iPhone Lust

I have seen commercials for the new iPhone. And the iPhone looks so cool. I mean, it looks sleek, sexy, and well, simple. But you know, I am not sure it is as simple as that. I mean, I have an iPod, another elegant device. It looks sleek, sexy, and well, simple. See above.

Well, when I first got my iPod, I was so excited. I easily loaded a bunch of songs on the thing, turned it on and listened. I even figured out how to control the volume. I was so excited, and I listened to great music. Then I went to turn off the iPod, and I could not figure out how to do it.

Here I am with a new piece of technology and I cannot figure out how to turn off the iPod. Yes, I did not turn it off. I just re-charged it the next day. Then I "googled" it (yes, the directions were at home, the iPod was at work), and figured out how to turn the device off.

The iPod only plays music. Okay, it does other things, but that's what it is designed for.

The iPhone. Well, it is a phone, but it surfs the web, it can serve up YouTube videos, it can get your e-mail, it can play music, it can do so much. And you know, I don't really know how to use my cellular phone. What chance will I have knowing how to use a iPhone? And I don't want to get one of these devices and not know how to hang up the phone. I mean, think of the bills.

But the phone looks great. It looks sexy. And I want one nonetheless. Now that is great Apple marketing.

Adulterers Anonymous

Alcoholics Anonymous is a support/fellowship group to help them share a common problem. AA was the first 12-step program, and since then, other recovery groups have started or have adopted a similar 12-step program. I have not been through that program, nor do I have a drinking problem.

But I was chatting with someone yesterday, and they joked about AA. But they did not mean Alcoholics Anonymous. They meant Adulterers Anonymous. I had never heard of Adulterers Anonymous, but you know, I googled it, and you know, there is such a group. I had heard of Sexaholics Anonymous.

Okay, I don't have any personal experience with this, but you know, I can't imagine sending my husband to Adulterers Anonymous.

Imagine, if you will, the scene.

Several men and women, arranged in a circle, look nervously around. A table oddly arranged in the corner, holds warm coffee and stale cookies. An attractive, thirty-something brunette rises, adjusts her skirt, and states: "My name is Leesa. I am an adulterer. Or is that an adulteress? It has been three days since my last elicit encounter."

After tripping over the adulterer/adulteress terminology¹, Ms. Leesa would talk about various and sundry things, her weakness for penises, her drive to please me, et cetera.

Then there would be a break to consume cookies, meet one another in the toilet for a quickie, et cetera.

I just don't think it is wise to get people together who have a weakness for sex in a room, introducing them to one another. You know what I mean? After the meeting, do you want to go out for coffee and a BJ? I mean, come on.

I know that some people are addicted to sex. And some people have problems with remaining faithful. But to get them in a group seems, in some sense comical. I mean, I can see some guys joining the group just to improve their chance of getting laid.

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¹Adulterer has become, over time, gender neutral.

Nothing To See

I have been in a funk lately. I just have not had anything worth saying.

Last time I was in this place I wrote an erotic story that "greased the rails," as it were. Not sure I want to rely on erotica to unleash my non-erorica.

Nothing to see today. Maybe tomorrow.

Taking the Day Off

Hey, I called in sick today and I didn't make a blog entry. I am not sick, but I did need a mental health day.

Internet Stalkers

I want to talk about stalkers today. You see, I have my very own Internet stalker.

First, a few notes about stalkers. Most stalkers are men. Women, in general, don't stalk men. I mean, for the men out there, the odds of getting stalked by a deranged woman is extremely small, but you know, if you do, watch the heck out. Women stalkers are extremely dangerous. Think boiling the family pet when they get pissed off.

Anyway, I have my very own Internet stalker. He got my email address a long time ago, and every once in a while, he writes. And I ignore him.

His note: "Just checking in."

My response:

His note: "Thinking of you."

My response:

His note: "Are you pregnant."

My response:

I am not sure he knows he is a stalker. He just writes me and I don't respond. Oh, yeah, and years ago I said something like, "Please don't write."

His response was something like, "Do you really love your pet bunny?"

I don't often give out my email; yeah, some of you have it. But I do rarely give it out. Not that I am afraid you will cut me up in little bits. But you never know.

Women live in fear that men just don't get.

