Your Questions Answered, Volume 1

Time for a new feature on the blog! You asked, I'll answer! This first time around I'm going all the way back to January of 2006 to see if anybody asked questions, and I will answer any and all questions posed to me from then until the most recent.

Starting next month, it will only be a month's worth of questions. So, if you have any questions, go ahead and ask at any time and I will answer them the first full weekend of the month...and nevermind the fact that I'm a week late this month, I didn't have my compy.

On February 1st, 2006, mGk asked:

Please don't tell me you went to Deer Creek?!?

That's not a question, Maureen. But yes, I did.

On March 31, 2006, mGk asked:

So many of these characters are strikingly familiar to me. I sometimes wonder which one of these weirdos I helped to inspire. Please tell me they aren't!?!

They are.

On April 3, 2006, clifton heights kid asked:

what was with the cashew up the kid's nose?

You're probably going to have to ask the filmmakers that. It's been over a year and I still am not entirely sure. He was just weird.

and heartcooksbrain asked:

I liked the tennis pro (Ivan?)

Yes, that was his name. A trip to http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0367089/ cleared that up.

and clifton heights kid asked:

Yeah, but what about that cashew?

I already answered that one, geez-o.

and clifton heights kid also asked:

And what's this "leaching off the parents" thing?

Easy. You have stuff that I don't have or stuff that is better than stuff I have, and I come over and use it like I still live there. What's not to understand about that, mom?

On April 30, 2006, bridget asked:

so was robb "obligated" to call???

Didn't you read the post? Absolutely he was! By the way, he was let go and now is being mildly successful as a rockstar. Good for him, I suppose. But he doesn't have a cool blog.

On June 27, 2006, Carmen asked:

how many people do you suppose would come to the next one?

Based on the turnout and subsequent response, I'd say...none.

On November 5, 2006, mGk asked:

Why don't you get a job as a blog site critic??

The only paper that had one was in Saginaw, Michigan, and they wouldn't let me telecommute and the pay was piddly. Also, crappy benefits and the company car was a 1979 El Camino. Or, in reality, no such thing exists, and you should have been posting more often back then. But then again, I have no room to really talk about not posting.

On December 30, 2006, heartcooksbrain asked:

Who cares if you hurt her feelings?

I think she would...but the fact is that I wouldn't have. But anyway, she gave me a triumphant look when I gave her the news and that made me want to do the smack-dance, but somehow she and I are both still there and we tolerate each other. Go figure.

On January 22, 2007, Molly asked:

your cousin Chris Farley?? Isn't THAT a stretch??

I believe I addressed this ridiculous query in the post that followed the question. Thank you.

On March 9, 2007, Bridget asked:

those are sneakers, right?

Clever, isn't it? Of course they're sneakers. And they're Sketchers, too. And they fell apart soon after their youtube debut. I still have them, because they're my most favorite shoes that I had ever owned up until today when I bought the absolute sweetest kicks you or anyone else will ever see. I will leave it at that for now...but be prepared to be jealous.

and Molly asked:

How can I hang this on the wall?

Get yourself one of the newer generation of digital frames, the ones that can play mpegs with sound. Mount that on the wall, make sure you can plug it in, download the video to a memory card, insert the memory card into the frame, and voila! Wall-mountable Shoe Thief video!

On May 22, 2007, Molly asked:

You want a social life?

Yes, are you selling one cheap?

On June 5, 2007, Molly asked:

Where is my son and what have you done with him?

I took him to Marshall's yesterday and he bought shoes that are actually designed to be used for running. Scary, huh? He also bought rollerblades and actually rode his bike in the last two weeks.

and mGk asked:

I think maybe you should try TO spend money and maybe you won't, aye?

(Putting on best Pirate voice) Arrrr!

On June 7, 2007, Becca asked:

I'd also like to make a suggestion, however, to your idea of free write fridays? Can we also suggest a "style"? I mean, it's entirely up to you whether or not you decide to use it. But what if wanted a short story, featuring Lila the vanilla flavoured jelly bean, and her fear of being eaten, and I wanted it to be a horror story? Would that be too much to ask? Perhaps.What about a short story featuring Gene, the 60 year old parapalegic who has multiple personality disorder in which one (or several) personalities are unaware of the fact that he is paralyzed from the waist down, and I wanted the style to be stream of conciousness?

Too many questions, Becca! You could suggest a style, yes. Um...yes. It would not be too much to ask. Okay, but that suggestion about the parapalegic might actually be a bit too much to ask. Do I look like Franz Kafka? Oh God, I hope I don't, otherwise I just made myself to be a fool.

On June 10, 2007, Molly asked:

Cathartic, eh? Do you think that was coincidental?

Yes, indeed, cathartic. That's why I said it was cathartic. I did think it was coincidental until you said something. Way to go, mom. Now I'm all jittery and paranoid.

On June 17, 2007, marty/bridget asked:

saturday or sunday or whenever i get the time, eh?

That's not so much a question as it is you mocking me. But yes, whenever I get the time. And I found the time. And so, um...I'll think of a way to end this next month.

On June 21, 2007, Anonymous asked:

do you ever come up with fabulous story settings or romantic dates or awesomely sweet ideas and then test them out on the ladies to see if they work?

All the freaking time. Except I try them out on my cat. If he can make it through one of my grand evenings without biting me, I'll try it out on my wife.

On June 24, 2007, marty/bridget asked:

does anyone really know 13 year old girls? hell, does anyone really know 13 year old boys?!! and how 'bout those 14 year olds???

Yeah, see, these questions about 13 and 14 year olds could be misconstrued. I don't really know very many 13 or 14 year olds anymore. I was once a 13 year old boy, and then 14, and I really barely knew myself back then. So no, nobody knows them. What a difficult age. So glad it's over. The acne, the awkwardness. The fact that I couldn't drive. Thank heavens for growing up, huh? Summers without anything to do and...wait. What? I MISS SUMMER VACATION! BRING IT BACK! I WANNA BE 13 OR 14 AGAIN!

On June 25, 2007, Becca asked:

How's that for a guilt trip?

Still less of a trip than going to visit you at the moment, silly New Zealand person. Move back to Minnesota so I have less of a trip to not take and make excuses about why I'm not visiting.

and mGk asked:

So what came first, the spoon or the spork?

Well, the spoon, actually. Here's what happened: Somebody threw a spoon and a fork into the reactor at Chernobyl. Yeah, it was a terrible accident and marked the beginning of the end for the Soviet Union more or less, but we got this mutant hybrid that has truly brought joy to millions worldwide who now need only one utensil to eat their salad and their ice cream.

On June 26, 2007, Molly asked:

Did some reasearch on that, didja?

Yes. I typed everything into the search box four times, clicked the find button six times, then walked the 18 steps to my refrigerator and counted the number of grapes before checking the results.

On June 25, 2007, marty/bridget asked:

would starting a new job tomorrow have anything to do with napping on your present job???

No, although I'm fairly certain if I tried to nap at my new job, they'd notice when I crashed my car.

On June 26, 2007, Becca asked:

Now, can you come up with a snappy comeback for me?

How about, "Your Mom's a ginormous McMansion" and "Your Face uses a ridiculous amount of energy!" Those types have served me well in all of my endeavours.

On June 27, 2007, Molly asked:

how many homes does our illustrious "leader" keep? How many cars/tractors/methane belching cows?

That sounds like a question for my friend Jerry, or possibly Michael Moore. I bet Michael Moore would know.

On July 10, 2007, Molly asked:

What, no pictures??

Strangely, when we downloaded the pictures off my camera to Paul and Jen's computer, my card got an error and they all got deleted. As for Kathy's pictures, I'm just lazy. Also, there still aren't pictures on weier.net, so I don't know what to tell you there.

On July 11, 2007, the wife asked:

How much more of this story do you have?

Depends on which one. The first and third, that's it. The middle one is complete, I've got it on my hard drive and backed up on a disc. I've been meaning to come back to the first and third to actually do something, and this Tuesday Excerpt actually sparked me to get to work on them, just as soon as I get some free time to write. Like...on, um...Monday nights?

she also asked:

why not write this as a book?

Valid point. Why not? I don't see any reasons other than cycling literature has a very specific niche market. Although, most cycling literature is more a showcase of the author's knowledge of race tactics and/or bicycle technical information, and thus has very little actual humanity. I like to think I touch on that just a little.

On July 12, 2007, the wife asked:

Elliot have you heard from Financial Aid Offices yet?

...

she also asked:

Can you pick up milk at the grocery store?

Sure. I can do it at Target, too. I do work there still.

and Becca asked:

What sort of questions are we supposed to be asking you?

Anything. That's a good start, though.

she also asked:

Like, public questions?

If it's too private, I'll answer as such.

she also asked:

Or something like, what is your opinion of the potential for offshore drilling off the southeast coast of the south island of New Zealand?

I thought we were supposed to be investing money in renewable energy, dammit! Why do we need to get more oil? Oh, right, because the world is still ridiculously heavily dependent on it.

she also asked:

Or, what is your review of the new Harry Potter movie?

...ashamed to say, I haven't seen it yet. I have been busy with two jobs and the blog and this week my friend Elliot is in town (yes, we do have the same first name), and Tuesday Kathy and I are going to see Lion King at the Fox for our anniversary, and then we have people coming in town this weekend, and...frankly, Becca, I'm pretty sure you and I were supposed to have gone to one of the movies dressed up, me like Harry and you like Hermione. You were supposed to get me one of those cool scarves like you have. P'Shaw! I'll get to the movie, don't you fret. As for the book, don't think I'll let that one slide under my radar! I've already got my copy RESERVED!

and Molly asked:

What?

Chicken butt, fried in grease, want a piece?

On July 14, 2007, Becca asked:

I mean, dragon, serpent, same difference, right?

Um...pretty sure that the standard image conjured in the mind of your typical 21st century human being when they hear the word "Dragon" has little resemblance to a garden-variety apple-tree snake. Just saying.

Free Write Fridays

It's Friday, July 13th, and you know what that means; time for another Free Write Friday.

This week's winning suggestions come from Becca and gerald. I went with these two because both are awesome and I just couldn't decide. Also, Molly's suggestion is a good one as well, but it doesn't fit in with either of the other two.

Not that the other two really fit with each other, but I think I can find a way.

gerald wins a day off from his demanding job, and Becca wins the Maillot Vert for being the first one in with a suggestion. Molly retains yellow for most consistent posts, I get the polka-dot jersey for fighting the uphill battle that is consistent blogging, and the wife gets the red number for being most aggressive commenter (Lost? Click Here for what may or may not be helpful information).

Becca's Suggestion:

"Ok, here's the setting. It's the dawn of time, the Garden and Eden, and we've got Adam and Eve... and that's it. What sorts of things do they talk about? DO they talk? I mean, presumably as the first people, maybe they invented the first language. I don't know, you're the writer. Ok, go."

gerald's suggestion:

"oh, you should write something about dragons. and pogo sticks. and millard fillmore."

