scripturient

#313 In which our hero receives another message from the past.

2012-02-17T12:07:00.001-05:00

You probably forgot that the site futureme.org even exists… I know I did, even though I’ve received a message from a past me before.

And I recently got another message from the past! Message plus commentary follows.

Dear FutureMe,
Hey man. Right now it's 2/8/06 and I'm sitting in my office at Impact Direct Copywriting.

Generally speaking, I try not to name names in my blog, especially when it comes to employers. However, to say this place was rinky-dink is an understatement. And, more to the point, I tried to bring up the website and it is 404, and the phone number is disconnected. I suspect that the owner, my previous boss, has moved on to other endeavors. Because for as much as I thought the guy was an advertising dumbass, I can’t take anything away from his hustle. He was always trying to make a buck with the next big thing.

I have a second interview at XXXXXX tomorrow, and I'm excited as shit. I really want that job. Driving down to Akron every day would be a total pain in the ass... but more money? Better working environment? Actually working with other people instead of sitting alone in a shit-hole rented office answering phones for a computer repair place? Yeah, it would be worth a little extra driving time.

I got that job and worked there for five years. It started out great, but many, many things had changed by the time I left. The company had been bought by another, larger agency; the focus of our work shifted, the agency name actually changed; and, more significantly, the culture of the place radically shifted. It’s not bad, per se, but it is very different from what it was when I started. For these reasons and others I knew it was time for a change.

(if the “answering phones for a computer repair place” comment seems like a non sequitur, understand that my hustlin’ boss was running at least three businesses out of the one rented office so, depending on who was in and what line was ringing, I had to answer the phone for the advertising agency, a computer repair business or a hospital supply company.)

And the drive to Akron every day? It really wasn’t that bad. The heavy traffic was always heading north to Cleveland when I was driving south, and vice versa, so that was never really an issue. In the winter I could always count on a couple 3-hour commute days because of the ice and snow. But to be honest, I enjoyed the time to think, and I went through a lot of books on tape. Lots of wear and tear on my car, though.

Anyway... I hope your career is doing better. At the very least, I hope you're making more money. I so want to get out of here. I hope Malone works out. I also have a resume into Point to Point Communications... but haven't heard anything from them yet.

Pretty sure Point to Point never called me back.

I'm a little surprised how much of my happiness comes from my work. I never thought I was one of those people. Guess I am. Since I'm not really enjoying my work right now -- or, at least, my co-worker or environment -- it puts stress on my. And, my extension, on [The Scientist] and the girls.

This still surprises me. With this new job, I’m painfully aware that I’m 43 years old and not at the point in my career that I wanted to be. I feel like I need to catch up. This is partly due to the fact that I’ve been laid off from several jobs (not my fault); but it’s also partly due to the fact that I’m a little lazy (all my fault). I’m hoping for some quick advancement at his new agency… we’ll see what happens. Could be very frustrating for me.

Holy shit... Doug (my current boss) just walked in and asked me, "What's a hyphen? Is it an underline?"
Good. Lord.

I don’t remember this exchange, but it sounds pretty typical. He considered himself a copywriter, but constantly had me proof his stuff, which was terrible without exception. It doesn’t surprise me that he would have a lack of understanding about simple grammar. Hustle, yes. Writing skills, no.

Anyway, I'm setting this to send five years from now. If you're still in the same office answer that guy's dumb-ass questions at that time... well, there are razorblades in your toolbox.

Thankfully, it never came to this. In fact, I was out of there shortly after writing this message.

Take care, future me.
craig.

Thank YOU, past me!

I’ll write another one, and set it for another five years in the future. Good Lord, what will that be like? I’ll be nearly 50, and the girls will be 13 and 10.

Yikes.

***

NEW SHOE

2012-02-08T12:37:00.000-05:00

Got a shoeshine the other day.

This is not usual behavior for me, for a couple of reasons. First, I generally don’t wear shine-able shoes to work. See, when I started this new job I adopted the “dress for the job you want, not the job you have” mentality and bought new shoes. These shoes, to be exact:

I agonized for an embarrassingly long time about what kind of shoe to buy (and then for an even longer time on what kind of socks to wear with my new shoes) because I was determined to continue to wear jeans—albeit new, more fashionable jeans—and the shoes had to look decent.

I became enamored with Clarks Desert Boots and ordered a pair online. They’re served me well. But they’re suede. So I can clean them, but not shine them.

That said, I have a pair of Doc Martens dress shoes that I like a lot. I’ve had them for years and don’t wear them as an everyday shoe. I think of them as my “grown-up” shoes, i.e., what a real professional might wear to work every day. Generally I wear them to fancy functions or for client meetings.

I had such a client meeting a couple of weeks ago, so I wore these shoes in. Since there’s a shoeshine guy in the lobby of my building, I figured I’d get a shine. This would be my first professional shoeshine since I had the shoes I wore to my wedding shined. So, it’s been ten years since my last shine.

First, a word about the shoeshine guy in the lobby.

If you saw this guy in a movie, you’d accuse the writers of lazy storytelling. I mean, he is every stereotypical shoeshine guy you’ve ever seen in the movies: older, African-American, gray-haired, stoop-shouldered, shuffling. He has the typical set-up right outside the elevators, two elevated chairs atop a platform of drawers full of mysterious shoe shining polishes and creams.

I walk past this guy every day. Sometimes he’s reading the newspaper, but usually he’s just sitting there staring off into space. I’ve seen very few people stop to get a shine. It strikes me as a sad life… sitting there waiting, waiting for someone to stop.

A co-worker and I were talking a while back about shoes shines and what they cost. Thinking back to my pre-wedding shine, I realized that I didn’t remember what it cost. I had it in my head that it was something like $15, but that seems high. But then again, I had nothing to judge it against. What’s it worth to get a shoeshine? It’s not a necessity, it’s more of a commodity. But then again, it’s a status-symbol thing more than anything. So if people will pay hundreds for other status symbols like custom-made suits, why not $15 for a shoeshine?

Finally I just stopped and asked the guy one day as I returned from lunch. “Six bucks,” he told me. Okay, that seemed reasonable. So I took my admittedly dull shoes downstairs and hit the guy up for a shine.

There were no other customers.

I found the entire experience to be a little embarrassing. First, I’m up on this elevated throne, right in front of the elevators where everyone looks automatically as they exit. Then there was the white-guilt aspect of having this little black guy shine my shoes. He asked if I had ever had them shined before, and I admitted that I had shined them myself, but probably badly. He grunted in (I assume) agreement.

I brought my newspaper so I wasn’t just staring stupidly ahead, but I mostly just held it up while I peaked at what he was doing. I wondered if there was some secret technique that I didn’t understand to get a really great shine.

But he just brushed off the dirt, rubbed off the old polish with some sort of deglazer, applied polish and shined them with a rag. He spritzed the rag with water first, I’ll have to try that next time. He spent a lot of time polishing the toes of my shoes. I suppose that’s the part you can most easily see when you’re looking down. It’s probably good customer relations to make sure that part of the shoe really gleams.

It probably took ten minutes. I paid him the six dollars, and tipped him two.

I can’t imagine he makes a living doing this. There’s a hotel in my building, and he has to be drawing a salary from them. There’s just no way he’s cutting it by shining maybe a pair or two of shoes a day at six bucks a pop.

Like I said, I felt slightly embarrassed by the entire experience. But when I was showing off my shiny new shoes back in the office, I noticed the guy had slopped show polish all over my socks.

I’ll have to remember to tell him to be more careful next time, when I get my shoes polished again in 2022.

###

WRONG SONG

2012-01-10T15:51:00.006-05:00

And here I am again, responding to a Chuck Wendig challenge. This time it was to set my iPod to shuffle and use the first song to come up as the title of a 500-word story. The song that came up for me was Kielbasa by Tenacious D.

Damn my juvenile tastes in music!

Kielbasa

Kaufmann grunted and doubled over.

It was the kielbasa, had to be. The fucking kielbasa! He knew better than to eat something from that goddamn wop street vender… but he was in a hurry, and it was convenient. Walked right past the greasy-haired bastard and his steaming vat of sausages every day. Plus, he, Kaufmann, was from solid, tow-headed German stock—Kielbasa was practically his native dish! But now here he was, sweating and crapping his brains out in the executive bathroom. He knew exactly what was waiting for him in the conference room: two partners, his account assistant, Marsha, and four impatient businessmen. Four businessmen who were waiting to hear his presentation to decide if they would grace the firm with their business. Four businessmen who, with the stroke of a pen, would indirectly earn him a cash bonus of $1.2 million dollars. Four businessmen who weren’t going to tolerate Marsha’s excuses and offers of fresh cups of coffee for much longer. Kaufmann wiped his ass for the third time, stood and pulled up his slacks. He made it all the way to the sink before rushing pell-mell back to the stall, barely getting his pants down before another torrent of fury hit the bowl at Mach one.

Magarelli whistled as he cleaned.

He took great pains to make sure his equipment was spotless before he closed down for the night. It might be okay for other venders to sell their hot dogs or pizza or tacos out of disrespectable grease-splattered carts, but he took more pride in his work than that. He father had taught him that if you were going to do a thing, then you should do that thing well. Magarelli had no illusions that he was a great chef, but he served good food at a fair price. And he always had a broad smile for his customers, for Magarelli truly appreciated those who choose his cart other the small herd of other food carts in the plaza. But as much as he enjoyed serving his customers, and he enjoyed observing them more. Something else his father had said: to understand the true nature of a man watch how he treats his subordinates. And Magarelli saw plenty of bad behavior… barked orders to harried underlings, secretaries sent out to fetch lunch in rainstorms, berating obscenities screamed into cellphones. For the worst of these men, Magarelli had a surprise gift. Under the gleaming stainless steel surface of his cart, beneath the basin that held the warming water, Magarelli had a secret cubbyhole. Here he would tuck away a sausage or kielbasa that had gone off. When Magarelli was presented with the opportunity to teach the worst of these men a lesson—like the horrible blond man this afternoon—he took it. Through crafty slight of hand he retrieved the rancid meat, placed it lovingly in a fresh bun, and flashed a wider-than-usual smile.

It was no grand life that he lived, but it was good enough.

###

WRITE FIGHT

2012-01-06T22:24:00.001-05:00

Here's something a little different.

I have very occasionally posted my original fiction on this site. Part of that is typical I'm not very good, am I? writer jitters and part of it is the hope that I will someday get my fiction published so I shouldn't jeopardize a sale by posting it here for free.

But I was recently reading Terrible Minds and Chuck Wendig put forth a writing challenge that actually spurred me into action. His challenge was to combine two genres (choices were Dystopian Sci-Fi, Cozy Mysteries, Serial Killer, Lost World, Spy Fiction or Bodice Ripper) into one 1000-word or less story. I'm not entirely sure why, but an idea for a Sci-Fi Bodice Ripper came to mind. I wrote this in about six hours and it comes in exactly at the 1000 word mark, less the title. Enjoy.

Miss Addison Middleton-Fletcher receives a guest.

Miss Addison Middleton-Fletcher lived with her dowager aunt at a volt-farm named “Arcadia.” While Miss Addison thought the hot, cantankerous work of harvesting the wane rays of the sun and converting them to steam better suited to ruffians and mutagenics, she reluctantly agreed that the farm had provide her with a fine enough lifestyle and the freedom to pursue her artistic endeavors.

She was engaged in one such practice when her aunt entered the sitting room.

“Oh, my Addison!” She exclaimed. “What wondrous craft are you undertaking now?”

Miss Addison beamed and held up an unevenly knotted hemp cord for her aunt’s perusal.

“Dottie!” Miss Addison exclaimed, for this was how she addressed her aunt, “do you truly like it? I had some trouble some of the knots, but I find it is still pleasing to the eye, is it not?”

“Well enough, little duck,” Dottie replied. “And it will make a fine welcoming gift when that handsome Mr. Deeringhouse next comes calling!”

A shadow flickered across Miss Addison’s face. How long had it been since Arcadia had last hosted Mr. Deeringhouse? A month? Two?

Dottie’s brow knitted as she realized how she had misspoke. “My dear, my dear,” she cooed, “I am quite certain that Mr. Deeringhouse has found himself away from our home due to circumstances of business! It is his travels in the North that keep him away, for that is such a wild and unpredictable land! I hear tell it is peopled with the absolute worst sort! Sand herders and soot merchants! Nihilists and cannibals! Why, I should not be surprised to hear that Mr. Deeringhouse risks his very life with every journey!”

At this Miss Addison put a fist to her mouth, tears dribbling down her cheeks at the thought of her beloved in jeopardy. Dottie produced a stained lace handkerchief from her bodice and dabbed at Miss Addison’s face.

“Now, now, my sweet,” she soothed. “Stop these tears. Look, you’re smearing your concealer.”

Dottie lifted the kerchief to show a greasy white smudge. Her ministrations had revealed a raw, blistered patch under the left eye, heretofore hidden with an artful application of make-up.

Miss Addison leapt up and fled the sitting room, stopping only once she was ensconced in the sanctuary of her dressing room. She collected herself quickly and surveyed the landscape of her face.

At nineteen she was still of the age and appearance that men fancied. True, outside of the city limits where she and her aunt dwelled was rife with radiation that aged the skin and turned fertile young girls into barren spinsters in a brace of decades… but she was not there yet. Not yet!