When I walk into an elevator and only one other person is in the elevator and a man, I get anxious. And if I get creepy vibes, I get off the elevator. Why would you ever be enclosed in a space with a man who gives you the creeps? Yeah, most of my girlfriends think I am strange (they politely label it as cautious). Yeah, I have a thing against germs as well. On and off. And sometimes spiders. Rationally, I know spiders can't hurt me, but then I see their eight legs and imagine their 240 eyes just staring at me, pondering how to catch me in their web, bite me, immobilize me, and then suck all of my blood out of me.

If I think this of a spider that I can crush with a sneaker, guess how and Internet stalker makes me feel?

Ignoring Evil

Have you ever had someone who continually said things to you in order to get a rise out of you? My readership is primarily male and the offenders, at least in my life, have been primarily female.

Generally, men don't say stuff to get you upset. That is not to say that men don't say hurtful things. But you know, I don't think men intentionally say hurtful things because even though I occasionally kid men about how smart they are, they are not dumb. And when you say something that upsets us, just be prepared to enter into no less than three long conversations where (1) you must talk about your feelings, (2) you must listen to us without trying to "solve anything" (premature solving of problems is like penalty shots in hockey¹), and (3) we will bring up things you have thought we have forgotten about. Men are smarter than that. They hate long conversations, and if you say mean things, you are in for long conversations.

Men conserve their words. Well, most men. Not Herman Melville. But you get paid by the word and see how many adjectives you need to complete a sentence.²

Anyway, some women just are mean. They say mean things "without thinking." Oh, and the "without thinking" is totally BS. It is just their evil skewing of hurtful words are just second nature.

When I was younger, I would discuss these mean things with the evil girls. Well, when I was really young, I pulled hair, and most often, evil girls have really strong grips and they don't mind tearing hair out from the root. Once you have had that happen, it sort of heals you from any hair-pulling response to vile words.

But when you say something, or cry, or react in any way to the evil words, you have given the person power. So now I internalize it. Yeah, I can say that none of the words hurt, but that is psychological BS. The words hurt. But you know, now I internalize the hurt, the pain, and so instead of giving the power to the evil-word spew-er, I have an increase chance of a heart attach. Maybe I will have to re-think this internalizing. I hear hair-pulling is aerobic exercise.

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¹Okay, so I totally made up the hockey thing. Hockey is supposed to be the "new sport." Sort of like soccer was in the 80s. The really cool people know about hockey now. Well, the really cool people and Minnesotans. That's where all the hockey teams are, right?

²I have nothing against Herman Melville, per se. But you can use his books to stop bullets. Think Jackie Chan.

They Call Me Mrs Tibbs

The Mrs.
Last week, my husband referred to me as "The Mrs." This is the first time he ever referred to me in this way. As soon as he did it, however, he knew it was a mistake. His buddy, on seeing my stare, simply said, "If looks could kill." Yeah, I was a bit pissed.

I sort of thought I was in a 1950's Black and White Situation Comedy. San apron.

Miss
After my freshman year in college, I came back to work a summer job. With all summer jobs, I seemed to have a lot of free time. I went to a movie with some friends, and while I cannot remember the movie, I can remember purchasing the tickets. You see, the girl who sold me the ticket called me "Miss." That was the first time someone called me that. I was 19 and felt 29. Er, not really what I wanted to feel at the time.

Lady
Another summer-time memory.

I was finished with school, working an "entry level job." It was the summer, and I was laying out at a public pool.

The sun was hot, I had my shades on and tanning lotion. Not sun screen (which now is all that I wear). I was laying out, my book under the reclined patio furniture, and I was just half-thinking and half-listening to my surroundings.

In such a state, it is amazing what you can hear. You can eavesdrop on conversations from across the pool at times is there are not too many people in the pool playing loud games, that is. And sometimes, when there is chatter, it is actually easier to listen to conversations.

Well, there were two teenage boys sitting and talking about the girls and women they were watching. One would ask about one by describing her suit and or location, and the other would rate the woman. Sort of a beauty pageant without the talent competition and sashes with locations written on them.

I don't remember my rating (okay, an 8, but there were several 9s near me), but I do remember one saying something about "that lady." I am in my mid-twenties and have already been labeled a lady. Woman sounds so much younger than lady, though that categorization no longer bothers me.

Mrs.
When I was in school, I thought I would have never wanted to be called Mrs. So-and so. For the title of this blog entry, I chose to use Mrs. Tibbs (I have never seen In the Heat of the Night, but I have always liked Sidney Poitier).