===

The following is from a speech delivered on the greatest day for Creationists everywhere. And they liked it, which should prove something.

In the beginning, there was nothing, and then some serious shit went down and before you know it, boom! Something! First some kind of random atoms floating about, then bonding, and bonding some more, each bond becoming more and more complex. You know how it goes, you win some, you lose some, and before long there were some false starts and some successful stars. Couple millennia go by, you've got planets, some with stable surfaces and others less fortunate. Again, you win some, you lose some. Eventually, you've got a planet or two with an atmosphere, maybe some water, let that stew for a little while, bung a fork of lightning through the lot of it and somehow, you end up with what we call "life."

Life's a funny old thing, and there are many who maintain they could live without it, despite the paradox this produces. Most others ignore it either because they didn't catch it or they know better than to point it out to someone who would say something like, "Gee, you know, I could sure live without this whole life thing, am I right Steve?"

But long before Steves, long before anyone thought of drag racing, stick ball and filling stations, long even before there were dragons and pogo sticks and even before Millard Fillmore, somebody decided it would be a good idea to set down a history of life.

Many have since tried, even those who were aware of dragons, pogo sticks and Millard Fillmore. But really, there's no way to know if anybody ever got it right. Am I right, Steve? But we've got our stories, and our legends, and it makes you wonder.

Well, actually, I don't wonder. I speculate. That's what I do, I speculate on the human condition. And I've got to think that the human condition back in Paradise was a far site better than it is now, but generally life has improved steadily since history truly started being recorded, so I've got to think it probably didn't happen this way:

Adam just became. It's not like he was born like you and I, it's just that one moment he didn't exist and the next, poof! "Hi, I'm Adam."

Only there wasn't anybody to talk to. Nothing to entertain him. This was, according to the story, a few thousand years before reruns of Seinfeld. It wasn't until a few days of lounging around Paradies being bored out of his mind-because really, that's what would happen, let's not kid ourselves-that he woke up in the morning without a rib and there was a hot naked woman next to him. How does that even happen? Every morning, I wake up with all ribs intact and no hot naked women. Obviously, there's some sort of discrepancy there.

So, we've got Adam, we've got Eve, and somehow they can talk to each other, let's just overlook that small detail, right? What do they talk about?

"Hey," Adam said.

"Hey," Eve responded.

"So," Adam explained.

"Uh huh," Eve responded.

"Yep," Adam added.

"Hmm," disagreed Eve, with a note of reproach in her voice.

"Okay," Adam stated firmly, stamping his foot.

"Sure," Eve lazily replied.

"You do this to me every day I want to go bowling with my friends!" Adam finally erupted.

"What the hell is bowling? What friends? Adam," Eve tried to explain for the umpteenth time that day, "we're the only people. We've checked. Nobody else."

At this point, Adam broke down into tears, as he did every day, which is probably why he turned to food and eventually ate the apple...because we all know he ate it first, come on people, these old stories just reinforce the patriarchal foundations upon which most of these stories and legends are built.

Goofy goofy gooofy.

Explain to me how it's possible that two people begat the entire six billion or so of us that we have today? You're telling me that Adam and Eve are the progenitors of Adolf Hitler, Walt Disney, Millard Fillmore and the inventor of the Pogo Stick?

Dragons do not exist, and probably neither did Adam and Eve. But, in case all three did, I imagine the conversation to be something like this:

Dragon: Grunt.

Eve: Shh, he'll get suspicious.

Adam: What was that?

Dragon and Eve: Nothing.

Eve: I was just saying how nice of a day it is.

Adam: Always is in paradise.

Dragon: Dude, has anyone tried these red things?

Thank you for your time, I hope you enjoyed the lecture and please enjoy your trip to the Creationism Museum.



===

Okay, I apologize, that was terrible, but I just felt all like being a little ridiculous after a nice, long, stressful day.

Goodnight everybody.

Wednesday's Becoming My Political Rant Day...

But really, I only have a few things to say about it today.

I understand why President Bush's approval rating is so low. I get it. What I don't get is why Congress' approval rating has dipped so very low.

Okay, yes, I understand that number one priority for Congress (in the eyes of most of the people who voted them in) is to get the troops out of Iraq. I am all for this. I will not go into my views on that, because it's a separate issue.

The number one priority for Congress is to get on with the day-to-day business of being the Legislative Branch. This means passing laws and so forth. And yes, they did try to pass some bills for troop funding which included timetables for withdrawal. I guess a lot of people looked on the efforts of Congress on this front and decided that the Democrats tried twice and gave it up for good.

Look at the Bush Administration's record: Every time Congress and the White House disagree on an issue to such a degree as the War, they fight to a stalemate until Congress takes a scheduled break, then Bush uses his Executive Privelege to pass whatever law he wants in whatever terms he deems acceptable.

I agree that it would have been nice if Congress had sent identical withdrawal bills to the Oval Office until either Bush signed it or there were enough votes to overturn the veto, as Kucinich and John Edwards both wanted, but let's face it, Bush would have vetoed and vetoed and vetoed and then signed a bill into law while everybody in Congress was at home for 4th of July break. The truth is, the troops are there and as long as they are there, they do in fact need money. So Congress did what is supposed to happen in a Democracy; they compromised. Perhaps they bent a little more than Bush did in their original principles, but you can rest assured Bush would rather have signed a bill without benchmarks, and also a bill that funded the war until next year. What we got is not what anybody wanted, and so I understand, but people, it wasn't from lack of trying.

Anyway, when it comes time for the next bill, the Democrats may have better luck because it won't be just the Democrats. You may have noticed many Republicans breaking with the Bush Administration's Iraq policy, and therefore you may see many people in Congress calling for timetables, and for withdrawal.

I have not read the Baker-Hamilton Iraq Study Group report, but I have heard a fair amount about it on The Diane Rehm show and Talk of the Nation, and I understand that many Republicans who are now against the Bush policy are citing the Baker-Hamilton Report as the document to be looking at when reassessing the war policy.

There are many other issues tied to this, including troop support and how the term "war" is not truly applicable...just a funny little tid bit before I close out the rant. In real war, a soldier can not be held and charged with murder for killing a soldier on an opposing army. A soldier can be held accountable for war crimes if crimes were committed primarily against innocent civilians. However, in this "War" on Terror, there is no army opposing, thus the rules of "War" do not apply. A soldier fighting for the Taliban Government in 2002 can actually be convicted of murder if he killed American Military personnel, just as a man who murders a bank teller in Michigan can be convicted. But, again, that's the funny thing about this "War" on terror; where the murderer in Michigan and the soldier in Afganistan are no longer similar is when it comes to being imprisoned. By law in America, if you commit a crime you can only be held if found guilty, and you are guilty until proven innocent. But in war, if you are a soldier and are captured by the opposing side, that side can hold you indefinitely, until the war is ended and terms of peace are drawn up. So these soldiers we pick up we treat as criminals but we hold them as prisoners of war. It's ridiculous, because as there is no opposing nation, the war can never be ended and so these people will, in fact, be held indefinitely.

So yes, that's my little tid-bit, which was actually quite a bit longer than I intended it to be.

So, the Tour de France is back in action, and though I thought it would be hard to get into, I found myself this morning intently refreshing the live coverage on cyclingnews.com.

Let's go David Millar!

Alright, so, give me your Free Write Friday Suggestions and keep asking me questions as well.

Tuesday Excerpts

Wow, okay, so, I had a plan for today's excerpt, but it was contingent on something I was sure I had once posted. But, alas, I have never done such a thing!

Okay, fine. So, I'll still do it. Because I was out of town and then without a computer, and we missed two Free Write Fridays and a Tuesday Excerpt, not to mention my nice interlude week-day blogs (and I didn't do the "Your Questions Answered" post last weekend, look for it this coming weekend), I will give you the first ever SUPERSIZED TUESDAY EXCERPT!

First things first, if you would be so kind as to travel back in time and read this post from Thursday, April 13, 2006 before continuing on, that would be helpful.

Okay, now that you ()have ()have not (check one) done that, let me explain why I had you do that.

Those characters (well, not Amanda or the girl in the picture, who happens to be Brooke), Banning and Cameron are important. Right. Now, just for reference, you may also want to check out my Thursday, March 23, 2006 post for a little bit of reference to Colin, who is also marginally important, although this is the same Colin from my screenplay, which you may remember was Tuesday Excerpted on Tuesday, June 19, 2007 so you may just want to go there, although as far as continuity in my fictionalized universe goes, it's a bit apocryphal, much like Gene Rodenberry's consideration of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. But really, it's only the events, not the behaviors of the characters in my screenplay, that are in question. But I Digress.

This week's SUPERSIZED TUESDAY EXCERPT will actually be quite a window into my writing process, as you will see three different works in different stages of development. You will see two works in progress, one a mere sketch to cull ideas from and one a very rough first draft. Betwixt these two you will find a more finished piece, one in fact that I count among my most finished pieces. The first two are untitled, the third is from a short story entitled "Momentum" that I may have mentioned once or twice before. The story arc surrounds Banning Jacobs, Colin Fairmount and Cameron Sound, each as they navigate their careers and relationships with each other. It's an intertwined world, but I hope to help you make some sense of it (especially since you read my writing exercise blog from 2006. You didn't? You should!).

Okay, enough dilly-dallying and playing with html coding. (GOTCHA!) Here I go!

===

from an Untitled Plot Sketch, July 2006

How do Cameron and Banning fit into the Karlston, MO crew?

William, Colin and James are the three big players there. Obviously, as James and Colin are big into cycling, and on the University of Minnesota cycling team, they would have raced against Banning at Nationals, assuming, of course, that all three of them made it.

Well, all three of them did make it to the 2005 nationals in Lawrence, KS. That is where they unofficially meet. In a tense situation during the road race, Xavier and Zach Houston (also from Karlston, twin brothers both racing for Syracuse University in New York), Zack Cohen (riding for St. Louis University), Colin, James, and their team mate Ryan Bresden all broke after seven miles. The Karlston Crew (as they were later called in newspaper reports) broke at an incredible pace, and worked well together. The ultimate goal was to give a national win to James, who was being courted by a team called Momentum-Waterford; they knew a win of this caliber would certainly land him a contract.

Banning, suspecting that the break was more organized than a usual break, jumped off the front of the main bunch, taking several riders from various teams with him. One by one, the riders who came with him fell off the back, unable to match his speed. He finally caught the break with five miles to go.

It didn’t stop there, though. He continued his pace, causing alarm amongst the Karston Crew. James caught Banning’s wheel, followed by Colin and Ryan, but the others were unable to latch on. Trying to step up the tempo, Xavier soon found himself isolated, as Zach and Zack fell back.

For two miles, Banning cooperated with James, Colin and Ryan until Colin, taking a turn up front, began to crack. Sensing this, Banning jumped off the front with a fierce pace. James countered with a push of his own and soon caught Banning’s wheel. Ryan couldn’t match and ended up isolated as well. Xavier soon overtook Colin, who could not latch on, but when Xavier caught Ryan they worked together until the crossed the line, Ryan in third and Xavier in second.

