scary, confusing health care reform

The Kaiser Foundation polled 2,002 American adults in January on their feelings about the health care legislation being debated in Congress.  I think most of it's pretty useless, but this question in particular caught my eye:

As of right now, do you generally (support) or generally (oppose) the health care proposals being discussed in Congress? (Is that strongly support/oppose or somewhat support/oppose?) (ROTATE OPTIONS IN PARENTHESES)
Based on one-half sample (n=980)  01/10
Strongly support   19%
Somewhat support   23%
Somewhat oppose   10%
Strongly oppose   31%
Don’t know/Refused   16%

Support (42%) vs Oppose (41%) is pretty even, but intensity is distributed unevenly.  People who oppose the proposals really oppose them, and people who support the proposals just sort of support them a bit.

No doubt opponents of the legislation will latch onto that as "proof" that even people who like it don't like it that much.  I, however, don't think that's what this says at all.

Health care legislation is unbelievably complex.  Other than the military, I can't think of any other topic the government takes on that has more special interests entrenched in more ways, with more at stake.  It's an utter mess right now, and trying to fix it is like sending a rookie pet groomer into a small room containing all the animals from the San Diego zoo.  If the lions and gorillas don't get her, the snakes most certainly will.  (And watch out for that koala.  Seriously.)

Anyway, because it's so complex, no one really understands it.  I'd bet even the authors don't understand their own legislation fully.  (These are the same people, after all, that thought it important to rename "french fries" to "freedom fries" when the French declined our invitation to participate in America's worst foreign policy decision in history.)

The implications and ultimate consequences of health care reform, both intended and unintended, are unfathomable.  That makes it easy to oppose and difficult to support.  It's human nature to oppose confusing changes, even if those changes ultimately will be beneficial.  If the changes are confusing, it's hard to know for sure whether they're beneficial.  And all those entrenched special interests have an easy time making them seem ever more confusing and scary.

Mini Minion Meet

Almost a year ago, I traveled halfway around the world to meet Robin in person, along with a few other wonderful EE minions.  Today, I had the great pleasure of seeing Robin again, this time on her home turf, or very nearly, in Alexandria, Virginia.  I also met her husband for the first time (yes, lads, sorry, but Robin is married) and liked him a lot despite his being Welsh.  Or possibly because he is Welsh.  I've only known one other openly Welsh person, and he's a good guy.  So maybe that's it.

This mini minion meet--or, better put, a minion mini meet although neither Robin nor I is what anyone would call "NBA height"--occurred at an Irish pub because, I suppose, it is Saint Patrick's Eve.  Which sounds vaguely like a the name of a very bad idea from a feminine products company.  And also because Robin is Irish.  Or, Irish German.  Depending on whose facts you believe.

In any case, much fun was had by all even though not one of us drank Guinness, which surprised even me.  Robin and I talked about writing and many other things.  More important, since Robin's Day Job is actually related to my line of work, we discussed business.  In fact, we discussed business for a number of minutes, during which the waiter conveniently delivered the check.  And it should be noted that if I had ordered a room service dinner on this business trip, which undoubtedly I would have done had I not met Robin and her husband, the bill would have been far higher.

It is a pleasantly odd feeling to be meeting a person for only the second time in your life yet fall instantly into a comfortable banter as if you grew up together.

Unfortunately, Chris was unable to leave her Things unsupervised and make the 90 minute drive to join us.  Which I don't quite understand since her facebook status seems always to imply that the supervision she provides is not always relevant to their activities anyway.

Finally, a note to all reading this:  We must do this again soon, with a larger contingent.  Fellow minions, what say ye?

What did Bede know, and when did he know it?

Aerin never misses a chance to remind me I'm a nerd.  I admit, the evidence is relatively strong.  I have an engineering degree and know how to use the vi editor.  My preferred mode of humor is the pun.  And I played Dungeons & Dragons as a kid.  OK, and in college.  Yeah, even after I got out of college, had a job, and was married.  But by then it was Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.

Anyway, my love of D & D fueled also my love of Anglo Saxon history.  I think I own more books about the time of Alfred the Great than any other topic except perhaps writing.  So imagine my excitement to read this article about a new archaeological discovery of a mass Viking grave.  How cool!

You don't need to read the article.  You can just get the summary from the sidebar, which I've copied verbatim over there, below on the right.

• 51 bodies were unearthed near the site
  of the 2012 London Olympics
• On Friday, scientists announce the men
  were Vikings from the Dark Ages
• The men, who were beheaded, were found
  near the Olympic sailing venue

But I think the scientists are chasing the wrong questions. It's all well and good to try to figure out where the Vikings came from using iodine or isotopes or dialysis or whatever it is they use. And to examine in tiny detail all the wounds they received, like some sick S&M history voyeur.