But you know, I felt a bit like a grown-up when called Mrs. Tibbs. I felt like I was not a kid anymore, but I did not feel old. You can be married and be sexy. You can be married and be young. Words have a certain aura about them, and I have never really been bothered by Mrs. Miss and lady, when I first heard them, were a shock. And I would have never guessed that.

Father's Day

You know, the best thing my father ever did was believe in me. From the bottom of my heart, I know he always thinks the best of me. I have said this before but it bears repeating: when I was married, I have no doubt in my mind that my father thought I was the perfect bride. That I had my degree, that I chose the marriage for myself and my future, and yes, he thought I was a virgin. And you know, people at the wedding could have said definitively otherwise.

When I had my first speaking role in school, he came early to be in the front row to cheer me on, to applaud loudly at each act, and to be the best Dad in the audience. At the time, I did not know how much of a sacrifice this is – that is, for him to arrive early and sit. Dad doesn't like wasting time, standing in line, waiting for a curtain to draw. He wants to use every spare minute of the day, and he sat for probably half-an-hour before a forth grade production. Just call him super-Dad.

Anyway, Sunday is his day, and I need to remember that. Fatherhood does not end when one goes to college, when one gets married, when one moves to another city.

Well, I don't really feel like writing today. Oh, and sorry for the delay in posting. I was reading The Pool. I have not finished it – I am scatter-brained today, but the language is wonderful. It is rich and detailed. It is wonderful. This is the way to write.

Me, I am scatter-brained today, and I want so much to write detailed, rich entries about my father, about fathers in general.

Budgeting My Time

I use Quicken to balance my checkbook. I place the check number, the amount, the payer and even the category of expense. I use it to keep track of my plastic purchases as well. You know, you can add categories so that you can keep track of what you are spending money on. Well, I guess it would be good for budgeting, to track one's expenses. And we occasionally run reports to see where we spend our money.

Well, if you are categorizing expenses, you can sort of decide the categories. I, for instance, put makeup, haircuts and other things under the heading "healthcare." I really did not know how this impacts our budget numbers until recently. Hubbie was putting together a report the other day, and the healthcare number sort of popped out. When you spend $60 on makeup every once in a while, you don't realize that it adds up quickly. Oh, and I had no idea I was spending so much on creams, on my hair, on a lot of things. Once you annualize things, it puts some things into perspective.

Well, I wish there was a Quicken program that kept tract of time. I would love to see that. To see where I spend my time. To know if I spend my time doing the things important to me. Important to my values.

Oh, for the want of a good day planner.

e-Begging

The other day, I was walking several blocks to lunch, and I passed two different men panhandling. One had a sign that said he was a war veteran, and judging from his age, if he was a war veteran, it was probably a long time ago. I always look at skin and teeth to determine if the panhandler has been on the streets for a long time.

The second person was younger, and his sign said he had a family. I knew of one family on the streets (they lived out of an old station wagon). Really sad.

I know so many people who do not give money to beggars on the street, but they promote people begging on YouTube. Recently, lots of video bloggers have been asking for money. Well, the same is true of regular bloggers. I have no problem with someone pimping a book they have written, or I guess, if someone wants to sell DVDs of their videos on a site (but they need to point to the site, not have it on their YouTube page). Same is true of bloggers – I am fairly sure people sign agreements talking about non-commercial use. And then they ask for money.

But what I don't see is a real difference between a beggar on the street and a beggar in cyberspace.

I believe that as humans, sometimes we need to ask for help. And if we are better off, I think it is good for the soul to provide help to others. But for me, I chose to give to charities that have a good reputation and a low expense ratio. I don't need to know exactly who the money is going to, and if you do want to know, you could always get more involved in the charity (volunteer!).

Anyway, today is hump day and I did not want to get out of bed. But since I am not begging on the street, I had to get my butt into work.

Emasculating Men

Forbes magazine reported in its current issue that more and more men are starting to wear concealer, face powder and brow gel.

This got me to thinking: first thought was what the hell are guys thinking? I mean, I would never be attracted to a man who has nicer skin than me. Actually, men and makeup seems to be a bit creepy. If you are a man on a movie set, I have no problem with a man having someone apply the face powder, a bit of concealer, whatever to make the man look more perfect on film. If you are burying Uncle Joe, if he needs a bit of makeup to look like Uncle Joe, by all means, have the undertaker apply what is needed. But for someone just going out on the town, if you are a guy, makeup seems, er, feminine.