Banning won the race, but there was no grand sprint. A quarter mile before the finish line, James took the outside line on a left hand turn, but cut too close to Banning. Banning’s right foot clipped James’ left, causing Banning to wobble a little and causing James to run off the course and into a row of bushes. He came out with only a few scratches, but finished seventeen seconds after Banning. Team Momentum-Waterford, who had also been eyeing Banning, decided not to extend a contract to James, but did extend a contract to Banning.

===

from "Momentum" November 2005

“Stop playing the tape,” Matt sighed to himself as he watched his roommate Banning crash his bicycle for the umpteenth time. The scene froze, and then reversed itself at double speed. Matt could see the television in the living room through the open door of his bedroom. He couldn’t see Banning, but he knew that if he got up to look he would find him laying chest down on the couch, right arm dangling to the ground clutching the VCR remote, head cocked to one side so he could get a good view of the screen. Matt shrugged and went back to his homework.

“Here comes Banning Jacobs of Team Momentum-Waterford round the penultimate turn in this year’s Colorado Classic, and what a race this young man has had today, right Bob?” Matt mouthed along with Phil Ligget’s commentary.

“Absolutely,” Bob Roll responded, “this cyclist has definitely proven himself today, and a virtual nobody before this year’s race. He has shown strength all day, breaking early and staying ahead of the attacks; he’s just had a brilliant ride.”

It was coming any second now. Matt fought hard not to watch but he did, as he had every time.

“Here he comes to the one hundred meter marker, and around the turn and—oh my!”

“Oh,” Bob Roll interrupted Phil Ligget’s exclamation as Banning went down hard, his right leg underneath his bike as the pavement scarred his thigh. Matt cringed again as he watched Banning hit the portable fence surrounding the course and was thrown bodily upward. That was when he had fractured his collarbone for sure.

The scene froze itself again as Banning rewound the tape once more. Matt stood up and entered the living room.

“Stop playing the tape,” he said, trying to look intimidating with his hands on his hips and his lower lip shoved outward. Banning glanced at him once before stopping the tape.

“My mother used to stand like that, Grogan. It was very effective in my younger days.” Banning put the VCR remote down and picked idly at some fluff on the carpet. “I’m probably driving you pretty nuts, aren’t I?” He looked again at Matt.

“Are you going to call your uncle back today?” Matt asked, now trying to look stern and disapproving with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed. Banning just gave a noncommittal shrug. “Are you going to do something today? Maybe take a bike ride, or a meal, or do me a favor and take a shower?”

“No, I’m probably going to lay here rehashing the race all day. I might drink some water a little later when I take my pain pill.” He pressed play again. “Oh, and I’ll most likely go to the bathroom. You won’t want to miss that one.” The commentary started again.

Matt walked into his bedroom and slammed the door. Banning watched himself hit the ground again, and again, before Matt emerged wearing a thick sweater. “Call me when you decide to be pleasant again. I’ll mail you my share of the rent if it takes that long.” Matt flung open the door of their apartment and marched into the hall, gently closing the door behind him. Banning didn’t bother to get up and lock it as he rewound the tape once more, not paying attention but playing back what had happened after the crash.

***

“Think about my life,” Banning said, making room for his large steak as the plate was set before him. He inhaled the steam and paused in a moment of ecstasy. “That,” he said, “is awesome. I’d pay fifteen bucks just to smell that for an hour.” He dug his fork into a section and cut into the meat. He very slowly lifted the fork so that the piece of steak was under his nose, inhaled the steam once more, and slowly closed his eyes and put the hunk of steak into his mouth.

He chewed with his eyes closed for thirty seconds. When he opened his eyes, he saw her staring at him, idly stirring the Bloody Mary she had been nursing for half an hour. He suppressed a laugh and politely indicated he would be with her in a moment. Once finished swallowing, he picked up his napkin and wiped his lips. “Pardon me,” he said apologetically, but with a strange smile on his face. “I haven’t had steak since I was fifteen years old.” Stefanie stopped in mid-stir. Her jaw slowly dropped. “Think about my life,” Banning said again. “When I was ten, my uncle took me to a bike race in Minneapolis. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen and the next thing I know, I’m spending every available minute riding my bike with him. At twelve, I was going thirty miles a day, minimum. I have probably logged more miles on my bike since I turned sixteen than I have driving a car. I have seven bicycles. Seven bicycles, and each one for a different purpose.”

He paused and took another bite of steak, followed by a few fries and a large gulp of soda. “Fried foods, red meat, soda, all out the window. They hinder performance. For six years, I’ve eaten nothing but carbs and simple proteins like chicken and peanuts. Everything that went into my body went in so I could get the most back out of my body. And now, I don’t care.”

“So this is some sort of cathartic release, is it?” Stefanie said, finally digging into her pasta. Banning nodded affirmative through a large piece of steak. “But you quit school to race. Now what are you going to do?”

Banning shrugged.

***

“Okay, so what now?” she asked him, her eyes narrowing.

“Tomorrow I wake up Banning Jacobs, semi-professional bike racer, and I go and join my team.” They arrived at her car and he opened her door for her. She stood outside, frowning.

“So, I guess tonight was just a good night. Just a fluke. Is that all?” She glowered at him.

“It wasn’t the life that got to me,” he replied, staring back into her eyes. “It was the terms, I told you that. I’m not the best guy on that team, see, and now I can live with that and accept it and have nobody tell me otherwise. Then maybe I can actually grow and become the best guy on the team.” She lowered her eyes and got into the driver’s seat. He ran around to the passenger side and opened the door. He sat down and shook the cold air from his face as he shut the door and put on his seat belt.

“So, no more dinners? No more ‘dates’ either?” She had the key in the ignition, her hand ready to turn but she just sat still, staring ahead. He sensed a small flash of anger in her voice, and wasn’t sure how to handle it.

“Stefanie, I have a career in racing, I’ve got a contract with the team for another year, I can’t just walk away from my life.” He wasn’t sure why, but he felt he had to be defending himself.

“It’s just you invite me out, you say all these wonderful things, you stare at my tattoo all through dinner and tomorrow you’re back to the way you were.” She was still wearing his windbreaker, and she closed it to hide her tattoo.

Banning was at a loss. “What do you want me to say? That tomorrow I’ll devote myself to you and you alone? Are you going to start the car, it’s cold.” He shivered, and then tried his hardest to look angry.

“All I ever wanted,” she said, starting the car and putting it in gear, “was to be a part of your life. Anything; friendship, confidence, but something more than a bit part. I’m a walk-on cameo in the life Banning Jacobs. Do you want me to know who Mario Cippolini is? Because I do, okay? He’s the Italian King of the Mountains and he dresses up like an Arabian Sultan in these ridiculous Northwave Shoe ads full of half naked women.” She really did look angry. He cowered in the passenger seat and she glared at him. “You told me all about him the night I met you; you had a picture of him on the door of your dorm room and I just asked who he was and I got his life story. But you told it so well, I remembered it, and here it is tonight, and I finally thought I had remembered it for a reason but no, fine, I’ll just take you home and tomorrow, while you’re passing mile marker number seventy, think of me.”

She pulled the car out of the parking space and in silence, drove for half a mile. Banning noticed she never took her right hand off the gearshift and he tentatively placed his left hand on top of hers. “I will,” he said. “Mile seventy.”

The headlights briefly reflected in a sign which had a picture of a bicycle and read simply “Share the Road.” Somebody had plastered a bumper sticker across the picture, and Banning registered what it said. “Momentum-Waterford: Eat Momentum, Drink Momentum, Do Momentum. Ride Momentum.”


===

from an untitled draft, August 2006

Banning maintained, throughout the scandal, that he was being unfairly persecuted, that he had admitted his mistake and should therefore be granted leniency, and that he had names of others. His former teammates denied any knowledge of such activities, and the Team Director released a statement indicating that Banning had consulted doctors other than Dr. Duchesne, the team’s doctor.

“It’s true,” Banning admitted in what was his seventh interview in three weeks. “I had an outside doctor. I’ve given his name and I give it again; Dr. Elias Kent. He ran a Sports Medicine clinic in Denver, but it’s been shut down pending investigations. I’ve also given the names of other athletes I met at his clinic, including Joseph Steele, the former Junior Olympic Hundred Meter Dash champion, and fellow cyclists Max Doss and Ryan Bresden, among others.”

Cameron snapped another picture as an AP reporter asked a question. Cameron only heard the response.

“I’ve given my full cooperation to the United States Anti-Doping Agency as well as the WADA. You all know, as soon as my A sample came back, I admitted to wrongdoing. As you are also all aware, every one of my previous samples came back clean. This was my first and last time doping, and I apologize to everybody; my former team, my sponsors, my competitors, and most especially, the fans. Yes, in the back.”

Cameron listened as Colin Fairmount, the reporter to which he was assigned, cleared his throat beside him before asking his question.

“Banning, this is somewhat off subject, so forgive me for asking,” he began.

“No, go ahead,” Banning said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, almost smiling.

“This goes back four years, to the 2005 Collegiate Nationals. Specifically, the road race. That was such a spectacular ride, and you did it on sheer grit and determination. What’s happened in your career recently that made the idea of doping so attractive?”

Cameron snapped another picture of his former roommate, sitting in front of half a dozen microphones. He was definitely smiling at this point.

“Well, Mr. Fairmount,” Banning began, “I got dropped in a race in which I felt very good. In fact, I got dropped in a race by the man I beat in that national road race, James Evans. He completely blew apart the field, and that started me on a hot streak of losses. I felt I had to do something, and Ryan Bresden, whom I think used to be a teammate of both you and James if I remember correctly, took me to his doctor.”

“Well, certainly getting dropped in one race isn’t enough to cause somebody to cheat, now, is it?” Colin asked. Cameron put his hand on Colin’s shoulder, causing Colin to turn.

“Watch it,” Cameron cautioned.

“Like I said,” Banning stated after a pause, “that one race shattered my nerves, more so than the crash that ended my season last year. I was at my strongest and James destroyed my spirits. I was desperate. As I recall, Colin, you were dropped many times at the top of your form. You didn’t feel the need to somehow step it up by any means necessary? Maybe you should get up here and explain why you didn’t race in the 2006 Collegiate season.”

There was a hush in the room. The seconds ticked away while Banning stared at Colin, and Colin stared right back at him.

After the press conference, while Cameron was packing up his camera, he watched Colin sit, stone faced and motionless while the other reporters mingled. “Come on, Colin, let’s go get a beer,” Cameron said.

“I thought you were meeting with Banning,” Colin muttered.

“And I thought you wanted to meet him,” Cameron answered. “Come on, you had to know he’d throw that in your face.”

Colin turned to face Cameron. “Did you know he would?” When Cameron shook his head yes, Colin’s eyes narrowed. “How? How did you even know about it?”

