships. every tear and his first kiss will be a part of their games. couples picnicking will be shaded by his tattoos and hear his music in the branches.

weeping willows live a long time. they are graceful. leaning movement."

May we all live a long time and do things that are graceful...that inspire "leaning movement".

Happy Halloween my friends.

Until then,

Carry on my wayward son.

2009-07-09T17:15:00.002-04:00

Good day dear readers. It's been a while since we've last spoke. I think I'll use today's post as an update on what I've been doing as a writer.

I've been busy working on something pretty big and am very excited about it. As I've been primarily only writing short stories, I am not accustomed to being in the page range I'm in right now. It's exciting and scary. I'll keep you posted sooner than later.

My most recent story I've sent out, my little darling, is dying a saaalllloooooowwww death. Things do not move quickly in the world of submissions...and things are relatively fast now compared to how it used to be from what I understand. I submitted my story to three journals. All three were hail mary submissions. But I believe in my work, so I figured I'd send it to some of the best lit journals.

Two have rejected it and I am awaiting to hear from the third. The one journal, Glimmer Train, for their contests will publish a Top 25 honorable mention list. While some writers see it as something deceptive or not a legit cred, others view it as a nod from a respected journal that you're on the right track and you should keep doing what your doing until you do it the best you can. My opinion is the latter. The list is not out yet, but my fingers are crossed. You'll be the first to know.

In the realistic event that the third journal does not accept my story, it's time to send it out to a few more.

Ever want to see what a stock rejection letter looks like? Here's mine from the Boston Review. Whose editor is Junot Diaz for you people who know who he is.

"Dear Daniel DiFranco,

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to become acquainted with your work. We have given it close consideration and find that it does not suit our present needs. We sincerely regret that the great volume of submissions we receive makes it impossible for us to provide you with a more personal response. We wish you success in placing your work elsewhere and invite you to submit other material to us via our online submission system at bostonreview.net/submissions. Thank you for thinking of Boston Review.

Sincerely,

The Editors of Boston Review"

Ahh, this is what I wake up to. I like the use of the word "acquainted". It's my favorite part.

I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.

The titular blog.

2009-06-03T09:54:00.005-04:00

Things that are on my mind. None of which deserve the attention of a full blog, but I feel deserve being worthy of a mention.

1. Eminem/Sascha Baron Cohen hijinx at MTV Movie Awards. When I first saw it I thought that Eminem was an asshole. Then my radar started going off. It's a little too convenient that a person who has a movie coming out, where he is supposed to be funny, lands on top of a person who is supposed to be tough, that has an album coming out (or is it out already?). My argument could go deeper but my breath is precious and besides I only mention this because of an article that came out today. I love being right. I know, I know, I should be used to it by now. (Let's pretend my ill ventures into Betamax, WebTV, Colgate Kitchen Entrees, and my prediction of Gilles and Cheryl winning DWTS in my 5.07.2009 Blog never happened).

2. The word "per". If you use the word "per" in any other situation besides "miles per gallon" and the like, you are a douche-monger and you are probably using it wrong. Please stop it. You sound ridiculous. When I rule the world I will abolish the word in any other context except for the previously mentioned instances. Use of the word will result in beheading per my decree.

...See how obnoxious it is? And my example is pretty freaking good.

3. Remember when I started this blog because I want to make a living at being a writer? Well, I'm still at it. I have what I feel to be my best, or at least most literary story submitted to a few journals. I'll keep you posted on when my rejection letters come in.

4. The Beatles Rock Band. I'm even more pumped after seeing this. Thanks Evan!

5. Ever want to talk to someone but not really want to talk to them? Did you ever call someone and pray with all your heart that you'll get their voicemail? Look no further. Enter Slydial. It works. I tried it this morning. And yes, there is an app for that.

No more not wishing your mother Happy Birthday because you didn't want to talk to her about yard work and what the dog got into and what Joanie said and what your sister did this time and how funny American Idol was and how convienent her new tupperware is and what...Mom, mom,...alright...gotta go...Mom...ok...really...gotta go...Mom...late for work...ok Mom,...love you too...No, just tell him I said hi...ok...bye...no...we broke up three months ago...ok...bye...

6. When can I start my Harry Kalas "I'm outta here!" bit? Too soon? Sorry.

How now brown cow. Happy Face! Sour Face!

2009-05-25T11:10:00.004-04:00

If Charles Dickens wrote captions for pictures people put of him on Facebook.

An Experiment.

I was walking down a street in the quaint Pennsylvanian town of New Hope, which by the by, I did not visit the first time I was passing through Philadelphia. The acrid taste of the state penitentiary was still smarting on my soul and I was in no mood, nor wished to be seen and been forced to put upon an air of one who is in good spirits when the truth of the matter was that I was of the exact opposite disposition.

However, having spent some time in the country after visiting with President Tyler, I found my mood elevated enough to the point where I accepted the invitation of the American editor and writer, Mr. E.A. Poe, who was actually quite a dandy despite his somber and sullen writings. I do wonder how posterity will remember him, if it chooses to remember him at all.

After my second visit through Philadelphia, where I observed in the small mill town of Manayunk such an overindulgence and abuse of the abysmal and foul habit of chewing tobacco that I wondered how any thing else got done beyond chewing and spitting. If poverty and an absence of aspiration were to decussate with lowered expectations, no schooling and a lifetime of manual labor, whereas in England we have our Manchester, The New World has their Manayunk. I did, however, catch a fleeting spark of fancy when the dwellers of Manayunk came into contact with the peddlers of douche pouches, who incidentally were all from New Jersey. But that is neither here nor there.

After arriving in New Hope, which I find I should now let you, dear reader, know that it was not always called thus; when I supped and dined there on my way to New York it was called Coryell's Ferry. While there I was glad to see that the act of holding hands as an expression of friendship whilst they walked was not lost upon the men of this town. After I dined I went for a stroll alongside the canal that acted as transportation of materials and goods to various points in the town and Pennsylvania, I was sneaked up on by a strong gust that thus took my hat with it. I can only imagine what a spectacle I was chasing down my hat, that just after retrieving it I could scarcely contain myself and succumbed to a paralyzing fit of lol'ing.

I Am The Walrus. No, really, I am.

2009-05-12T08:46:00.003-04:00

I'm going to be all over the place today. I know, it's quite a departure from my usually streamlined, coherent, highly engaging posts. I pre-ordered The Beatles Rock Band game. I'm not a gamer or a casual player. Haven't been since I was kid. I think there are other pursuits more worthwhile then staring at a screen for hours upon hours. I'm not passing judgement (ok, maybe I am a little bit), it's just not my thing.

Anyway, when the Guitar Hero/Rock Band phenomonom hit I wasn't too keen on it. Partly because most of the songs weren't the originals at first, but mostly because I've been playing the guitar and studying music for almost my whole life and I sucked at the game. I mean a lot. Call it sour grapes if you will - I was awful. After a while I was determined to get "good" at the game because I thought that I should be since I can play the actual freakin' guitar. I'm good on medium and struggle on hard. (You expert playing people are fucking nuts).

Last week was a big week for me. Despite my previously mentioned aversion to playing and, gasp!, buying a video game, I did. The Beatles Rock Band went on pre-sale. I love The Beatles. They're in my top 5. I'm not sure how much interest I'd have if there wasn't the singing. I enjoy that part the most, and did I mention that I love The Beatles?