It seems like, however, that we as a society want men to be more like women. The makeup seems to be the final straw.

I was watching The Resident¹ a few weeks ago, and I was surprised at how many men admit on camera to shaving their butts and their "privates." Some men wax themselves to remove hair. Some would argue men are just taking a page from the woman's playbook, but you know, it sort of reminds me of what women went through in the 1970s. When women wanted to be exactly like men.

Now, it seems, in the twenty-first century, the tables are turned. Men, in some ways, seem to want to be more like women. Now, I am not saying this is bad, but really, for me and for lots of my friends, we don't want to be married (or dating) a version of ourselves with a bit more muscle.

We should be celebrating the differences, celebrating men for who they are. I mean, we should love their hair, love their stubbly faces at the end of the day, love their armpit sweat after the deodorant wears off.

Now I am not saying that makeup changes a man. But for me, for many of my friends, makeup seems to cross a line.

Shakespeare's Beatrice, in Much Ado About Nothing, seemed to say it best, "He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. And he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man - I am not for him."

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¹The Resident is a woman who has a 30 minute show on New York cable. She also puts up some of her bits on YouTube.

²The 1970s information is what I learned in middle school Social Studies, so it could be wrong.

The Church of Hot Chicks

Okay, Sunday, I was sitting in Church¹, and we were running a little late. I don't know about your church, but in my church the woman generally picks the seat. Yeah, men make more money, but women get to pick out the china and decide where to sit at church. Well, Sunday, we were running late and the only seats near our normal seat was directly behind the hot twins.

I don't know about your church, but our church has some twins – they are college age (I am assuming, as they show up in mid-May and are gone by August), they are blond, and one always wears a top that shows off her tattoo located on the small of her back. We don't talk about it, but you can tell that women avoid sitting their husbands right in front of these two Catholic girls.

Trouble is, in the summer, women wear more revealing clothing, And it is not to tempt the men in church. It is because it is getting warmer, and women want to look attractive. I can tell you nearly all women don't want men to leer at them at church. That is just a bit gross. Not sure how I came to this conclusion.

But our local Catholic church not only has hot chicks. It has one man, I don't know his name, who looks like a movie director. He is probably 60 years old, fit and wears cool shades, even in church. He dresses dapper, and he moves really elegantly. I swear, when he gets communion, he looks like the director from a movie just popping in to get salvation and then back to the back lot².

Then I look in another direction of the chapel, of the church, and I see a family with two sets of twins. Two boys, exact copies of one another, and two girls, another carbon copy of one another. The boys are older, but all four look like they are the same height. So even though I know these kids are two sets of twins, they look, sort of, like they are part of quadruplets. And they get a lot of second looks. Mom is the only one who goes to Mass. Not sure where Dad is.

You know, I started this with just telling you about a fellow Catholic or two, but now I know, Christians – and, yes, Catholics are Christians – come in all shapes and sizes. Some are hot, some are mysterious and aloof, some are parts of large families, and some have no children. But we meet, once a week, and we pray together.

When two are more are gathered . . . . even when two are hot college chicks.

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¹The Catholic Church usually capitalizes the "C", but for the sake of a cleaner looking blog entry, I will not capitalize it.

²I don't know what a back lot is, but it is really movie-related.

Bad Haircuts and Boobs

A couple of weeks ago, I was doing some errands with my husband. We had to drop off my car to get it serviced, and then after that I dropped off hubbie while I did some shopping. I offered to go into the salon and talk with his hair stylist because the last couple of haircuts he received were bad. Hubbie, in typical fashion, did not want me to go into the shop.

Well, I did my shopping and returned when he said his haircut would be complete. Well, he was not outside of the shop, so I parked and entered.

Upon entering, I see him getting his haircut. There is this incredibly built hair stylist cutting his hair, her body a bit close for my taste. She is blond, has large breasts and is attractive. She does, however, have sun-damaged skin, and she is a bit older than me.

I come up to them and say brightly, "Hi, Sweetie!"

Susan answers, "You must be Mrs. _____."

Then, through the course of the conversation, I learn that she had started cutting his hair at the same time his haircuts started looking worse. Now it does not take a research scientist to draw the correlation. Pre-bad haircuts: no big-breasted blonde cutting my husband's hair. Post-bad haircuts: this big-breasted blonde cutting my husband's hair.

