tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15439735042082279722023-06-20T07:42:33.214-05:00Crazy Lucky DeadUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-50806814455322851642012-01-28T10:03:00.000-06:002012-01-28T10:03:03.856-06:00An Eye for Diamonds by Kevin Litwin <span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Edmund Freitag died yesterday after a long, painful illness. Joseph Gumm never heard of the man until this morning, while reading a newspaper article about the deceased.</span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Mr. Freitag was a business tycoon who never married, lived alone, and has no survivors. The 85-year-old man lives – or lived – only a few blocks from Gumm, but the two never crossed paths.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The newspaper story mentioned certain details that catch Gumm's eye, causing him to suddenly become interested in the late Mr. Freitag. It seems the old man died a millionaire, thanks in large part to a lifetime of allegedly overcharging and callously bilking naïve customers at three highly profitable jewelry stores he owned.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The article also includes a somewhat odd quote from an interview the elderly lifelong bachelor granted the newspaper last year, when the cantankerous Freitag said, “The only loves in my life are my home and a collection of diamonds I own. I’d kill to protect them both.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">One key word from that quote – diamonds – piqued Gumm’s interest, then the article’s final sentence made his heart beat a bit faster.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">A brief visitation for Mr. Freitag will be this evening from 5-6 p.m. at Iris Funeral Parlor, and visitation will also be tomorrow at Spirit Chapel from noon until his funeral at 1 p.m.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“His funeral at 1,” Gumm muttered with sinister thoughts in mind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">For Joseph Gumm is a jewel thief, and burglarizing homes is his talent. He has pillaged numerous wealthy residences during a career of crime, though none of the robberies ever took place in his own neighborhood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">That was about to change with the death of Edmund Freitag.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">****</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">At 5 p.m. that same day, as funeral parlor visitation began, Gumm climbed into his pickup truck and methodically drove to the old man’s now uninhabited house, to case it discretely from the street. The majestic three-story mansion looked to be securely locked, with the nefarious Gumm assuring himself that an interior alarm system must surely be part of the home’s infrastructure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Curiously, no fencing of any kind surrounded the perimeter of the property, which could allow basically anyone to access the front door and grounds. However, even with this seemingly unusual security oversight, the veteran jewel thief realized that the entire estate still had an impenetrable aura about it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">As he slowly coasted along the street and prepared to drive away, Gumm happened to spot a third-story window on the eastern side of the house, toward the rear of the mansion. The large rectangular window is virtually invisible from the street, unless someone specifically looked for it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">For some peculiar reason, the third-story window was wide open that evening. The Freitag property showed absolutely no sign of life – no people or vehicles were visible anywhere – so the whole scenario made no sense to Gumm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Adding to the puzzling scene was a long, rickety, wooden ladder anchored atop a concrete patio slab, with the ladder stretching upward to the third-floor window. The patio slab held no furniture – its only current purpose was to serve as foundation for the ladder that ascended to the open window.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“This joint's a fortress, so what gives?” Gumm wondered, crinkling his forehead in confusion with no answer to the puzzling sight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">But after a few seconds of ponder, he attributed the askew setting to a painter or handyman who probably worked on the home and forgot to lock up when leaving. With that puzzle solved, one final minute to meticulously study the property was followed by the black-hearted thief motoring away from the mansion, to begin plotting his next fabulous robbery.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“I'll do the heist tomorrow around 1,” Gumm concluded, knowing the mansion would certainly be abandoned due to Mr. Freitag’s funeral.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The scheming burglar surmised that walking – not driving – to the targeted home would be his wisest tactic, allowing himself to sneak up from the backyard instead of the street. Plus, he noticed during his home casing that the back of Freitag’s property is heavily wooded, so Gumm could sneak through a portion of the woods to ideally arrive at the rear of the house without anyone noticing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">How to enter the fortified home presented another issue, but that final item could be figured out tomorrow. Tonight, the confident jewel thief would sleep and dream in delight, with images of brilliant diamonds glimmering in the forefront of his mind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">****</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">On the afternoon of fate, at 12:30 p.m. as gray dreariness filled the sky, Gumm exited his own residence and put into motion the wheels of his daring burglary. Armed with a tiny crowbar and small jimmy stick stuffed into a jacket pocket, he embarked upon a calculated out-of-the-way hike to the woods behind Freitag mansion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">He slithered and slunk through heavy foliage until finally making his way to a strategic tree-camouflaged position, where he could easily see the back of the elderly gentleman's home. The house appeared as formidably secure as ever, except for what Gumm surprisingly witnessed in the near distance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The third-story window – the same window that was open late yesterday for whatever reason – was wide open today, and the concrete slab still supported the big ladder that scaled up to it. The baffled robber could also see that the window had no screens or other obstacles within it, so in spite of his bewilderment, he made a decision of destiny.