Miss Addison knew that her remote location precluded the possibility of her catching the eye of a Magistrate or Nobleman who would select her to be their reproduction-mate. However, the wealth of her Aunt allowed Miss Addison admission to some of the grander soirees in the City. It was at one such function that she first met Mr. Deeringhouse.

He was handsome and dashing; his skin baring hardly any boils or scars. She begged an associate of Dottie’s to introduce her at once.

And once so introduced, she was stricken. As was, it seemed, Mr. Deeringhouse. He called upon Miss Addison every single day for a week. They spoke cordially enough, but his eyes stared into her with such intensity that she had to look away.

It was love.

At the end of the week, with great regret, Mr. Deeringhouse had to depart for travels in the north.

She had not heard from him since then.

Ah, but the hopeful heart is light! She fantasized of the day that they would enter the High Chamber as rep-mates, he carrying a scarlet canister marked with a black triangle that contained the sum total of his genetic code; and she doing likewise, her canister marked with a circle. Their genomes would be combined to produce a child, strong and fine featured.

She was wrenched from her reverie by the hissing clunk that heralded the approach of their automaton servant, Higgs.

“Excuse:the:interruption:miss,” Higgs intoned in its hollow voice, “Your:aunt:wishes:me:to:inform:you:that:there:is:a:gentleman:
caller:for:you:in:the:east:parlor.”

Happy day! Miss Addison’s heart fluttered and took flight as she hurried with all due haste to the east end of the residence.

There she encountered not Mr. Archer Deeringhouse, but a different man altogether. He was dressed in the dull silver coveralls of an outside laborer, his face obscured by a scarf wrapped tightly around his mouth and nose. Over his eyes were black goggles with only a thin horizontal sliver for sight. He wore heavy leather gloves and carried a well-worn satchel. He was covered in yellow dust that cascaded off him, forming small mounds around his heavy boots. Dottie would be most displeased.

“Addison Fletcher?” the man growled in a thick voice.

Miss Addison’s nose wrinkled at his abruptness. “Miss Middleton-Fletcher, if you please,” she said curtly. “And you are…?”

The man put down his satchel and pulled the goggles up and away from his face, revealing ghostly white skin beneath. He blinked rapidly, then wiped some grit out of one eye. Kneeling down he opened the satchel and rummage inside. Without raising his head, he said, “He right… you a pretty thing.”

“Whom d-do you mean?” Miss Addison stammered. “Do you mean… are you an… associate of Mr. Deeringhouse?”

The man spoke. “Mr. Deeringhouse… he dead. But he wants you have this thing.” Without further explanation, he rose and strode out, leaving only a haze of yellow dust.

Only when she heard the the airlock re-seal did her gaze fall to the floor. There, on the threadbare carpet stood a faded red canister marked with a black triangle.

She fell to her knees and cradled the container, tears streaming down her ruined cheeks. “Oh, Archer!” She sobbed. “You do love me, you do!”

###

#312 In which our hero celebrates a birthday with a roomful of sweaty naked men. Part 2.

2011-12-21T22:52:00.000-05:00

Part 1 here.

We filed inside the building and were immediately ushered up a staircase. At the top we took a sharp turn to a short hallway that was lined on one side with towels and sheets.

Now, when I read the emails about taking “2 towels and 1 sheet” I had assumed they would be big, fluffy white towels… the kind you’d expect to find at a spa. These were not those sort of towels. These towels which, to be fair, where white-ish, mostly, had clearly been worn and washed hundreds of times. They were thin and threadbare, ragged at the edges. And the sheet… I hadn’t really given it much thought, but I think in the back of my head I expected them to really be some soft of robe or toga thing… but no; these were old bed sheets in a variety of colors that were also fraying at the edges. I suppressed a laugh and grabbed my allotment of towels and sheet.

In fact, for the first hour or so, I was very careful about maintaining a poker face. There was an almost palpable vibe that this was an old-school sort of place run by old-school sorts of people… the kind of people who settle their issues with brass knuckles and lead pipes in dark alleys. I was honestly concerned that if I screwed something up (like grabbing two sheets and one towel, say) that I would be “escorted” out of the building. I was clearly an outsider being given a glimpse inside of something old and cherished. I really didn’t feel any safety in numbers even though there were a lot more of us than there were of the people who worked there.

After grabbing our towels and sheets we moved into a sort of locker room to change. This was a large single room lined with traditional lockers. In the center of the room were about 20 cots. But they were most like narrow beds covered in a white sheet, like what you would lay on for a massage. At first I thought these were the cots for the before mentioned optional message, but they were all pushed together, with no room to get between them. A masseuse wouldn’t even be able to reach you if you were on any of the cots except the ones on the edge. It was very confusing. Also, the lights in this room were turned low... at the time I assumed it was to give us a measure of privacy.

We all stripped down and put on our towels. There was a little dining room outside the locker room where we deposited the food and booze we had all brought. We awkwardly mingled there for a moment, waiting to be told what to do next. Those in the know directed us down a different stairway to the steam room.

I have to stress again that this place wasn’t a spa or gym or even the YMCA. You could have mistaken any of the rooms as the living room of a rundown apartment building.

So we go down the stairway into the steam room area in the basement of the building. Walking through the doorway was exactly like entering the set of “Hostel” or “Saw.”

It was a dank, humid cement room, with three exposed showers jutting out of the wall directly opposite the entrance way; a cement slab to the right as you entered (I suspect this is where the “platza” occurred) behind which was a small, shallow pool; and to the left as you entered was a rather imposing wooden door labeled, “STEAM ROOM.”

There was also a single urinal set into the wall near the door. Apparently, if you needed to pee you only had to walk out of the steam room (naked), take a leak, then return. No need to be hassled with the bother of putting on your towel again.

I was still carrying my second towel and sheet, so I stashed them in a corner and went into the steam room.

It was a pretty big room, bigger than I expected. Probably about 25x20 feet. Set into one wall was an enormous furnace with two huge cast iron doors. Opposite that was five wooden risers. And, of course, lots of sweaty naked men.

The place was already crowded by the time I got in, and the first three risers were just about full. No problem, I thought. I’ll just grab a seat up on the top, where it’s empty.

Big mistake.

It’s funny how quickly you forget simple things like “heat rises” when there’s no real practical application. But in a sealed steam room it became practical in a big fucking hurry.

It was definitely hot when I entered, but by the time I got to the top row, I felt like I was on the surface of the sun. “Holy shit,” I remarked, and a couple guys around me laughed. I retreated to the bottom row. “Yeah,” a guy said, “You want to work your way up to the top.”

It was immediately apparent which of us had been to a schvitz before, and those who hadn’t. The schvitz virgins like me wrapped our towels around our waists and sat on them that way (remembering that the first rule was “You MUST sit on a towel in the steam room!”). But those who had been there before? They walked around with their balls swinging freely. Guys stood up having conversations, walked around the room, went out to cool off for a second, then returned… all naked as could be. I mean, it’s human nature to look toward a door when it opens, and I did so at least a dozen times and was greeted by a great view of some guy’s junk each and every time.

But the longer I was in the steam room, the more I started to enjoy it (the heat, not looking at other men's junk). An attendant would chuck a bucket of water into the furnace every once an awhile, keeping the temperature up. I sat and chatted with some of the guys I had hoped to get to know better, and it was very pleasant.

After a bit I moved up a couple of feet, and the heat was fairly intense. I took a cue from the others around me and moved out of the steam room (towel firmly around my waist) to the shower room. There were a couple of old guys hanging around the pool, so I approached them. “You guys look like you know what’s going on,” I said. “This pool… should I wade in or just jump all the way in?” They smiled and me and said that they couldn’t jump in since they were both cardiac patients… but I was free to do so if I wanted.

What the hell.

I jumped in and ducked my head under the water (it was only about four feet deep). The water was ice cold. I immediately got back out and… it felt great. I had been so hot, and the shock of the water was so cold that now I felt almost equalized. It was amazingly refreshing. Now, I wouldn’t want to swim a couple laps or anything, that would have sunk my core temperature to an uncomfortable level.

I returned to the steam room and hung out some more, chatting, laughing. I jumped into the pool twice more and eventually made my way to the top row. It was intense, but not unbearable like it had been when I first arrived.

At some point I toweled off and went back to the dining room to see what was happening up there. There was a great selection of cheeses and cured meats, plus these amazing pickled vegetables provided by the schvitz. I drank some bourbon (The Scientist would have been proud), eat and chatted with some of the guys. Remember that we’re all still sitting around in nothing but towels.

One of the organizers came into the room and says, “Hey guys, if you’re done with the steam, it’s good etiquette to change to your sheets.” This struck me as incredibly funny. Seriously guys, let’s not look like jerks here. If you’re gotten your fill of sitting around naked with other sweaty men then get rid of those damp towels and put something decent on… like the raggedy old bed sheets you picked up on the way in.

So I dumped my towel and went to fetch my sheet, which I had stashed in the locker room. When I went to get it I discovered the reason for all the cots and the low lighting… there were about a dozen guys in the locker room taking a nap! I had heard something about sleeping after the steam, but didn’t realize that there was a designated nap room. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of the nap and it was really appealing… but honestly, I didn’t want to chance missing out on any of the weirdness of the evening by snoozing. That said, a nap would have really felt great after the relaxing heat of the steam room.

Once everyone was done with the steaming themselves, the room filled up with guys in sheets. When the concept of sitting around in sheets was first introduced, I really thought it was going to be like wearing a toga. I thought someone would instruct us in the proper way of wrapping the sheet; perhaps some ancient eastern European method that has been lost to the general population… but no. I just wrapped it around my waist, just like I did the towel. And so did everyone else.

We all sat at a long table and noshed on the meats, cheese and vegetables for a while. The staff passed out glasses—which is to say, cheap plastic glasses like the ones you serve juice in to your kids—and we started drinking red wine. We also did several shots of vodka, which is a tradition of the schvitz, I’m told.

Keep in mind that we’re all naked from the waist up while this is happening. I was surprised at how quickly it became not weird. There’s a room full of guys, and we’re ALL wearing sheets, so very quickly it was no longer a thing.

Finally, a waiter came around to take our orders. But that’s overstating it, really. The schvitz is a package deal that includes a salad and steak. No appetizers (other than those you bring yourself), no side dishes. So the guy didn't so much take our order as much as stop at each of use individually and ask, “How doya want your steak cooked?”

Plates and silverware were placed in front of us, and they were of the same ilk as the wine glasses—cheap plastic plates, one paper napkin and a fork and knife. It was incredibly low-rent, but also, in some odd fashion, really added to the experience.

And I mean that. There was something about the utter lack of pretension—cheap towels, used bed sheets, plastic plates—that made you focus on the real reason for the evening. It wasn’t to be impressed by sparkling clean facilities or fine crystal stemware or decadent gourmet food… the real reason that we had all gathered together was to share stories, make fun of each other, laugh, and enjoy an evening with a bunch of like-minded friends.

It was the quintessential male experience that you just don’t see in this day and age.

We ended the evening with big-ass steaks (where they great steaks? No, not so much. But they were BIG), more drinking, more conversation and finally cigars. I’m not a smoker by any stretch, but I indulged in a cigar. If I had it to do all over again I think I’d skip the cigar part; my mouth tasted like shit for most of the next day.

Oh, and there was a cake. Half for my birthday, half to celebrate the retirement of another one of the other guys.

The evening finally wound to a close. We got dressed and headed back out to our cars. The entire ride back we all talked about how awesome the evening had been, and how we’d all like to do it again. There are already semi-concrete plans to repeat the night next year.

So that’s how I spent my 43rd birthday. Definitely the oddest birthday celebration I’ve ever had. And, in many ways, the best.

***

#312 In which our hero celebrates a birthday with a roomful of sweaty naked men. Part 1.

2011-12-16T09:54:00.004-05:00

Last Saturday was my birthday. I turned 43.

There’s undoubtedly some commentary to be made on the fact that I’m probably at the halfway point of my life, and have maybe even been there for a couple years. But instead of that, I’m going to write about my weird-ass birthday celebration.

Couple of months ago, I guy I know organized a “Schvitz.” Now, if you’re not familiar with the term, you’re not alone. I had no idea what it was either. It was described to me thusly:

“The schvitz is an old-school styled steam - think something like the Rat Pack of guys in towels in a steam room. And then we’ll eat steaks.”

I was kinda “meh” on the idea. It sounded okay, I guess, but it’s not like I heard about it and was like, “OMG! I NEED to do that!” Honestly, it sounded a little weird.

But, I started to see the list of other people who had committed to coming and it started to get a lot more attractive. It was an interesting group of guys who I already knew because we shared a hobby… but I had never sat down for hours and really talked to any of them. Being that I liked and respected all of them (well, most of them) quite a bit, I started to think that it would be a great opportunity to get to know them better. And there would be steak and wine after the steam, so that couldn’t be bad.

Plus, I found out, when they agreed on a date it happened to be my birthday. Being that I didn’t have any other plans, I figured what the hell.