But here is what I don't get: why get your hair cut by someone who cuts it badly just because she has nice breasts?

Sort of reminds me of this one particular server we would have at one of our favorite restaurants. She had large breasts, and every time she filled my husband's water glass, he got a brush with them. It was so obvious, and at one point, I nearly said, "What about me? I am paying tonight."

I did tell him about it after we left one. He shrugged and said, "What 'chu gonna do?" At that point, I did not know if it was appropriate for me to correct his English or tell him he should have said something nice about me. Instead, at least, I put him on notice. I couldn't have him thinking about her breasts later that evening.

Greetings from Kicesie (Kimberly)

One YouTuber who I recently found was kicesie. Okay, for the guys (and ~Deb), you will like her videos because (1) she is hot, and (2) she talks a lot about sex. But we are not talking about personal sex stuff. For personal sex stuff, you need to read my blog. But she loves giving sex advice. And we are not talking about "off the cuff" stuff, but real clinical sex stuff. She is a college student, and as I recall, her area of study is psychology.

Okay, for some of us, we will sort of hate her – a tiny bit. She is the girl in school that says, "Oh, I can't keep any weight on! I drink milkshakes and don't gain an ounce." I have had girlfriends who bemoan this. Not 30-something women ever, but when I was in college, some women did say this. And there friends, even good ones, were thinking, "bitch." Not personally, but because they themselves were dealing with the freshman five.



Kimberly is sweet, and I love listening to her voice. When I watch YouTube videos, I normally don't watch the video – I normally just listen. You can say I am an aural¹ gal.

Anyway, from the video I have embedded, she was having a bad time a few days ago. That's sort of what I wanted to talk about today. Depression.

I am not sure people who have not been depressed (and I am talking about clinical depression) can really understand. I have heard others, even recently, say that all you have to do is look at the positives. Well, when someone is depressed, it seems like nothing matters. In Kimberly's video, she mentioned a feeling really down, and she does not really know why. To feel alone, like one does not matter. And you know, I have felt what she is feeling.

It is as if you have lost control of your emotions, of the situation, of life. We want to be in control of everything, and you know, sometimes we just are not in control. For some who lean towards the spiritual, one may want to put one's faith in God. But to tell someone that when they are hurting, well, it really does not help. Sometimes that is not the compassionate thing to do.

For those who have not been depressed, I don't think I can explain depression. I have thought about it, and the words escape me right now. It is worse than writing a poor blog entry (and trust me, I know about poor blogging). It is worse than buttering that last piece of bread in the house and have it fall, butter-side down on the linoleum floor. It is worse than having to choose between Bush and Kerry in a voting booth. And it is worse than watching Entertainment Tonight.

When I think of depression and who can explain it, my thoughts drift to Emily Dickenson. She wrote some very beautiful, very mournful poetry, and she had a lot going on between her ears. Some might say that whatever doesn't kill you, gives you more material as a depressive poet. I don't know if acute nephritis is caused by being so depressed. Probably not. Oh well, I will leave you with one of my favorite Dickinson poems.

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

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¹Not to get aural mixed up with oral. I like oral too, but I wanted to play on the phonic similarity between the two words.

Going to the Bathroom

Today is so full of everything at work, so I don't really have time to write. Well this will be a speed post. I hope it is not crap.

When I was a junior in college, I spent the night at a "friends" dorm room. In the morning, I woke up in someone's arms. I woke up because of my bladder, and thought to myself, "Okay, I am screwed. There is not a bathroom in this dorm room, just a community bathroom down the hall." I sort of smelled the bathroom on the way to the room last night. The door with the moldy door frame.

Anyway, I asked my "friend" to be an escort down the hall. His response was that "guys were cool and they won't look." Yeah, my prince charming was less of a prince and more of a charmer. So I put myself together, and go down the hall, hoping to avoid all of the boys on the hall.

Well, as I am approaching the hall, a sleepy-headed boy (freshman or sophomore, probably) is approaching from the other end of the hall. Great. Not what I really wanted.

Our eyes meet and I give him a smile.

Leesa: "Could you be a dear and see if anyone is in there?"

Boy: "Sure. And I can guard the door while you, er, use the facilities."

I should point out two things – I used the diminutive word "dear" to hopefully disengage any masculan "see woman, want woman" sort of Neanderthal behavior. And this guy was a complete gentleman.