What I really want to know is, why were they executed near the Olympic sailing venue?  Why not near, say, the Olympic velodrome?  Or the Olympic fencing venue?  Science may never reveal the answer to this mystery.

phrases to fear

I once heard someone begin a speech with something like this:  "We all know the three biggest lies.  Number three is, of course, 'I'll respect you in the morning.'  Number two is, 'The check is in the mail.'  And the number one biggest lie is those three little words: 'I'll be brief.'"

We've all worked with people who start every conversation with something like, "I know we don't have much time, so I'll make this quick."  Then they talk for 20 or 30 minutes, making no progress and repeating themselves frequently.  Eventually we just sigh and roll with it because we're not rude enough to say, "Three minutes is quick.  You have three minutes."  And then hold them to it.  We're weak in that way, and we become the enabler when we should be sending them to On and On Anon, the 12 step program for compulsive talkers.

Worse, however, is a phrase I've begun hearing a lot and seeing even more as the subject of emails.  "Quick question," they write.  Are they being hopeful?  Evasive?  Or is it simply like knocking on a door, a generic sound that indicates they want to talk to you?  What I've found is that, yes, the question is indeed always quick.  Providing the answer, however, is typically epic in scope.  I imagine a White House email:

From:  Da Prez [obama@whitehouse.gov]
To:  Bernanke [ben@economistsgonewild.com]
Subject:  Quick question
Ben, quick question for ya:  How should we fix this thing with the economy?

In the rare cases where the "quick question" has an answer at all, the answer is undoubtedly so complex and nuanced that it would make for a good PhD dissertation subject.  Or two.

But neither "I'll make this quick" nor "quick question," nor, for that matter, any other phrase uttered in English, can generate the kind of visceral terror resulting from these four words:  Dude, you're on speaker!

moms and dads

The fabulous Kiersten posted today about her young child wanting an ice cream cone for breakfast.  The post, and some of the comments, reminded me of a Bill Cosby story I'd seen him perform 25 years ago.  So I searched youtube and came up with it right away.  Having only about 35 hours of work to complete in the last 30 minutes of the day, I decided I had plenty of time to watch this 10 minute story.  (And blog about it.)

You should watch it now before reading further.  It contains great wisdom for the observant.




What, you ask, is the great wisdom contained therein?  The fact that mothers and fathers do not always see things the same way.  I have learned this over time myself, after becoming a parent.

See, moms care about things like nutrition, rules, conventions, and discipline.  Dads care about convenience, happiness, and... well, convenience and happiness.  When a dad imposes discipline--and it has been this way since caveman days--he does so for only one of two reasons.  The first and most important reason is that he is deathly afraid of the mom.  The second reason is that the discipline happened by accident.

There are no other reasons.  A dad may tell you he's got the children's best interests at heart when he makes them do their 15 minutes of homework before letting them play nine hours of Wii.  Even though they actually have nine hours of homework, which they "finished" in 15 minutes.  In reality, however, the dad is terrified of what the mom will say (and do) when she finds out that Wii was played without the homework being done.

The wisest of dads figure out early on exactly where the line is between frustrated mom-sighs and apoplectic rage explosions.  We can live with frustrated mom-sighs.  In fact, most husbands are entirely inured to frustrated mom-sighs since they occur almost every time a grizzled veteran mom encounters her husband.

Moms don't understand how dads can go through life appearing carefree and happy.  Here's the secret:  Dads are genetically incapable of understanding that something is undoubtedly about to go horribly wrong with the children.  Doughnuts for breakfast?  Moms see scurvy and rotten teeth.  Dads see happiness.  Video games?  Moms see a short community college stint followed by years of unemployable drifting.  Dads see development of eye-hand coordination, problem solving, and bonding time--along with happiness.

For all you new dads out there just beginning to understand this concept:  the trick is in finding that point where you do just enough.  Doughnuts for breakfast... with sausage and juice, maybe.  Video games after homework is "done."  If you can master the skill of doing just enough to keep from being run through with the meat thermomether, then you have a great career ahead of you in public service.

a crisis of faith

I have, for some years now, been a faithful but fringe member of the Church of the FSM.  OK, I might never actually have joined, but somehow I think the church leaders don't really mind.

But recently, thanks to author Stuart Neville (who may or may not be involved in this, but he posted something to his facebook status about it, and anyway you should check him out because he seems to be cool even though I've never met him and he lives on the other side of the ocean, but I digress), I've discovered a new belief system that has me questioning my faith in the FSM.