So I signed up and paid my money… I think it was $65. I was told what to bring--everyone was responsible for bringing either some sort of meat & cheese tray or wine. My one good friend and I discussed how we were both a little hesitant about this thing; it sounded like it would be fun, but on the other hand, it could be really awkward and uncomfortable. We both came to the conclusion that it was too weird to miss.

Then the emails started coming in.

The first went out to everyone informing us that if we wanted a massage while we were there, they were available for $60/hour. Now, my mind immediately went to the “happy ending” sort of massage, but the email explained that the masseuse was a.) a man, and b.) a professional masseuse who also worked on guys from the Cleveland Browns. Sounded cool, but I wasn’t really interested in shelling out another 60 bucks. But, the email went on to say that I could also get a “platza” for only $20. Much like the “schvitz” I had no idea what the hell a “platza” was. But it was explained as a “scrub down where they use a seaweed mop and horsehair brush with soaps that mimic the traditional oak leaves.” And the guy helpfully included this video:

Ignoring for a moment that the video appears to be shot in a CAVE, what I saw really didn’t appeal. Some brawny guy beating me with a mop for half an hour? I mean, maybe after getting all gross and sweaty a scrub down like this would feel good… maybe? More than anything, it looked like going through a car wash.

I passed on the platza.

More emails came with explanations of what you were to do when you get there. One instruction that jumped out at me was that when you first got there, you were to take “2 towels and 1 sheet.” Now, the towels, I understood… but a sheet?

It was explained to me that when it was time for dinner, you’d dry off and wrap the sheet around yourself. See, I naively thought that once the steam was done, we could get dressed again. Oh no. The idea was to remain naked for the entire experience.

Another email came with details on how to get to the place, including these directions:

“There is gonna be a sign that says "DEAD END" you ARE gonna go down that street. About 200 feet after the sign you're gonna see the gate, go past the gate and park in the back. There should be an attendant there telling you where to park ( he'll come out of his car). You can pay him now or when you come out, your choice.”

So, two days before the event we get the final email. It starts out like this:

Gents- It is time.
It is time to Relax & Sweat.
It is time to Laugh and make Friends.
It is time to Drink Beers, Wine and Vodka.
It is time to Smoke Cigars/ Pipes/ Cigarettes in an enclosed place.
It is time to Eat Steak so thick that it's cut with a bandsaw.
It is time to Dine in a sheet.
IT IS TIME TO SCHVITZ!!!!!!
The Schvitz has been called, the Guy with the Gun is letting us in and they are expecting 43 of us on Sat Dec 10 from 5-9pm. As of this email we are not accepting anymore guys.

My first thought is that this guy is WAY too excited about this thing. My second thought is “guy with the gun”? That’s just an expression… right?

The day comes and we meet and all pile into three cars and drive over to the place.

It is in a terrible area of town. As instructed, we drove down a dead end street, turned into a gravel alley and parked behind what looked for all the world to be an abandoned building. The windows were boarded over and it was covered with dead ivy. Here’s a photo:

One of the guys in the car remarked, “Y’know, if I was being brought here by myself, I’m not sure I’d be going home.”

We paid the guy sitting in the parking lot watching over the cars. And I found out that “the guy with the gun” wasn’t a euphemism.

We walked through the dirt parking lot and entered an unmarked door in the back.

Continued in part 2.

###

#311 In which our hero pauses to consider the question posed by a supposedly homeless man.

2011-11-10T12:23:00.001-05:00

I work in downtown Cleveland and, like any largish city, there’s a fair number of panhandlers on the sidewalks. Now, it’s tempting to say these people are “homeless,” but you don’t really know, right? I mean, some of them certainly look the stereotypical part: ragged clothes, weathered faces, maybe a hint (or more than a hint) of crazy lurking under the surface… but I’ve never seen anyone actually sleeping on the street around my building, even when I’ve been there late at night. Far as I know, asking for change is their job, and they go home to their apartment at night.

I got hit up by one guy a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t fit the part of shaggy, wild-eyed homeless man, he looked pretty much like any other casually dressed person I pass on the street daily. He was crossed the street and headed toward me, catching my eye. Immediately I’m thinking, “Okay, what’s this dude want?” when he gets close and says, “Hey man, you got a cigarette I can borrow?” This puts me at ease and I tell him no, that I don’t smoke. Then he says, “You got a dollar you can spare?” And for a second I actually consider it! Not because of any altruistic desire to help my fellow man, but because I appreciate his rap: he put me at ease by asking for a smoke, then followed up with the unexpected request for money. Nice work.

But I didn’t give him any money, of course.

I have a pretty strict policy of not giving money to panhandlers. I think I’ve only actually ponied up twice in my life, and in both cases I feared that imminent harm would befall my car or my person.

This morning I was walking out of the parking garage when I saw that one of the regulars on my street was standing right where I’d need to pass. This particular guy is definitely in the “scary homeless” camp; bedraggled, wide, crazy eyes, propensity to shout at people who don’t give him money. This guy once hollered at me from a block away to give him some money, like I was going to go out of my way and hustle over to him to open my wallet.

There’s a couple people walking about three yards in front of me, and he hits them up first. “Hey lady!” He nearly shouts. “Can you give me some money? To get something to eat?” Everyone keeps walking without making eye contact.

It gets to be my turn, and when he asks for money I say, “Can’t help you, buddy.” This is generally what I say, and it usually seems to do the trick and the panhandler in question moves on to his or her next mark. I did throw in the “buddy,” because I was in a good mood.

But instead of moving on, this guy looks me dead in the eye and demands, “Why not?”

And I pause.

I try not to be an asshole to strangers. It’s not like I’ve ever told a homeless person to “Just get a job!” or something like that. So I don’t want to be that guy who just moves on and doesn’t even acknowledge this person’s existence. And while I’m pretty quick on my feet generally, I don’t know what to say. My first thought is to say something like, “I give you money, you’re just going to spend it on booze.” But I don’t say that because what if he really is just looking to get something to eat? And my second thought is, “Why don’t you give this guy a dollar? What’s a buck to you?” In the end, I just put my head down and keep walking.

I’ve been thinking about it since, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the real reason I don’t give any panhandlers money is that I don’t want to contribute to the system. The system where people beg for money on the street and other people actually give it to them, which in turn encourages more people to beg for money in the streets. I don’t want to be approached for a handout on the street, and I don’t think anyone else (I’m thinking of women, mostly) should be made to feel threatened on the street. If someone really is homeless, there are local outreach programs that can help them—some of them, at least.

At least, that’s how I’ve rationalized it to myself. Maybe the truth is that I’m a racist asshole. I don’t think so, but I’m sure most racist assholes don’t think of themselves that way either.

As I walked away, the guy shouts at me, “When I hit it big in the lottery I bet then you’ll wish you gave me some money!”

***

#310 In which our hero give a quick recap of recent events.

2011-11-03T13:12:00.002-04:00

Cat dies

My cat died a couple of weeks ago. He was 17 and, even though he was a terrible pain in my ass who insisted on sleeping on my pillow and waking me up nightly, I was pretty broken up about losing him. He had really been going downhill for the past year, more so then I really allowed myself to acknowledge. I finally had him put to sleep. I’ll write up a proper memorial at some put, but I’m not up to it right now.

Child ages

My oldest turned 8 yesterday. That amazes me. She’s such a smart, beautiful, reasonable little person. I can hardly get my head around the fact that The Scientist and I made her. From scratch.

And she’s a little nerd, too, like her daddy. More than anything she wanted a membership to Club Penguin, this online MMO for kids. We wouldn’t allow it for a long time, figuring she’d just lose interest and then we’re out 30 bucks. But she’s stuck with it, and we finally relented. It comes at the perfect time, with the weather getting colder I won’t have to try to pry her away from the computer, which she will be glued to for months to come. At least six months, since that’s the length of the membership.

Hero frets

There seems to be a bit of an exodus going on at work right now. We had some layoffs recently, which suck but aren’t anything I’m not accustomed to. But more than that, we’ve had several people in the department resign in the last two weeks. It doesn’t really affect me directly, these are people that I didn’t work that closely with. But it does give me pause… why is everyone in such a hurry to get away from this agency? It starts to give life to my growing concern that this place really isn’t as creative as I’d like it to be; and the account services staff seem to be, with a few exceptions, just stuffed suits that don’t know creativity from a hole in the ground. Worrying. Worrying.

That’s it for now. More (lengthy) posts to come.

###

#309 In which our hero catches you up on something that might have been life-altering, but wasn’t so much.

2011-10-06T13:51:00.000-04:00

Under the heading of “stuff that happened while I was in blogger radio silence” there’s this:

I had cancer.

There was a persistent sore on the side of my nose that didn’t seem to want to heal completely. It wasn’t a horrible weeping mess or anything, just a spot that was sometimes just a little dry, and sometimes opened up. At first I assumed one of the girls scratched me there while we were wrestling, and that maybe I kept knocking the scab off of it.

If finally concerned me enough that I went to my family doctor and asked. Specifically, I asked if he thought it was skin cancer.

He didn’t.

He thought it was a patch of dry skin. He suggested I try applying lotion to it a couple times a day and see if it cleared up in a week or so. He said that if it didn’t, then maybe I should see a specialist.

So I lubed up my nose with lotion in the morning and right before bed for about two weeks running. It didn’t seem to help. So I went to a dermatologist.

Now, I should mention something about my family’s history with cancer: we have a lot of it. My father died of pancreatic cancer, one aunt died of a brain tumor, one uncle died of colon cancer, my mom had a lump removed from her breast. Given all that family history, I thought I would be more worried about the diagnosis than I was.

The dermatologist walked into the room, took one look at the spot on my nose and said, “Oh yeah, that looks like a basal cell carcinoma.”

I was a little pissed at my family doctor for not being so quick on the uptake… I mean, it took this guy literally seconds to diagnose me, while my family doctor had me slathering on useless lotion of a week.

But, since I had already combed the internet for information, I can’t say it was much of a surprise. I had seen photos of basal cell carcinomas and they looked a whole lot like what was currently living on my face.

The doctor told me all about how basal cell is the most common of cancers, and that it has a dramatically high cure rate. Especially with the way he was going to treat it, which was with the Mohs procedure. Ninety-nine percent cure rate? I’m in!

So I made the appointment and all that. He said it should take about an hour, give or take. I’d be awake the whole time, albeit heavily numbed up in the nosal area.

Mohs surgery is pretty interesting. If you didn’t read the Wikipedia link above, you basically cut out a small cup of flesh around the area, freeze it, then look at it through a microscope. If the edges are cancer-free, then you’re done. If there is any left on the perimeter, you cut out a little more and repeat until you can’t see any more cancer.

When the doctor was explaining it to me, he said that he makes a small incision, and that I’d go home with “maybe 3-4 sutures.” Since it was going to be so much not a big deal, I didn’t even bother with taking off work. I figured I’d just go in with a Band-Aide over my nose.

The nurse scrubbed my nose thoroughly, then the doctor came in and started cutting. I couldn’t feel anything, or course, but there was a sensation of pressure. The worst thing of all was the electric cauterizer (they had to ground me by attaching a wire to my leg… otherwise there’s the risk that something might catch fire—comforting thought). Cuts to the face bleed like crazy, like everyone knows, so he was constantly in there zapping some little blood vessel. It made a disconcerting spark noise, and stunk terribly. Ugh.

So it took him maybe 45 minutes to cut away some of my flesh. They wrapped up my nose, and I just sorta hung out while waiting for the lab report. Forty-five minutes later he came back in, saying that they hadn’t gotten it all. So he cut on me for a big more. Then more waiting. This time the report came back clear.

He explained how he had to cut away more skin than just a little circle around the cancer… not because the cancer had spread, but to make the incision lay flat and heal correctly. I took a quick cell phone photo of my face before he started sewing me up. It was an alarmingly large hole. “Eh, it’s no record-breaker,” my doctor said.

Record-breaker or not, it took 23 stitches to close me up. A far fucking cry from the “three or four” he promised.

So, as it turns out, The Scientist worked in the same building in which I was having this surgery. So she left the lab for a bit to check on me. I had just had the last suture put in when she came into the surgery suite.

I had an incision that went from roughly the top of my nose to the bottom of one nostril. It was pretty impressive looking, if I do say so myself.

Now, my wife really isn’t good with blood and guts sort of stuff. And she, like I, had been expecting just a couple stitches. She took one look at me and got light-headed. Then she fled the room.

I wasn’t allowed to leave yet, but I heard the nurses trying to calm her down in the hallway, and one came back into the room for a cold compress. I knew exactly what was happening. “Look,” I told the nurse who was bandaging my nose. “You need to know that my wife may faint, and if she faints she’s going to have a seizure. This is what she does.”

I finally was allowed to leave, and I found my wife, laying on her back in the hallway. She hadn’t had a seizure (thank God) but she was still lightheaded and generally in not a good way. She had her feet elevated on a chair, a cold, wet towel on her head, and a nurse sitting with her patting her hand.

“Good Lord,” I said. “I’m the one who just had surgery.”

I got the nurse to get me a wheelchair, and we wheeled her back down into the lab where she worked. She had more or less recovered by this time. People took one look at me and the stupidly big dressing they had put on my face then tired to figure out why I was the one pushing a seemingly intact woman in a wheelchair.