So after he checked the room, he reappeared, apologized for the condition of the room and waited guard outside.

I had been in men's bathrooms before (mostly on dares while in school), and this one was a bit more er, gross, than the other ones. I enter the stall, and the off-white stall paint was surprisingly fresh. Unfortunately, some artists had drawn two voluptuous females. Drawn them well, actually, and there was two male figures, one riding the other one. The homosexual scene sort of surprised me, actually.

There was quite a bit of TP in the stall, and then I decided that this stall, sans art, seemed the cleanest of the three. I wipe the seat, as it had seen quite a bit of missed pee, and then do my business.

Afterwards, as I was washing my hands in one of the four identical basins, I looked into the long mirror. Eh, I looked surprisingly decent, considering I had not even brushed my hair. I splashed cool water onto my face, and tried unsuccessfully to straighten my hair with my fingers. I really did not know what I expected – as if it would make things that much better.

Afterwards, I exited the bathroom and thanked the young gentleman. I smiled when speaking to him, and apologized for his inconvenience. And his last words to me were, "Have a good day." Sort of like we were meeting on the street or something.

I know this is typical dorm life, but it was pretty foreign to me at the time. Like I stepped from a dream. Oh, and I found out my "friend" was sort of a jerk. At least it took a short amount of time to figure that out.

The Sex Enzyme

Men and women are different. Yeah, I know this. I get that. And here is another way that men and women are different.

I have been to counseling on more than one occasion. Shocker there, dear readers. When I went to counseling to fix our marriage the first time, it was mostly to fix what was wrong with me. I mean, yeah, I know marital problem are both people's faults, but most of it was my doing. I won't go into the counseling sessions, but there was lots of talking, lots of introspection, lots of working on me and us. In short, it was what I needed for this.

Fast forward to another series of counseling sessions. This was for our marriage again, and you know, it was for both of us but we spent more time on my hubbie this time. Seems fair, huh? Again, there was lots of talking, lots of introspection, lots of working on us. And you know, it was surprisingly slow.

Oh, and there is a twist. How can I put this? Er, I thought it was a good idea to stop sexual relations while we were "introspecting". Here is my rationale: when I was getting married, I remember Marriage Encounter, a Catholic thing where men and women look at their relationships and test them, ensuring that the marriage is something that will not be a mistake. And part of this was weekly meetings with the priest. We stopped having sex because the priest asked us to, and the reason was that emotions (sex) sometimes clouds our reasoning skills. And I can attest to that.

But you know, for the second series of counseling sessions, counseling with abstinence was not working at all. So I abandoned my self-prescribed abstinence. And well, it seemed that sex seemed to help with the counseling. Now I am not saying this is cause and effect, or that sex can solve problems on its own. That would be simplistic.

I remember high school chemistry though, and there were certain reactions that required some type of catalyst (inorganic chemicals) or enzyme (organic, I believe) in order to help a reaction along. It is like Chemical X and Chemical Y mixed together would never react without some type of catalyst.

And now that I have seen marriage therapy with and without sex, I am wondering if sex is some type of catalyst, some type of enzyme for me. Not that the sex fixes things, but that sex somehow allows men to connect, to communicate, to show love. Not to love, but to show love.

I think therapy helps oh so much. But for some, for men, it seems, sex can be a catalyst. Sex was healing for me, also, but it was not necessary for my introspection, for my healing, for my connecting.

I really don't know much when it comes to therapy. I thought I knew so much when I was younger. Turns out, the world is a lot more complicated than that. And perhaps sex does not make men connect more. But it does for my man.

Of Publishers and Failures

When I was in college, I started looking into publishing. Not an idealistic coed, thinking about writing the next great novel after Freshman English. No, I was a junior or senior, doing some research for a boyfriend who wanted to publish his first novel.

I learned how writers position themselves with potential publishers. The triple spacing, the well-written first five pages, the cover letter, the self-stamped return envelope and the packing materials.

But then I heard about A Confederacy of Dunces, a novel written by John Kennedy Toole. You see, Mr. Toole wrote this amazing book, and then he tried to get the book published. It has sex, New Orleans, weird characters, and wonderful writing. Anyway, after he tried to get the book published, he, possibly distraught about the turns of his life, or that his corn flakes did not taste the same way, kills himself without seeing his book published. His mother (and writer Walker Percy), always believing in him, eventually gets his book published (11 years after his death, in 1980). Oh, and this story may have never been heard, but the book won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1981. And how can so many publishers have been wrong. All passed on what won the Pulitzer Prize in 1981.