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“I’m goin’ through that window. But really, why is it still open?” he wondered while beginning a careful sneak toward the ladder. “I don't see no work trucks or nothin’, and the place is dead quiet. I don’t understand, but it saves me from jimmyin' the back door or bustin' a window and maybe trippin’ some alarm.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Gumm's original plan had been to forcibly enter the house via crowbar or jimmy stick, then rush to hopefully find jewels within three or four minutes, and ultimately run from the premises before police could possibly arrive. But now, the open window mysteriously beckoned to him as a perfect means of entry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">****</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">He donned a thin pair of tight-fitting surgical gloves to hide his fingerprints, then climbed the shaky ladder with steely nerve and his guts of a burglar, reaching the inviting window within seconds. He peered cautiously into the opening before nimbly climbing through, and immediately surmised that he had entered a library chamber.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Tall mahogany bookcases were lined next to one another, and a thick brown Afghan rug covered part of an intricately patterned hardwood floor. Blue velvet armchairs with engrained crests also graced the stately room, and art treasures of surrealism and impressionism adorned gold-colored walls.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">But the item whose splendor ultimately caught Gumm's eye was a vintage rolltop desk of European craftsmanship that sat regally in the middle of the room, with an office chair of Victorian resplendence pushed up against it. And atop the glorious desk appeared a sterling silver jewelry box with the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Diamonds</i> elegantly inscribed in cursive. Next to the shiny box sat a solid gold watch along with a pearl-handled serrated letter opener, and Gumm’s heart pounded with unyielding desire at the sight of such bedazzlement.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">But instead of instantly pilfering the silver box and vacating the crime scene, he pulled out the Victorian office chair and sat down at the rolltop desk. He eagerly reached for the box of gems and zealously pulled off its tight cover, revealing a king's ransom in sparkling diamonds that ancient monarchies would kill for.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Flawless cut diamonds by the handfuls. Exquisite jewels glistening like sunlight on dancing water.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“Incredible,” a mesmerized Gumm whispered in ecstasy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">He quickly snapped out of his euphoria and realized that getting out of the mansion was top priority, so he hurriedly arose from the office chair, replaced the lid tightly onto the invaluable silver box, and amorously grabbed it in both hands. His total enthrallment with the diamonds caused him to blindly forego the solid gold watch and pearl letter opener.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The wide-eyed thief started to take a first step toward the open window to make his escape, when a sickening premonition streamed into his consciousness. Suddenly into the dank library chamber appeared the menacing ghost of Edmund Freitag.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">****</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The shadowy apparition had sickly gray features that glinted in the ruddy purple light filtering through the window, and the horrid image of the elderly corpse caused perspiration to burst from Gumm's forehead. He shuddered with terror and blinked twice to make sure the nightmarish vision was real.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">As the petrified burglar tried to fathom the goings-on, he backpedaled a step in dread. Then the old man spoke.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“You loathsome creature!” bellowed the enraged ghost as his phantom shape floated ominously toward the intruder. “You invade the very home I love and steal my collection of treasured diamonds? You vulgar piece of garbage!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“H-how is this happening?” the mortified Gumm whimpered as icy chills enveloped his spine. “Y-you…you're dead. I read it in the newspaper.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">“Yes, I am dead, but my corpse could not rest with a pariah like you raiding my beloved home!” Freitag screamed with death on his lips. “And now that you have violated my lovely lair long enough, the time has come for you to leave.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The eerie ghost of Freitag snatched the serrated letter opener from the rolltop desk and, with a rapier-like motion, slashed a brutal deep gash into Gumm’s left cheekbone and across the cornea of his left eye. The stunned robber was momentarily paralyzed with shock, so the crazed Freitag violently jammed the razor-sharp jagged opener into Gumm's left eye and furiously carved and dug at the eyeball until it dislodged from the socket. The bloody round orb dangled and bobbed on Gumm's face like a tether ball.