So, anyway, my face has healed up remarkably well. Everyone said this dermatologist was one of the best, and I believe it. You really can’t see the scar at all, unless you get really close and are looking for it. A year later I still have a little numbness in the area, but that is to be expected, I’m told. After the first night there was never really any pain, and I have a bottle of leftover Vicodin to prove it.

All in all, I find that I’m really unconcerned about this cancer scare. My doctor told me, “If you’re going to get cancer, this is the kind to get.” I feel like, on some level, I should be losing my shit, given my family history.

But I’m not.

###

#308 In which our hero reads an article that pertains to his children, then follows a link that immediately crushes his excitement.

2011-09-26T13:31:00.000-04:00

I came across an article titled, “How to Talk to Little Girls,” by Lisa Bloom. As the parent of two little girls, I was intrigued. I very much liked what I read.

In the article Bloom discusses how our culture typically praises little girls by telling them how cute or pretty they are. I’ve experienced this first hand. Inevitably the first thing anyone says about my girls is to comment on how they are just adorable! Now, my kids are adorable, and I just say, “Thank you,” and don’t think much of it.

However, I have been careful to always praise them for their brains, too. I want them to know that it’s okay to be smart, and good looks, which nice, aren’t the be-all and end-all of their existence. This message may not resonate as strongly as I’d like right now (they are only six- and seven-year-old), but I want to make sure that I’m constantly reinforcing the value of intelligence and education.

Bloom embraces this stance in her article (you should read it, it’s short). She writes:

“Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything.”

She says she always asks little girls what they’re reading, This icebreaker generally, she writes, into a discussion about books and reading and all sorts of general girl-empowerment stuff. Which is all good in my book.

Except.

After I finished the article, I followed the link to learn more about the book that Bloom had written, titled, “Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed Down World.”

Wow, I thought. That sounds awesome.

So I followed the link to Amazon, and found this staring back at me:

I was staggered by the irony of what I saw.

Wikipedia tells me that Bloom is 50 years old. She looks great for a woman her age… maybe too great? I’m not suggesting she’s had “work done,” as they say, but maybe she has. At the very least, she’s had a crew of hairstylists and make-up folks make her look as attractive as possible for this photo. And there was probably some re-touching done after the fact, too.

But that’s really beside the point. Maybe this is really how fabulous she looks as soon as she rolls out of bed in the morning. But if your book is about exercising your mind… is a glamour shot that emphasizes your good looks really the best choice?

Now, to be fair, I haven’t read the book, and from what I glean it’s not just a screed about how women are unfairly judged by their looks. However, the article from which I found the book was squared delineated by that criteria: little girls are more than just their appearance, and you should support that notion.

So, I probably won’t be buying this book. But, I will continue to talk to my girls about the importance of education, and how it’s cool to be smart. I’ll continue to read to them every night. And I’ll continue to stress how it takes more than a beautifully composed photo to make you something in the world.

###

#307 In which our hero recounts a mysterious and new word he learned at his new agency.

2011-09-15T09:55:00.000-04:00

I’ve been at the new job for about eight months now. I feel like I’m getting into the groove of this place, finally, but the first couple weeks were a little rough. This agency is a purely digital agency, and my experience is primarily print and collateral. I’ve done plenty of websites and online banner ads, but I’ve never gotten into the finer points of search engine optimization, highly-interactive user experiences, rich media banners and all the other stuff that takes the online experience to a much higher level.

I expected there to be a learning curve, but it was steeper than I thought. There was a lot of information presented in orientation that had me scratching my head; stuff that I assumed I would pick up as I got settled in.

But then, there was the lingo. This agency is thick with jargon and agency-specific titles, programs and processes.

My first week on the job I was anxious to prove myself and jump in and start producing good work. I was almost immediately pulled into a project for a smaller east coast bank. During the briefing, the Creative Director mentioned that we were going to have to turn around a concept pretty quickly, and would be producing an adlob to sell the idea.

Adlob?

This is a term I was not familiar with. He mentioned it in passing, like it was something that everyone would know. I wrote in my notebook “ad-lob? WTF?” and planned on looking it up later. Maybe it was a banking term? I’ve done lots of financial stuff in the past, but that wasn’t ringing any sort of bell.

But I let it go. Then, a couple of minutes later, the CD mentioned it again. I stopped him, saying, “Okay, sorry, but what’s an ad-lob?”

He explained that it was an “ad-like object.” Adlob. I laughed and shook my head. In my previous agencies we would have probably said it was a mock-up. Most likely something that looked similar to an ad you might see in a magazine. Nothing that was to proper dimensions or even with finalized copy and graphics—just something to get in front of the client so they know where our thinking was.

This was my first taste of much more silly jargon to come.

###

#303 In which our hero shakes off the cobwebs of apathy and returns to his scribbler’s desk.

2011-09-14T10:16:00.001-04:00

Hi! Hi!

This blog is one of those things that sits at the back of my brain and occasional pokes at me, saying, “Hey! Hey! Update me! What’s your deal?” But lately I’ve been sorta apathetic about non-work related writing. Plus, with this new job I no longer have an office to myself, I sit in a cube where anyone strolling by can look down and see what I’m writing. But honestly, that’s a bit of an excuse… I suspect that most people—if they care what I’m writing at all—only see words on paper, not “OMG that dude is wasting company time writing blog entries! Must call HR!!”

A big part of my reluctance to just hammer out some entries is that:

A.) I’ve structured my writing so that entries are generally of a long and involved sort. I feel like I need to write something of substance to fill them out. I mean, the last time I wrote here was for my annual Father’s Day letter to my dead dad, so that’s some weighty stuff. Following that up with how I can never seem to get a decent Reuben sandwich out feels a little frivolous.

B.) I’ve gotten way behind on stuff that’s happened to me. Like the new job, and the girls’ starting school again, and how my wife just bought a new horse… I feel like I can’t write about the most recent stuff until I get past the stuff that’s already happened and then you’re talking about writing four entries, not just one and oh-my-oh-my who has the time?

So.

So, I’ve decided that I’m going to re-think the way I structure this thing (and that is probably a completely esoteric writer’s thing: who really cares if my writing is following an established hierarchy week to week? I do.) and take a page (i.e., completely rip-off) another blogger’s page whom I recently rediscovered, Mimi Smartypants. She chucks together a bunch of sometimes random topics, gives each its own subhead and calls it done.

I can do that.

And so I shall, starting later today.

###

#302 In which our hero writes his yearly letter to his father.

2011-06-18T11:26:00.002-04:00

Dear Dad,

It’s Father’s Day. This year, I’m struck by how laissez-faire I am about the holiday. But then again, this is my seventh year as a father, so I suppose the novelty is wearing off. On my first Father’s Day (as a father) The Scientist made little girl footprints in paint on a piece of construction paper alongside a poem she wrote for me, as if written by my then 7-month-old daughter. I was so overwhelmed by the whole thing that I cried.

Seven years later I still appreciate having a day to recognize me as a father, but I’m not nearly as wrapped up in it. I know there are cards coming, because I saw them quickly secreted from backpacks up to the girls’ rooms, the entire time Lily and Macey saying, “Daddy, don’t look!” It’ll be sweet when they give them to me (if they can remember where they hid the cards) and I’ll hug them and kiss them all over… but that amazing and humbling emotion of “wow! I’m a dad!” is long gone.

My first thought is that I’ve finally settled into my role as a father, that I have it figured out. But just as quickly I realize what bullshit that idea is. You never get used to it, you never figure it out, not really. Because just as soon as I learn how to deal with a cranky 2-year-old, then she’s three, with an entirely different set of behaviors to deal with. You might think that I could use this learning to deal with daughter #2, who’s 18 months younger after all… but no. Macey is such a different child than Lily that it takes an entirely different strategy to deal with her.

So I’m constantly figuring out how to address whatever is foremost in my kids’ life at the moment… from best friends to time on the computer to the toy they absolutely MUST have. I’ve realized that I’ll NEVER figure this job called “parenting” out, not completely. It’s the nature of the job that it’s always changing, always evolving.

And I wonder if you ever figured it out.

You certainly had more experience that I. And not just because you had four kids who were considerably more spread out then mine. As a teacher and principal it was your day job to deal with kids. Maybe that accumulated knowledge gave you a leg up so you could anticipate the next stage of your own kids, that you were never blindsided by screaming fits or broken hearts.

Last weekend I came into Lily’s room, where both girls were sleeping (they insist on sleeping in the same room on weekends; I wonder how much longer this sisterly love will last?), both of them with various limbs sprawled, half under the covers and half out, and a weird thought came into my head unbidden:

I must protect these girls.

I don’t know where this thought came from, other than the fact that it’s always there, rattling around in the back of my head. I want these girls to grow up to be confident, well-adjusted, even bold woman, so I’m always balancing giving them a long leash to make their own mistakes and carve out their own victories without hovering over them, to make sure they are shielded from any possible harm.

And, being that they’re only six and seven, I know the real challenges are yet to come. Dating, cars, sex… ugh, I don’t really want to think about it. Not yet.

I’d love to ask your advice. Ask how you did it with my three sisters. How you dealt with late nights, questionable boyfriends, overnight trips… and all this before the age of cell phones. Because my kids will have phones, giving me the power to check in with them at any time, and even track their location with built-in GPS. And I will.

But, still, I hope to instill in them the sense to make good decisions, so I don’t have to constantly call them or surreptitiously keep tabs on where they are.

Time will tell.

Then again, I don’t really need to wonder what you did, because I already know. You worried. You stayed up late and fretted. Because you did the same with me. If I told you I would be home by 8 o’clock, and didn’t make it in until 10, you were on high alert for those two hours. I couldn’t comprehend, at the time, why you would give me so much shit about it. I mean, two hours? What’s the big deal?

Now I understand.

It was your job, as our father, to protect us. Even when you were giving us as much freedom as you could stand, optimistic in the notion that you taught us to make smart decisions, you worried.

Just like I’ll worry.

So I guess I don’t really need to ask your advice, because I already know the answer. But I would love to swap stories with you.

I miss you, Dad.

Love,

Craig.

***

#301 In which our hero reveals the rather unlikely story of how he got his job, part 2.

2011-04-19T08:54:00.006-04:00

When we left off, I was again trying to get my foot in the door of a new agency.

I saw the creative director’s tweet, so I fired off the following email:

Hey D.,
Word on the street is you're back in the market for a copywriter. I'd love to continue the conversation we begin at Starbucks way back when.

My resume is attached.

Thanks,

craig.

I didn’t hear anything back for two days. On the afternoon of the second day I figured I’d send a “hey, you got my resume, right?” sort of email just to remind him that I was still interested. I was also very aware that last time we talked it was mentioned that I didn’t have a lot of online experience. I was assured this wasn’t a big deal, but it still concerned me. As it so happened, I had just finished a really cool internal website project—featuring zombies. It was for the agency Halloween party, and the art director I worked with did a fantastic job. As of this writing the site is still up and functioning at this link, but I imagine it will be taken down at some point. I thought it really expressed my creativity and I hoped this guy would appreciate it.

So I logged into my email account to send off the reminder email and the zombie website link, to find this email waiting for me:

Hey man...good hearing from you. Quite honestly...I worked with you and Brad says great things about you (which is key) but quite honestly, my guess is you're a bit "high" for our salary...I wanted to hire someone a bit more junior...not unless you're interested in taking a big pay cut ;-) Be happy to chat or grab a cup of coffee with you sometime...thanks for the note.

I was disappointed, but what could I do? If they were looking for a entry level writer, I most certainly was out of their price range. So I wrote back:

Yeah, if you're looking for an entry level person, I'm sure I'm way out of consideration.

I'd love to work with you and Brad again. If a senior level position opens up I hope you'd consider me.

In the meantime, here's a project I worked on recently that was a lot of fun:

http://www.malonealert.com

It's a website for our agency Halloween party. We had a week's worth of games, including a contest where you had to shoot cut-out zombies with a NERF shotgun. I wrote everything you see, including the scripts for the PSA videos on the bottom of the page. I shot and edited those, too.

I'll hit you up for that coffee sometime when I'm in the area.

Take care,

craig.

And I figured that that was it. But then, about 20 minutes later, I got this email:

Dude..I consider myself a zombie expert...me and my son. Have you read The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks? Classic! Thanks for sending...keep in touch...I'll be sure to do the same.

I had no idea that this guy was into zombies, of course. But fate seemed to give me an in. So I followed up with this:

I haven't read that, but I did read "World War Z" by the same author. Highly recommended.

Not to brag, but I won "Best Zombie" in the costume contest this year.

And got this email in return:

Photos?

So I sent back this:

(Actually, this isn't the photo I sent back. I had a much better one, a close-up on my face where you could tell I was wearing one red contact.)

And almost immediately got this in return:

Dude...LOVE the red contact...killer! Where did you get it?

And at this point, I’m kinda like, what’s going on here? We’re chatting back and forth like old friends, but the whole point of this exchange was that I wanted a job, and it seems like we’re moving away from that. But I figured what the hell and sent this:

The contacts are a brand called "Gothika." You can get all sorts of crazy lenses. I bought these online a couple years ago for a vampire costume (photo attached).

Now, not to toot my own horn, but that Nosferatu costume was bad ass. It is by far my best Halloween effort ever. I loved it, but in no way did I expect to get this kind of response back:

Get the fuck outta here! That rocks! Did you shave your head?