But really, is Pastafarianism incompatible with Dudeism?  This is a question that scholars will ignore for decades, if not centuries.  And that's just as it should be, man.

American Idol, gonna mess your mind

When football season ends, I don't despair in the same way I used to.  Because the Premier League is still going strong, and now I have American Idol.

It's a guilty pleasure, for sure.  I don't vote during the elimination rounds--no patience for it--but I do like to handicap the horses during the auditions and try to pick out the final few.  I picked Taylor Hicks and Adam Lambert, for example, as probably top-fours in their seasons, before they even made it out of Hollywood week.

This year, I have a new favorite who will probably not even make the top 12.  Siobhan.  Why?  Check out her tattoo.  That's right, it's the Gashlycrumb Tinies artwork!  And as you all know, that particular Gorey masterpiece was the inspiration behind my Unlucky 26.  So Siobhan, I'm in your corner, babe.  Call me.  If you win it all, I'll let you tattoo Marrow Manor on your other arm.

When I was in college, I actually had a pretty good singing voice.  I sang all the time, but only when I thought no one could hear.  I had no voice training, did not come from a musical family.  My instrument of choice was drum sticks.  Then, my junior year, I took a sight singing course and had a blast.  I was one of the better students, but that wasn't saying much, to be honest.  I performed better in my ballroom dance class, where, truth be told, all the girls wanted me as their partner.

Anyway, I digress.

At the beginning of my senior year, I took a chance.  The UC Men's Octet, a phenomenally talented and amusing a cappella group, was holding auditions for all parts (alto, tenor, baritone, and bass).  I grabbed the sheet music for the audition song ("Mood Indigo"), headed to the music building where they had rooms with pianos, and practiced.  I couldn't ever quite hit the higher notes in the tenor range, so I tried the baritone part.

The day of the auditions, I was thrilled to see that only the current Octet and about ten auditioners were in a small studio room.  No public humiliation.  My humiliation would stay private.  They were nice enough to ask each of us if we ever had any music instruction, so I was able to set expectations appropriately before even singing a note.

A few went before me, and man, were they good.  A tenor and a bass.  I knew I could never be as good as they were.  But here was my one chance to sing with the Octet, albeit only three of them and in a small room.  So I gave it a go.  We sang through it once, and I knew immediately I had started in the wrong key.  I never corrected out of the wrong key, but dammit I sang the right notes in that wrong key, and they were good notes, and my voice was smooth.

They were very kind.  The head guy said, without a hint of patronization, "I'm not sure that was exactly right.  Let's try it again."  This time I hit the right key and sang quite well, in tune.  Until the last few bars, when instead of the baritone harmony I sang the progression of the tenor melody.  If I'd had any remaining chance, I knew I killed it then.  Still, the guys were super nice.  They asked if I wanted to audition as a tenor.  I knew I wouldn't hit the high range, so I declined.

Listening to the rest of the auditions, I knew I was out of my league.  But really, I knew that going in.  And unlike so many tone-deaf American Idol hopefuls, music was not my life.  It just seemed like a cool thing to do.  I almost left before they announced the results, but I'm glad I didn't.  All the guys auditioning and in the Octet were beyond nice the whole time, encouraging and not the least stomp-on-your-dreams cynical.

To this day, I am stunned I even tried out.  But that's the only way I've ever gained in life--by stepping outside my comfort zone and taking a risk.  That one didn't work out, but I am so glad I did it.

A day in Facebook Ads

I, like most people who've spent more than six minutes on the internet, have been trained to ignore anything that shows up in the far right column of a web page.  It's only ads any more.  But recently I've been intrigued by the ads that Facebook is choosing for me.  So I captured a sampling of ads that Facebook gave me today.

This is the one that got me started.  Apparently, it's telling me that if I am a father and make very little money, I can have hot, overly-made-up chicks smiling at me in provocative ways.  Presumably, this is what a scholarship will do for me.  But wait, this appears to be a correspondence or online degree.  This is the internet.  I don't need to take online classes to find hot, overly-made-up chicks smiling at me in provocative ways on the internet.  In fact, it's almost difficult to avoid that kind of thing.  (Be careful what links you click, folks.)

Aaaah!  Now they're telling me I can become the Unabomber if only I sign up for their online scholarship thing.  Is this dude a dad?  I can pretty much guarantee he doesn't bring home more than $45 grand, unless it's in the sack that he filled in the bank vault with his ski mask on.