Cameron shouldered his camera bag and shrugged. “Google is a powerful tool, Colin. Also, did you think that Banning wouldn’t have given me a detailed account of the Nationals? Your crew scared him to death. He was shocked when he got the offer from Momentum. He thought that even with his strong ride, the fact that your friends had given such a spectacular performance would have stolen the show. He swears that he wouldn’t have won if James hadn’t crashed, and then he wouldn’t have landed his contract. He kept tabs on all of you, even after he quit school, just in case he had to face you again.”

“It sounds like he gets scared pretty easy,” Colin said, closing his notebook and stowing it in his messenger bag. “He got scared because six people from three different teams broke early and stayed out. I remember when he crashed in the Colorado Classic, he was scared by the prospect of winning a big race like that. He gets dropped and beaten at the top of his form, and he gets scared. Christ, what isn’t Banning Jacobs scared of?”

“The truth, and I think he’s proved that over the last three weeks. Now come on, I told him we’d both meet him at five, and we’ve still got to get back to the hotel so I can get these pictures sent off and you can assemble your story.”

Colin begrudgingly stood and packed his remaining things.



Obviously, you can tell from the date of August 2006 that I had doping on my mind, with the Landis Affair and all. And I was thinking of all of this recently with the Tour going on again, and the new revelations within the Pro Peleton both past and present. Well, there it is.

If anybody has any questions for me, get them in soon so I can answer them all this weekend. Tomorrow, I'll have a post of some sort and then I'll ask for suggestions, so be thinking of those too.

If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster. -Isaac Asimov

Back On

Alright folks, sorry for the sabbatical, but right before vacation I took my computer to Best Buy and it just came back to me today, a week after I got back from Colorado.

Colorado is much better the second time around. That might have something to do with the fact that the first time around consisted of driving through in the dead of night on my way from Minneapolis to Moab, Utah. There just wasn't much time to get out and look around, you know? I ate dinner at a Chipotle on the way back through to Minnesota, but again, not much really to look at.

I like getting together with my wife's family, because there's always plenty of good food and good company and it's never dull...and we're all very productive. We didn't finish putting the new roof on Jeff's house, but it's not from lack of effort. It's just that we got a little ambitious with all the extra hands and so Jeff enacted a plan that will save him tons on heating this winter, and he built up another roof level. Basically, we stripped the old Cedar shingles and tar paper, built a new set of rafters over the existing plywood roof, put new fiberglass and foam insulation down, covered it with a new layer of plywood, then new tar paper and new shingles. Only, well, by the time Kathy and I left, it was just tar paper and three rows of shingles on the steeper slope side of the roof. The plan was for the remaining hands to split into two groups, one finishing the shingles on the steep side (we're talking steeeeeep, so the more help the safer it would be) while the other half (and half is a relative term, because I think this was the larger group actually) built the new rafters and so forth on the more gentle slope side of the roof.

In the midst of all the roofing, we managed to find time to gather and talk, eat, catch up, play some X-Box, watch (appropriately) The Money Pit, drive up Mt. Evans and Jeff and I squeezed in a short bicycle ride Monday morning before Kathy and I made the return journey. The new car handled the drive out well, the drive back well, and the drive up and down the mountain very well. Acrodyl missed us dearly, and behaved for my father (a first). And, as I said, I've been really without internet for more than a week. But no more! Look for an excerpt tomorrow per the status quo, and Wednesday or Thursday I will be calling for F.W.F. suggestions.

I would like to also formally welcome Jerry back to the world of Blogging. Go read up on Dennis Kucinich and the NHL.

Tuesday Excerpts

First things first, my new job.

ROCKS!

I'm liking it, mostly because the first day consisted of getting acquainted with the office and staff, then right out to St. Louis City Hall for some title searching. Using the Laredo database is pretty cool, but it's not nearly as fun as going into the records office and pulling out the books and looking things up on microfilm. That's awesome fun.

And, a plus, Andy (the guy for whom I work directly) was very approving of my car, the fact that it's a stick, and also noted that I have good taste in music just because I was listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. Sweet!

Right then, on to the excerpt.

For this week's excerpt, I am once again going to do something you should not get used to (even though this will be the second time I've done it). I am going to go ahead and post an entire piece, and it's something I wrote for school.

The reasoning behind this is that it will hopefully inspire you all to go watch some films while I am gone.

And no, if you know me, you can't borrow this film while I'm gone, because chances are that after I read my paper I will want to take it with me. For reals, yo.

===

The Stuff that Noir is Made Of, October 2006

To be considered Film Noir, a film must contain several elements. But the foundation for Film Noir is the story. Dashiell Hammet’s novel The Maltese Falcon provides the perfect story for Noir, but the story itself doesn’t ensure Film Noir. The story must be interpreted correctly; the worldview must be maintained and augmented for the screen. The film The Maltese Falcon (1941) is considered by many to be the first Film Noir. Why not the film of the same title, produced by the same studio ten years earlier? Quite simply, the version released in 1931 was a much more conventional Hollywood film, while the 1941 version was much darker, preserving the worldview of the Hammet novel.

Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade is cool, calm, and always ready. He barely seems to care when his partner, Miles Archer is murdered. He is able to outsmart Wilmer by stealing his guns, and never seems to sleep. Ricardo Cortez, on the other hand, is easily jarred and on edge. In the corresponding situations from above, Ricardo Cortez’s Sam Spade is awaken by the phone call announcing his partners death, after which he sits in bed (in his polka-dot pajamas) and repeats, “Dead?” as if he can’t believe it. He struggles to disarm Wilmer, requiring the help of Joel Cairo and Casper Gutman.

Joel, Casper and Wilmer are more or less the same between the two films, though Peter Lorre’s portrayal of Joel Cairo offers much more depth to that of Otto Matieson’s. Of the relationship between Cairo and Gutman, we receive no more than a hint in the 1941 version, as Sam leaves Casper’s hotel room and we see Cairo approach (though Sam does not). It is not until later, when Sam returns to Gutman’s room and is drugged, that we know that Cairo and Gutman are in league. These two separate scenes in the 1941 film are compressed into one scene in the 1931 film; while Sam and Casper discuss Sam’s compensation for helping secure the Falcon, Wilmer announces to them that “The Doctor has arrived.” Casper leaves Sam alone, and goes to confer with the doctor, who is found out to be Joel Cairo. Joel tells Casper of the imminent arrival of la Paloma, an ocean vessel arriving from Hong Kong that evening. Joel then explains that Miss Wunderly had been friendly with the captain of the ship, and he believes the captain to be in possession of the Falcon. When Casper returns to Sam, we know more than he does and he is drugged, and left. It is not until the captain arrives mortally wounded at Sam’s office that he has any inkling of what may be going on. When he searches the captain’s wallet and finds out whom he is Sam deduces what has transpired. Bogart’s Sam Spade is much more resourceful; when he is drugged, we know no more than he does, but we see Wilmer and Joel emerge as Sam descends into a stupor. When he comes to, he searches Casper’s room and finds the shipping news, and the arrival of la Paloma circled. He knows nothing of what it means, and neither do we, but together we go to the boat, just to follow the lead. This difference in approach is key to why the 1941 version is Noir and the 1931 version is not; Bogart’s Spade flies by the seat of his pants, and chases down the leads, while Cortez’s Spade lets things come to him while he tries to wrap his head around what has already happened.

Another important difference between the two different Sam Spades is in the depiction of the relationship between Sam Spade and the women of the story. In the 1941 version, we see only Sam’s side of the relationship with Mrs. Archer, she coming in only to be rejected by Sam. He says he should never have gotten involved with her. He confides everything in his secretary, Effie, in whom he has placed his sole trust, though he clearly has no sexual lust for her. Conversely, Cortez’s 1931 Sam Spade is first introduced to us escorting a beautiful woman out of his office. She pulls up her stockings as she exits, and he returns to his office to put the cushions back on the couch. Seconds later, Effie appears and he begins to nibble on her neck. She announces the arrival of Miss Wunderly, and he proceeds to pour the charm on. He is then interrupted by a phone call from Mrs. Archer, whom he slyly sweet-talks off the phone (as Miles Archer listens in on the other line in the office). While the 1941 Sam Spade is seemingly disgusted with the women he meets, the 1931 Sam Spade is depicted as vigorously juggling many separate relationships at once, including one with the duplicitous Miss Wunderly, Mary Astor in the 1941 film and Bebe Daniels in the 1931 film.

Brigid O’Shaughnessy (Brigid Shaughnessy in the 1931 version, though always referred to as Miss Wunderly) shares a relationship with Sam based on lies in both versions of the film. While other relationships vary between the two films, this one is fairly similar, though the similarities are characterized in different ways. In the 1941 version, Sam voices his mistrust of Brigid from the outset, making it perfectly clear to her that he does not trust her. The 1931 Sam, however, conceals his mistrust. There is a scene in the 1931 version, after a romantic tryst in Sam’s apartment, in which Sam steals her room key while she sleeps. He enters her room and searches for the Falcon, aware that Dr. Cairo suspects her of having possession of it. And at the end of the story, while Brigid is taken to jail, the two Sam Spades react in very different ways. Bogart’s Sam Spade walks away from her, telling her that when she is released she should find him, and see if he does love her. “Maybe I love you,” he tells her, “and maybe you love me.” Cortez’s Sam Spade delivers this same speech to Daniels’ Brigid, but while the 1941 film ends as she is taken away, the 1931 version takes us further. In this version of the story, Sam Spade visits Brigid in prison, and tells her to stay strong. He then tells the warden to do everything for Brigid to make her happy. The final twist comes when he is discovered to be no longer a private detective, but working on the side of good for the District Attorney’s office, something Bogart’s Sam Spade—and any true Noir hardboiled private-eye antihero—would ever do. The ending to the 1931 film is obviously an attempt at a happy ending; the evil woman is offered a shot at redemption, the womanizer is in love and willing to do anything it takes to make her happy, and he is no longer a rogue agent but a Knight in Shining Armor.

Ultimately, this formulaic approach to making Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon could only make it one of the hundred or so movies that came out of a studio in 1931. It was not a true adaptation of the novel but a Hollywood revamp. It took the smug grin of Humphrey Bogart and the sharp wit of screenwriter-director John Huston to really capture the hardboiled Sam Spade, the dark world of Film Noir, and to generate a classic film revered by many today. The 1931 film could never be nearly as successful as its newer version, and is most likely only remembered today as a curiosity, an addendum to the 1941 classic and a footnote in the history of Film Noir.

===

Ah, yes, so for some reason my computer's battery is no longer charging...so not only will I be without internet while in Colorado, I will also be without my computer as well. Oh well. Best Buy will have it, and they will replace my battery and my power cord and repair it if need be...but I hate being without it. I never wanted to be so dependent on a machine, yet here I am, a slave to my computer and also to my car. But at least they're both precision-tuned machines and good at what they do.

Nap Time

Check out this story from NPR's Talk of the Nation. In addition to it being informative and entertaining, I am the first call-in when you click on the listen button.

So, not only am I published, I'm also on the radio.