Then I heard about Lord of the Rings. Now, I am not a J. R. R. Tolkien fan per se. I got through the books once (sorry, but I know this is great literature but it was not my cup-o-tea). Allen & Unwin originally published the works, splitting them up into three books, to J. R. R. Tolkien displeasure. What is fascinating is that Rayner S. Unwin (the son of one of the principals in the company) actually first read Tolkien's work (starting with the Hobbit). So some child suggested that Allen & Unwin publish the works.

Anyway, so I am seeing how some books are published, and I am wondering about the whole publishing industry. I mean, really, I can understand it. And, yeah, I know, I purposefully picked two examples where publishers were a bit bizarre. But I want to be a bit bizarre today.

Well, I wonder if most publishers are failed writers. I mean, publishers love books, I would guess. Either that or they were children of publishers who just happened to inherit a family business. But still, I would think that most publishers love books. To think, you get a pile of books each day, most of which from writers who are less skilled than the publisher. And you have to say "no" to most of these books. And, occasionally, you say "no" to a great book, a book of note.

I am not sure I would want to be a publisher. I would rather write books that never get read than to read books and decide which ones had promise for profit, for shelf-space, for whatever.

Randomness Friday Returns

Because my mind is all over the map today, randomness Friday is returning.

Demons
Have you ever had a horrible experience, and years later, it flows back into your consciousness. You know, you have thought you had forgotten it, either through spirituality, through pharmaceutical means or through dementia. But then those horrible images, experiences come back.

The experiences are immaterial, really. Well, personally, they mean a lot, but one would think that once one lived past the experience, they would tuck the experience away in a quiet area of the brain. Naw, not really. Darned demons keep coming back. And life is a bitch.

Playing in the Rain
I love playing in the rain, but I don't do it as often as I would like. Soft summer rains are so nice, better to play in than thunderstorms. I think it may rain this weekend, and if it does, perhaps I will splish-spalsh in the rain.

Keeping up with the Jones'
The other day, I wanted to know where we got, "keeping up with the Jones'."

Here is what I found, from "The Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson (Facts on File, New York, 1997):

"According to his own account, cartoonist Arthur R. ("Pop") Momand lived in a community where many people tried to keep up with the Joneses. Momand and his wife resided in Cedarhurst, New York, one of Long Island's Five Towns, where the average income is still among America's highest. Living 'far beyond our means in our endeavor to keep up with the well-to-do class,' the Momands were wise enough to quit the scene and move to Manhattan, where they rented a cheap apartment and 'Pop'
Momand used his Cedarhurst experience to create his once immensely popular 'Keeping Up with the Joneses' comic strip, launched in 1913. Momand first thought of calling the strip 'Keeping Up with the Smiths,' but 'finally decided on 'Keeping Up with the Joneses' as being more euphonious.' His creation ran in American newspapers for over 28 years and appeared in book, movie, and musical-comedy form, giving the expression 'keeping up with the Joneses' the wide currency that made it a part of everyday language."

Eminent Domain or Stealing Land
Remember last year (or was it the year before) when the Supreme Court basically backed a lower court's stance that they could use eminent domain to take land from one landowner to basically give it to another landowner who would better serve the local area (I think the term "public benefit" was used, code words for something about when the government could collect more taxes).

I know governments can still use eminent domain on properties that are not declared blighted when the purpose is for "public use" such as a road, or fire station, or what have you. But under any eminent domain action, the government must pay fair market value for seized property. I have actually read stories where certain government entities would buy a bunch of land for stuff like public roads, more than they need, and sell off the excess as a profit to finance the venture. That smells bad.

Anyway, I wanted to write something on this, a full blog entry, but I just lost focus. I am guessing that until we really care about the issue, certain landowners will get screwed out of land.

Community Channel
Ane I will end this one with some YouTube randomness. One of the best vloggers on YouTube is Community Channel. I think she is great. If I was a lesbian living in Austrailia, I would be totally stalking her. How is that for a qualifying statement, huh? Bet you never would have read that in someone else's blog. Sort of like Maxwell Smart saying, "Missed me by that much," and he holding his index finger and his thumb, signifying how close this almost came to be. Actually, my girl crush will always be ~Deb. Really strange since I was brought up to think bad things of New Yorkers.