My gift to you is a sneak peek at the bass that comes with the Limited Edition Bundle. When you pre-order the game, you get access to a special spot on the website where you get "secret" updates.

There it is. The Hofner Viola bass in all it's radiant polymer glory. I'll be clicking away on this thing for days while singing.

And finally: Hey, Shawn Johnson. You don't have to be good at everything. Isn't a gold medal enough?

Fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again

2009-05-07T08:35:00.002-04:00

I don't particularly like dancing. I don't particularly like stars. But, my God, how I love Dancing with the Stars. Before you dismiss me as a fancy lad, hear me out.

The girl dancers wear little clothes. It would take just one false turn, one crooked pirouette, one zig where there should have been a zag, and that whole outfit is coming right off. It happened partially on Monday night. Giggity.

If you know where to bet on these types of things let me know, cause Gilles and Cheryl are winning this thing.

Alright, I am going to go do something manly like lift heavy things and grunt and then stand around and watch people work on cars and make comments. If you have any problem with this blog, I will destroy you.

Yeah, didn't see that coming did you? I was all like, "Look at me, I like Dancing with the Stars, la-di-da." And you were all like, "What a queer." And then I was all like, "Kapow! Right in the kisser!"

Today I am 1000.

2009-04-21T11:42:00.003-04:00

Today is the day this blog has received 1000 hits since I installed the stat counter. Most of those are probably from me checking to see if any one is reading, but we shouldn't let something like that get in the way of presenting data in a misleading fashion. It's there. 1000.

My thanks to all of you who check out this page. I'm sending out a story this week and I can now put on the cover letter that in the past 8 months my blog has generated 1000 hits, and I won't be a flithy liar. It works out to something like 4.16 hits a day. By my estimation, three normal people and one weirdo with a third nipple check out my blog everyday. (A nipple constitutes .16 of a full person. It's true, I looked it up on the internet).

I'd like to take this moment to get an awful song stuck in your head.
"Once upon a time I was falling in love, now I'm only falling apart"

or

"I feel her breath on my face (ding ding ding) / Her body close to me (ding ding ding) / Can't look in her eyes / She's out of my league"

Don't thank me, it's what I do.
Until then,
-D

Bitch, pleeze!

2009-04-16T08:51:00.006-04:00

I am going to give up on being a writer. Not for good. Just for a little while while I gain some more life experience. (I don't think I've ever written the word "while" twice in a row)."Why this sudden change?" you ask. The high seas are calling me my friends. Ever since I was a little boy I've wanted to be a pirate. While other kids played with rubber ducks in the tub I used the opportunity to explore my nautical aspirations. I learned how to tie knots and navigate by using the stars. Sure, the stars I used were just a print pattern on the shower curtain, by I'd be damned if I couldn't tell you which way was north.

Also, I was a fat kid and I loved cookies. My mother wouldn't allow us to eat junk food at night, so with my newly developed talents at circumnavigating and my penchant for sugar I naturally turned to piracy. Don't ask how I managed to get to the cookie jar from the bath tub. It's a pirate thing. You wouldn't understand.

I wanted to be a pirate from that early age, but as I grew up I came to understand that the days of swash buckling and pillaging were over. The mighty seas had been tamed...or so I thought.

My friends, I bid thee fare well for I am off to Somalia to be a Somalian pirate. So what if they vowed to slaughter any American they capture. I'm not an American when it comes to the sea. I'm a pirate and pirates know no (<- homonyms) allegiance to land. I've got the kaleidoscope telescope and rub on tattoo from a box of Captain Crunch to prove it.

In the meantime, you can check out my new girlfriend and her blog here.

Until then.

This is a test.

2009-04-07T14:36:00.004-04:00

Update/Edit: I deleted the blog (4.6.09 - Holder? I barely even know 'er! mep mep mep) about the vampire cat story I wrote in a creative writing class and that seemed to fix the problem I was having. Weird. I guess that was the blogosphere gods (the Blods, or the monotheistic Blod? anyone, anyone?) letting me know that I was dangerously close to blogging about cats. (shudder)

Remember those commercials from the late nineties - the dial 10-10-220 and all the other ones? For some reason I just remembered those. Apparently they still exist. Who knew.

Dedos de la Ensalada!

2009-03-08T13:24:00.004-04:00

When I saw this my first reaction was pure joy. Then my elation began to wear off when I thought about the marketability of this game (and the fact that this is under the "humor" section at VGboxart.com).
Who would play this? I get bowling, tennis and the other bundled sports games. It allows lazy people to think they are playing sports. I get why 9 year old girls enjoy it too. They get to play dress up without having to, well, dress up.

But a Salad Fingers game? I'm on board. But would anybody else besides 15 year olds and stoners watching Adult Swim buy this game? It's not a good market. The 15 year olds will download the game or copy it and the stoners will forget to buy it. But still, I implore the good people who make video games to consider this project.

Until that happens, all we have is this: Salad Fingers Dressup!

-D

Grammar, schmammer.

2009-03-05T16:01:00.003-05:00

Do you lay awake at night wondering if you should have used "lay" or "lie"? To who or whom should you address this concern? Is it going to effect you or affect you in the long run? Should we keep this concern between us or among us?

OK. I'm kind of a dork. I found this website and I am in love. Instead of reading or writing (what I should be doing since I want to be a writer and that is what I started this blog for) I have been spending time with Grammar Girl. If you're anything like me or you are tired of being ignorant of the most basic and not so basic rules of English grammar you should check it out. Topics include:

Comma Splice!
Bad vs. Badly!
Funny Homophones!
“It Is I” Versus “It Is ”!
and who can resist learning about Generic Singular Pronouns!

I know I can't.

In other news I am thinking about ripping off one of my favorite authors. Isn't imitation the sincerest form of flattery? He hasn't published a book in quite some time now and there isn't the prospect of a new book for at least a year, probably two. He is going to serialize a project of his. If you don't know what that means it is when a work doesn't come out all at once. It is released periodically - every month, every week, etc., whatever the author or editor wants. Charles Dickens did this with almost all of his writings.

The allure to this is that I will be compelled to finish a longer piece because, hopefully,there will be a few people subscribed to it. I am kind of excited about this. I'll keep you posted on further developments. Thank you dear readers, goodnight.

P.S. In the second paragraph of this blog, I ended the text within the parentheses with a preposition. I'm fine with that. In the words of Winston Churchill “This is the sort of English up with which I will not put.”

Dan - 1, Coyotes - 0.

2009-02-11T14:08:00.005-05:00

I am on vacation this week and the next visiting friends around the country. My first stop is in Phoenix, but more specifically, Scottsdale, and even more specific, Taliesin West, The Frank Lloyd Wright School of Architecture. This school is on 500 acres of desert reserve. Much of the surrounding area is suburban communities which is quite disgusting considering that everything is a strip mall...everything.

I went on a hike today up this little mountain. You could call it a very big hill but that doesn't sound nearly as cool as saying "mountain". I've been kind of apprehensive about running into coyotes, partly joking, but since the reality of running into coyotes is real, I guess I have an innate fear of coyotes that can be likened to my brother's fear of bees (if you ever met my brother that is all he talks about - the guy is petrified of bees. It doesn't help that when we were kids I threw a rock at a bees nest and they attacked him to the point of death. Well, that's not entirely true. He got a few stings and hasn't shut up about it since).