I start my new job tomorrow, which means you will hear a little blurb about it when I do my Tuesday Excerpt tomorrow.

Alright, I said I would have a political rant on Wednesday, but I have another one that brewed today, while I was listing to The Diane Rehm Show. Dick Cheney acts with total immunity and it pisses me off.

He is claiming he does not have to file classified documents with the national archives in accordance with Executive order because, as Vice President and head of the Senate, he is not part of the Executive branch. But he is not exactly subject to the regulations and orders of the Legislative branch either because he isn't part of that branch either. So you have every official in Washington subject to Constitutional laws with the exception of Dick Cheney, who is essentially above the law. And of course, we can't exactly go to the Attorney General and ask his opinion, because he's busy with his own scandal.

I just have one question for political conservatives; how is this set of scandals ANY DIFFERENT from the scandals that rocked the Clinton Administration? I mean, hell, all the Bush administration has done is broken a few constitutional laws, gone to war based on unsound judgement, wasted billions on war spending with no end in sight while slashing money from domestic programs that need it, baselessly fire District Attorneys to replace them with agenda-friendly ones, but hey, at least the president never got a damn blow job from an intern. Sure, he and his administration are running the economy into the ground. Sure, the country's foreign policy has earned us an arrogant and easily hated reputation abroad. Sure, the ship's going down with the captain at the helm saying, "Freedom! 9/11! Freedom! Democracy! Mission Accomplished! Victory!" But at least the captain never fooled around behind his wife's back. I mean, nevermind that Clinton's blow job didn't cost over three thousand American Soldiers' lives.

I want to know how come more money was spent on the Monica Lewinsky investigation than has been spent on the Scooter Libby, Roberto Gonzales and Valerie Plame investigations combined?

I'm not saying that a married man getting a sexual favor from a woman who is not his wife is not a bad thing, because it is, and it doesn't set the best moral example for our nation, but I don't remember whole nations looking at that situation and saying, "What a horrible country."

Sorry for the political rant, but Dick Cheney really does not make me happy.

And no, I have not cited sources. So, for anybody who stumbles up to my blog and you want to take precious time to argue my figures, let me just say that I may be exaggerating with the amount of money spent on the investigations.I don't feel like looking it all up at the moment, I have to cook dinner. If you still want to point it out, and try and make me look like a Liberal Nutjob idiot, go ahead. I will not deny you the obvious pleasure you will derive from it. All I ask is that you come back and read one of my non-political blogs in exchange for the favor of me letting you anonynously call me a left-wing fool.

That is all.

Free Write Friday

Well, I waited and waited and waited and still only got suggestions from two people this week...what's the dealy-o? Come on people!

I will be answering anonymous' question the first full weekend of the month, and subsequent questions will all be answered thusly the first weekend of each month. So, keep asking me questions, I'll log them all up and answer them first weekend of the month.

You'll get a Tuesday excerpt, and probably a Wednesday blurb, most likely another political rant because I've got one brewing, but that's all for next week because I'm going out of town for the weekend, and I'm taking off the week from the blog. So It'll be probably the following Wednesday before I return, but we don't have to worry about that just yet.

Alrighty, just a short one today probably. It's been a very long and ridiculous day, and I am tired and stressed. But here goes.

This week's suggestion comes from molly again;

Short story: Melba Wallace, a 13 y/o girl, hates her name but doesn't want to hurt her family's feelings as she's been named after her beloved (and sinfully rich) great aunt.

molly wins all kinds of electric appliances to plug in even though she has no electricity.

===

June 22, 2007

I like to make lists. Right now, I'm making lists about what names I'd rather have than Melba. I did an internet search on the name Melba and I made a list of what came up: wikipedia articles for Melba Toast, Ellie Melba, the Melba Idaho chamber of commerce website, the Ellie Melba website, the Melba Pattillo story. She was one of the Little Rock Nine, which I didn't know about until I made the list. I didn't stop and look right away, because I wanted to get thirteen things on my list. But afterwards, I went back to find out thirteen things about Melba Pattillo, along with thirteen things about Ellie Melba (the opera singer), Melba Idaho (the city hall looks like a trailer), and thirteen things about Melba Toast, which was really hard actually, because Melba Toast is just toasted crispy bread.

I did another search on Melba Wallace, so I could find thirteen other Melba Wallaces that weren't me or my great aunt. All I found were lists of charities aunt Melba had served on boards for or whatever, so instead I made a list of thirteen things Melba has done I didn't know about, which took almost no time.

But now, my list has twelve names. I can't come up with the thirteenth. I am just sometimes a little superstitious.

If I put the thirteenth name on the list, I might get my wish and have a different name, and then, who would I be? If I could guarantee that by changing my name from Melba Wallace I could still be Melba Wallace, then I'd write that thirteenth name. But if I write it, and become somebody else, but really became somebody else...

1) Kelly Watson
2) Rebecca Patterson
3) Emily Lane
4) Anne Tillmann
5) Melissa McGwire
6) Caitlyn Martin
7) Andrea James
8) Maria Madsen
9) Katherine Babbit
10) Monica Donovan
11) Karen Flaherty
12) Bridgette Monaghan

But I can't put that thirteenth one on there.

It's my own problem. A year ago, twelve would have been my limit. And there's nothing to worry about the number twelve. And in a year, I could write a fourteenth name and not have to feel unlucky.

And I am lucky, because I'm named after my Great Aunt Melba Wallace. My father's father's brother's widow. My grandfather's brother had made a fortune by working for 3M during a period when employees were paid only in stock, during the Great Depression. When the second world war broke out, he continued working, and became a division president afterward. He was one of a handful of employees that held onto his stock, became one of the richest men in St. Paul Minnesota. He bought a huge house on Summit that Aunt Melba still lives in.

But Melbas belong in grand houses on Summit. Melbas are supposed to be wise, and old, and wrinkled, with a pleasant laugh and a desperate need for the company of youth. I'm only as old as I can list to. Well, a year older than the names I can list. I live in a modest two bedroom with my mother for most of the month, but the first and third weekend I spend with my dad in his townhouse, with his wife, who's name I wish I could put on the list because I love it, but I can't say the same for her. I love their child, because even though my dad's wife is not my mother, their child is still my brother. Officially, my half brother, but he feels all brother when we hang out.

I'm definitely not wise. I was reading a book my mother had given me, by Jonathan Safran Foer, and he talked about the sixty-nine. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I did a search on it on Google. I was so embarassed, I erased all the history on the browser and emptied the cache, so that my mom had to reenter all of her passwords, which was a problem because she couldn't remember so many of them. When she asked what happened, I lied and told her the computer got a virus and I had to reload certain programs; my mother bought the lie because she's not so good with computers, not like my father's wife, who works for an internet company.

My mom had to call her bank, and her e-mail provider, and some other places to reset her passwords, and I told her to make a list this time. She did, and I saw only one password listed;

Melba72395

And that's why I can't change my name. Because my name and my birthday are her passwords.

If I did put that thirteenth name on my list, my mother would have to change her passwords all over again. Or worse, the would change along with me, and she'd have to call everybody again, and wonder what happened to her passwords, and to me.

The number one thing on my list of people I don't want to hurt is my mother. Then my father. Every year, I try to add one more. This year, I put my father's wife, because if it happens to be unlucky, I won't feel so bad about hurting her.

Number three is my Aunt Melba, who always treats me so nice. That's another reason I shouldn't change my name. Aunt Melba only treats me that way because we share a name. A huge check every birthday. If my name were Kelly Watson, Aunt Melba would regard me with a passing eye only.

It's not that I'm greedy, I'm just scared of being somebody else. And one thing my Aunt Melba told me, when I turned ten and added my new half-brother to my list. She said, "When you grow up, you'll look back on everything you used to do, and everything you used to be, and you'll wonder what became of that person. You'll be an entirely different person."

The only person I know who became somebody else was my father; he loved my mother, and then one day he came in with a list of his own, and read it to her...and their marriage ended.

But even though he became somebody else, I suppose he's happier now than he had been.

13) Melanie Gibson

...but I suppose superstitions are just that, and baseless. And any changing that happens will come when I've added some more people to my list of people never to hurt. Perhaps it will change when my list becomes a list of people I want to hurt. Or when I want to add more people to the list than my age will allow to fit. Maybe then.



===

Well, if there's one thing I know, it's 13 year old girls...?

Yeah, I know...well, whatever.

Alright. Until next time.

Write on.

Ah...I Can Always Count on Comments For This One

It's that time of the week again! That's right, it's time for me to ask you, my readers, to shower me with suggestions for Free Write Friday, which I promise will get done tomorrow.

On a different note, today marks my 70th post ever. Only thirty more and I turn 100! I'm approaching Strong Bad's e-mail count.

Alright, so, let the suggesting begin.

Also, if anybody has any questions they'd like to ask me, go right ahead. I'll try and answer them here on the blog. Let's get interactive, people!

First question I am going to go ahead and ask myself:

Hey, Elliot, do you listen to music when you blog, and if so, what do you listen to?

Well, Elliot, most of the time I do listen to music, because it helps as a sort of outside distraction to ground my thought process a little. Music itself is so creative and can be inspiring, so I listen to it both to humble myself and inspire myself. The only times I don't listen to music when I blog is usually Tuesday Excerpts because I do those in a hurry, and Free Write Fridays because I don't want to be distracted by anything outside; it's all internal. So, to answer your first question, yes, and to answer your second, well, I listen to a lot. I am, for some reason, on a huge Emo kick right now, but I'm not talking just Sunny Day Real Estate, The Anniversary, The Get Up Kids and Alkaline Trio. I got into some other bands within the genre (and borderline Emo as well) such as Bright Eyes, Thursday, Further Seems Forever, The Juliana Theory, Texas is the Reason, Cursive, and some others. But I've been known to listen to just about anything from classical to new wave to punk to rock to super-duper obscure, which brings me to what I am listening to today.

Music to Blog by:

Heroic Doses - Pushy Girl and Crystals

So, post your suggestions and your questions. If I get enough questions, I'll add a monthly "Your Questions Answered" post.

That is all, so until tomorrow;

Write On!

The Times, They Are a-Changin!

Why did I change my mind about going into journalism?

As my wife pointed out when I told her I was minoring in Journalism, I at one point swore off it forever because of a bad experience at the U of M.

But then again, almost the whole academic experience at the U of M was a bad experience, mostly for the people keeping track of my grades as they slipped and hit rock bottom.

Okay, so, that's the first time I've truly admitted on the blog, I think, that I once flunked out of college. And now, I have been on the Dean's List three times at Meramec. This last semester, I took five classes. I got three A's, a Pass (because it was a P/F class, but it was playwriting and I know it would have been an A) and a B. Okay, so I got the B in Contemporary Moral Issues, which makes me wonder just what kind of morals I have...good enough, but not as good as they could be. Which probably makes me a pretty good candidate for being a journalist.