Keep in mind that there are actual emails I'm cutting and pasting here. So when I get a f-bomb email in response, like we're best buddies, I’m still very much where’s this going? But replied with this:

You bet. Shaved my head, shaved off my goatee, the works.

The best part? I lost the costume contest. To a guy who came in drag. Three years later, I'm STILL bitter about it.

And then, got this in response:

I want to hire you more than ever now.

I was home when I received this email and called The Scientist over. “What am I supposed to make of this?” I asked her. I mean, I was all about winning this guy over and making the jump to another agency, but then I started to worry that he was some sort of flake that would make a hiring decision based on a Halloween costume.

But, things at my current agency were really rather shitty, so I continued to play along.

Shit, say the word and I'll shave my head TONIGHT.

And I honestly figured that would be the end of it. This guy would send me an email that said Ha, ha! But unfortunately, like I said before, you’re too expensive for us. But keep in touch!

What I did not expect is this:

Let's grab coffee next week. I think it was the vampire picture. Let me know what works for you.

So we met for coffee. Spent the first 20 minutes talking about zombie movies. This guy, as it turns out, is a zombie NUT. He told me how he and his son will play a game where they pick the best places to hole up in case of a zombie apocalypse. He is INTO zombies.

The funny this is, I’m not. I mean, yeah, I enjoy a good zombie movie as much as the next guy, but I like most monster movies. It was just through a weird twist of fate that I suggested that the agency Halloween party be zombie themed, allowing me the present a zombie website for consideration and giving me the excuse to dress up like a zombie, which in turn gave me an in to showcase my vampire costume from three years ago which, it appears, so impressed this guy that he decided to interview me again.

Weird.

I mean, I have a good portfolio, and I took his advice and updated it with samples that better showed off my digital experience and my “big idea” creativity in general. I think (I hope!) that he wouldn’t have given the job to any smuck who happened to share his love for zombie movies.

So, long story short, he did offer me the job in the end. Not on the spot or anything, I still had to jump through several painful hopes for their HR department—including talking to SEVEN different HR people. But here I am, working for one of the largest agencies in northeast Ohio, the largest privately-held digital agency in the world, and the #1 “Agency to Watch” as rated by industry mag Advertising Age.

Thanks, Nosferatu!

###

#300 In which our hero reveals the rather unlikely story of how he got his job, part 1.

2011-04-13T09:21:00.003-04:00

As promised, the tale of how I landed my current job.

About two and a half years ago the agency I was working at hired a new writer named Brad. When I was looking at Brad’s brief background info on the “welcome new hires!” wall, I noticed that we had worked at a lot of the same places. In fact, he had been hired in at my old job at The Columbus Dispatch shortly after I left.

We chatted and hit it off. But Brad was fired after three months. No fault of his own; the agency had staffed up anticipating that we would win at least one of the three new pieces of business we were pitching. When we ended up with none of them, the decision was made to “de-staff.” I’ve seen agencies make this sort of move before, and I’ve always thought it was pretty shitty.

Brad and I stayed in touch after he cleared out. He ended up going to Wyse Advertising, the same agency that I worked for when I first moved to Cleveland. Our careers were on weird parallel paths.

About a year ago Brad emails me out of the blue and tells me that he’s at a new agency, and they’re looking for a writer. Up to that point I had been really happy with the agency I was at, but things had started to go south there, and I was growing increasingly unhappy. So I shot Brad my resume. Someone from their HR department contacted me and the wheels of the interview process began to turn. But they were turning veeery sloooowly.

I had to fill out some online employment forms, and have a pre-interview phone interview with another recruiter from the agency and jump through a few other hoops. I was a little frustrated by the glacial pace of things, but I think Brad was even more frustrated. Which was understandable since he was the other writer and was getting severally shit upon with a ridiculous workload.

Finally Brad calls me and says, “Screw this! I’m just setting up an interview myself. You can meet me and my boss at Starbucks and we’ll talk.” He tells me his boss’s name and I’m like, jeez, that name sounds familiar.

About a week later I show up at the appointed time and place and find Brad already there. We get some coffee and chat for a bit. Then his boss (who’s the Group Creative Director for Cleveland) shows up and I realize that I do know this guy. In fact, we worked together at Wyse which is, remember, the same one that Brad went to after he was fired from my current agency. The advertising community is pretty insular in northeast Ohio.

He remembers me and we BS for a minute about how Wyse is doing, and the people that worked there, and so on. Then we get to my portfolio and start going through it.

Then, in the weirdest of coincidences, as we’re sitting at Starbucks with my book wide open on the table when who walks in but my old Creative Director from Wyse. He and the department’s writer (a guy I also worked with) just happened to be on that side of town for a client meeting and popped in to get some coffee. This guy sees Brad’s boss first and says, “Hey D. Good to see you.” Then he notices Brad (he didn’t know those two were working together now) and says, “And Brad! Hey!” Then he notices me, and says, “And Craig? What the hell is going on here?!”

We all laugh and share a small world moment. Then he sees my portfolio and starts flipping through it. It’s funny because I still have work from my time at Wyse in there and he’s like, “Oh yeah! I remember this project!”

It’s all rather odd.

We finally get back to my interview and it’s all pretty positive. My work is mostly traditional advertising (i.e., print ads, radio, brochures) and the place I’m interviewing for is a digital agency (mostly websites and email) so there’s a little concern there… not so much that I can’t do the job, more that the work I’m showing doesn’t put me in the best light to get hired.

Hands are shaken all around and it’s over.

What follows is a really disappointing series of emails from Brad and the HR department, that boil down to this: you’re awesome, but we’re not going to hire you right now. We’re going to hire a freelancer instead. Catch you next time.

So that’s that.

A year passes. Brad and I stay in touch, and he laments how the freelance writers they’re getting in suck and how they should have hired me.

Then, about five months ago, the creative director tweets “Immediate opening for a copywriter in Cleveland. Send me your resumes.”

I pat myself on the back for being smart enough to add this guy to my Twitter feed after our last meeting and shoot off an email right away.

What happens next is so strange that I still have a bit of trouble believing it’s all for real.

###

#299 In which our hero tries to catch up.

2011-03-28T10:41:00.003-04:00

The blog’s been dark for a couple months not because I don’t have anything to write about, but just the opposite. Lots of big stuff has been happening lately. Some highlights:

Mom’s Health

After all the doom and gloom in the past six months, mom is actually doing really well. I mean, she has COPD and as such, she’ll never have the quality of life she once did. She progressed rapidly from needing oxygen when she exerted herself, to needing it for longer periods while she recovered from illness, to full time. For a long time she keep telling me that she was sure that she’d get off her oxygen as soon as she recovered from the latest bout of flu or pneumonia or whatever.

She doesn’t say that any more.

It’s pretty clear that she is now permanently tethered to her O2 tank. In fact, there was an incident several weeks ago where she lost power in the middle of the night, meaning her oxygen concentrator machine stopped working. She didn’t think she had enough bottled O2 to make it through the night (she only keeps a few small bottles in the house, enough for her to take with her when running errands) and she panicked. She called 9-1-1 and the local fire department brought her a big bottle of O2. Of course, the power came back on an hour later.

She said it was quite the fuss in the neighborhood. She laughed it off, but I know full well that the reason it was a fuss in the neighborhood is that when people see an ambulance in my mother’s driveway, they assume the worst. And they should.

But, as of now mom’s in pretty good shape, all things considered. Even her latest cancer scans came back clear. And the weather’s finally starting to turn, so mom’s getting back out and about. Being how social my mother is, this is a critical turn of events.

Bullying at School

Lily (my 7-year-old) had a run-in with a bully at her daycare. She had mentioned had N. was sometimes mean to her, and both The Scientist and I witness N. being a little bossy, but we really didn’t make much of it.

But one day while my wife was picking up, she was there when this little girl mouthed off to the teacher. The Scientist chided her (that the teacher didn’t immediately address this disrespectful kid is a whole other story) telling her that she was being rude, and shouldn’t talk to her teacher, or any grown-up, like that. She pouted a bit, and stomped off. A couple minutes later one of N’s hangers-on came over and told my wife, “N. says she doesn’t care what you say, because you’re not her mommy.” So The Scientist went over to N. and said, “Y’know what? I know your mommy and maybe I’ll just talk to her about your behavior directly.” This seemed to put the fear of God into her, and she straightened up. For the rest of that day, at least.

But soon after Lily started telling us that N. was bothering her at school. We told her to ignore N. as best as she could and not engage her. But Lily said that she tried that, and N. would follow her around the classroom, taunting her and basically being a shit.

So, the next day of daycare, The Scientist pulled the center director aside and told her what was going on. And then the director pulled N. aside and said something to her. Whatever it was, the situation seems to be handled. N. isn’t bothering Lily any more, and even plays with her sometimes. Lily is such a sweet kid that she holds no grudge whatsoever.

It’s tempting to just dismiss this as kids being kids, but it worries me. Mostly because Lily is such a sensitive soul, and it only takes something minor, like being excluded from group activities by one mean girl, to set her off. And bullies, like the proto-mean girl N., feed off of that. I worry that Lily will constantly be the target of shitty kids who enjoy making other kids cry. Part of me wants to always be there to intervene and smack down anyone who dares hurt my child; but another part of me wants Lily to learn to be tough, and deal with crap like this herself. I’m sure the real answer is somewhere in-between the two.

Employment

And now, the really big news! I quit my job! And got another one! Not necessarily in that order!

I’d been increasingly unhappy at my job for some time. First, it was in Akron, meaning a 45-minute commute every day. Which sucked in terms of gas consumed and wear and tear on my car but, honestly, after five years I had gotten used to the drive. In fact it was kinda nice to have the time to listen to the news or, more often, audio books. But still, in the winter you could count on at least a couple days in which the 45-minute drive turned into two hours or more. And it was always a pain to juggle kid pick-up and afterschool activities with the drive.

The agency had also changed considerably from when I first started. Five years ago it was fairly laid back, and really tried to keep things fun with monthly activities like a 5 o’clock ice cream social, or 2 o’clock margaritas or an impromptu pancake breakfast.

But, over time that stuff started to go away. My department used to have departmental outings; for example, we all took off at noon one day and went bowling. That stopped happening, mostly because the volume of work demanded that we needed people there at their desks churning out the work at all business hours.

And that’s really the biggest thing that got to me, the agency turned into a factory. It felt like we were all on an assembly line, and the overriding goal to was crank out a large volume of work. If it was good work, and creative work, that was a plus. But mostly we needed to hit the deadlines. Which became shorter and shorter, most of the work due in a day or less. And even the projects where we had enough time to give them some good thought got short shrift, since they went to the bottom of the pile so we could address the short deadline stuff.

I had some run-ins with account people who actively dissuaded creative thought in favor of “safe” concepts that would sail by the client. More and more I was put into the position to create copy that wasn’t the best, just the least objectionable.

Everyone in the Creative Department was worn down. I didn’t even put up much of a fight anymore when confronted with absurd deadlines or piss-poor direction. I just rolled over and did what I was told.

Which is the worst possible situation a creative person can him themselves in. Because I really believe that creativity is a muscle, and if you don’t exercise it regularly, it will atrophy and die. I was very much in jeopardy of having that happen. Which could mean that not only was I not doing my job very well, but I might actually be hurting my chances at ever getting another job. I’ve seen co-workers who have a portfolio of work they did five, ten years ago. With nothing creative to show done recently. That’s a huge red flag to a perspective new employer.

Even so, I only half-heartedly looked for another job. And, as it turned out, a job found me. This is such a ridiculous story that I’m going to write it up as its own post. Stay tuned!

###

#298 In which our hero discusses what he's been reading in the past year (2010 edition, part 2)

2011-01-14T08:45:00.001-05:00

Duma Key by Stephen King (audio book)

Ah, good ole’ reliable Stephen King. I keep going back to his audio books because they are comfortable for me. Rarely any big surprises and, oddly enough, rarely any real horror anymore, either. But I enjoy his style and I can always count on him to provide a couple fucked-up moments, usually involving A.) an elderly person cursing like a sailor, B.) an African-American person talking in a dialect that never existed outside of Al Jolson movies, or C.) Both. King didn’t let me down this time either.

As to the story, it was typical King: an ancient evil is awakened and the hero suffers greatly before it is put back to rest. The end.

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (audio book)

When this book came out I remember reading some favorable reviews, and being interested in the concept (man involuntarily time travels). I picked it up at the bookstore once and read the first few pages, then put it down. For some reason that I can’t remember now, the beginning didn’t grab me.

But, as I’ve said many times before, my interest level for audio books sets the bar much lower. So when I saw it on the shelf at the library, I gave it a go.

This is very much a chick book. It’s a love story first and foremost, and I’m sure there have been many a geek who picked it up for the science fiction angle and walked away disgusted with all the longing looks and heartfelt absences that make up the heart of the story.

But I loved it.

Not to get all gushy about it, but I’m deeply in love with my wife, so the idea of being suddenly ripped away from a loved one and the hole it leaves in your life is something that I can appreciate. I found myself tearing up in a couple places. That’s the romantic side of me.