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">The silver gemstone box flew wildly into the air from the jewel thief's quivering fingers as he shrieked in agony, with his cut-up face and grotesque hanging eyeball gushing geysers of scarlet blood. The overwhelming trauma caused the astonished Gumm to clumsily stumble backwards as he shivered with terror and writhed in pain, grasping his mangled face with both hands. He continued stumbling further backward in hideous convulsion until reaching the open window, from which he fell and somersaulted savagely to the concrete slab three stories down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Joseph Gumm died instantly, landing face first into the cement patio as pieces of his head splattered about. The bulky wooden ladder came crashing down and landed directly onto the thief’s hanging eyeball, which tore from his face and rolled to a stop a few feet from Gumm's crushed skull.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Three stories up, the wild ghost of Edmund Freitag angrily flung the dripping letter opener at the massacred intruder below, then abruptly closed the window and locked it tight. He drifted to the box of prized diamonds that lay intact on the bloodied Afghan rug and anxiously returned the coveted item to its proper place atop the rolltop desk.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: ArialMT;">Quickly checking the time on the gold watch, it read 1:00, so he immediately disappeared from his cherished home. Mr. Freitag had a funeral to attend. His own.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-33587364677147401632012-01-21T10:50:00.000-06:002012-01-21T10:50:17.700-06:00Sometimes Andrew Is by Kevin Litwin<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Sometimes Andrew is a super hero, always saving the day,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Sometimes Andrew is a dinosaur, hunting for his prey.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Sometimes Andrew is an astronaut, landing a ship on Mars,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Sometimes Andrew is a rock star, playing the drums and guitar.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Sometimes Andrew is a doctor, helping people heal,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Sometimes Andrew is a famous chef, cooking a yummy meal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">Why is Andrew all these things? Because he likes to play,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">His great imagination helps him enjoy every single day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">When Andrew gets a bit older, he can be anything he wants,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif";">But right now when he’s 6 years old, it’s just having fun that counts.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-50388115088888740102012-01-02T11:44:00.000-06:002012-01-02T11:44:00.111-06:00The Adam’s Apple by Kevin Litwin<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Tonight the moon will be full, so tonight I will do the deed. I have planned this surprise for days.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My madness continues to fester, tormenting my spirit, as the perversity of the actions I witness on a nightly basis has driven me to the extreme of rage. As I curl up for naptime in the early afternoon prior to tonight’s fateful murder, I reflect upon good deeds my human does for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He raises blinds each morning before leaving, knowing that two windows in our apartment face south. The sun pours through the violet glass as I doze on soft carpeting, listening to fainted sounds of nearby freeway traffic speeding by.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Each evening when arriving home, he opens two cans of tuna for me to enjoy. It’s not the cheap tuna – it’s albacore. And one evening last week, he brought home a scratching post for me to delight. Made of hard emery and oak, I have meticulously sharpened my claws to a scary razor finish in anxious preparation of this frenzied night to come.</div><br />
****<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">As today’s evening breaks, my human returns to our apartment as he does every day at this time. He taps my head in a playful manner, and satisfyingly scratches my neck under the collar for what seems to be a blissful eternity. Even though I’m independent to a fault, my human insists on feeding and caring for me, so tonight I shall equivalently return such favor when he drops off to sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">For because he is oblivious to the world when out cold, he hasn’t the slightest inkling that each night a mouse invades his throat and nests there. Surely it is a mouse. What else could it be? Yes, it is a mouse.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I noticed by chance the monstrous little creature a few nights ago, and its existence has haunted me unceasingly since then. The cruelty of it throbbing up and down, up and down, inside my human’s throat makes my soul shriek with fury. I hate the little fiend. It must be exterminated.</div><br />
****<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Tonight has finally arrived, filled with unusual gloom. The air is hot and sullen, and my psyche overflows with nightmarish contempt. Moonbeams silt through the apartment windows, and my keen eyes are sharper than ever as I notice from the living room that my human has turned off the lamp in his bedroom. Undoubtedly he has stretched his tired body atop the smallish bed, and usually within five minutes becomes dead to the world with slumber.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Almost instantaneously, the mouse then always arrives, traveling from wherever it travels to cloister itself inside the neck and throat of my human. I have especially noticed this disturbing escapade in earnest for the past two nights, while quietly casing the bedroom to check on things. I watch in horror and disdain as my human lays on his back and struggles to breathe, all due to the vile trespassing mouse that methodically moves up and down, up and down.