The thing is, I had no experience with media when I went to the U of M. Not the kind I needed, anyway. Media was something I consumed, not something I participated in. It wasn't something I had any inkling of learning about. But that's changed quite a bit, really, because media are important to almost every job out there now. It's something I want to understand better.

But, the reporting? Well, again, I had very little understanding back then. I thought you could pretty much write whatever the hell you wanted as long as it reported the facts. Bo-ring! Having been listening to NPR religiously for almost two and a half years now, I know enough to know that I don't know enough. You know? Basically, what listening to NPR has taught me is that news is news, and entertainment is entertainment, but sometimes entertainment can be news and news can be entertainment. Imagine that I learned that from a public institution that has such a dry reputation in the outside world. Aside from those of us who listen (and the numbers are growing, I believe), people see NPR as a droning 24 hour news radio program somewhere between their favorite rap station and the oldies. This could not be further from the truth.

Okay, but that doesn't mean I want to get into radio. But they have news researchers, writers, you know, people who are behind the scenes. There's also print journalism, which I think is more my style. I could write for a paper. Ideally, I would love to graduate, get a job at a paper like The RFT in St. Louis or City Pages in the Twin Cities for a few years, write on the side, get my MFA in writing from either UMSL or (gasp!) U of M, get a teaching job at a Community College teaching creative writing and/or mass communication and just sit back and enjoy life. But I'm sure that there are some crucial steps I am leaving out in my grandiose plans.

The real reason I changed my mind on going into journalism is that minds change. Journalism isn't just about reporting the news, it's about finding the news, finding the people that make it, or that it happens to, or discovering what hasn't been news and then making it news. It's about people, and ultimately, that's what any kind of writing is about (with the exception of technical manuals and miscellaneous other types of writing, so don't try and do the "Dude, you WRONG!" crap on me). And I am interested in people, in finding their stories, in writing new stories...basically, I discovered that the only difference between a story in a newspaper and a story in a collection of short fiction is that one probably happened in the real world close to the way it was told, and the other happened in the mind of the writer exactly as it's written down.

As I said yesterday, I will not be calling for suggestions today. But fear not! The moment I get home tomorrow, I will post again and solicit your help. Well, certainly, the moment I ascertain the availability of internet access...today SBC is doing rolling maintenance and I finally gave up at home and headed over to the 'rents so I could say hello and use their internet. Hello, 'rents! Hello, 'rents' cats!

Tuesday Excerpts

This week's excerpt comes from a screenplay I have been working on since the summer of 2003. It has gone through several versions, and this excerpt is from the most recent, in which I have removed the specific music titles and done some dialogue clean-up. I now have to go through and relinquish my shot descriptions, as industry standards dictate shots are up to the director, the assistant directors, the photographic directors, and NOT the screenwriter unless you happen to be a well-established and respected screenwriter. Even then, it's tricky. But that's a project for another day.

===

from Theft is Property (working title) 2003-2007

COLIN (V.O.)
I'm not entirely sure how it all managed to spiral completely out of control in the particular way that it did. But, the fact remains, that it did in fact spiral completely out of control in a particularly terrifying way.

FADE IN:

INT BROOKE'S APARTMENT - MORNING

We hear soft piano music.

BROOKE is wearing jeans and a bra. COLIN is laying in bed looking at her. She is fixing her hair in her mirror. She reaches into a bag at her feet and picks up a black t-shirt.

COLIN (V.O.)
Brooke and I had been dating for two years, ever since we met at graduation. We both graduated from the journalism program at the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, and because the school was so big, the first time we met was standing next to each other at graduation.

BROOKE
Can I borrow this shirt?

CUT TO:

EXT NORTHRUP AUDITORIUM ON U OF M CAMPUS - DAY

Pomp and Circumstance is playing.

Brooke stands in front of Colin. They are in a large group of people. They are dressed in robes. Colin's is open at the front, showing a black t-shirt with the IRON CHEF logo in red. Brooke turns to look at him and winces.

COLIN (V.O.)
It's what I was wearing when she met me.

BROOKE
Shouldn't you be taking some pride in graduating from college?

COLIN
Excuse me?

BROOKE
Every other guy here is wearing a nice shirt and a tie.

COLIN
And you are who, the graduation fashion police?

BROOKE
No, I just think you should be respectable, especially if you want to be taken seriously in this field.

COLIN
Well then, in all seriousness, it's a wonder I even got out of bed for this glorified cow-trot. I'll make sure to wave and smile at my parents. Or, maybe, since they're not here, you can point yours out and then I can borrow the video tape and mail it to Mom and Dad and the little brother who looks up to me. Who are you again?

BROOKE
Forget it.

Brooke turns back around and Colin has a good chuckle.

CUT TO:

INT COLIN'S OLD APARTMENT - NIGHT

Back to soft piano music.

Colin is getting dressed to go out when his phone rings. He picks it up.

COLIN
Hello?

INTERCUT BROOKE'S APARTMENT

Brooke speaks to Colin on the phone.

BROOKE
Hi, this is Brooke Fairman. I stood in front of you in line at graduation today.

COLIN
Who?

BROOKE
Brooke Fairman. Is this Colin Fairmount?

COLIN
Right, the girl who turned away when I was being exceedingly charming.

BROOKE
Listen...do you want to meet me somewhere for drinks?

BACK TO:

INT BROOKE'S APARTMENT - MORNING

Brooke is still holding the shirt. We see that it is the same IRON CHEF shirt.

COLIN (V.O.)
Two years go by, and there we were, practically living with each other in her apartment one month and mine the next, and things were going great. But that's not the issue. Pay attention here, this is important.

BROOKE
Please?

COLIN
Sure thing.

Brooke puts it on, then turns around to look into the mirror again.

BROOKE
Thanks Colin. Now, get up, or we'll be late.

Brooke opens a drawer and pulls out a sweater, which she puts on over the shirt.

COLIN (V.O.)
Did you see it? Here it is again.

REWIND EFFECT BACK TO:

INT BROOKE'S APARTMENT - MOMENTS EARLIER

Brooke is holding the shirt.

BROOKE
Please?

COLIN
Sure thing.

COLIN (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Okay, here it is, watch as she puts it on, then turns around.

BROOKE
Thanks, Colin. Now, get up, or we'll be late.

Colin describes the action.

COLIN (V.O.)
Okay, see this? She opens the drawer, pulls out the sweater I gave her for our first Valentine's Day, and puts it on. And freeze!

The frame freezes on Brooke pulling the bottom of the sweater down to the top of her jeans. The music stops.

COLIN (V.O.) (CONT'D)
There it is, the last time I ever saw that t-shirt. Coincidentally, it's the first time since I gave her the sweater that I ever saw it. The irony of this wouldn't hit me until much later. Like I said, I never saw that shirt again. But I saw her practically every day for the next six months after this. In fact, most of that time I spent at her apartment because I was living with my best friend James and she wouldn't stay there. So I was sleeping, eating, and living in extremely close proximity of this, my most valued shirt ever, and she tucked it away where I could never find it. It's not like I went snooping for it. I figured every day that she was more likely to wear it than the day before. When I sensed the doom of the relationship and I gave her back her favorite bracelet, I thought I'd get my favorite shirt back. I never did.

CUT TO:

INT COLIN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Start music again.

JAMES, ANGELA and Colin are going through some pictures. James picks one out of the stack and hides it so Colin won't look at it.

COLIN
What, James?

JAMES
Nothing.

COLIN
No, what. Angela, what?

James hands the picture to Angela behind his back. Angela looks at it.

ANGELA
Nothing, Colin.

Colin grabs for it and gets it.

CLOSE UP OF PICTURE

It is a picture of Brooke and TOM. She is wearing the infamous shirt.

COLIN (V.O.)
Okay, so this is the closest I ever came to seeing my shirt again. I vowed to get it back at that moment. I never thought it would end up with me here.

Fade music softer.

CUT TO:

INT DARK ROOM - DOESN'T MATTER

Colin is sitting behind a table, looking distressed and dressed in a wrinkled shirt, unshaven. He has probably just been woken up. There is a gun pressed to his temple. The gun is being held there by RAGS, a tough looking guy with scars on his face. Sitting across the table from Colin is FRAN, a fat balding man who is sweating profusely.

COLIN (V.O.)
This fat guy is Fran, a mob kingpin. And the guy with the gun is Rags. Fran tells me that Rags has a very itchy trigger finger. He told me not to make any sudden movements, as it might upset Rags.

Rags jams the gun into Colin's temple even more. Colin winces but doesn't move his head.

COLIN (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Really, this is Mike's fault. But, it wouldn't have been his fault if I had just done what everyone suggested in the first place.

BACK TO:

INT COLIN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

James takes the picture back from Colin.

JAMES
We didn't want you to see that.

COLIN
Oh, please. I'm over her, you know that.

JAMES
Well, we just weren't sure.

COLIN
All I want is my damn shirt back.

JAMES
Why don't you just buy a new one? They still sell them through the website...

Angela nods in agreement.

COLIN
That's not the issue. I've got to get that shirt back.

BACK TO:

INT DARK ROOM -DOESN'T MATTER

COLIN (V.O.)
Rags was making me wish I had listened. Maybe if I just told him the whole story, he'd give me the same advice and I could go home.

COLIN (CONT'D)
Could I just--

(Rags jams the gun harder into Colin's temple)

COLIN (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Or, I could sit here and listen to Fran. But I'm getting ahead of myself here. I just want to set the record straight.

FADE TO BLACK


===

Just pretty much the introduction there, prior to the opening credits. Later, you actually meet Brooke, and the infamous Mike Colin mentions, and Tom, the boyfriend from the picture. And more of Fran, and some other people. I skipped over the very beginning, which introduces you to two more characters, one of whom gets shot and killed within the first minute. But I assure you, it's a comedy.

In addition to my Tuesday Excerpt, I would also like to announce that I got a call back from MasterFile and I got the job! I start next Tuesday with my training, then continue with it the following Tuesday, after which my Target schedule should be rearranged so I can work the full schedule at MasterFile. Yay! More money! Less boredom! More Freedom!

I've been a bad blogger, but I don't intend on apologizing because I have been a consistent blogger, which is a vast improvement over the past. Just check it; I've probably blogged more in the past month than I had in the year leading up to the past month. Just check. If this is not the case, then at least it's close.

More tomorrow, but just a head's up; I will not be soliciting suggestions for Free Write Fridays tomorrow, but I will be doing so on Thursday. Friends, you've been warned.

A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer. -Karl Kraus

Like Christmas in July...Free Write Friday on a Monday

[Insert Long List of Excuses Here]

[Insert Witty Comments to Lighten Situation Here]

This week, in honor of Father's Day (which would have been upcoming if I had done this on the right day), I am choosing notawritersfather's suggestion:

Here is the idea I gave Elliot, with which he in turn teased you:
A late middle-aged guy suddenly discovers he has amazing super powers, but he is just too darned tired and jaded to employ them.

notawritersfather wins brunch with me yesterday, and a Schlafly 12 pack sampler which includes three bottles of their signature Pale Ale, three bottles of their smooth Hefeweizen, and three bottles of their current seasonal brew, which I can only assume right now is their Summer Kölsch, and not their Oktoberfest or Coffee Stout.