As for the geek side, I loved that the author didn’t even fuss with the endlessly discussed paradoxes of time travel. In her novel, when you bump into yourself in the past you don’t cancel each other out or cause a rift in the time stream or whatever… you just have a conversation. And sometimes you even give your past self the head’s up about winning lottery numbers.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. (audio book)

Outside of the “Illustrated Classic” version, I’ve never read any Sherlock Holmes before. This is a collection of short stories, and I enjoyed them very much. Doyle is a great writer (obviously, right? But what I mean is that some of the classic writers don’t do it for me, I get bogged down in with their stilted style; but Sherlock Holmes reads well to a modern ear, in my opinion) and I may seek out some of his novel-length works to see how well he develops characters.

Because there’s practically no character development in these short stories. They very much remind me of the “2-Minute Mysteries” I read as a kid. Most follow a very rigid pattern: a mystery is reported, clues are observed, Holmes makes connections that the average man might miss (to the wonderment of Dr. Watson), then he delivers the solution in a monologue, generally with many of the players present.

This isn’t to belittle the writing which, as I said, is very good. And I was surprised with the conclusions of many of the stories because they didn’t follow the pattern above. In some they go to track down the felon and he’s already flown the coop, or he’s died at sea, or something similar. This added an element of realism that I appreciated.

What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson (audio book)

Ugh. I saw the movie adaptation of this book when it came out years ago. I remember it being visually stunning and emotionally powerful. And since I've recently read Matheson's I Am Legend and some of his short stories, I figured I'd give this a go.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but this novel was overwrought, overwritten and mostly pretty boring. If I was actually reading it, and not just passively listening to it in my car, I think I would have abandoned it midway through.

The book is clearly a love letter from Matheson to his wife; and I have no doubt that on that level, it is amazingly successful. I'm sure it taps into emotions that can scarcely be expressed on paper. For Matheson and his wife, that is. For me—the awkward third wheel in the equation—it was tough to maintain a level of caring. I cared so little for this book or its characters that, honestly, I can't be bothered to keep writing a review of it.

The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker

The last physical book I read in 2010. This is a non-fiction book written by a security specialist that provides a lot of practical information on how to predict and recognize violent situations, and how to avoid them and/or prepare yourself for them when they happen.

This was given to me by a friend to help me with some mental roadblocks I've had in the martial art I practice. I don't know how successful it has been in that area… somewhat, I suppose. But as a general textbook and predicting violence, it was very interesting and informative. The major message I walked away with is this: trust your instincts. If you feel nervous or threatened, listen to what your mind is telling you. Even if it isn't readily apparent, you may have picked up on some cues in the environment without consciously recognizing them. Don't automatically dismiss the fear you feel.

I'd recommend this book to just about anyone as a means to be smarter about your safety in the world. And, this is a book that I will definitely make my daughters read when they're older.

And that's it for 2010! I hope to read a few more physical books in the coming year, and get a new CD player for my car so I can get back on the audio book horse.

***

#298 In which our hero discusses what he's been reading in the past year (2010 edition, part 1)

2011-01-11T11:34:00.004-05:00

Here's what I "read" in 2010. I put read in quotes since I listened to many more audiobooks than I did read physical books. You'll notice that this list isn't as long as the 2009 list, and that's because my car CD player stopped working in the last third of the year, greatly curtailing my consumption of books.

The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde (audio book)

I actually started this book in 2009 and finished it off in the beginning of the year. I picked this up at the library on a lark. I liked the sound of the universe the author created, even if I was a little hesitant about the references to Charlotte Brontë. I’ve never read any of her work, and have never been motivated to do so.

And while I continue to be indifferent about Brontë, I loved this book. I find the parallel universe genre attractive, especially when it’s done well. I thought this book was especially well written, and the setting was familiar enough to seem real, and the “alternative” elements woven in skillfully. I enjoyed the protagonist, Thursday Next, as she pursued evil mastermind Acheron Hades through the novel Jane Eyre. I suspect that there’s a lot in this book that I didn’t pick up on, not being well read in the classics, but I liked it nevertheless. So much so, that I’ll be looking for additional books in the series, of which there are several.

The Domostroi: Rules for Russian households in the time of Ivan the Terrible by Carolyn Johnston Pouncy (editor, translator)

I have sort of vested interest in Russian history, as it plays a part in the medieval reenactment group I play with. That said, it often feels like studying and not reading for pleasure when I pick up a book like this—which explains why I haven’t done much reading about Russian history. But, I had hoped this book would be different, more entertaining and less like a written lecture. It mostly was (entertaining, that is). That said, it was still a tough slough in parts, and I felt a great deal of relief when it was done. I’m better off for having read it, though.

The Library Policeman by Stephen King (audio book)

This is from King’s “Four Past Midnight” collection, which I read years ago. I don’t remember much of the story, other than there’s a horrible child rape scene in it performed by a weird old guy with a speech impediment. The audio book is read by Ken Howard and, I must admit, I was intrigued by the prospect of hearing the White Shadow perform an old, lisping pedophile.

As it turns out, Ken Howard can read the hell out of a book! Since I started aggressively listening to audio books, I’ve heard a lot of performers who are good, and a few who were great. I’d put Howard into the great category. He managed to give each character a unique, believable voice of their own; no mean feat with a Stephen King book full of characters who lisp, sputter and scream. And children… it’s hard for an adult to sound like a believable child, but Howard pulls it off pretty well.

The story itself with pretty much typical King: an ancient evil returns to torment a colorful cast of characters in small-town Maine. But I have a soft spot in my heard for his writing, even when it gets strange.

Last Night at the Lobster by Stewart O'Nan (audio book)

Maybe it’s because I worked in a restaurant for years (not a Red Lobster, though) and I could relate to a lot of what was discussed, but I really enjoyed this book. Many of the Amazon reviews scored it harshly, criticizing it for being too brief and lacking a real plot. I don’t disagree with that—the book’s about what happens to the crew of a Red Lobster on the last snowy night before they close forever—there is no big plot developments nor any really exciting action, really. But that’s part of the reason I liked it, it was a wonderful character sketch. The characters talked and acted like real, breathing people. And the action, what there was of it, was realistic, too. Because that’s what happens most nights at a restaurant… people come in, food is made and served, minor disasters are cleaned up… that’s it.

I also enjoyed this book because the author gives wonderful descriptions. When he described removing the heavy, damp snow from the parking lot, he wrote that it was like “shoveling wet cake.” I thought that was an amazing choice of words, and it really struck me. I’d read this book again just for the language.

Haunted: A Novel by Chuck Palahniuk (audio book)

Palahniuk’s writing can be an acquired taste, but I’ve always enjoyed his work. However, this novel can be taxing, even for a fan, like me.

This is essentially a collection of short stories, strung together with a rather contrived plot device. I enjoyed the short stories on their own merits. But the framing device was sometimes a labor to get through. I mean, Palahniuk’s narratives are often divorced from reality, but this one took the notion of suspension of disbelief and cut it into pieces. At times, I wished I could just enjoy the short stories without having to slough through the rest of it.

That being said, I do admire Palahniuk’s skill as a writer. Many of the concepts he brought up were paid off much later in the work. This really is much more than a collection of unrelated stories; it’s a narrative woven together from more than a dozen different vantage points and voices.

Checking reviews on Amazon, I was amused to see that it’s almost a dead heat between each rating, with 5- and 4-star ratings just barely nudging out 3-, 2- and 1-star ratings.

The Hot Kid by Elmore Leonard (audio book)

I had it in my head that Elmore Leonard wrote westerns. I’ve since realized that I had him confused with Louis L’Amour. Not that westerns are bad, just not my preferred genre. Anyway, the back of this audio book reminded me that Leonard wrote Get Shorty, which I really enjoyed as a movie, and wasn’t a western at all, so I picked it up.

Now I wish I had read his stuff years before.

This particular book is set in the 1920s which, I’ve since read, isn’t his usual time frame. But the setting doesn’t matter, because what hooked me was the action and great dialog. I’ve written before that I love dialog that rings true in the books I read. And all the tough guy talking in this book was fantastic. Halfway into the thing I found myself wanting to talk in the short, sharp cadence of these characters, and maybe pick up a tommy gun and direct a hundred rounds toward the nearest bank robber and/or lawman.

I’ll definitely be reading more of his stuff in the future.

“The Fat Stamp” from The Scent of Spiced Oranges and Other Stories by Les Roberts

This short story was available for download from the author’s website. Les Roberts writes tough guy mysteries, which aren’t really my thing, but I downloaded and read this story because I have a history with Roberts, in a way.

Years ago I took a creative writing class through a local continuing education program. Actually, I took this program every quarter it was offered for a couple of years, until they stopped offering it. The teacher knew Les and had him in a couple of times over the years to give a short lecture about the art and business of writing.

What he had to say was interesting, if not exactly fascinating. But he was (and is) a working author, so there was real value in what he had to say. But one anecdote he related left me cold.

He related how he was at a signing at a local bookstore when a man presented Roberts with a book to sign. As he was doing that, the man asked, “Can I give you some constructive criticism?” To which Roberts replied, “Have you ever won a prestigious award for your writing?” The man had not, so Roberts continued, “Then no, you cannot give me your criticism.”

This stuck me as incredibly rude. Here was this guy, clearly a fan as he was standing in line to have his book signed, and Roberts insults him. I mean, I understand his rationale, that guy probably didn’t really have any amazingly illuminating insight to offer. But what if he had? What if he told Roberts something he had never thought of before? What if he gave him some tiny nugget of information that he could expand into a best-selling novel?

But my real question is, what harm would it have done to just let the guy talk? Maybe Roberts would have had to suffer through some nonsense for a couple of minutes… so what? Roberts is out five minutes, and this guy continues to be an admiring fan.

By insulting the guy, I think he risked losing a fan. I suppose if you’re Stephen King or John Grisham it doesn’t matter if you lose a fan or a hundred. But mid-list authors should be more careful about their fan base, I think.

Moreover, he told the story with glee, and clearly felt like he got one over this dumb rube who would dare critique the work of The Great Les Roberts.

So, I’ve been cold on Roberts ever since. That, coupled the fact that he doesn’t write a genre that appears to me, is the reason I’ve never read any of his stuff. Until this short story.

I found it unimpressive.

It was never meant to be a crowning achievement (and that’s probably why it is available for free on the Internet) but it’s just flat. There are some nice observational details in it, but they aren’t enough to save the story from its predictable progression, and implausible conclusion.

Guess I wasn’t really missing anything.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz (audio book)

I remember hearing about this book on NPR. It caught my attention as the protagonist was described as a “Dominican J.R.R. Tolkien.” However, I had forgotten about it until I stumbled upon it at the library (the source of all the off-beat books I consume).

The book started with a quote from Galactus, so you know I was hooked from the beginning. In fact, the entire narrative was sprinkled with fanboy references, some of which I’m sure flew over my head.

The book is really three books in one… detailing the life stories of the titular Oscar Wao, his mother and his grandfather. I enjoyed Oscar’s story very much. It was uncomfortably familiar in some parts, funny in some parts, and ultimately heartbreaking. The other two stories… not so much. They seemed to drag in parts, and I felt myself wishing that the author would get back to Oscar. That said, they’re very well written, and just as my attention would start to drift, the strong writing would pull me back in.

This is one of the times that the format (audio book) made the experience less enjoyable for me. The disks themselves were in back shape, and skipped terribly, forcing me to fast forward over big chunks of the story. But the structure of the novel itself—numerous footnotes, untranslated Spanish dialog—would have been more enjoyable to read, rather than listen to. I should mention, however, that the voice actor who read the book was fantastic.

Also, this book won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2008. I’m going out on a limb and say that this is probably the only Pulitzer-winning novel in which The Watcher plays a significant role.

Road Dogs by Elmore Leonard (audio book)

As stated above, I was excited to get into another Elmore Leonard book. Sadly, this book didn’t live up to my expectations. It was a little slow, and didn’t build to any big moment that really excited me. Reading Amazon.com reviews, a lot of people agree with me and found this to be one of Leonard’s lesser works. That’s too bad. I’ll probably give him another chance at some point in the future, but I’ll be sure to pick a highly-rated book, not just what happens to be available at the library.

To be continued.

###

#297 In which our hero completes the saga of his mother's health. For now.

2011-01-06T13:04:00.000-05:00

I've been very meh about blogging lately—"lately" being the past six months or so. But I feel like I need to come full circle on my posts about mom's health.

Last I wrote mom had been released from the hospital and the girls and I went down to have thanksgiving with her and my youngest sister. It was a nice visit, but I couldn't shake a subdued feeling of gloom… mom's health wasn't good and maybe this was the last Thanksgiving I would ever have with her.

On the table at the time were a suspect spot on an x-ray of mom's lung and an unexplored lump in her breast. I haven't mentioned the lump before, since mom has successfully had a lumpectomy for a small breast cancer tumor in the past and it seemed like small potatoes compared to the possible lung cancer thing.

The really scary thing about the spot in mom's lung were that if it did turn out to be lung cancer, there wasn't much that could be done about it. In fact, mom's doctor told her, point blank: "There's really no reason to biopsy it right now. If it is a tumor, your lungs are too weak to handle radiation, and chemotherapy isn't very effective against lung tumors. So we might as well wait until your healthier and re-do the x-ray."

Yikes.