</div><br />
****<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Suddenly, I now hear strange noises emanating from my human’s mouth and throat, so I instantly rise to my feet from the living room comfort and lithely tiptoe to the bedroom. I arrive at the door archway and from my standing position on the floor, I look upward and peer at my prone human whose throat is trembling with the vibrations of that infernal mouse going up and down inside his neck. Up and down, up and down. Evil vermin, it is time to become acquainted with the frightening predator that I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">With heart-stirring excitement, the destroyer in me flexes my sharp retractable claws and I grind my fanglike teeth, in crazed preparation for attack. Then, with eyes spewing fire, I take one gigantic and calculated leap upward from the bedroom floor and land perfectly on the bed, inches from my human’s head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">With claws honed like knives and in a fit of rage, I mightily slash my razor-like nails at the very body of the loathsome mouse and, with the strength of a tiny Hercules, I violently rip it from the confines of my human’s throat. Die, filthy intruder, die!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Hot black blood pours like molten lava from the neck of my human – blood of the wretched mouse. The disgusting creature lay motionless near the side of my human’s head, and being hunter and carnivore that I am, I devour the little scum in one bite, in victory. Excelsior! Its taste is wild and delicious, more delicious than albacore tuna.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I wish I had the ability to laugh, for now would be time for guffaws and glee, given the joyousness of this occasion. Sweet, sweet triumph. Vulgar mouse, your depraved actions will never darken our door – and throat – ever again.</div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The mouse’s distressing dark blood continues to cascade from the neck of my human, as pillowcase and bed sheets become more and more smeared with repugnance. However, it’s perfectly okay. My human lay quiet, with his nightly affliction finally vanquished. Never will that nasty varmint provide another instant of nuisance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So dream beautiful dreams, my human. No doubt you will be proud of my accomplishment once you awaken in the morning, and realize what I did. Is a reward in my immediate future? Dinner tomorrow evening might be greater than usual. Instead of albacore, perhaps I shall feast on red salmon. Served wild and delicious.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-47906282359303083022011-09-07T10:07:00.002-05:002011-09-07T10:07:13.008-05:00Gently Rapping<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I’ll kinda miss doing my Wednesday and Saturday blogs, but today is my final one. I’ll still stay in touch by updating my CLD Facebook page on the first day of every month, plus more if I have any big news regarding my book-publishing effort.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I did attend the Killer Nashville mystery writers’ convention a couple weeks back and had some encouraging news. I was there on a Sunday morning for three agent/publisher book pitches, with my first 10-minute shot occurring from 10:40-10:50 with publisher Martin Shepard of The Permanent Press out of New York. When I finished, he asked me to send him the first 50 pages of my manuscript, so a glimmer of hope right off the bat.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The next 10-minute pitch was with publisher Deni Dietz, and she ultimately asked me to submit my entire manuscript to her. Then my third and final shot was with New York agent Jeff Kleinman, supposedly a difficult person to deal with who surprised me by wanting to see my first three chapters.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">In fact, Kleinman immediately liked my story idea and asked if I brought the first three chapters with me. I didn’t, never suspecting that any agent or publisher would ask such a question at the convention. He chided me a bit for being unprepared but bottom line: He still wants me to send the first three chapters.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Of the 650 people at the convention that weekend, an organizer told me that the agent/publishers asked to see a total of 40 sample writings, including my three. Made me feel good until they all gave me their final words of advice – “Okay, we like the idea. Now make sure you have every word perfect before you submit anything to us. Don’t send us crap. Now it’s all about the writing. Make it great.”</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Deni Dietz, who wants the entire manuscript, told me that her publishing house doesn’t take any manuscripts under 65,000 words. Mine, before I began a final edit that I just started over Labor Day weekend, was 57,800 words. As I currently write this blog Tuesday night Sept. 6, the book is now 59,000 words after I’ve gone through the first 10 chapters of the 45-chapter novel. I’ve got some more ideas of scenes to add, so onward I shall go.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Dietz and the two others said there is no hurry for my manuscript or chapters – they each already have their 2012 book lineups set. They all told me that when I’m ready to submit my work to them, the earliest it could get published is 2013. Sheesh, they work way in advance.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So more writing and editing is my plan of attack, and I’m focusing on impressing Deni Dietz since she asked for the whole thing. I work with a good editor at Journal Communications – Raven – who said she would read and critique my manuscript when it’s finally ready.