So I'm hiking up this mountain and I get to the top. The view was great, except for all the homogeneous developments nearby. There is nothing like being on top of a 1000 foot mountain (I'm speculating about the size, I really have no idea how high up it is, but it is up there) and hearing car horns. God bless America. The top of this mountain I climbed is connected to another mountain by a sloping ridge. I'm already there so I figured, "What the heck, I'ma climb that one too."

I start making my way up and I was nearly at the top when I heard a rustle in a batch of trees not more then 15 feet away. I look over and three, maybe four, coyotes dart out from the brushy desert fauna and run up the mountain. After I peed myself a little I made a hasty retreat.

I was using a walking stick that had a bear head as its mast. I think that scared the coyotes. They don't like pale hikers that use bears as walking sticks.

Here are some photos I took:

I was just to the right of the small barrel cacti on the right. The coyotes were under the tree. I zoomed in from a safe distance to grab this shot.

My menacing bear staff.

I originally climbed the mountain to check out the giant quartz rock on top. In this photo it is the white rock on the top almost all the way to the right. My coyote moment was about 3/4 the way up the peak on the left. It doesn't look like much from these pictures, and in real life it is deceiving. I went straight up and it took about a half hour and almost 15 minutes walking across and up the ridge.

Maybe this photo will give some perspective. That is the school and some of the desert shelters. This was taken from the top, next to the giant quartz stone. And, just as an aside, the Native Americans used to worship this mountain because of it's high quartz content. The stuff is everywhere.

I plan on exploring some more. The good news is that is too cold for rattlesnakes. I don't think I'd be climbing if there were rattlers hiding under the rocks I'd be stepping on.

I'm off to Seattle in a few days. I'll keep you posted if the Space Needle attacks me.

Until then.

Fittie cent vs. Updike - the final countdown.

2009-01-30T10:07:00.006-05:00

RIP John Updike (1932 - 2009).

John Updike died 3 days ago on the 27th. It took me a couple of days to find this out, but it wasn't exactly headline making news. He didn't have tits he could pretend he wasn't famous for. He didn't die of a drug overdose. He didn't even crash a car. He died of lung cancer in a hospice.

Not all lives are without scandal and things we would rather the world not know, not even Mr. Updike's. But, what he is most known for is being a writer. And a damn good one at that. The point I am trying to make is this: Why does the world stop when a woman who marries for money dies in the Bahamas but aside from the articles written by the literati, who would pay attention to this type of thing anyway, there was not much about the man's death. He wrote for the New Yorker, so I am expecting something from them next week. But it brings me to my next question.

Why do Americans not care about what/who makes American art great? When scholars look back on American literature in the 1900's, they will include John Updike as one of the American greats. Maybe he will not be held in the same regard as Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, or Hemingway (but who really can be held up to those weighty giants?), but he was important and influential. You probably remember him from high school English class when you had to read "A&P", the story about the young clerk at the "A&P" who watches three girls in bathing suits come in the store and decides to quit after seeing the way his boss treats them.

I compiled a list of searches on Google News for the past day. The number is the number of articles online about each person and in one case, thing. I don't intend to undermine the artistic merit of anybody on this list, I am just fascinated by what Americans think is important enough to really care about. Remember, these are the amount of articles written about these people on a regular old, ordinary, nothing doing, I'm just happy to be here type of day.

John Updike - 3,492 (that he just died would indicate that this number is inflated beyond what it would have been on an ordinary day).
Lindsay Lohan - 5,631
Lil' Wayne - 4,291
Evan Marriott - 0 (he was the first 'Joe Millionaire').
Brad Pitt - 30,062
Zach Efron - 1,359
Lost ABC - 8,131
Jennifer Aniston - 8,168
50 cent - 41,331
Paris Hilton - 10,807 (really? still?)
Hilary Duff - 1,126
Hannah Montana - 3,399

and for good measure:

Albert Einstein - 2,730
Shakespeare - 10,545 (which makes me so very happy that the people care enough about good ol' Billy Shakes to write so many articles about him).
Abraham Lincoln - 37,874
Barack Obama - 866,711 (take that 50 cent).

Until then,
D

"Not I," said the cat to the hen.

2009-01-21T09:41:00.005-05:00

Al dente is Italian for "not done."
A la carte is French for "$5 orange juice at brunch."
Du jour is French for "leftover stew."
Fritter is fat guy for "delicious."

On another note, I don't know where I'll end up in this life or what types of things I will say and to whom. If we are to believe that whatever is put online, can and will, in theory, always be available, let me go on record and say this:
I love the King of Thailand. The whole Royal family is tops in my book. They are exemplars of decency.

I wish the best for Harry Nicolaides.

Electro-whatnow?!

2009-01-09T12:06:00.007-05:00

I decided to start using body wash a few months ago. I went out, bought a loofah or whatever that netted sponge thing on a rope is called. I didn't know what type of body wash to buy. Do I need one for men? Does it matter? I don't know. I bought Caress Tahitian something or other because it was on sale (2 for $8) and it smelled good.

That ran out a couple of days ago so I went to the market to get more. The Caress wasn't on sale and I'd be damned if I'm spending $6 or $7 on soap. I'll just go back to bar soap. But wait! Axe was on sale for something like $3.50. I can dig that. I smelled all their scents and wasn't really that impressed with any of them. The blue one was pretty good, but not great. There was a new one with electrolytes and it was yellowy-orange and looked like gel. Have we gone electrolyte crazy? Why would anyone need electrolytes in their soap?

I picked it and smelled it. It smelled like Gatorade. Who would want that? I understand some people like Gatorade after rigorous sporting activities. You need to replenish yourself of vitamins, electrolytes, and sugar. But do you need to bathe in it? That's hardcore. If you used it in the morning would you have electrolytes to spare at the office? Would you be zooming by your co-workers and dazzle your boss with your can-do-it-ness? Would you inspire in upper management the thought that you deserve you a raise? What with all the multi-tasking you'd be doing while banging hot chicks in the elevator and over the copy machine. Sure, you might show up to meetings with lipstick on your collar, tussled hair, and a loose tie, but you'd be working your ass off damn it!

So with that being said, would be it worth it to get lots of chicks and a raise if you had to smell like orange Gatorade? (I wonder if a Pavlov effect would happen where the smell of orange Gatorade would incite lust in women who have fallen under the spell of the Axe Gatorade body wash?)

Well, I'm not going to tell you which soap I bought, but let's just say that I've posted two blogs in a week and I have developed a rash. Giggity.

Last night I saw a film, as I recall it was a horror film.

2009-01-03T20:50:00.006-05:00

Happy New Year dear readers! Thank you for a year of reading my thoughts. Leave comments if you'd like. This way I can read yours too.

I saw "The Day the Earth Stood Still" last night. Not so good for a wealth of reasons, none of them being Keanu Reeves' performance. I write this evening because I am getting annoyed about all the, dare I say, hoopla surrounding the year 2012. Last night I saw a preview to a movie that will come out about the end of days, called, cleverly enough, "2012." Also, the History channel has decided to put together a program linking Nostradamus and the Mayan calender. Funny since almost all Nostradamus scholars agree that his predictions place mankind well in to the 3000's. The very late 3000's if memory serves.

There is a little fact that I am sure all this hullabaloo will leave out and it is this: the Mayan calender ends in 2012 because it is the end of their calender cycle. Nothing more, nothing less. It is significant because it is the last cycle they "prophesied" before the Spanish came and uh,...what happened? Oh yeah, they killed them.