Yeah, now that's more like it.  Forget scholarships.  Who needs school when you can have pecs and delts like that guy?  And all I have to do is drink whatever he's got in the bottle.  And I can be a UFC champion.  That's definitely worth a click.

This one definitely got my attention because I am certain that Wells Fargo did not make, buy, or approve this ad.  I'm guessing, though I'm not sure, that if you click this it will take you to the scholarships for dads site.  This one makes me a little queasy because it implies that I and my coworkers aren't already educated.  I do, however, like the gratuitous hyphen in re-imbursement.  This is a school I want to attend.  One that puts random punctuation where it's not needed, to clarify something that does not need clarification.

At least the Author's Guide is free.  At least it openly refers to self publishing and doesn't do those underhanded vanity publisher tricks, at least not at the start.  But really, does anyone believe that if you self publish your poetry, you will "get discovered by traditional publishers"?  That's like saying, "join Twitter and you'll get discovered by traditional publishers!"  I really hate products that prey on people's dreams with no actual hope of fulfilling them.

This one just has me befuddled.  There's an "average Team USA mom"?  At first I thought this was an ad for custom sports apparel.  Then I thought it was an ad for... um, something Olympic.  Then I saw it as a P&G ad.  More like a WTF ad.  What are they trying to sell me here?  Pringles?  Does P&G make Pringles?  Oh, I guess so.  I'll put this one down to a cute but ultimately stupid attempt at Olympics related nerd humor.  Moms, nerd humor, and Olympics--trying to hit a trifecta but coming in just outside of medal contention.

There were other ads, too, but these came up most often (apart from the Facebook feature ads).  I don't have any particular point in this blog post except to say that, yeah, now that I've paid attention, I fully understand how easy it was to train myself to ignore that right column on web sites.

God, guns, and the flag

Three stories that have come up in recent weeks:

• Man wants to rename a mountain
• Teacher has kid arrested for not reciting the Pledge
• Handguns flaunted in Starbucks

When people have a view to impose on others, they rarely stop at the line where reasonable discourse turns into insanity.  In fact, some of them already began on the far side of that line.

Here in Walnut Creek, there's a mountain.  It's only 3,849 feet tall, but more of the Earth's surface can be seen from its summit than from any other peak besides Kilimanjaro.  Thirty-five of California's 58 counties are visible from this mountaintop.  It is a key survey point for much of California.  And it's been called Mt. Diablo since as early as 1824, when San Francisco was little more than a Mexican military outpost of about 250 soldiers.

So of course a guy wants to rename it Mount Reagan.  Actually, he doesn't much care what the new name would be.  He just doesn't want to glorify Satan any more.  Apparently, God told him to file the petition.  Because, you know, God cares about this.

Meanwhile, in Maryland, a teacher had a 13-year-old girl removed from her classroom by school police when she refused to stand and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  Oh, the humanity!  She must be a Communist, or a terrorist.  I am surprised she didn't end up at Guantanamo, labeled an enemy combatant.

Three things really bother me about this:  First, that this school has "school police."  Either this is a really tough school and the school police probably have something better to do already, or it's an insanely rich hoity-toity school where parents are worried about things like, you know, free speech.  I mean the exercise of free speech, and making sure it gets punished severely.  Second, that the teacher broke state law and violated school policy by trying to force the student to stand and recite the pledge.  Can we even call someone like that a teacher?  What, exactly, is she trying to teach?  And third, that some people actually think the teacher was doing the morally right thing.  That is scary.

We return now to the shadow of Mt. Diablo, where some kooks think it's really important to strap on handguns when buying coffee.  California has "open carry," which means that while it's illegal to carry a concealed handgun, it's not illegal to buckle one into your belt as long as it's not loaded.  The ammunition can be handy, just not loaded in the weapon.  For some reason, a group of people decided it was important to make everyone aware of this law by insisting on wearing their weapons when they got coffee.  Because you never know when there might be a firefight at the half-and-half pitcher.

It reminds me of a joke I heard in middle school:  Why does a dog lick its balls?  Because it can.

So, why does a man insist on flaunting deadly weapons in wealthy suburban coffee joints?  Apparently because he can't lick his balls.

We now return you to your regular programming of health care, global warming, foreclosures, the rotten economy, and Olympic medal counts.

Winter Olympics: guns, bikinis, and really cool sunglasses

I was shocked--shocked, I tell you!--last night when my younger son declared that the Biathlon was the least exciting winter Olympics sport to watch.  Considering that my two boys have more airsoft weaponry than most third world countries have actual guns, this declaration woke me up.  (I had fallen asleep, you see, because "ice dancing" was on the TV.)