I, unfortunately, do not recieve any funding for Schlafly Beer. The only thing I do recieve is a feeling of satisfaction, light-headedness, and the rare hangover.

===

June 18th (but it should have been the 15th...) 2007

"He's opening his eyes."

"Are you sure?"

"Look!"

"He shouldn't be here, I mean, he should be..."

"Yeah, I know."

The two voices sounded eerily fraught, which didn't bode well in the mind of Eric Weldon. That is, he reflected, if he even had a mind anymore. He wasn't sure what happened when you died, because this was the first time he had ever done it. And he had done it on purpose, had timed his fall just right so that even if the fall didn't kill him, the convoy of trucks running down the highway to the overpass would surely not have missed. He had blacked out on impact and was only coming around now because he heard voices. He opened his eyes and saw a bright light, in front of which he swore he saw two angels. "Well," he thought, "at least I made it to the doorstep. Even if they do send me down, which they surely will, maybe I can at least get a glimpse of happiness before an eternity of damnation and toil."

He figured, after nearly forty years of unhappy toil, an eternity of more of the same didn't sound too bad. That's why he had jumped, why he had left his keys in plain view in his locked, double-parked car two blocks away. As a final insult to the world, though, he had taken the faceplate from his radio and put it in his front pocket. Somebody could steal his worthless car, but they'd have to break the window to get in and find that there was nothing worth stealing in it. Fuck you, world, take my car. You took everything else.

"Oh, thank God, the authorities are here," Eric heard one of the angels say; he was still having a bit of trouble making them out, and he wasn't sure if that was the brightness of the heavenly light or if it was just that he had jostled his head so badly when he fell. But upon reflection, he realized that it must be the light because his head didn't hurt and that made plenty of sense; in Heaven, you feel no pain. Only joy. He took joy in the thought that he might get a few moments of joy for his soul before being looked over by St. Peter or whoever the authority turned out to be, and sent straight to Hell.

"Right over here," the second voice called. "He just came out of nowhere, landed right in front of me...I ran the bastard over, but it looks like he's coming around!"

A third angel arrived, but now that Eric's vision was clearing up a little, he wasn't sure that they were angels per se. Maybe they were just citizens of heaven...or at least, the first two were. This third one was altogether darker and looked to be wearing some sort of official uniform; this struck Eric harder than he had struck the ground just minutes before. He blinked a few times to try and get a clearer picture.

The light was really preventing him from getting a clear picture, and what's more, the light was starting to hurt his eyes, so he sat up.

"Easy, easy," the darker shadow commanded, a strong hand landing on Eric's shoulder.

"Where am I?" Eric asked, startled that his voice sounded exactly the way he remembered it when he was alive.

"You're on 1-55, right by the Arsenal overpass, and the question I have to ask you is why are you here?" the darker figure asked. Eric's eyes were becoming accustomed to the light and he saw that the dark figure was wearing what looked unquestioningly like a police uniform.

Eric listened and heard the noise of slow moving traffic, smelled exhaust and also the brewery. He looked for the other two angels and saw that one was a rather large shirtless man covered in tattoos, the other wearing a Fed-Ex uniform and hat. The image of a Fed-Ex truck speeding towards the bridge just before he jumped came back to him. "Shit," he said.

"Shit?" the shirtless man asked, spitting on the ground. "You jumped off a bridge into oncoming traffic and all you can say is 'Shit'? You got run over by a big rig and my F-350 and a horse trailer and that's all you gotta say? Well...Shit!"

"It didn't work," Eric said, struggling to get up.

"Easy," the police officer said again, but Eric very easily stood and began to walk under the overpass.

He turned back to look at the spot where he had landed, saw no blood, just a few cracks and some tire marks. He looked down at his body and saw the only signs of damage; his shirt and pants were ripped and had matching tire marks. He screamed the only word he could think of to sum up his feelings before running back in the direction he came, intent on running all the way to the nearest bridge over the river, so he could plunge in and end his life for good.

"Whoa, whoa there," the police man said, restraining Eric with the help of the shirtless spitter and the Fed-Ex driver. "I think you should come with me." By this time the ambulance had arrived and the paramedics were approaching with a gurny. The lead man asked Eric where the victim was.

Eric pointed at himself, and the paramedic became furious. "This is no time for joking around, asshole! Where's the guy that jumped?"

"You're talking to him!" Eric screamed at the man. "I jumped. And I'm fine! And I want to die!" He turned to the cop. "What's the penalty for attempted murder?"

The police officer bristled. "You tried to kill somebody?" Eric nodded. "And it didn't work?" Eric nodded. "That could get you life, buddy."

"Not death?"

"No. Maybe in Texas. But if you tried to kill somebody and it didn't work...have they recieved medical attention?" Eric shook his head no. "You better take me right to him, and then straight downtown." The police officer got on his walkie and called in the attempted homicide. Eric slapped him.

"It's me, asshole! I tried to kill myself and it didn't work! What's the penalty for attempted suicide?"

Stunned, the police officer cancelled the call, took a step towards Eric and grabbed him by his hands. He pushed him across a lane and a half and smack up against the idling ambulance.

"Now I gotcha for attempted suicide, disrupting the peace, and assaulting an officer. You want to try for resisting arrest, too?"

"Can I get the death penalty for any of those things?"

It was several hours later, and Eric had point blank refused to talk to any lawyers. He kept making demands to see Jack Kevourkian, his mother or "the perfect woman." When Dr. Freidman finally arrived, Eric had settled into a silence the police officers deemed impenetrable. It was the arresting officer's opinion that the man should be wrapped in a straight jacket inside a padded room, inside a padded building, inside a heavily guarded and also padded country.

"Mr. Weldon," Dr. Freidman said, "My name is Sydney." He was tall, angular, with a bushy mustache and tight, curly hair, and carried himself with an almost lazy confidence; he looked, in many ways, like Eric himself, except Eric's hair was straight, he wore no facial hair aside from thinning sideburns and he carried himself with a slump; the weight of his troubles was enough to make him appear four inches shorter than he really was.

"Doctor," Eric said.

"Good," Sydney said, "I got you to talk. The chief owes me a twenty if I can just get one more word out of you. What do you say to that?"

Eric pondered this for a moment. He stood up, walked over to where Sydney was standing and pointed at Sydney's breast pocket. "You want my pen?" Eric shook his head yes, and Sydney gave him the pen and also one of his business cards. Eric wrote, "Cut me in for half and we've got a deal" on the back of the business card. Sydney reached into his pocket and handed over a ten dollar bill.

"Thanks," Eric said, handing back the pen and returning to his seat. "I'm going to need all the cash I can get, seeing as how I'm alive and jobless. And also, I got a parking ticket."

"Did you? Is that why you tried to kill yourself?"

"No. I got it while I was trying to kill myself. That was not my intention."

"What was your intention?" Sydney took a seat across the table, leaning comfortably back without looking bored or disinterested, in the kind of trick they must teach you when you become an analyst.

"To have somebody steal my car. And also to actually die. So far, I'm 0 for 2 today."

"I see."

"Also," Eric continued, "I had my faceplate in my pocket, and even though I came out of it in one piece, I can't say the same for the faceplate. So, if I do get out of here, and get my car, I can't even listen to music."

"That is a shame," Sydney said. "Eric, let me tell you why I'm here."

"I know why you're here. You're here to ask me why I tried to kill myself."

Sydney rifled through some papers in his briefcase. "Oh, no, I think I have that figured out." He looked down at a sheet of paper. "Let's see...you just turned 40 and you also just got fired from the same job and same position you were in when you turned 30, making almost the same amount, I might add. Your wife just left with the kids for Davenport, to stay with her mother until she, in her words, 'figures things out,' she drained your bank account, alienated you from all of your friends, your mortgage is past due because she hasn't been paying bills for five months so you're about to have your house repossessed, your parents' nursing home just burnt to the ground with all of their posessions and the insurance money won't cover any of it, and to top it all off, last night you came home and there was a man in your house you didn't know who was looking for your wife whom he called, what was it..." Sydney looked up into Eric's eyes. "Fucky Kitten, was it?"

Eric took several deep breaths. "You forgot something," he finally said.

"What's that?"

"My goldfish died last week."

"Ah, but that was actually your daughter's gold fish."

"Same difference. So, why are you here?"

Sydney shut his briefcase and leaned forward, earnestly. "I'm Dr. Sydney Freidman, and I work for the Rand Corporation and the United States Government. I'm a psychiatrist and also a researcher interested in paranatural phenomena."

There was a long pause before Eric finally spoke. "Para what?"

"Paranatural."

"Why not paranormal or supernatural?"

"Because people think they know what those mean nowadays. No, what I have to say is this: We have several eyewitnesses who saw you fall from the bridge."

"I didn't fall. Falling implies it was an accident. I jumped."

"Jumped, fell, whatever. People saw you. And then, you got run over by several tons of machinery moving at speeds in excess of seventy miles per hour."

"What's your point? That I can't do anything right, not even killing myself?"

Sydney got a weird smile on his face. "Simply put, Eric; you can't kill yourself." This remark was followed by a ridiculous giggle on Sydney's part.

Sydney's giggle, however, was merely met with Eric's face as it fell slowly further into depression. "What?"

"You can't die, at least not by physical trauma."

"Are you telling me that I'm like that guy in Unbreakable?"

"It's exciting. You know, there are actually quite a few people with these paranatural abilities. And we've found many of them. They work special detail in some of the worse places in the world."

"What?"

"We find them, we employ them, and we give their lives meaning. For instance, in your case, you are ready to die. But think of it; with a word, I could stop the foreclosure process on your house. Hell, you could buy five times the house. You wouldn't have to worry about scrounging up for that parking ticket, because it's done, taken care of, and as for the radio, you'd get yourself a free car. Whatever you wanted. Of course, you'd have to go where we tell you, do what we tell you, but you'd never be in any danger at all. Because there's nothing out there that's dangerous enough to hurt you."

"What about bullets?"

Sydney stood up, removed a gun from a holster Eric hadn't seen before, and shot Eric in the chest. Eric stood too late, reeled, flew backwards over his chair and landed hard, breaking the backrest off the chair, and panting on the ground. He had a momentary pain in his chest which dissipated almost as quick as the gunshot had been.

Eric stood up, looking at the mark left on his shirt. "Fuck. I can't even shoot myself to death! Damn it! What about poisons? Drowning myself? Exposure to the Ebola virus?"

Sydney shook his head, returning the gun to the holster. The door opened and three officers came charging in, but Sydney put up his hand. "It's fine. I told you who I am. Get lost." The police officers backed slowly out of the room, the last lingering long enough to glance at Eric, brushing himself down and picking up the mangled chair before throwing it back to the ground. The door closed.