What bothers me the most is that the people who actually believe in this type of thing with zeal are often the ones who are the quickest to forgo simple fact checking. I guess I am just getting pre-annoyed at the idiocy that will likely ensue as the date gets closer. You know, all the mass emails warning about how Nostradamus predicted it and how Bill Gates is really giving away his fortune this time because he doesn't need his money, but this time it is true because my cousin who is a lawyer was on Good Morning America...blah, blah, blah, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. And, oh, the books! My God, the books that will be written and sold.

Like Nostradamus I will make a prediction and hope that it does not come true. Here it is:

Fear and sensation will incite in many wonder.
Believing in hogwash will be the mighty blunder.
Ignoramus' and assines alike will part
with their money and reason like retards*.

*As in someone who is obtuse. Honestly. I have enough class not to make fun of mentally handicapped people or whatever it is retards want to be called these days.

“No, no, NO. THIS one goes THERE, THAT one goes THERE.”

2008-12-10T08:56:00.003-05:00

I'm either losing it or there is some serious 1984 Big Brother shit going on. Pass the Victory Gin and here tell of my tale.
I'm reading the news yesterday and it says that Conan will take over for Leno. That's fine, I heard about that 2 years ago and that he wasn't going to take over for 5 years. But wait, the article says that it was announced four years ago. Wha-wh-what?!
So, I Google "O'brien Leno take over" under news and then narrowed the search to articles that came out in 2004. Sure enough, there's a bunch of them.

Here's where it gets sticky for me: I remember 2004. I remember what I was doing and I remember that I was more in touch with this type of thing because I watched Leno/O'Brien. Also, I had a part-time job where the manager bought all the tabloids (People, US Weekly, and all the other gossipy ones). I read these...a lot. Why not? They were there. What I most remember is not hearing about this O'Brien/Leno thing at all in that year.

Here's what I think (let me assume my most steadfast Han Solo "it's not my fault" demeanor):
I think that all those older articles are made up. It is part of a public relations campaign designed to save Leno face. He is getting pushed out early and by telling people that they are "on schedule" makes it look like business as usual - not Leno sucks and the people want Conan now.
It has got to be a massive cover up that is deeply entrenched in the annals of the news media. Their lies have been perpetuated by creating "real" articles from the past which lead us to believe that it was true. I mean, it is dated and it is on the Internet, that means it has got to be real. This is how it starts. First, JFK (we all know who really killed him), now Conan/Leno? What next? Are they going to try to convince us that Seth Rogen plays different characters and all of his movies aren't fundamentally the same?

Or I'm just plain wrong, go figure.

"Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come."

2008-12-05T08:13:00.006-05:00

This post is going to stray a bit from the norm of what I usually do. But the feelings that inspire this blog today have been floating around for a while now. This morning seems to be the first time that I have come close to finding the right words to express those feelings and ideas. That's one of the hang-ups of writing, or any other art for that matter - the work doesn't always come with the inspiration. Today it did.

*If you want something a bit lighter check this out: Clay Angel.

We are on the verge of entering into a new American consciousness. We have to be. One way or the other it is going to happen. As the American way - our dominance in the world - gives way, our mode of thinking and operating must change with it. The American narrative, or consciousness, whatever we call it, is outdated. The past 50 years has seen Americans enjoy an unprecedented level of wealth, luxury, and privilege - so much so that we feel a right or entitlement to our way of life. The American Dream is now not one born from hard-work, determination and perseverance. It is one of entitlement - an entitlement we no longer deserve. When something is taken for granted it can no longer belong to any one person or entity.

We have taken our place in the world on the assumption that we will always be on top. One could argue that we were doomed from the start. Our forefathers allowed slavery for many reasons. One of those reasons was to do the jobs they did not feel like doing because they felt these jobs were below them or not worth paying wages to be done. Slavery didn't disappear in 1863, it shifted to the poor who might as well have been slaves (I'd be curious as to what percentage of the impoverished were actually newly free slaves). It was freedom with a slap in the face. America has always been the land of oppression for the lower class(es). Some can rise and succeed, attain the high ideal of the American Dream, Obama has shown us that, but on a whole, people born in the lower class will die in the lower class. The tragedy is that somewhere along the line, as human rights evolved, so did too the feeling of entitlement. The mode of thinking that would allow anybody to enslave someone else is still alive, but in a new form. It is in the form of entitlement. An entitlement, we never deserved in the first place.

But, if we are to believe that the American Dream is still alive, we have to believe not in the Dream that Obama talks about, but about the one that gives us our sense of entitlement. Even the lower classes believe in this one. Being born in America somehow now means getting a slice of the pie because of simply being here. Being Americanized somehow means walking around with a chip on your shoulder because others have what you are unwilling to work hard for.

On a larger worldwide scale we have screwed ourselves. With the emergence of once second world nations vying for global power and influence, an influence that used to solely be ours, it is not enough for us to feel that we deserve anything, particularly these new powerful nations subservience. (And isn't that what being American is really about? Bending the will of others?) We have led by poor example. On one hand, we can say we have learned from our mistakes in regards to how to manage an economy, pollution, and maintaining relative peace among our peoples. But, on the other hand, for all our posturing on these issues these problems still persist. This may be the last change this world of ours can withstand. We, the West (America) have long been on a road of destructiveness and selfishness. But we were alone. What do we do when the whole world wants a piece of the pie, a pie that is growing stale?

This nation was founded on ideals (though some were flawed) that in practice may be a bit too lofty. There is still hope if we can raise ourselves on a reinvention of those ideals - those that are founded on fortitude, constancy, and principles that speak of the best that man can achieve. If we do that we can be the America that Obama talks about, the America that actually deserves to be listened to, and not just because of the might of our military, which nations are clearly not too afraid of anymore. America lost the luster it had and what little is left is wearing thin. If we want to stay in the game we must adopt new modes of thinking before they are forced upon us. We need to establish a new identity and a new American consciousness must take hold in the minds of not just the few, but the many.

Two in a week?! What the deuce?!

2008-11-25T08:16:00.006-05:00

Well, well, well. So we meet again. This blog will consist of three parts. The first part is as follows:

I. Headlines:
SANTA GOES TO CONGRESS TO ASK FOR BAILOUT TOO!

CALVIN AND HOBBES, THE NEW PROPHETS.

DENNIS MILLER MAKES JOKE ABOUT THE PANIC OF 1819 - NO ONE GETS IT.

INTERNET BLOGGER MAKES DENNIS MILLER JOKE 10 YEARS AFTER THEY WERE FASHIONABLE - NO ONE LAUGHS THIS TIME EITHER.

EXPERTS SAY THAT 2009 WILL BE THE NEW 2008.

II. Calvin and Hobbes (as relating to above headline):

III. My favorite words of the day/week:
(I just looked these up and had no idea what they meant beforehand. I think the true mark of pretension is in passing off something you just learned to make oneself feel superior to others...)

Puerile
Ubiquitous
Sobeit
Philistine
Panacea
Acrimony

(I feel so good about myself right now).

Happy Thanksgiving dear readers. If I don't post again let me take this moment to express how grateful I am that the dozen or so of you (am I overshooting my readership with that assumption) continue to give up some of your time to look upon my page. Even if it is because you are at work and it's slow and no one is calling so you can sell them cool gear (<-- One of my readers, we can call him "Old Greg" sells gear. If you need any, let him know).

Enjoy your holiday. I will be feasting on Rock Cornish Game Hen glazed with apricots and lingonberries coupled with the finest 2 year old bottle of Malbec wine.