I figured that anything involving shooting would keep my boys rapt.  Skiing and shooting.  Skating and shooting.  Hot dog eating and shooting.  Lawnmowing and shooting.  What could be more exciting, apart from maybe watching someone strap on skis and fling himself sixty feet skyward in a windmill tornado tumbling exhibition?  (OK, possibly if the skier were in fact doing this jump behind the biathlon shooting targets.)

So my boys eschewed the manliest of winter sports, the one involving the gun.  (By the way, I think women's biathlon should be moved to the summer games, and moved to the beach. It'd be like women's beach volleyball, only with bullets instead of a ball.  Girls, guns, and bikinis.  The IOC is missing a major ratings opportunity here.  But I digress.)

It got me thinking about other Olympic sports, though.

Curling.  OK, I kind of like it in the way I like ping pong and lawn bowling.  All three are well designed for the integration of beer.  But that whole broom thing... kinda girly, doncha think?  I mean, manly men don't do competitive sweeping.  When have you seen a Swiffer ad with a man doing the housework?  All they need is to add a guy at the end to pick up the stone, rinse it off, and put it in a dishwasher.  Emasculation complete.

Ice dancing.  Do we even need to go there?  This is the rhythmic gymnastics of winter.  This is figure skating for men who can't jump, and for women who are too big and fat to be thrown in the air like a high school cheerleader.  They should change this sport to incorporate some of the rules of the dance marathons of the 1930s.  Have all the couples on the ice at the same time.  Instead of sitting off in safety writing down random scores, judges would have to be on the ice, too, and tap the dancers on the shoulder when they've been eliminated.  And it would be a 12 hour marathon; if after 12 hours, more than one couple was still dancing, the judges could award style points to declare the winner.

Doubles luge.  WTF?  I mean, seriously?

I actually do enjoy watching some of the sports, if I've got nothing better to do like pick lint out of my navel or draw lines on the whiskey bottle to make sure the 10 year old isn't mooching.  Somehow I missed the US vs Canada hockey game, which is probably the one thing I would have sat down to watch in its entirety.  The downhill ski races are a bit like NASCAR in that there's almost certainly going to be a spectacular wipeout at some point, and that's OK because NBC in prime time tape delay won't show any actual serious injuries.  Cross country skiing is unfortunately like long distance running--truly an athletic competition, but fundamentally awful television.  I can allow figure skating because there's a manliness to tossing a petite girl into the air while zooming around on miniature swords strapped to your feet.  And speed skating--the one activity in all of humanity where a woman benefits from having enormous thighs.  Plus, as my son who is bored by the biathlon said, they get to wear really cool sunglasses.

So I guess the winter Olympics isn't all bad.  It's got guns, spectacular wipeouts, and really cool sunglasses.  The only thing it's missing is bikinis.

Random inspiration

I live in awe of those friends of mine who can post a blog post a day.  Sometimes two.  Or fourteen.  Sometimes with video.  Me, my posts have dwindled to maybe two a month (plus my weekly poem on the private blog).  That's OK.  I like my job.  I like my kids.  I don't much like housework, but it has to get done.

So tonight I turned to professional help.  The best help in the industry.  Right.  Google.  And Google pointed me to 1.4 million possibilities.  Here are a few that have potential (with a couple of suggestions from each), and which I may try using in the next few weeks.

• Imagination Prompt Generator
  What foods do you keep out of sight?
  What is in your car trunk?
  Name your boundaries.
• Random Topic Generator
  Relatives that give you the creeps
  Lying to your kids
  Poverty in Singapore
• The Brainstormer
  Letting go -- small town -- motor home
  Healing journey -- tribal -- fishing boat
  Madness -- cuban -- vineyard
• Special Projects Idea Generator
  Exclusive -- mechanized -- sport
  Pre-fab -- hand-crafted -- opera
  Artificial -- rubber -- vehicle

A little twisted, some of these, but they have potential.  What about you?  Do you have a favorite random topic generator, or a favorite place to get a prompt?

For some reason, I was put in mind of this:

SFWC Wrap-Up, or, "How I avoided the claws that catch"

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the Scottish Koala!

I'm paraphrasing, but I bring this up to say that today I made the Koala pleased.  Although she does not yet know it.  Today, I sent off query and pages to a fabulous, stupendous, wonderful, thoughtful, kind, intelligent, insightful, and very non-frumious agent that I met at the San Francisco Writers Conference over the weekend.  Another trait of hers is that there is a small but nonzero possibility that she may read this blog.  Did I mention stupendous and amazing?  I'm sure I did.