The doctor didn't say so in so many words, but basically it sounds like if mom does get lung cancer, then that's it. No effective treatment. A death sentence.

I know that's how mom took the news. It took a while to get this particular bit of information out of her, because she didn't want to tell me.

I'm 42 years old, and mom still worries about upsetting me.

But! As it turns out, they did re-do the x-ray when mom was feeling better, and it came back clear. The original spot was apparently some pneumonia that appeared to be a mass on the film.

Then! A week or so later, they re-did the mammogram, and that came back clear, too!

All in all, an amazingly happy series of phone calls.

Now, mom's still compromised and more frail then anyone really wants to admit, I think. And now that winter is here in full swing, she's hunkered down in her house and basically won't leave for the next three months. It's not how she wants to live, but it's how she got through last winter without getting sick and ending up in the hospital again.

Bottom line: mom is pretty much status quo for the moment. Her "normal" is greatly reduced from what it was when I still lived at home. Hell, it's reduced from just a couple of years ago.

But she's not checking out yet.

###

#296 In which our hero thankfully doens't have to spend his Thanksgiving in the hospital.

2010-11-30T12:13:00.000-05:00

Since I’m all about being timely with this blog, I’m updating my Thanksgiving vacation nearly a week after the fact.

The big news is that we didn’t have to celebrate the holiday in the hospital with mom. It went down like this:

Mom saw a bunch of different doctors while she was in the hospital: an oncologist, a pulmonologist, the doctor on rounds, and her regular GP. The oncologist (as mom tells the story) was very eager to biopsy the spot in her lung. Mom wasn’t keen on the procedure, as you can expect, and was sure the doctor was only pressing the issue to get more money from mom’s insurance company. I rolled my eyes at this notion, but still, sticking a needle into what may be a patch of pneumonia didn’t sound like the smartest thing in the world.

Finally, mom’s GP decided that it may very well be just pneumonia (and not cancer) and chose a conservative approach. She told mom that if mom could remain fever-free for 48 hours, that she’s get to go home with oral antibiotics to knock out the rest of the pneumonia. Then they’d repeat the chest x-ray to see if there was still a suspect spot on her lung. If so, they’d formulate a new plan of attack then.

Well, mom kept the fever away for two days and was released. This was on Saturday, which gave her a couple of days to relax before my sister, Linda, arrived home for Thanksgiving.

Part of me thinks I should be happy about mom being out of the hospital. And I am… but I remind myself that mom was only given a reprieve, not a pardon. There’s still something going on in mom’s lungs and, given her history, it could very well be cancer. I worry that delaying a biopsy only delays treatment, which could be a serious thing. Then again, mom is 78, and you have to figure in how hard the treatment would be on her.

Sigh. This brings up all sorts of topics that I wish I could just ignore and have them go away.

But, as for Thanksgiving itself, it was very nice. The girls and I drove down to mom’s house (The Scientist ended up having to drive to Columbus that day to fetch her horse from OSU Vet Hospital which is a different and much more expensive story).

I think it was killing mom a little bit to sit on the couch and watch my sister and I cooking. But I think is really starting to understand her limitations; plus, she has confidence in my ability as a cook (maybe more so than my sister’s).

Everything was delicious, especially the 20-pound bird that mom got.

It was a relaxed visit, and even the girls were good for the most part. My 5-year-old did have to sit in time out at one point during dinner, but I think that was mostly because she didn’t think I’d actually interrupt Thanksgiving dinner to do it. She was sadly mistaken.

Mom spent a lot of time on the couch, and she dozed after dinner. Which I can’t criticize, because I wanted nothing more than to take a nap myself. Mom’s just slower now, with less energy. She seems to be in decent humor. But she seems old. At 78 I guess she’s earned that right, but it’s just not a way that I’m accustomed to seeing her.

I hate thinking that this might be the last Thanksgiving I have with my mother, but it might be. Or she might stick around for another decade. She’s certainly a tough old broad.

###

#295 In which our hero discusses his mother and her declining health.

2010-11-22T16:12:00.000-05:00

My mom is in the hospital.

She had been running a fever, off and on, for about 10 days, she told me. I talked to her on Thursday last week, and she was going to the doctor (again) the following day. When she did, the doctor decided it was best to admit her.

My mother is 78 and, even though no-one really ever talks about it, she is in declining health. She was always very active, playing golf, participating in bowling leagues, teaching swimming lessons… my mother isn’t the kind of person to just sit around and watch TV. Even as she got older she stayed busy with more golf, garden club, her church, meals on wheels, band boosters and the like. Maybe she slowed down a little, but it was hardly noticeable.

Mom also smoked for most of her life. She didn’t stop until after my dad died in 1993. Even then, she only quit because she was getting sick and having breathing issues. And even thought that gives her close to 20 years as a non-smoker, the damage has already been done.

Mom has COPD, and it’s really limited what she can do. She starting having breathing issues several years ago (this is after she quit smoking) and a series of doctors tried a series of things to help her. It got to the point where she was using bottled oxygen any time she exerted herself. Then it got to the point where she had use her oxygen at night while she slept. Now, mom uses oxygen all the time. She was a big machine that somehow concentrates oxygen in the air, and she’s connected to it via a long tube. Whenever she goes out, she brings along a small bottle of oxygen.

The COPD has also made mom more susceptible to breathing/lung problems, most notably pneumonia. Two winters ago mom had a really bad case of pneumonia and ended up in the hospital for two weeks. That was scary.

This last winter she made a concerted effort to avoid people/situations that might make her sick. She was basically a shut-in all winter. She managed to avoid pneumonia, but for an active and incredibly social creature like my mom, it was really tough.

So when mom told me she was being admitted, I assumed it was pneumonia again. And I was right… she did have a patch of pneumonia in her right lung.

When she hadn’t told me, up to this point, is that her doctor also found something worrying in her left lung. Something that looked a lot like a malignant tumor.

Mom had a PET Scan that showed something was definitely there. I found out later that one of her doctors told her that it was most likely lung cancer. She played it cool with me, only telling me that no-one knew for sure what it is.

It’s almost funny that mom is still trying to protect me from bad news, even though I’m 41 years old.

The plan was to stabilize her, try to get the fever under control, then do a needle biopsy of the area to find out for sure what it was. Again, mom played it cool. But I think she was really scared about the biopsy. I have to believe that any hardcore smoker is just waiting for the day they’re told they have lung cancer… and mom thought her day had come.

I got all of this info on Friday. I wanted to get down and visit mom, but I was out of town all day Saturday. So I drove down Sunday afternoon.

Mom looked kinda bad.

Not death’s door bad or anything, but not good. Mostly because mom is always pretty fastidious about her appearance, especially her hair. But her fair was a mess when I got there, and she was hooked up to various tubes and wires. She was tired, but in decent spirits, all things considered.

There was no news to report. Her doctor was going to talk to her on Monday and, most likely, the biopsy would be preformed on Tuesday.

So we sat and chatted. I don’t know what you’re supposed to talk about with a person who possibly has a fatal condition, but mom and I talked about a variety of things, including my children, my achy hands, her lawn, and how she believed the doctors wanted to do more tests just to run up her bill.

We also talked about Christmas. This has been a hot topic between my sisters and I recently. My sisters and I are spread across three states and two continents, so everyone getting together at once is a rare occasion. But we always make sure that someone is with mom over the holidays; either at her house or at one of ours. This has become more challenging recently as mom’s health gets worse.

I’m the closest to mom, and it often falls to me to be with her for Christmas. Which is usually fine, but this year we’re taking the kids to California to spend Christmas with The Scientist’s side of the family. Plus, we’re taking the girls to Disneyland for the first time. It should be a fantastic trip. But that means that I’m out of the equation for Christmas visits.

There’s a very real chance that mom might be alone for Christmas.

Well, that’s not true, really. My middle sister has been talking to mom’s one neighbor and they assure her that mom can spend Christmas with them. But it’s still not the same.

Mom got a little melancholy when we were talking about Christmas. She told me she was just going to give everyone a check, and we could buy whatever we wanted with it. This is a simple, sensible solution in my mind, and mom’s done this for the past five years or so. It never occurred to me that mom would rather shop, if she could.

She told me that Christmas shopping just hasn’t been the same since my father died (this was in 1993). She told me how much fun they had creating Christmas lists, then going out shopping, then hiding the presents from us kids.

This was a bit of a shocker to me. By the time I was old enough to really take stock of my parents’ marriage, then had been married 25 years or more. They never seemed UNhappy to me, but they never really struck me as being really happily in love, either. They just were my parents and they did more things apart then they did together. That’s just the way it was.

To imagine them laughing and fooling around as they shopped for their kids’ Christmas presents… I have a hard time imagining it.

But I do know what it’s like to shop with my wife, and we most certainly do laugh and fool around and have a good time. To have that, then to have my wife die and have to face Christmas shopping alone…? I don’t know whereas I could face it. Maybe that’s why mom just started giving us money.

Mom also mentioned how she didn’t want to end up on a machine. “If something goes wrong,” she said, “Just toss me out with the trash.”

I don’t think mom is giving up on life. But she is facing the end of her, and that cannot be fun. “I’ve had a good life,” she told me. “But the last two years have been shitty.”

Driving home I was sad. Not so much at the prospect of losing my mother, but more I’m sad that my mother, the active, sometimes obnoxious, tends-to-drink-too-much-at-parties social butterfly is stuck in a hospital bed, alone.

###

#294 In which our hero foolishly leaves his child alone in the car to hilarious (?) effect.

2010-10-26T12:28:00.001-04:00

Couple weeks ago I picked up the girls from daycare. This is not an unusual thing, since The Scientist and I split picking up duties pretty much 50/50, on average. When we got home I got out of the car, then opened the rear passenger side door to let the girls out. Macey, who is 5, instead of getting out, climbed across the seats to sit in the driver’s seat.

Now, this isn’t unusual either. Both girls love to do this. Mostly, I’d guess, because I make a big deal out of it, saying things like “Hey! You aren’t old enough o drive!” or “Let me see your driver’s license!” The result is always much giggling.

Macey in particular likes to turn the wheel (what little she can) and push buttons. I’ve forbidden them from honking the horn though, because that’s obnoxious. There’s been a few occasions where I’ve turned on the car later to have the wipers on, which makes me smile.

So, I got the mail, then went to unlock the door to the house. About this time I heard Lily say, in a somewhat alarmed voice, “Daddy! The car’s rolling away!”

And indeed it was.

I turned to find it already halfway down the driveway. Our driveway has a slight incline, which I discovered is just enough to set the car rolling if a little girl somehow manages to put it into neutral.

I clearly remember saying, “Holy shit!” then taking off running after the car. Across the street from our driveway is a big tree in the neighbor’s yard. I really don’t know how, but the car managed to miss it, and roll partway up the opposite driveway. I tore open the door and yanked the wheel away from the tree, but the car was already losing speed by this time. I sat down and jammed on the brakes.

Amazingly, no harm done.

As soon as I opened the door Macey started yelling, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Once the car was back in park, I lifted her up and gave her a big hug. I think she was more worried about me being angry with her, because it was only after she saw that I wasn’t going to yell at her that she started to cry.

She was a little scared, but not terribly so. She recovered quickly.

For my part, I laughed it off. I was still amazed that the car didn’t roll into that tree, but considering that it didn’t, then no harm done, huh?

It wasn’t until I told The Scientist the story later that I realized what a close call it really was.

“Good thing Lily wasn’t behind the car,” she said.

I hadn’t thought of that.

“And good thing the neighbor kids weren’t out,” she said.

I hadn’t thought of that, either. But she was right, our street, especially the stop right in front of our driveway, is usually full of kids playing football or riding their bikes. If the car had rolled into a pack of unsuspecting kids, someone could have been killed.

You see stuff like this on the news every day, and you wonder how the parents can be so irresponsible. Well, this is how. By letting your kid fool around in the car, just like she has done a dozen times before.

So, the girls and I had a talk, and we all agreed not to play in the car any more. It didn’t take much convincing.

That’s one less thing to worry about. Until they turn 16 and want to get their driver’s licenses, that is.

###

#293 In which our hero helps his wife enter a contest thereby exposing some of his lesser qualities. Pt. 3

2010-09-27T09:49:00.002-04:00

When we last left our hero, his wife had just lost the contest.

My wife was devastated. She had worked so damn hard on this contest. She cried and cried.

I was furious. Furious that cheating had won the day, not effort. Furious that the people running the contest over at major horse feed manufacturer HAD to see what was going on, but did nothing to fix it.

During that last, horrible week I vented a good deal of my anger and frustration on EXTREME SICK. I wrote pretty nasty things on her posts, still anonymously. I called her a cheater. I said she didn’t deserve to win. I called her a coward when she refused to publish my comments.

It was not my finest moment.

But, I walked away from all the bullshit once the contest was over. There was no appeal, nothing to do about it except try to comfort my wife.

But then. Oh, but then.

EXTREME SICK wrote a snotty post on her personal blog about how she wished horse people could just be nicer to each other, and how she tracked the IP address of posts to learn that one of her competitors was posting nasty things to her blog (EXTREME SICK thought it was The Scientist posting, not me) and oh, woe-is-me why can’t we all just get along?