Until then,
~D

Fare Thee Well Middle Class, Fare Thee Well!

2008-11-23T13:03:00.002-05:00

Wall Street got a bailout. American Express asked for one. Now the Big Three automakers in Detroit are asking for one too. All together now, "WTF?"

I can maybe understand why giving banks taxpayer money to stay afloat would seem like a good idea to help preserve the credit which our economy is based on. Maybe. I could maybe understand why American Express would need one if someone really articulate and charming explained it to me, but even then I wouldn't buy it, I'd just understand. But automakers? I am outraged to the point where it clouds my thoughts. Once again, "WTF?"

Just so I'm clear, Ford, GM, and Chrysler are making products that no one wants so they are asking taxpayers to give them money? (And it looks like they just might get it). The very taxpayers who aren't interested in their products.

I really feel like I could go on and on about this but as I sit here typing I am getting irate and livid. If I had the power to smote said villains I would be feeling wrathful too.

The way I see it, the taxpayers who are hurting the most (middle class and poor) are being asked to bail out giant wealthy corporations. In essence, we have to give the rich more money so they can stay rich while we stay down here at the mercy of their interest rates and high prices.

Note to corporations: Make products that people want and can afford. Don't overcharge and lure people with variable interest rates. Quit being greedy and, this is the point where my sense of tact dissolves into a vulgar form of the language I love, quit being cock gurgling dick bags or you will fall and no one is going to bail you out when you get down here with us.

I'm not sure how much power President Obama will have in solving this mess, but I feel a little better knowing that come Jan 20 he will be in there making the rich pay up. Until the rich pay what the rest of the country does in taxes they have no right asking for taxpayer dollars.

God Save the Queen,
~D

When the dog bites

2008-11-17T11:42:00.002-05:00

Oprah and me, we two are not as dissimilar as one would believe based on a cursory glance. She is an African American women of considerable wealth and influence and I am a white American fourth generation off the boat Italian with almost no wealth and virtually no influence. Yet, I feel a bond between the two of us and I believe we can make it if we try. I mean, ... Hey! What's that! (insert the sound of feet scurrying off into the distance).

I present to you, some of my favorite things:

1. Hot Chicks with Douche Bags and the 2008 Douchies starting on Dec 8.

2. Californication - this is an awesome show on Showtime or on ...

3. Surfthechannel.com , Oh! how much time I have wasted on here.
3.1 Honorable mention Hulu.com
*quick note: On STH you can watch almost anything - movies and film. Hulu's selection is a good deal more limited and you are forced to watch 15 second commercials, but, it is legal and in HD, yay!

4. Harry Potter
4.1The Parselmouths (the best of the Wizard Rock Bands, not that I listen to such things).

5. Sweater Capes . Nothing says I'm gonna fight crime and be warm like a sweater cape.

6. Stationary....oh, how I dream of stationary!

7. Salad Fingers

8. Call me old~fashioned, but I like beautiful women and for some reason, and it's definitely not looks, I look like the kid from A Christmas Story, which by the by is number 9 on this list, they seem to like me...that is until then they get to know me. Then they leave and I start begging. Ever see a grown man-child beg while holding a jar of marmalade? Not pretty. Not even a little.

9. A Christmas Story

10. This.

11. Dog bites and bee stings...because then I think of my favorite things. It's like what Satan sings about at 1:15.

12. Haikus written by cats. Can't get enough of these things.

Dear readers, fair thee well! Fair thee well!
-D

And in the end all that will be left is cockroaches and idiots...Let's blame Obama.

2008-11-12T11:59:00.009-05:00

I am a substitute school teacher by day and a bartender by night. When I bar tend, although we don't generally get that demograph of Bud drinking, tobacco chewing, wife beating wastes of life, they do from time to time stroll through my doors. It is that clientele I write about today.

You can spot these assholes as soon as they come in - hell, you can often smell them. It isn't hard to develop this skill. In the summer they were tank tops and boots. In the winter they wear hooded sweatshirts that bear the name of some local plumbing or roofing company. Yes, these people are manual laborers. Before I continue, I am not lumping all laborers into this category. There are many perfectly fine, polite, and well behaved people that come in and just want to relax for a drink or two. Almost half of my friends are plumbers or work in construction (these people are assholes for other reasons though). I used to do manual labor and I turned out fine...I think. The point is, there are always common denominators amongst the vagrants that I am writing about. I'm not judging or stereotyping, but sometimes you just gotta call a spade a spade.

The other day I open the bar up after a day of subbing. We open at 4 and at 4:15 two guys come in who have obviously just finished digging holes somewhere. I greet the gentlemen and one is polite and respectful the whole time, so no more on him for now. It's the other guy that's an asshole. I ask them what they would like and they ask for Bud drafts. I tell them we don't have Budweiser on draft, and I smell smoke. I used to be willing to give people the benefit of the doubt when it comes to smoking in bars. Not any more. Philadelphia has been smoke free for two years and PA has been for some time now, or it soon will be. I tell the guy he can't smoke in the bar and he looks at me incredulously like, "since when?" I tell him that no one is allowed to smoke in bars/restaurants in Philadelphia. You know what this mother fucker says? "I guess they don't know who I am." I reply, "I guess not, but would you mind finishing your cigarette outside?" I try to always remain polite and friendly - it helps with the tip. So I let this one go, and he goes outside, throws the cigarette out and comes back in, smelling like sewer and Marlboros.

I tell them we have Budweiser in bottles. He asks what else I have on draft. I am stupefied. The man is standing right in fucking front of the draft beers. I wave my hand in a grand gesture and with a smile say, "All that is before you." The jerk off settles for a Budweiser bottle. Moments later he asks for a six pack of, you got it, Bud. (He wanted cans, we only have bottles. Why do low class people always want cans?) I bag it up and charge him and he gives me some shit about the price. I'm getting a bit annoyed by now so I just lay it on the line. I say,"Listen man, I don't control the prices. Do you want the beer or not?" Of course he wants the beer. He can't go home and watch reruns of Blue Collar TV and yell at his wife without his precious Budweiser. He pays and grumbles, "No wonder there isn't anybody in here." Mind you I have been nothing but cordial to this gentleman. Even things that I am typing here that sound like, wow, you were just being "asshole Dan", I swear to you, I said everything with pleasantness and smiles. Like I said, my tip depends on how well my customers like me. So I reply, with a smile, "Well, we just opened up 20 minutes ago and people that live around here and regularly patronize this establishment usually go home after work and clean themselves up, then come back out for dinner around 6. We actually get a pretty good crowd."

They are leaving, and I guess the guy feels like he has to say something. I don't know why. He says, "Go fucking Obama," with a grunt snort thing at the end. What Obama has to do with his cigarettes and Budweiser I'll never know. But I have a feeling that his guy didn't vote for him and not because he disagreed with his politics.

Oh, I will give to anybody who can guess what the tip was, Nay!, I will double the tip and give it to anybody that can guess what it was....just the tip, just the tip...ahh, reminds me of college.....what? I had a friend who was studying marine geology.

To sum it up:
The asshole is not as elusive as one would hope to believe. They can be spotted by their preference of cheap beer and cigarettes. The asshole will almost never kick the mud and dirt off their boots before entering a building. The asshole will often carry with him an undeserved sense of entitlement to things that nobody wants anyway.

