Wednesday, November 7, 2012

My Favorite Hoodie I Hate

New sailors have good stories. More so the old ones. I like the officers, too, once they've retired and calmed down.

I've also watched sailors have a hard time being good husbands and dads while in the Navy. I'm sure there are worse things, though. Like heroin addiction. Being in the mob. I've used the same effort in avoiding all three.

I learned this living next to a naval base in a city I loved. It was the first place I felt at home since leaving home. My roommate was a great friend, and the first willing to point out some traits of mine which needed to go. He also got me hooked on mountain biking.

He and I did a lot of volunteer work, which lead us one chilly fall Saturday to the house of a friend of a friend. A sailor.

Sailor was improving the yard of his small suburban two-story. Friend was a landscape architect and couldn't resist the blank canvas. Sailor needed a hand as he'd recently injured his back and his daughters were only five and three. That's where Roommate and I joined the fun. Roommate could dig holes with his bare hands, and I'd worked for my dad's landscaping company as a kid.

I relived my childhood a little too much. Roommate put a rake behind me, tines up, just to mess with me when I saw it. Except that I didn't. I gained empathy for that mouse-tortured cartoon cat as I took a rake handle to the nose. Roommate wet himself.

It took more than one Saturday, but Sailor and Friend and Roommate and I turned a cookie cutter yard into a modest work of art. We also turned a stranger into a good friend and his daughters into surrogate nieces. I realized we meant a lot to the Sailor family. We'd helped make a better place for Mrs. Sailor and the girls to live; no trivial comfort when Sailor was deployed for six months. Without us, Sailor wouldn't have been able to finish before leaving. Some weeks later, they asked us to drop by for lunch. They were having Christmas early before Sailor left, and there were two gift-wrapped packages waiting, one for Roommate, one for Me.

They were hoodies. Cozy comfy identical ones. Roommate threw his on like a kid at Christmas because he was and it was close enough. I still held mine and stared at the front. I couldn't get past the giant navy blue letters which spelled NAVY. This will look great inside-out, I thought. The Navy embodied the opposite of everything I wanted to do with my life. My memory flashed to other sailors' stories, the ones which weren't good. Some terrible.

“Picture time!” Roommate said. He was on the couch with the girls on his lap, Mrs. Sailor setting the flash on the camera. I shook off my hesitation, glad no one had read what was in my head, hoping Roommate's reaction drew attention from mine. I pulled the hoodie on, right side out, and helped fill a few scrapbook pages.

I moved next spring and lost contact with the Sailor family. I miss their upstate New York accents, and wonder if they ever got back there as they were hoping. I saw Roommate at his wedding. I'm glad we caught up one last time, as his funeral was only two years later.

I still dislike what it says on that hoodie. But now it represents some of my most important memories of life as a single guy. That's why it still hangs in my closet, why it still gets worn.

Isn't that the point? To move past superficial impressions or irrelevant distractions to get at real meaning? To understanding Them enough we all become Us.

Roommates, Friends, Sailors.
Veterans.
My hoodie's hood off to you.



Monday, October 8, 2012

Poutine for Thanksgiving


I asked Shelly to post another article. She's only had three months of grueling editing on a book she doesn't even like. I offered to soak her worms in Worcestershire sauce, but even then the deal wasn't sweet enough. If you don't believe I had to write this myself, read on. This is as un-Shelly as it gets.
I love Turkey Day, and I love Canada. As a kid at Grandma's house, the eleventh fourth Thursday was cousins and no chores and a pumpkin pie all to myself. In 2002, after moving back from living a year in Canada, I got to watch the Olympic hockey medal ceremonies live in Salt Lake City.  Though I'm a U.S. citizen, I sang “O Canada” as loudly as I could while the men's and women's teams got their golds. Yep. I know the whole first verse.
I now celebrate Thanksgiving in November and October. I'm sure Mr. Columbus doesn't care Canadian Thanksgiving is the same day as his. This way I get a gratefulness holiday in which I have to ignore commercialism and one in which there's none to ignore. So, here are my gratefulness musings for 2012.
I'm healthy. I can do what I need to and what I want to with few limitations. Part of my holiday weekend was a fund-raising bike ride from a city park to a lodge, ten miles away and 2000 feet up. Oh, sorry, eh. That's 16 kilometers and 610 meters. From there, up another 610 on trails. I made it. To the top. No past injuries or congenital problems or lifestyle diseases hindered me. From there I could be grateful for a fantastic landscape that spanned two states. It would have been three and a certain foreign country, but there was obscuring smoke from wildfires. Which is gratefulness topic number three: the fires missed me.
Lest anyone think I'm boasting, I'll point out I was the last of fifty-odd entrants to summit. Two years in a row. One guy who passed me early on was older and completely gray. That hurt the ego until I saw his jersey front later. U.S. Marine Corps. So don't take me for a mountain bike poser, either. Half the riders skipped the first half and started at the lodge. A dozen or so of them didn't summit at all. One man asked if I was still in college. While jotting down my thoughts a lady asked if I was doing my homework. That was back down at the lodge, in the sun, with a barbeque and a live band. Not my kind of music, but the lead singer was great. If I closed my eyes, I would swear Billy Joel was there in the National Forest.
Gratefulness topic number four: none of those things happen in a peace-less place. No music, no relaxation, no expending of that much energy for health or uplifting entertainment. And nothing but weeds. I know because I've lived in places where the gunshots were not hunting rifles and not limited to a few weeks every year.
Number five: Shelly finds my kids obnoxious. Well, ma'am, they do wash their hands after pooping now. Mostly. They're healthy and good natured and I love 'em. As long as I'm un-apologetically sentimental, I'll tell you I love my wife tons, too. They're my favorite people and I get to see them every day. So think on that while you're unconscious, all by yourself, morosely buried in the cold winter ground.
That doesn't... I need to work on my turtle insults. Or I could be grateful I've never needed to have good insulting skills.
Six.
P.S.
This is the time of year I start making plugs for my favorite non-profit organization. Kiva combines microloans of $25 from people in developed nations to help those whose history has been unstable. All my loans have been repayed, and quickly. Rather than reclaim that money, I've relent it several times over just like most of the others who lend. And Kiva never takes a cut. They're funded by donations.