Last weekend I volunteered at the San Francisco Writers Conference for my third year in a row.  I absolutely adore (most of) the volunteers, speakers, and attendees.  Although after three years I find the content of the sessions a bit redundant, I still get a lot out of the conference.  Renewed enthusiasm, new contacts, a little new perspective and information, and most of all, fun.

I don't have much of a writeup about this conference.  I attended three of the four YA sessions I had wanted to hear, and I was assigned to Ransom Stephens' session about basic writing craft that was shockingly stupendous.  I worked the cafe and sold mediocre coffee at $3 per tiny cup (the hotel charged us $5 per cup).  I hung around with writers from Los Angeles, Salt Lake, Cincinnati, New Jersey, Florida, and--yes--even San Francisco.  I pitched two very kind and patient agents (did I mention stupendous and amazing?  oh, yes, I see I did) and waylaid a YA editor to bend her ear on some tough questions while waiting for the elevator.  And I did an awful lot of helping attendees find rooms, helping presenters remember to repeat the question, carrying boxes, etc.  Plus, since my wife also volunteered on Sunday and we had a room at the Mark Saturday night, we spent a pleasant Valentine's Eve in the city together.

All in all, a great weekend.

Today, the Day Job hauled me back in with a relentless efficiency and sucked all the life from my body before 2 p.m.  A little coffee reanimated my corpse, and by the boys' bedtime I was back in business and slapping together the query and pages.  Tomorrow:  the other wonderful, astounding, super-duper agent I met gets her query and pages.

Wish me luck.

Rabbit Hole Day

Lewis Carroll was born on January 27th.  The idea of blog Rabbit Hole Day is to stop making sense for 24 hours to honor the birthday of the guy who came up with Alice and the white rabbit and Cheshire Cat and all that.  I, however, take a different approach.  I honor the day not by being inane and insane but by penning a poem that attempts to mimic something.  You get to decide what it mimics.

Rekindling the Day

A pushoning wind bussed up my sails
and tautened all my lines.
I joped the jib and yanced the daels
and harkened to the signs.

The time was ripe!  The blow'ring sea
pulled at my empty heart,
and breathlessly it sang to me,
a most auspicious start.

My boat gachurtled forward
and the harbor fell behind,
as we swiftly slidled toward
the horizon sunburn-brined.

A fortnight and a month I sailed
the despelate, cold sea
til the day I thought my quest had failed
and death was nigh for me.

A moonless night had fallen black
and derkened deep my soul
when then, with a ferocious whack!
we foundered on a shoal.

Shakered and detothered
I was flung into the deep
where the water's weight besmothered
all my breath and made me sleep.

I wakened on a burgened beach
and heard a croftish weeping.
A little man just out of reach
was roundabantly leaping.

His frimpish arms and feeple beard
spashed wild in his hurry.
Possessed he seemed, with spirits weird,
so urgent was his fury.

Above him hanged as if divine
a rope straight from the sky.
He looked a little asinine,
this nimpish, little guy.

He jumped and jumped with howling wail
straight up to grasp the rope.
So small was he, 'twas no avail,
and so he lost all hope.

I asked him, "Why so glum, sir?"
And he skartled up and pointed,
shouting, "Ah! I see you've come, sir!"
And with that, I was anointed.

"You have restified my hope, sir,"
he cajortled, filled with glee.
"Would you pull down on that rope, sir?
It's to high for me, you see."

So I reached right up and took it,
grabbing tight cause it was slick.
When I pulled it, he said, "Lookit!"
and I heard a glibbous CLICK.

Then a wonder started growing
on the easting haunton sea--
the horizon started glowing,
and a warm hope rose in me.

"Ah!  You've done it!" barked the gnome,
and he laughed deep in his throat.
"Now let's send you off for home."
Then, nearby, appeared my boat.

I stepped inside and joped the main
and deeply breathed the salton air
and drank the liquid sunshine rain
as wind befrothed my finsom hair.

Changing my name

I've decided to stop being PJD and start being Peter Dudley on the web.  I've been Peter Dudley pretty much my whole life, and PJD sounds kinda stupid.  I always thought using initials was cool because my brother did it.  But he's got cool initials.  MED.  Yes, he's a doctor (though not a MEDical doctor).

You can still refer to me as PJD if you want.  Some people find change difficult.  I understand.  A lot of people had problems when Prince changed his name.

CAT UPDATE
Got the catalytic converter fixed today.  Mostly Honda in Concord is a top notch place.  No matter where you live, you should take your vehicle there for repairs.  They fixed it same day, and at about 60% the price I expected.