2008-11-05T12:15:00.003-05:00

Since I removed The Magic Bullet, and in doing so I can't in good conscience count my explanation of that removal as a post, I present to you, another short story I wrote back in the Spring, (and again, Blogger has beef with indenting paragraphs within my stories),

Burnt
A short story by Daniel DiFranco

This was pretty good news as far as good news goes. When the last number hit she knew she could leave him. She wouldn’t have to depend on him or his money anymore. The excitement she felt was insurmountable. So much so that staying still was impossible for her. She wandered about her house with no purpose. She picked the phone up just to put it down. She opened the refrigerator and closed it. She at last sat down in the kitchen and realized what this meant. She had never achieved much in her married life save a third place ribbon for the best up-do at the local hair salon. For some reason this seemed important but not connected to what she was feeling. She realized that she had nothing to compare anything to. This was not about ribbons or accomplishment. This was not about merit or achievement. It was not even about the money she had won. She could live the life she had always wanted, the life she was sure he denied her.

She looked around the house and the things in it no longer seemed to be hers. She was suddenly aware that they were never hers. Sure, she bought them and picked them out, but it was not with her money. It was with his – always with his. Everything in their relationship was due to him. She was merely a player in a play she did not write, a player whose character was not laid out before her until show time. She had always felt an underlying twinge, an itchiness she could not place when going out to dinner with her husband or doing the shopping during the day while he was at work. She always felt a pang of guilt about spending his money. It made the wine taste a bit too dry, the flowers a shade less fragrant, the silk a stitch too coarse.

She longed to travel to far away places he had never taken her. Spain, Italy, Morocco. She heard that Paris was nice in the spring and resolved right then and there to see the first flowers bloom this coming season under a Parisian sky.

She kept looking at the clock and swore that it moved more slowly since she hit the jackpot. “I’ll just buy a new one,” she thought, “a new one for each room.” She chuckled to herself at the absurdity of buying anything for his house. She was leaving. She was set on it. “He can buy his own damned clock!” she spat, then giggled again, embarrassed by her outburst.

It was almost seven-thirty and her husband would be home within the half hour with her winning ticket. He always bought her tickets though he didn’t play. He thought it a waste of money, but what he couldn’t give her in attention and time he gave her in gifts. He thought he was giving her a good life. “Don’t you know how lucky you are? Any woman would die to trade places with you.” He never said these things to her but she thought that those are the words he would say if she exposed her true feelings. “Maybe I don’t have it so bad,” she would tell herself when she was alone and needed to quell the voices that told her that she had entered into a life without escape, adventure, or purpose. But no more! She had hit the big one and her laughter echoed throughout the empty house.

She stole another glance at the clock. “I had better get dinner ready,” she thought. And that is when she remembered the chewing. God how she hated the way he chewed. When they first were dating she noticed how he chewed and she didn’t think much of it. A minor annoyance, something she could get used to. She could not. Like a clumsy human pyramid the days piled up on each other twisting into weeks, months, and years. And with each chew at each meal her hatred for him grew. Many times was she on the verge of standing up, walking over to her husband and slapping him right across the mouth, mid chew. She could feel the sting of his cheek against her hand. She could feel the mound of food in his mouth being pushed through his teeth and into his throat. She could hear the sound of his choking. She could see the look of desperation in his eyes as he gasped for air. And she could see the look of horror on his face when he realized that she was not going to help him, but stand there and watch him die.

But she never stood up. She instead always sat there quiet, watching him grind his food between his teeth, his jaw working small arcs. He looked like a cow when he ate, or maybe a horse. No, there was no comparison for how he ate. One would expect an animal to be different. We can forgive differences in things that we know and expect to be different. But this man? Her Husband? She could not forgive this.

It was the sound that did it – the sound of saliva and food mingling, rolling haphazardly in his mouth. It was the sound of a boot in mud. Nnnyyuuuupppahh. But faster and more frantic. Nyup, nyup, nyup. She never told him about her disdain. When they dined, her hatred never betrayed the look of countenance her face wore. Tonight she would again sit there content. She would serve dinner, eat with him, and do the dishes before settling down in front of the TV. But tonight would be different – it would be the last time.

She would have to distract him during the late news just before the anchor recaps the winning numbers. She would ask him for the ticket as something of an afterthought before going to bed. Then when he was asleep she would sneak out of the house, with the ticket, and never return. He would be worried in the morning. Maybe even sad when he read the note that would say, “Goodbye Richard, chew with your mouth closed. – Andeana”

These were the thoughts that were running through her mind when the police arrived at her door and told her that her husband had been in an accident. They assured her he was going to make it and on the way to the hospital one of the officers told her what had happened. Her husband was crossing the street when a car ran a red light. He jumped out of the way just in time for the car to smash right into the side of a flatbed transporting propane tanks. The young cop turned to the back seat and said, “He’s a hero you know,” then looked her in the eye and nodded slightly when he said, “You should be proud of him.”

“Proud? I should be proud of him?” she thought. “The moron almost got himself killed and might have ruined my ticket, and I should be proud.” She began to shake with something resembling rage. It was not rage, but this feeling was from the same place that rage is born. This feeling was more subtle, something a bit more seismic.

“Officer?” she said.

“Egan ma’am. Officer Egan.”

“Yes. Officer Egan. How bad was this accident? Are his things ok?” she asked trying to conceal her nervousness.

The cop mistaking her question for concern about her husband reassured her that her husband was fine.

“Usually in these types of accidents nothing ever happens. An injury, sometimes a death, but never an explosion and burning people like what happened today. Man, it was just like out of a movie!” The young cop smacked the seat and said, “Bam! That flatbed lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Me and Condart over here were two blocks away and saw it happen. It was flames and smoke right away. We threw the siren on and called the accident in. Everything happened so fast.” The cop turned completely around. “So when we get to the scene we see this man pulling a person out of a car. But now this man, your husband, he’s on fire…”

She sat there in silence as the cop was talking. Her mind stayed on the image of a burning man with everything on him in flames. Her hands worked busily, knitting an imaginary something. She grew more frantic and the vision of a piece of paper smoldering in his pocket consumed her. Still she sat there, her face becoming hotter and her jaw tighter.

When they arrived at the hospital the two policemen took her to the burn unit where she was told to have a seat in the waiting room. Most of the other people in the waiting room stared blankly at a small TV hanging in a corner, while others absently flipped through Cosmo, National Geographic, and magazines whose target demographic was people over 50. She paced back and forth waiting for the doctor to come out and tell her where she could find her husband’s belongings. She was ready to go to the receptionist for the third time when the doctor emerged from behind two sliding doors, thumbing away frantically on his Blackberry. She hurried over to him and told him who she was.

“Your husband is going to be fine,” he said. “He was badly burnt but he will be fine. His head and legs were subject to few burns. His hair was singed and he has no eyebrows for the time being.” The doctor paused before adding, “His torso and arms received the worst of it, but he will recover in time.”

She was pretending to take all this in while waiting for an opportunity to ask the doctor where her husband’s clothes were. The doctor coughed and said, “Excuse me.” Before he could continue she asked him what had happened to her husbands belongings.

The doctor’s eyes dropped and he said, “Miss. I’m sorry. In these types of situations we have to act quickly. Our primary concern is the patient’s well-being. We had to cut the wedding band off the finger. His arms and hands were severely burnt and we had to...”

“I don’t care about the ring!” she blurted out. “His things? His jacket? His pants? His shirt?” She gripped the doctor’s coat and cried, “Where are his things? Did you save any pieces of paper?!”