Friday, March 9, 2012

An Almost Super Interview with Marion Jensen

Well, here I go again. Another mix of author, answer-girl, and interview. But the good news is my attitude. After doing a few of these now, I realize I don't hate talking to writers. Probably because they aren't normal human beings. 

Today's guest is author Marion Jensen, the imagination behind Almost Super. So, Mr. Jensen, give us the teaser.


MJ:
A teaser . . . it's like Harry Potter meets Lord of the Rings meets the Bible . . . what other bestsellers am I leaving out? Ha ha, only teasing. Get it? Teasing? Teaser? I crack myself up.


StBT:
The main character actually or metaphorically dies and comes back to life? That's both morbid and fantastic!


MJ:
Kidding aside, Almost Super is about two brothers who are born into a Superhero family. They have it all. Cool gadgets. Action and adventure at every turn. And the chance to be heroes by saving the day. But on the day they are supposed to receive their powers, something terrible happens. They receive worthless powers, and they are left with the horrible fact that they are normal in a family of heroes. How the brothers react makes up the rest of the story. The tagline in Publishers Weekly called it Savvy meets The Incredibles.


StBT:
I like that conflict. I like the Incredibles. I like, have to look up Savvy.

What's the deal with humans and superheroes? Is it a desire to be better? To have life easy and carefree? Take no offense, but I wonder if it's compensation for your terrible evolutionary outcome. No claws, fangs, prehensile tail, or wings. No shell!

But normal protagonists in a superhero setting? That gets me interested. If it weren't for brains and opposable thumbs, humans would be long extinct. So how do the brothers compensate in their survival of the fittest?


MJ:
Well . . . no claws, fangs, or wings that you can see. I have to fit in, don't I?


StBT:
Good point. (backing away slowly)


MJ:
I had one editor tell me that I should have the kids save the day by using their worthless powers. But that actually goes against the message of the book. Without giving anything away, the boys' powers are just given to them. They don't have to do earn them. Granted, they're worthless powers, but I didn't want some easy-to-earn power that allowed the boys to save the day. In the end, what saves the day is boys who decide they aren't going to let the rest of the world peg them as worthless.

As far as finding use in their lame powers . . . there are no redeeming qualities to these powers. Really. They're completely worthless.


StBT:
A book with a moral? Implying one is in charge of one's situation by the decisions made? What are you trying to do, make kids feel guilty about laziness and irresponsibility? That's harsh.

You said the boys save the day.


MJ:
Well, they save the day, but I've said nothing about whether or not they save the week. Or the month. And as far as the fortnight goes . . . it's anybody's guess.


StBT:
That means no clues about a Harry-Potter-time-skip-to-the-train-station scene? You're holding the cards pretty close, Mr. Jensen.

What sparked the first idea for the book? Then, as you wrote, what influences were most helpful in rounding out your prehensile tale?


MJ:
You know, I honestly can't say what sparked the idea for the book. I was in bed one night and I had the idea of two brothers who had rotten superpowers. In just a few hours I had the story, the characters, the arcs, the idea for powers . . . it all just seemed to flow into me. It was a very fun experience. Of course, then it took me four years to write and polish the thing. I spent a lot of time learning the craft of writing.