This completely flew in the face of the confrontational posts she had made during the contest and was clearly nothing more than her rubbing my wife’s face in her victory.

So I commented on EXTREME SICK’s shitty post, using my real name this time. I told her that I knew she had cheated her way into first place, and hoped she was proud of how smart she was to suss out my real identity from my IP address. I also told her that I had an intense dislike of her; a visceral reaction that struck me when I saw her very first video.

I also told her that I was walking away. There was nothing I could do to sabotage her victory, and I wasn’t going to try. I was done.

That is, I was done until her husband emailed me the following day.

He used my work email, which I suppose he though was threatening in some fashion. I wasn’t impressed. I mean, I can use Google, too.

He called me names and was basically an arrogant prick. He said that I could “make this all go away” by apologizing. There were some veiled threats, even though I’m not sure what he had planned. Tell my boss that I bad-mouthed a woman online? Try to hack my credit report?

The ironic thing is that I was sincere about walking away from the whole thing. Until I got this email. I responded in kind, reiterating that I knew he cheated for his wife (funny, but neither of them ever denied this) and that he needed to drop the bullshit posturing because he didn’t intimidate me and wasn’t likely to any time soon.

Basically, I prepared to go to war.

Now, I have to say I can’t really blame the guy. He was defending his wife. I get that. I would have done the same thing. But threatening me, even is a round-about way, was more than I could bear.

Then I told my wife about the exchange, and things got REALLY ugly.

She was angry at me. Not, not angry, enraged. She told me she wanted to be done with this bullshit, that she had cried enough, and that I was just fanning the flames.

Fuck that guy, was my response.

She wasn’t happy with this. She demanded that I apologize immediately. She frankly pushed some buttons that she should not have. But she made her point.

I apologized to EXTREME SICK and her arrogant prick of a husband.

I emailed them both to express that these past few weeks weren’t me at my best, and it certainly wasn’t an accurate representations of who I really am. Worst of all, my actions cast my wife in a negative light, and perhaps made her seem like a bad person. That, I wrote to them, was unforgiveable.

My apology was heartfelt, even though I doubt they believed a word of it.

That done, I did walk away. I haven't read a word about the contest, EXTREME SICK's personal blog or anything that might get me fired up again.

Looking back now, I’m rather amazed at my behavior. I mean, I turned into the worse of Internet trolls, not something I would have expected from myself. It was driven by anger and frustration, but that didn’t make it any more excusable.

In a way, I’m glad it happened. I learned something valuable--it would have been great if I could have learned this lesson without having my wife’s hopes and dreams violently dashed like they were, but I had no control over that.

I learned that it’s waaay easier to turn into an abusive dick when cloaked in the anonymity of the Internet. This is no surprise to anyone who’s ever read a thread on just about any message board ever, but it had never happened to me. It was alarmingly easy for me to take on the role of troll. And when it was happening, I felt… not good, but empowered. Like lashing out could actually make a difference.

It didn’t of course. Not in any positive way.

But, I’m hopeful that next time the roles are reversed, as they surely will be some day, that I can step back and remember that the asshole at the keyboard on the other end of the Internet maybe isn’t a dick by nature, maybe he’s just so enflamed by something that he’s lost his mind for a minute.

Like I did.

###

#292 In which our hero helps his wife enter a contest thereby exposing some of his lesser qualities. Pt. 2

2010-09-24T14:34:00.003-04:00

When we last left our hero, his wife was suddenly down by more than 1000 votes in an Internet contest.

This miraculous accumulation of votes seems more than a little fishy to me. The Scientist did a little Internet sleuthing and discovered that EXTREME SICK’s husband was a web administrator.

As it turns out, The Scientist’s brother is bit of a computer deity, so she asked him if he thought there could be cheating going on. He looked at how the website was set up, and reported that anyone with even a little background in web administration would be able to exploit the system to rack up a boat-load of votes without much effort. More to the point, it could be set up to be virtually undetectable for the people overseeing the contest.

There were a couple back and forth messages from The Scientist to the contest reps questioning just how things were supposed to be working. It was during this period that we were told that you could actually vote FIVE times a day (not just once, as we were told from the beginning), if you cleared your cache after every vote. This pissed me off royally. I suspected that EXTREME SICK figured this out early and that this was the source of many of these mysterious votes.

In short order EXTREME SICK was in the lead by thousands of votes. It was clear that there was no catching here. I don’t doubt for an instant that the majority of these votes were fraudulent. And I was pretty angry about. You’re taught that “cheaters never prosper” when you’re a kid, but it was clear that this cheater was going to prosper the whole way to a free trip to Kentucky.

And then something ugly happened. I started to comment on her posts. Anonymously.

I like to believe that it was the tenor of her writing that put me over the edge. Because every post was written like a 14-year-old’s diary entry, full of over-the-top expressions and snarky comments. For example, she wrote that most Dressage riders (my wife rides Dressage, remember) wore “clown make-up” during their rides. In my anger and frustration, I took a few pot-shots at her via comments. Nothing too terrible, but certainly nothing kind.

And even worse than her writing was when she wasn’t writing. The idea of the contest was to post every day for a month. She wouldn’t post for days at a time. And, amazingly, even when she hadn’t posted in days, her vote tally continued to rise.

So my anonymous comments on her posts started to become much meaner. I expressed how she was obviously cheating, and she didn’t deserve to win.

But even as EXTREME SICK’S votes reached untouchable (and unbelievable) levels, I still thought The Scientist would win the contest. Remember that it was the top TWO vote-getters that would receive the prize. The Scientist and the #3 woman were pretty close in votes, but my wife seemed to keep just ahead of her.

I should mention that this #2 placement was due to the incredible outpouring of support from our friends and family. And not just close friends… there were a lot of friends of friends who voted their asses off. I heard stories about people going to their university’s computer lab and going down the row, voting five times from each machine. It was really touching how hard people worked to prop up my wife’s vote count.

But no-one worked as hard as The Scientist. She made calls, drove out to barns, interviewed people, took lessons on horses, tried new and sometimes dangerous things and recorded everything on video so she could share her experiences. Incredibly, she managed to get first-hand experience with all eight disciplines over the course of a month. She even threw in an extra discipline when she went to train with a mounted horse “posse” so she could know what that was like.

I’ve rarely been more proud of my wife. She kicked ass top to bottom.

On the strength of her video serious, I still expected her to come in second. This would cause some awkward moments if she had to share a booth or whatever with EXTREME SICK, but that’s a small price to pay.

Then something happened in the last week of the contest. The Scientist dropped to third.

She was still regularly posting her Great 8 series, our friends were still out beating the bushes for votes… but she started to slip. Then she started to fall. It was gut-wrenching.

EXTREME SICK was about TEN THOUSAND votes ahead of #2 at this point, so no-one was ever going to catch up to that. But The Scientist was still neck-in-neck for a long time. Then about Tuesday, she was behind by 200 or so votes. Then Wednesday it was 500. Soon it was more than 1,000.

I kept a brave face for her, but by Thursday I was pretty sure she was going to lose. Did I think the second place girl was cheating, too? Yep. But there was nothing I could do about it. And at least she had the sense to keep the lead to hundreds of votes, not thousands.

The last day of the contest came and that was it. The Scientist was in third place, by about 1,200 votes.

To be concluded.

###

#291 In which our hero helps his wife enter a contest thereby exposing some of his lesser qualities. Pt. I

2010-09-13T15:47:00.005-04:00

Couple of months ago, my wife entered a contest. It was fun at first. But it didn’t end that way. Here’s what happened:

A major horse feed manufacturer who will remain un-named in this post was sponsoring a contest in which the grand prize was a trip to the World Equestrian Games. Now if you, like me, had never heard of the World Equestrian Games (or “WEG,” as all the cool kids like to call it) all you need to know is that it’s a big F-ing deal in the horse riding community.

If you follow that link above you’ll see that it is “considered by many horsemen to be more important than the Olympics.” Some of the best riders and horses in the world would be at this thing. It was also a big deal that it was being held in the United States for the first time ever.

The Scientist got wind of this contest and emailed me, writing, “I’d love to win this thing!”

The deal was that this major horse feed manufacturer wanted to send two people to act as bloggers/correspondents (or “blogospondents” as they put it) who would report from the show daily with blog posts. WEG is a two-week event, so one winner would go the first week, the other the second week.

The deal was that you had to put together a video that introduced yourself, and quickly outlined why you’d be a good choice to go to the show. Major horse feed manufacturer would select four finalists from the entries, then they’d be posted to a website where people could vote on their favorite finalist. The top two vote-getters would go to the show.

So we shot a 60-second entry video. You can see it here.

The deadline for entries came and went and we waited with bated breath to see if she was going to make it to the finals. And, despite quite a bit of “oh, I’ll probably not make it” my wife did indeed get the call telling her that she was one of four finalists. Yah!

It took a week or so to get everything set up (on major horse feed manufacturer's side) but eventually The Scientist and three other women were put up on a voting site.

Now, the idea was that each contestant would post a blog entry daily for a month running and people would vote—daily—on who they liked the best. Or which blog entry was the most interesting that day. Or whatever.

This element of the contest is what would make the contest experience so fucking terrible in the end. But more about that later.

A month worth of daily blog posts is, in the best of cases, a little daunting. When you’re trying to make them super awesome posts so people will vote for you, it’s even more intimidating.

So, to help fill up the time, The Scientist had an idea. There are eight disciplines featured at WEG (dressage, jumping, endurance, vaulting, driving, eventing, reining and para-dressage), so she would write a post about each discipline. Better yet—she would find a trainer in each discipline and actually give it a go!

So, to keep this in perceptive, remember that my wife rides dressage and, other than the occasional train ride, she hasn’t trained anything else in the last 15 years or so. So she was planning on tackling skills that were alien to what she knew. And she was going to do all of this in 30 days or less.

Now, my wife is an over-achiever, and when she sets her mind to do something, that shit generally gets done. And she certainly wanted to win this contest. But this seemed like a pretty huge challenge, even for her. I mean, she didn’t even know if she could find a trainer for each of these disciplines in the area!

So she started making phone calls.

She talked to people who pointed her to other people and she started to line things up. Some of the disciplines were easy… her trainer is good friends with a jumping trainer, and The Scientist would be welcomed to come over for a crash course in jumping. Hmm, maybe not the best choice of terms.

Some were a lot more challenging to find, like para-dressage.

Now, the idea was that she would take a lesson in each discipline, and video the entire thing. I, in turn, would edit it together and post it to YouTube for the world to see. She called the video series “Sheri’s Great 8.”

The first discipline she did was reining. You can see the video here.

About this time, the voting opened.

For the entire first week, The Scientist was in the lead. By hundreds of votes. Two other contestants were in second with a nearly matching number of votes, and the last place contestant was waaay last, by hundreds of votes.

The way the voting shook out the first week seemed right to me. I mean, yeah, I wanted my wife to win, and her being in first place was great. But more to the point, I thought her posts were the most interesting. This insane quest to find eight trainers and try eight new things in a month aside, I found her writing the most genuine and engaging. The middle two women were fine… readable, mostly enjoyable, but they weren’t writing about anything that I found engaging. And they certainly weren’t going out and trying new things like my wife was. The last place woman wrote in a style that I found annoying and grating. She wrote things like: “The equestrian world is going EXTREME with SICK new gear and events!!!” This style of writing didn’t appeal to me and, judging by the dead last placement, it didn’t appeal to a lot of other people, either.

Now, a word about the voting. Major horse feed manufacturer set it up so that anyone on the Internet could vote. You didn’t have to register, provide any personal information or do anything other than press the VOTE button beneath the photo of the contestant you liked. We didn’t realize how big a problem this was until a couple days into the contest.

I was, naturally, following the voting like a hawk. And one day my wife’s vote count suddenly dropped by 60 votes. She emailed the technical representative for the contest about this, her fear being that somehow a wire got crossed somewhere and some of her votes were being shunted to another contestant’s tally.

She was told that her total was reduced because several of her votes registered as coming from the same IP address in a short amount of time, indicating that some sort of trickery was involved. As it turned out, what happened was that I sent out a mass email to my company and said, “Hey! Vote for my wife!” And out of an employee roster of 200 people, sixty of them said, “why not?” and voted.

For what it’s worth, this wasn’t just conjecture on my part. The technical rep confirmed that the IP address in question was from my company, and my IT guys confirmed that, due to the company firewall, it would look, from the outside, as if all of those votes had come from a single IP address. I even had the director of IT shoot an email to the rep confirming that those votes were on the up-and-up.

And this is where things started to get a little shitty.

We were basically told, “too bad.” The contest rules stated one vote/one IP address per day, and that was that. Out of the hundreds of potential votes that could come from my co-workers, only ONE would be counted per day. This seemed grossly unfair, but there wasn’t any appealing it.

But, the blogging continued, and by Thursday evening, The Scientist was still well in the lead, and the EXTREME SICK contestant was well in last place.

Then Friday morning came. EXTREME SICK started to get votes. A LOT of votes. In fact, by late afternoon she was neck-and-neck with the middle of the pack. As evening pressed on she started to threaten The Scientist’s lead. By Saturday morning, she was in first place, by a couple hundred votes.

All in all, she gained more than ONE THOUSAND votes in the span of 24 hours.

And things were just starting to get bad.

To be continued.

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