The doctor calmed her and led her to a chair away from the other people in the hall who were now staring at her, doing their best to not appear nosy. Murmurs of, “Poor thing,” and “What a shame,” and “I wonder what happened,” fell quietly from their mouths. She sat there sobbing while the doctor got her a cup of water and some tissues.

“Miss, I’m sorry. When he arrived here he was still smoking from the flames. We had to cut off what was left of his clothes. Everything was burnt. Virtually nothing survived the fire. The little that did we put in a bag, but it’s mostly just burnt scraps of his pants and shoes. His wallet was destroyed and we had no way to identify him until the police brought in his work ID badge that must have fallen off his shirt at the scene before he caught fire. He is actually very lucky to escape with only the injuries he did receive.”

The doctor sat down next to her and his phone echoed through the hall when he put it down on an empty hard plastic chair.

She looked at the doctor’s phone and sniffled.

“I was going to buy one of those,” she said between sobs.

The doctor frowned compassionately and said,

“I know this can be emotional. We have people you can talk to if you want, but your husband is going to be fine. He will probably be released in a couple of weeks. In a few months he will regain the use of his arms and he will be back to normal. Until then you can hire an in-home nurse to help with the everyday duties of caring for him. The most you will have to do is occasionally help him in the bathroom when the nurse isn’t there.”

The doctor put his hand on her shoulder and said, “And of course you will have to feed him too.” The doctor smiled. “You seem like a loving wife. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”

The End

EDIT: A Gift that you may not want or even like

2008-10-28T22:02:00.006-04:00

EDIT
The blog including the short story The Magic Bullet has made its way to that proverbial rewrite stage, yet again. If you didn't read it and want to, send me an email or post and we'll figure something out. If you don't really care that is fine too.

Until then,
HIYUKEN!

"I will not die whole, but with a hole I shall die" Or, "One down, Three to go."

2008-10-10T11:50:00.005-04:00

I just came from the dentist. Fifteen minutes ago I was strapped in a chair getting stitched up because of a wisdom tooth extraction. Big deal right? Almost everyone has their wisdom teeth out. Well not me. I still have my tonsils and now only three wisdom teeth left.
My face is numb (I feel like Sloth from the goonies except I can't have a goddamn Baby Ruth or any Rocky Road).

I wasn't supposed to get this done today. I went in for another procedure where they stick sharp metal in your mouth. I feel a little molested. I wasn't prepared for this. I liked my tooth, but the doc said it had to go, it was the cause of the problems I was having. But still, I think it would have been better to be mentally prepared for a wisdom tooth removal. You know, say goodbye. Get one last good chew on it. We've been through a lot, that tooth and me, and there it was, lying on a tray like a used condom floating in the toilet. It shouldn't have ended like this. I think I'm going to take a vicodin and watch Sex and the City.

Gravel Here

2008-10-01T13:40:00.003-04:00

I am trying my best not to use this page to rant about politics...and my god am I tempted to rip into Palin and her mediocrity and stupidity. But I am not going to.

Have you ever wondered what your name would be if Sarah Palin was your mother? Well, if you answered, "yes!", go check this out for you very own Palin name!

Peace out,
Gravel Blood Palin

Call me Old Fashioned...

2008-09-30T03:34:00.002-04:00

It's been nearly two weeks since my last blog (or whatever that was...a shameless plug perhaps?) and almost a month since a blog of any substance. Well, I'm not one to mess with momentum, sooo... go check out http://slander08.com for the official VP Debate Drinking Game rules, inspired by yours truly.

Rectum? Damn near killed 'em!
-D

O' Brother Where Art Thou?

2008-09-16T10:14:00.002-04:00

I am a liar. I lied right to your faces. Last week I said, "expect an original post later on this week." Well, last week came and went with not so much as a flicker of a post. But - and mine you this is a big fat hairy "but" - I have been writing...just not on here.

A friend sent me a link to a site that her friend runs. It is a comedy news sight based on the political candidates. I thought it was brilliant and to my delight I saw a tab in the upper corner upon which was written, "Write For Us." I sent the editor/creator/comedian/blogger/webmaster/all around good guy Michael Pomranz an email with a sample piece and my interest in writing for his site. He liked it, and that is where I have been.

It's been quite interesting to write for someone else and try to adopt their tone, voice, and style. In fact it has been challenging, but in a very good way. So, just about everyday I try to work up some pieces for the site, some I send him, some I put aside. So far, I have not had a full piece of mine posted, which is fine because of the aforementioned obstacles. The things I have written have instead been used as fodder for Mr.Pomranz to re-write, which is humbling - to have someone take your work and make it better.

I am enjoying the experience and am learning quite a lot. If/when one of my full pieces goes up I'll let you know. But that is not my goal. I'm thrilled to be a part of this and to contribute what I can. I'm kind of like Ringo, no, that's not right, I'm more like George when he thinks he is John Oates and hangs around Ringo. That seems better.

So, go check it out at slander08.com and tell all your friends about it.

Until then,
-D

What's smaller than a Blog?

2008-09-08T09:41:00.002-04:00

I wish I wrote this. Check it out:

THE BEGINNINGS OF TEN STORIES ABOUT PONIES

By

Wendy Molyneux

Stay tuned for a an original blog this week.
Does anyone even read this? Who am I talking to?

I think I'm losing it, keep it together ol' chap.

Good Writing for People Who Like Bad Writing

2008-09-01T13:03:00.005-04:00

There are many forms within the genre of fiction. There is the novel, short story, play, and poem to name a few of the more familiar forms. A relatively “new” form is one called “flash fiction” (though this form has been listed as many other things, the acknowledged general term is “flash fiction”). I also put new in “quotes” because one could argue this form has been around since Aesop decided to write fables. What is Flash Fiction exactly? A brief definition would be that it is a very short story - one that does not generally exceed 1000 words, although it may in some instances. It is the literary equivalent to a dinner table story told by a perverted uncle or an alcoholic brother-in-law. Stories meant to be heard (or read) in one sitting.

Edgar Allan Poe, I think would find flash fiction quite agreeable. In his essay “The Poetic Principle”, he argues that a poem can only be called such if it can be read within one sitting in a timely manner. Poems of greater length cause the reader to lose that initial thrill and anticipation and after a while the reader lulls off and then has to come back to the poem. By the time the reader revisits the poem with a new sense of vitality, whether it is with a later reading, or when the reader “re-engages” the text it is not the same, or at least not connected to the first part of reading. Or as he puts it: “That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags — fails — a revulsion ensues — and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.”

I think the ol’ chap was on to something. Let’s take a closer look at this idea for a minute. Longer works of fiction are broken up into smaller segment. A novel has chapters - small, easily manageable sections that people can digest at their leisure. Dan Brown has mastered this. Some of his chapters are one paragraph. How’s that for a sense of accomplishment? You can read four pages of a Dan Brown novel and boast that you’ve read 52 chapters in a single sitting. Very manageable stuff for even the non-reader.

Another aspect is pacing. In flash fiction you’re in it from the second you read. There isn’t time for character development and setting up the plot. In this age of instant gratification what can possibly be more appealing than that? You can read something, be engaged, and holy shit, even finish it all with time to spare to get home and watch American Idol season whatever.

I don’t think that flash fiction will ever replace works of greater length. I do believe the will of the people to not allow themselves to be engaged for long periods has caused a demand for small, accessible, and oft times mediocre pieces of work. Hence the age of the Blog. (Remember that episode of the Simpsons when Sideshow Mel…or was it Bob…wanted to destroy television but the only way to tell everybody about his plans was by using television…that was funny).