As far as influences, I love a good parody. My favorite comic book hero is The Tick. The Tick universe pretty much makes fun of, in a loving way, the world of superheroes. The Incredibles did this to some extent. I think my book does this as well. It's not your normal superhero story. It pokes fun of these heroes, makes them not quite as heroic, but in the end you still can't help but love them.


StBT:
Bed and relaxing. See? Mammals think of us ectotherms and pondering types like Mr. Jensen as a bunch of lazies, while they run around crazy, eating in cars and not sleeping enough. A parody begs to be written. Now, cats are an exception. They get it, their naps in sunshine and all. Speaking of which, any spunky sidekick almost super-pets? I promise I won't take offense if none are reptiles.


MJ:
Nope, sorry. No sidekicks, reptilian or otherwise. You see, the problem with sidekicks is that they're always popping up behind you in the publicity photos. And you can't have that.


StBT:
No. Not at all. DWD keeps sneaking posts into this blog. Drives me crazy.

I'm sure everyone here wants to know when they can storm the stores for it. And your fellow writers want to know your publisher and agent. But I want to know what the cover looks like.


MJ:
Certainly. My book will be published by HarperCollins. The tentative date is Fall of 2013. We're very early on in the process, so still a lot to do. Of course, it's never too early to go stand in line.


StBT:
Or hibernate in line. My door-buster endurance is legendary.


MJ:
My agent is the very wonderful Sara Crowe with Harvey Klinger. Sara is really great. I can't say enough about her.
As far as the cover . . . I'd kind of like to know what it looks like too. All in good time, I guess. All in good time.


StBT:
My curiosity prods me to ask – who's the audience you hope to entertain?


MJ:
That is a great question. C. S. Lewis once said, "A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest."

I think a good story can mean different things to different people. Look at The Incredibles. It's probably my favorite Pixar movie. My kids love it because of the action, the characters, and the jokes. I love it because I can relate to the father and the fears he struggles with throughout the movie. If a story carries real emotion, then I think it can appeal to a broad audience.

I know it's a lofty goal, but I like to think that Almost Super isn't just for kids. I think it will be enjoyed by anybody who has had dreams of being somebody special.


StBT:
That would be me. Shelly the Grassland Ankylosaurus. But that dream was severed by a taxonomical split and then shattered by an asteroid. Stupid space gravel.

Well, Mr. Jensen, thanks for the preview of Almost Super. I look forward to it. In fact, I'm swiping DWD's credit card as soon as I hear whisperings of pre-orders.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

What if the Lorax was cold-blooded?


I'm remarkably well read for a reptile. Maya Angelou. ts eliot. Robert Frost.

Dr. Seuss.

The good Doctor hid his genius from the literary elite with silly meter and purposefully nonsensical words (as opposed to most humans' inadvertently nonsensical ones). Then he buried it like a hibernating terrapin in his comic strip illustrations. We commoners got it, though. If I had any wee ones, I'd read it all to them and they'd be better turtles for it. Thank you, Mr. Geisel.

Look! Sincere gratitude! My therapist will be so proud.

Problem is, those of the sapien persuasion get worked up over feel-good, warm fuzzy entertainment, and throw money after it with worshipful enthusiasm. The VISA credit card people know this well. So they helped bankroll the live-action Grinch and added their own tagline to advertisements. I swear I'm not making this up: 

“VISA. Just in case he's wrong.”

Invest. Distort. Profit.

Here's another favorite. I worry about this one, also. It's number two on the Ectotherm Readers List, right behind Yertle the Turtle. Though dark and ominous with one sliver of hope on the last page, The Lorax is brilliant. I think it's because of the dark and ominous contrast to everything else Seuss.

In theaters March 2nd. Here we go again. But first, a word from our sponsor.



How long has it been?
I, the Once-ler ask when
you last thought to think of a Thneed?

Oh, such a shame,
and I take all the blame
for the tree-mess stuck firm to my name.
But again there's a need
at the mall in South Shreeds
for more of my high thread-count Thneeds.

But I learned. These new Thneeds
aren't from truffula trees,
instead they are fashioned from cheese.
Cheese made by bees, the great Bizzery Bees,
For Bizzery Bees work cheap as you please
and send all the Thneeds from Zizzer Zar Zees.

The shade of the truffula,
that's where I'll be seen.
So plant one or two,
just don't change your routine.
Remodel your house
and drive a new car.
Make certain your food
comes from far Far Balar.
Trade money for stuff.
Fancy shiny fluff stuff.
And never you worry if there's not enough.

That online teasler
of the city post-Once-ler?
It was happy and bright
and a sparkling sight
with houses and streets set just right.