LIFE UPDATE
Off to Los Angeles in the morning for a bunch of meetings.  I don't think there will be hula hooping this time, but I've heard a rumor that we'll have a big celebrity as a keynote speaker.  Someone said Shatner.  Oh, that would be so cool.  But I don't believe it.  We'll see.

I am in danger of getting glared at by the Koala this month.  I only have two submissions (unless multiple poems count, in which case I have four in January).  I'm hoping to creep up to five or six points.  But I am very scared.

I missed 3WW last week.  I hope to participate this week.  I am lame.

It was there this morning...

I am the victim of vandalism and theft.

On Tuesday I drove to the train station and parked on the fourth floor of the parking garage, like I usually do.  I went to work.  I worked.  I returned to the train station.  I got into my truck.  I turned the key.

The truck roared like a fully packed, poorly maintained, high powered semi downshifting on the Grapevine.  It roared so loud that it set off a car's alarm several spaces away.  I had to go because I had to pick up my boys from karate, so I just drove it.  I admit I was a little proud of my 16 year old junker gurgling and roaring down suburban streets.  I felt a little like a rebel.  I figured it was the muffler.  I figured someone would yell, "Midasize it!" at me.

Today I actually looked under my car and discovered that my muffler was just fine.  But something was inserted into the exhaust system that shouldn't have been:  a cleanly sliced gap where the catalytic converter should have been.

Here's where the catalytic converter should have been, with helpful red lines to show where the slices are:

And here's a photo of the actual slice in the pipe:

I spoke with BART police on the phone tonight, and the officer said mine was the second 4Runner hit in this way, in that lot, on that day.  Fargin' eyesoles.  Bastages.  I hope they catch them, string them up, draw and quarter them, boil the pieces in Tabasco, and feed them to the hundred Clarity of Night crows that like to pick at people's eyeballs and living flesh.

OK, maybe I don't hope ALL that.  But this is gonna cost me a thousand bucks to fix.  Anyone wanna buy a used, but very good condition, 1994 4Runner with only 130,000 miles?  I'll throw in an extra gap in the exhaust pipe for free.

haiku wednesday - January 13, 2010

This week's words are
jolt
ribbon
zeal

A wacky couple of months has kept me from 3WW. And, due to the Clarity of Night contest, I will be unable to make the 3WW rounds this week; my apologies!

---

zeal of teenage boys
speed, slide, skid, crash, jolt to stop
red ribbon stains snow

---

a jolt of color
sky's ribbon arc fuels their zeal
they seek pots of gold

---

jolt my memories
long gone youthful zeal returns
scented hair ribbon

Gilbertson and Willingham were, apparently, unavailable

Lane Kiffin. USC. Is there a Pac-10 team that doesn't think this is a dream combination?

flash fiction contest -- enter now!

I have just sent in my entry to Jason Evans' flash fiction contest at his Clarity of Night blog. The rules and submission guidelines indicate prizes, formatting, and deadline. When he posts my entry to his site, I'll update with a link. I hope you all will enter--how hard is it to write a 250 word story from a photo prompt?

Although I plan on reading every entry, if you enter please comment on this post and let me know what # yours is.

Making a to-do about 2010

I'm not even sure I'll get today's to-do list completed. So, in the grand, self-centered tradition of making annual to-do lists that are not likely to get to-done, I hereby document my resolutions commitments objectives aspirations for 2010.

(I actually like my Day Job, but if you want my Day Job objectives, ya hafta go aks my boss. You won't read them here, even though they're a huge part of what my 2010 will be.)

• Finish my revision of Andie's Gold, then query in earnest. Don't stop until someone sees it for the work of brilliance it is.
  
• Post at least one new poem every week to my private blog. Mid year, figure out if it's possible to sell an anthology of light verse for kids.
  
• Shore up the Unlucky 26 and look for any small, quirky publishers who might like it.
  
• Complete my training for Scouting and become more actively involved in the troop. Make sure Sam bridges and Ethan achieves at least First Class.
  
• NOT sign up as a soccer coach again unless Sam really really really REALLY wants me to.
  
• Do something fun and different for our 20th wedding anniversary. about.com says I should do something Chinese because china is the traditional 20th anniversary gift. Huh?
• Read at least six novels.
• Attend my high school 25th reunion.
• Brew one batch of beer each quarter and try some new recipes.
  
• Random other things: Submit to Jason Evans' contests and a couple other things through the year. Volunteer at the San Francisco Writers Conference. Keep up with friends' blogs, and cultivate existing non-virtual friendships. Try to get over to EE's place more often. More consistently hit the gym. Journal more often. Take a couple of interesting vacations (possibly Hawaii?) and visit family.
  