Don’t get me wrong. I like the Blog. The Blog makes me feel like I am accomplishing things. The Blog is the only frikkin thing I have worked on in 6 weeks….

Speaking of blogs, check this guy out: http://www.maxbarry.com/ and while you’re at it you should buy some of his books. I recommend Jennifer Government.

Perhaps some of the wittiest commentary around……

Yeah, he emailed me twice. We’re pretty tight.

Until then.

When the words won't come

2008-08-18T13:08:00.006-04:00

Being a writer is tough business. The only person that can motivate you is yourself. I have not actually sat down and written anything new in almost two weeks. I have many times sat down at my computer, opened a new word document, and wrote the title of a story. For some reason a couple of really good titles popped in my head over the last month,...unfortunately, nothing resembling a story or narrative arc came with them. So, what I have been mostly doing is looking at a blank page, writing a few sentences, sometimes paragraphs, re-reading them, and when I have sufficiently deemed them crap I hit "ctrl+a" and then "delete". Ahhhhh, nothing is quite as liberating as deleting a days worth of work :)

And then I go and look at Calvin and Hobbes comics. People that love Calvin and Hobbes are some of my favorite people. For your pleasure I have posted two of my favorites (strips, not people).

*These comics are posted without permission. I'm pretty sure the sites I copied them from did not have permission either. However, if Mr.Watterson or the good folks at Andrews McMeel Publishing would like them removed, then removed they shall be.

-D

"Thoughts inspired by a conversation with a drunk lawyer" or "A couple of good sentences and lot o' ramblin'." You decide.

2008-08-13T14:40:00.007-04:00

One of Karl Marx’s most widely quoted ideas is: "Religion is the opiate of the people.” I would be a poseur to sit here and pretend that I am an authority on Marx. I have only read what I was told to in school and haven’t given the guy much thought since (though he along with Hegel, Plato, Carlyle, Nietzsche, and Samuel Johnson are people whose works I would like to look at more closely). So why bring him up if I can’t elaborate or pontificate on the man? I’ll tell you why. I think I may have come up with something resembling an original idea. I know. Scary.

The opiate of the people is Capitalism.

With Capitalism, your god is the dollar. Who doesn’t believe in that? Why do we get up every day to go to work, shuffling amongst each other in clothes we don’t want to wear, stuffed in subway cars or stuck on the freeway? We bow and pray to this god everyday and every time we buy things and think about what to buy next. And we all do it, regardless of what religion.

Capitalism is like religion in that we are told what to believe in from an early age. However, with most religions you need faith – something intangible. Do we need faith to believe in Capitalism? Nope. None. Nada. Zilch. Not a single iota of faith. You can hold a dollar and when you have enough you can trade them for virtually anything you want. No waiting for the afterlife (if that is something you believe in, God bless your lovely soul).

From childhood we are told to go to school, get a good job, get married, start a family (yes,…I have seen and, oh my, even read Fight Club). Do you need a God or a religion to do any of these things? Not in the spiritual sense you don’t. You need money and you need to learn how to make the most of it that you possibly can. That is what we are all striving for – whether you think you are or not. Even if you hold lofty ideals, you still have to conform and assimilate into the Capitalistic culture. (Hell, Thoreau only lived at Walden for two years.)

Let us suppose for a moment that you are making enough to survive – you are comfortable. Would you turn down a raise at your job? Probably not. Let's suppose you would turn it down. You wouldn’t want to donate that extra income to a charity or cause you believe in, they need money too. What about taxes, inflation, insurance, I hear gas prices aren’t stable, (and I can’t believe that some people don’t realize that gas price affects more than what you pay when you fill your car. That tractor in Idaho tilling the soil uses gas and so does the truck that transports the potatoes you just paid 50 cents more for.)

Let’s say you are a bachelor or bachelorette. You have a good job, a good apartment. Uh-oh. You just got pregnant or were an impregnator. Now you’ve got this little fella following you around asking you to buy this and that for him. Now you gotta tell that adorable son of a bitch that he or she can’t have it because it’s too expensive. Well done. You’ve just instilled the belief in capitalism in that little critter. They will grow up and try to make as much money as they possibly can because this is America (fuck yeah) and God damn it, no one’s gonna tell em’ no!

I’m not saying everybody is a capitalist zealot. That would be absurd. Not all religious people are fanatics. Some are more devout than others are. Same with Capitalism. There are those who are comfortable with their position in life. They are content. Then there are those who are really devoted to the dollar. Where capitalism and religion differ, and I think this makes Capitalism the true opiate, is this: When is the last time you heard some say, “Man, I wish I had more God in my life?” Let us suppose that you have heard someone say that. I’m not a betting man, but I would bet (with credit of course) that they have wished for, or wanted, more money a disproportionately larger amount of times then they have wished for more religion.

37 days, 11 hours, and 19 minutes without the Internet

2008-08-06T13:42:00.003-04:00

It began with a dead man. I mean this guy was really dead. Almost 20 years dead. Despite the unequivocal nature of this fact, the good people at Verizon decided that it was okay to bill this man. I can see why they would do this. Having DSL is pretty f’n cool compared to a dial-up connection. Why wouldn't someone come back from the dead for this? Do you know how easy and fast you can get por….ahem, news and information? Yeah, well the kind folks at Verizon do too. So, when my roommate’s dead grandfather came back to life to subscribe to DSL they signed him right up. No questions asked. Jesus only came back from the dead so he could ascend,…DSL is so much cooler than that.

To make a long story short, dead people don’t pay bills. Hell, neither do most alive people (especially when those bills are sent to a dead person’s old address). You see, at Verizon, the phone bill and DSL bill are in different departments and these departments don’t exactly like to talk to each other - kind of like the government but without the commissions and books blaming other people. The lesson to be learned is that when you pay for deceased grandfather’s DSL and phone line and not yours, it is only a matter of time before they shut you down and demand a death certificate….yes, they wanted one. God help us all when FIOS fully launches.

Oh yeah, got another rejection letter the other day. Giggity-giggity.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2008-07-29T17:56:00.004-04:00

Just as Hamlet, upon contemplating the worth of life, uttered the phrase, "To be or not to be," I have been asking myself, "To Blog or Not to Blog?" Of course that is not an original thought. Many have thought the same and have decided that "yes, what I think is important and by Jove, I'm gonna tell the world!" I am not sure if my decision was inspired by my desire to become a writer and the feeling that if I want to succeed in that life it would be a good idea to get out there and gain a readership or because my mother and uncle began a sordid affair only weeks after the death of my slain father, whom I might add I witnessed upon the ramparts just the other night in a ghostly form telling me to "write boy!" before vanishing. (I promise, dear readers, that I will try to keep my sentence length shorter than that last one).

Well, let's keep this short. There is no need to lollygag. Welcome on my journey to become a writer. I have so far been rejected by some of the top literary journals in the country. I know what you're thinking. "Wow, that's pretty good." It was actually not that hard. All you have to do is write something you think is good, send it out unsolicited and since your name isn't one they know, your manuscript will end up in the rejected pile and voila! in 4 to 6 weeks you will be the proud owner of a stock rejection slip.

So that's about it for today. I will keep you updated on my progress and in the blogs between the ones about my writing aspirations perhaps we shall have some laughs. Until then.