It seems the old Lorax,
as we know in Woodholly,
he fooled Dr. Seuss
in his tottering folly,
to paint my Thneed-making with gray melancholy.
Great books can have flaws we must fix for the screen,
especially for kids whose minds aren't too keen

Still, get back those trees,
right away if you please,
to better what our home appraiser next sees.

In all it's glow glory,
here's the real Lorax story.
Shiny and flashing
with 3D so dashing.

For who needs in their head
Seuss's silly goose dread?
Here's mass-marketed opiate for masses instead.



The Lorax and I agree on ONE thing though. Go Mazda!








Friday, February 10, 2012

Another Day, another Valentine doll

Dear Teleflora,
 
DWD here. I watched your Superbowl commercial. You win!
 
Bold move to bypass comedy in pushing floral arrangements, but it worked. A voyeuristic insight to a model getting ready for a date? Hot. The way her trapezius and latissimus dorsi muscles snaked around her scapulae? Hot hot! But the marketing maestros added a final touch, lifting your ad above all others using silky skin to pique interest.
 
Education.
 
Coming straight from such a beautifully reliable source, her face is all the credentialing she needs. One can’t refute her wisdom.
 
“Guys, Valentine’s Day is simple.” Pan camera to the floral arrangement behind her. Sultry half-smile. Bedroom eyes. “Give, and you shall receive.”
 
There! The final word in understanding the female psyche! Brought to you by Teleflora! For years I attempted appealing to female intelligence. Empathy for the complex interplay of hormones and self-image and societal roles they must maneuver. Their desire for emotional connection and commitment.

All fruitless. Such a fool. I get it now, though. Women are flower floozies. Bachelor button bimbos, hyacinth hookers.*
 
Oh, how my life would be different had I known.
 
I once discussed the failure of greeting card and jewelry companies in helping males with relationships. In attempts to facilitate a man’s primal desires, they fall flat. Take a look. 
 
No failure from Teleflora! Light the way, O Great Ones! Together, guys will get more receiving. You can undermine decades of feminist progress. We'll both rake in our well-earned rewards.

Happy Valentine’s Day!
 
DWD
 
*I thought up several other monikers consistent with Teleflora’s groundbreaking research, but they aren’t family friendly.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Thin Green Veneer

I have a moment at last, free of indentured editude. See how much I love all of you? I get thirty minutes to myself and I produce something for your entertainment. Um, out of kindness. Yeah. Not narcissism.

I had a moment in which several unrelated incidents, memories, and ideas all connected. But not like a kid's dot-to-dot where one already knows the end product. It was more like a zone of Zen. A cone of clairvoyance. Maybe even a savant sphere. And put your elevated eyebrow of doubt back where it belongs.

The increasingly popular, warm-fuzzy-inducing, and redundant public service messages about saving the Earth are increasingly popular, warm-fuzzy-inducing, and redundant. But we all knew that. And having a rich famous human explain how to save the Earth? Emotional reaction-inducing, but hollow. Like asking a turtle for parenting advice.

Knew that, too.

Here's what I really noticed for the first time. None of those messages about recycling and being green mention things that will actually save the Earth. None. Because none of them mention buying less stuff. No gardening or shopping at thrift stores and garage sales. No Yankee ingenuity (don't flinch at that, Southerners, y'all been Yankees since 1865).

Americans: Cash in your clunker for a new car! A five-mile-per-gallon savings! Working more for the payments will be a breeze because of the sweet ride! Acquiring and processing thousands of metric tons of raw material  for that new car will easily be offset by that five mpg!
(In all fairness, buying a hybrid's a different carbon-footprint story: http://www.earthlab.com/articles/thecarbonfootprint.aspx. But no different in taking on a new debt.)

Bottled water companies continually flaunt the use of less plastic in containers. I'm sure that reduces the mass of a shipment and makes huge differences in the fuel costs for delivery. A filter in your fridge or tap? C'mon, those don't work.

Tobacco companies had to create anti-smoking ads after the big lawsuit: "Kids and teens - you're smart. You're tough. You're independent. You don't need anyone telling you what to do.....andbythewaydon'tsmoke." As engineered, ads met the literal punitive requirements and helped increase rates of smoking. Can't help but wonder if The More You Know about being green is brought to you by the same marketing firm. They both seem to have Mein Kampf memorized. It's all a thin green veneer on the not-to-emission-standards engine of economy. A green shell on the back does not a turtle make.

In my continuing quest to be less caustic to non-reptiles, I won't end there. I found a fascinating way to create what you non-indigenous humans can't grow or dig yourselves - a home. (Biting sharp tongue. Repressing species-ist slur.)
Built out of something already manufactured and not being used - leave the raw materials raw.

Houses built from shipping containers. Enjoy the idea and ingest the guilt!



DWD made me add this last one. Sorry.