Typical schlock, right? But hey, it's my typical schlock. You want someone else's typical schlock, go visit their blog.

Resolution Report Card

Sunday's paper was full of "year in review" and "decade in review" articles that I did not read. So in the spirit of modern journalism, I hereby present my very own year in review that you will not read.

I start with my 2009 resolutions because, well, isn't that the obvious place to start? These resolutions come straight from last year's blog post about the same thing.

1. Do something proactive with the Unlucky 26. Agents, small publishers, or self publish. Not sure yet, but something will be done.
   Define "proactive." I did get comments from the incomparable Aerin, and I did lay out the whole thing and get 10 print copies in a book form from lulu.com. And I even researched publishers and agents a bit. But it ended there; no queries. I even tried to create a sequel, but that fell flat before it even left the starting gate. Grade: C-minus.
   
2. Be more proactive with Andie's Gold. (Assuming none of the outstanding queries bear fruit.) I have faith that this book should be published, and I just need to find the right combination.
   Define "more proactive." I am about 70% finished with revision, including a lot of rewrite of the first half to improve pacing. My midyear goal was to finish the revision so I could send queries in February, 2010. Generally on track but a little behind. Grade: B-plus.
   
3. Continue to write. I did pretty well until work got crazy; work will continue to be insane throughout 2009, but I should be able to continue writing at least as much as this year, hopefully more.
   I had modest goals in 2009. Revise one chapter of Andie's Gold per month and write two new light verse poems a week. Ups & downs throughout the year, but on average I came close. Grade: solid B.
   
4. Don't skip the gym. It's so easy to say "today is too busy," but the days that I go I feel so much more energized. When I don't go, I start getting down on myself. It helps that I now have a buddy who goes to the same gym.
   Yeah, not so much. The gym buddy and I managed three workouts together. Then I got moved to a different building a half mile away. Then things got really busy. I think I've finally established a new routine, but... Grade: D-plus.
   
5. Be realistic about my time. This fall, I had too many obligations. I need to scale back something to retain my sanity.
   The thing I decided to scale back turned out to be sleep. And writing. I still coached soccer, led cub scouts, assisted (less) with boy scouts, and kept up with a number of other things. All while managing through a uniquely hectic work year. I get extra credit for retaining my sanity. That's why this isn't officially a resolutionfail. Grade: D-minus.
   
6. Reprise #4 of last year: Write and call family more often. Um, yeah. That's a resolution like for every year of my life.
   Define "more often." I actually did OK with this, for the most part. The bar was already set very low. Grade: B-plus.
   

Resolutions for 2010 will appear in a future post. Remember, this is a year in review post.

Facts about 2009, the year that is almost over:

• Professionally, I grew immensely. (Fortunately, despite missing out on lots of gym time, I did not grow immense.) The job I have today is twice as big and twice as complex--at least--as what I was doing a year ago. I don't tend to toot my own horn, but in 2009 I believe I did an outstanding job managing a turbulent, difficult, unsettled situation and turning in stellar results. I work with a terrific team, and I am profoundly proud of what we accomplished.
• Vacationally, it was a roller coaster year. Two awesome weeks in London (and Paris) along with trips to Disneyland, Tahoe (twice), San Luis Obispo, and Santa Monica. Unfortunately, work schedule (see above) kept me home from my family's visits back east and to Bend, Oregon. One of the main highlights was meeting a few of EE's minions at a Giraffe on the Thames.
• Computationally, we suffered a complete PC meltdown (boo!) and switched to Macs (yay!).
• Escritorially, my writing life wasn't as down as it appeared from my resolution report card. I had a short story published in the San Francisco Writers Conference Anthology; I won Jason Evans' flash contest in January and a readers' choice award in his July contest. (He has another coming up soon. Enter!) I had a poem accepted for publication in Caesura, and I started a new private poetry blog for my light verse which now has over 50 poems. I volunteered at the San Francisco Writers Conference. So it wasn't all tar pits and ice storms.
• Familialy, we enjoyed campouts, roller coasters, soccer, Mario Kart, skiing, and many daily trivias that make being a parent the most wonderful experience ever. (Usually.)
  

Last, but certainly not least, in 2009 we lost a dear, wonderful, exuberant, joyful friend. I do not hope you rest in peace, Trevor; rather, I hope you are enjoying the afterlife with as much flair and vigor as you enjoyed this one for your sixteen short years. We will miss you for always.

And that's my 2009 in review. For the most part. For me, 2009 will be the Year of the Day Job, in the best possible sense. I am hoping that 2010 will be remembered as the Year of the Winning Lottery Ticket. We shall see.