"Mr. Weldon," Sydney said, opening his briefcase again, "medical records are the first indication we have of who has these abilities. Unfortunately, even under the current administration's lax regulatory stance, we are still unable to create situations that can draw these characteristics out. If somebody notices on their own, they usually tell their doctors, we see the records, we can approach them, but we need hard evidnce. Something like surviving a suicide attempt. Although, we wondered; do you remember in fourth grade?"

Eric thought. "What about it?"

"Your two best friends; one got menangitis and nearly died. The other got it, as well, but it was caught early and treated. They never found a trace in your body, but they gave you the medication anyway."

"The doctors said sometimes it can take a while to show up, they were being-"

"College, sophomore year. The girl you were dating, yes?"

"Eliza?"

"You're aware that she had mono, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And you never got it, even though by your accounts to your friends you 'fucked like crazy,' correct?"

"Why do you have that on record?"

"Are you also aware that she had herpes?"

Eric was silent for a long second. "What?"

"Yes. She didn't know it at the time, but she had already contracted it prior to your relationship. And she continued a sexual relationship with the person she had contracted it from while she was with you."

Eric's face fell again. "Eliza was cheating on me? I should have tried to kill myself years ago..."

Sydney snapped his briefcase shut again. "But it wouldn't have been any different then, Mr. Weldon. Here." He handed him a manilla envelope.

"What's this?"

"Information. About our program. Training materials. It's classified, so you are under the strictest penalty not to divulge this information to anyone."

"So...you'd kill me if I told my neighbors?"

"Mr. Weldon, you can't-"

"Then why even bother, I suppose." Eric perused the outside of the envelope. "What happens to the people who don't want to sign up?"

Sydney shifted uncomfortably. "It happens. Some sort of...go into what you'd call private contracting."

"What? They become local superheroes?" Eric laughed at the thought. But the sheepish look on Sydney's face cut off the laugh. "Really?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, but Mr. Weldon, I urge you-"

"Urge nothing. I have the urge to do nothing." He sighed, handed the envelope back to Sydney. "I can't do anything right, Doctor. Nothing. I can't even kill myself correctly. So thanks, but no thanks. I don't want these powers. For you, it's something exciting. For me, it's just another thing wrong with my life."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's preventing me from achieving my life's goal?"

"And what's that?"

Eric stood, looked out of the lone window. "Death. Ending it all. I just...don't care. I'd screw it up. The people I'm supposed to save? They'd die. I'd get captured and sentenced to death in the jungles of Burma, and they'd try to kill me every day, and they'd never succeed. It would be...well, honestly, it would be what I was expecting this morning when I jumped. It would be Hell. But I was going to Hell on my terms; I don't want to stay in this Hell on your terms. No thank you," he turned around, "Doctor Freidman, but I'll just keep trying to end my life after my own fashion."

Eric sat back down, and lapsed into a silence to match his earlier one. Sydney stood, silent for five minutes, looking into the half-lidded eyes of Eric. Finally, he left the business card Eric had given him back, with "Cut me in for half and we have a deal" scrawled across the back, packed up the briefcase again, turned and walked out the door.

Across the country, deep in a labyrynthine maze of code-entry corridors, under a thousand tons of rock and soil, a man sat staring at the image of Sydney as he left Eric alone in the small room. The man moved a joystick and the image of Eric grew larger, his hopeless face filling more and more of the screen. A phone rang to the man's right and he answered it.

"Yes, I saw the whole thing. Well played, Doctor. You are right; he is the perfect candidate for our program. Proceed as planned. Keep me posted."

The man hung up and watched as on the screen Eric picked up Sydney's business card and put it in his pocket.


===

And that man's name was neither Lex Luthor, Doctor Ochs, Magneto or even Stan Lee. That's all you get out of me for this one. It was long to make up for it's lateness.

I am off to the Cardinals game.

Free Write Friday...um, later this weekend...

I do apologize. I have less than an hour left on a Friday and have just now got around to the blog. I had trouble sleeping last night, went to work an hour early and stayed an hour late, came home and just kinda...crashed. Then I went to Shakespeare in the Park down in Forest Park. Their rendition of Much Ado was unique with an 1890's western theme, and I don't mean that in a bad way. Anyway, so I just got back to it, and as it is 11:11 pm, I am going to forgoe the regular Free Write Friday for now and just postpone it until tomorrow or Sunday, whenever I get the time.

I will also not announce this week's winner, but I would like to thank those people who gave their suggestions. A good crop this week, as always, but I got some new people suggesting which is great. Remember; if I don't pick you this week, keep suggesting. I'll even let you suggest the same thing over and over until I pick it if you would like. Just keep 'em coming!

To sum up; apology, lame reason, tangent, tease, sycophantic praise for audience, summary.

That is all.

The Definition of Conservative, and I Am Surrounded By Writers

This first bit hearkens back to a conversation I had earlier today. I will spare you the details and specifics, but it ended with me getting a dictionary to prove a point.

Generally, I was once again derisively called a "Liberal," this time because I was angry that even though I put a recycling bin in the break room at work specifically for soda cans (complete with signs directing people to deposit their cans in the bin rather than in the trash), I was angrily complaining about the fact that people had thrown their soda cans in the trash along with their half-eaten lunches...but I'll let the half eaten lunches rest for now...and so, yes, somebody in the break room decided that they would share their view that recycling is worthless, and that only tree hugging liberals cared about it. This person said he did not care about the environment enough to walk the two feet out of his way to put his diet coke can in the recycling.

An argument ensued, because I asked him if his parents (not him, but his parents, because this person is still young and probably still has his political ideologies running parallel to his parents') were Republicans. He said, "Yes. Aren't yours?" Then he added, "No, probably not, since you're like 22 and trying to recycle." First off, I'm 24. But I let that slide. He added again, derisively, that I am a "Liberal." Yes. I am politically Liberal, with a capital L. Environmentally conservative, though, with a lowercase c. He argued I couldn't be conservative at all, since Conservatives know that recycling is for, in his words, "cry-babies." I went out to the floor to get a dictionary.

I was disappointed to find that the majority of the definitions for conservative now deal with a capital C. I guess that's just what the word has come to mean, however, I checked the root word, conserve, which gave me a much better footing for my argument with this person. Conserving is, of course, saving. Now, political Conservatives want to save things like the status quo, and money for them that's got. They want to preserve family values and so forth. It is clear to me from the actions of certain people that political Conservatism has little to do with saving money for the good of the majority, or lives, or the planet on which we live (and by that I mean to natural portion of it, not just the lump of rock, which it appears is how some people see the Earth). Now, I am a conservative with a lowercase c, in that I would like to save money, and lives, and resources. So, yes, I recycle. And I liked that the definition of conservative did say that the root word was conserve, the definition of which has not been infiltrated by a capital C.

Now, let me get down off of my soap box and get to some good ol' fashioned elliotisnotawriter bloggin.

I am not a master of the off-the-cuff comment. Most of the time, I've got a heavy supply of "oh yeah?"s and "Your Mom!"s. But every once in a great while, I come up with something. My father has a problem with his jaw at the moment, and it's been a recurring problem for a few years. He has trouble opening his mouth all the way and eating hard foods, so a few years ago his doctor suggested that when it flares up (like it is doing now), he should put himself on a diet of soft foods. Foods, as the doctor said, "Like pie." So, it's dad's pie diet, as we like to call it. "Back on the pie diet?" "Yeah. It's pretty sweet." No pun intended, really, because remember that there is more than just fruit pies; there's things like chicken-pot pie and quiche is considered a pie. But, so, yes, he is back on his pie diet. And this evening, as we sat in the living room at my parents' house, keeping them company, he made a comment suggesting he had made a mistake several years in his past. "I'm not saying it was fair, but I obviously did something wrong." It was quiet for a second, and I said, "So, back on the pie diet. Tell me, how's that humble pie tasting?"

Score one for me. Of course, as creative as everybody seems to be in my family, I was soon outdone by my mother's lament. I was in the middle of telling the recycling story, when my mother croaked in a voice of desperation, "I just don't think I can take it." When questioned what it was she couldn't take, she responded, "There isn't any cake in the house."

My dad and I, in order to stop laughing so uncontrollably, went to the grocery store to buy cheese cake. Behold the power of words!

But it's not just me and my mother who can spontaneously compose something worthy of going into print; my father has been writing his life story for years, and just yesterday gave me a suggestion for free write Fridays (that I hope he posts on here so you can all see it, otherwise I'll look like an enormous tease). My wife, as you have seen, can come up with an idea that's unique and full of potential, but there is one thing she once wrote to me in an e-mail that I have never forgotten, even if I lost the e-mail. I'm about to get a little personal here, so, be forewarned.

When she and I were dating, we found that when we laid together, her head fit perfectly in the crook of my left shoulder, pretty much like they were made to connect. This was all cute and grossed out our friends, but she once wrote me an e-mail when we were living in different cities, telling me that she loved how she "fits into the shoulder" of my life. Sweetheart, that's poetry. And she says she's not a good writer. P'shaw!

Around the same time, my sister wrote me an e-mail as well. It was about four years ago now, when I went to my first Weier Family Wedding (the second would be my own), up in Davenport, IA, where Kathy's brother Dave lives. The same weekend, my sister was heading to Memphis for a short vacation. When I got home after the weekend, she had sent me an e-mail about her trip, but all she talked about was how she felt on the drive down. "I realized I was heading due south at 80 miles an hour. I was traveling at 80 miles an hour away from the people I loved the most. And then I realized that you were on your way to Davenport, in the exact opposite direction, and I did the math and realized that if you were driving at 80 miles an hour, you and I were travelling away from each other at 160 miles an hour! And that's just too fast!" It just kindled something in me, this little spark of...I don't know what, but it made me call her on the spot. That is too fast to be travelling away from the ones you love. And I wondered then, and I still wonder now, if anybody else has ever thought of that situation like that.

What I am trying to say through layers of cheese and sniffles and "John! Martha!" sort of back-and-forth drivel, is that if I am surrounded by writers, you should probably take a look at the people in your life, and listen to what they say. Read what they write. Even people who aren't writers the way that I am a writer probably have something profound to say at some point, and they will most likely find some very unique way to say it. Cherish that. And, if you are a writer like me, poach it and use it in a story. And make sure you get it copyrighted.

I know there are a few of you out there in the Blogniverse (DOWN WITH THE BLOGOSPHERE!) that are patiently (and kindly) reading through this longer-than-War-and-Peace-styled post in the hopes that at the end I will ask for suggestions for this week's Free Write Friday. And I hate to disappoint you all.

But I think I will anyway, and instead of asking for them now, I'll ask for them tomorrow.

But, now that I think about it, that's no good, especially considering how late I've been blogging this week; I mean, it's almost 11, the day is almost up, I am almost out of time to get my Wednesday blog in. Plus, I don't usually blog on Thursdays.

Thursday was an Emo band.

It's also the day I can't ever seem to get a hang of. Thursdays. Hmm.

Alright, then. Suggest away for this week's Free Write Friday.