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Ironically, Edgar Allan Poe is one of my favorite authors and his most memorable work is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Raven</i>, so Raven seems like a choice of destiny to oversee my final edit. I plan to have the rewrite completed by the end of September, at which point I will approach Raven for her help. I will suddenly come a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at her chamber door. Hopefully, Raven won’t say, “Nevermore.”</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Thank you to niece Andrea who from March 8-Sept. 7 posted my 45 blogs – hey, the same number of chapters that are in my book. Thanks for reading the blogs, everyone. Talk atcha on my CLD Facebook page Oct. 1 – maybe sooner. KL</span></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-44374756987836403422011-08-20T09:33:00.002-05:002011-08-20T09:33:53.483-05:00Killer<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Haven’t blogged in awhile because my life kinda stinks right now, like the tuna fish sandwich I ate yesterday. But onward we all go.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Book update: I will be attending a Killer Nashville mystery book writers convention Aug. 26-28 near Vanderbilt University in Nashville. The annual convention showcases the mystery genre with many nationally recognized speakers, agents, editors and publishers in attendance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">One of the nice aspects is that a registered attendee like me is allowed to pitch his book for 15 minutes to a New York agent. Ironically, I’ll just so happen to attend a seminar called The Perfect Pitch only an hour prior to my personal pitch. Good luck, me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">A thank you goes out to Jessica for putting together a flashy one-page, two-sided, flyer-like, card cover (inside joke) handout I can give to agents at the Killer Nashville conference. The flyer has my book cover on the front (thanks Jon Brooks) and a brief synopsis and my bio on the back. There is even a cool graphic of my signature – looks like I signed with my own blood (thanks Keith).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Also a shout out to Gary, who e-mailed some encouraging words last week telling me to keep plugging with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy Lucky Dead</i>, as he relayed a fact about the best-selling book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Help</i>. It’s a 2009 novel by Kathryn Stockett about African American maids working in white households in Mississippi during the early 1960s, and apparently Stockett was rejected by more than 60 agents prior to finally getting a book deal. Her novel ultimately made the New York Times Best Sellers list.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Okay, that’s all for right now. I still love to write but dislike all the other aspects of this peddling process. The whole thing makes me feel like a hamper of dirty clothes. Maybe my washing machine will be at the Killer Nashville convention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Next blog Sept. 7. Goodbye.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-27983950641717396422011-08-03T10:02:00.002-05:002011-08-03T10:02:53.616-05:00From Kevin<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I am going to end my blog on Sept. 7.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">That will be a full six months since I first started blogging on March 8, and I don’t think anyone really cares what’s coming out of my mind anymore. I think you’re all ready to move on to something else, and so I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Right now I’m in the process of writing my second book, plus I just put together a children’s book that I will soon try to peddle. As for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy Lucky Dead</i>, I certainly haven’t put enough effort lately into either finding an agent or self-publishing it or e-publishing it, so I need to get back at it. Luckily for me, I wrote the book so it’s timeless, meaning that if an agent ever does take a chance even years from now, I’ll barely have to rewrite it. Just transform 2005 Chevrolet Impalas into 2016 Nissan Leafs, and things like that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So today’s blog, then a blog on Saturday Aug. 20 to catch people up on things, then the final one Wednesday Sept. 7. The whole thing a little confusing? Maybe, but I’m a little confused myself these days – kind of like a tourist in New York City.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Thanks for reading. I’ve really enjoyed blogging.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Kevin</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-20419951971403559642011-07-30T11:30:00.002-05:002011-07-30T11:30:46.691-05:00Distorted Reality<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I must be turning into a 14-year-old teenage girl.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I've been watching too many TV reality shows lately, mostly for all the gossip and drama that accompanies them. This became especially evident Thursday night when I was affixed to the season premieres of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Project Runway</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">LA Ink</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Don't know why I watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Project Runway</i> – I'm certainly not a clothes horse. Maybe I'm attracted to the design artistry that's involved. By the way, this season I'm rooting for the straight guy. Oh, wait – there aren't any.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">As for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">LA Ink</i>, again I like the artistry. I'm impressed when clients bring in pictures of people's faces they want tattooed on their arms, and the tattooists make the finished tattoos look exactly like the pictures. Speaking of which, bad move by Kat Von D to get a big likeness of fiancé Jesse James tattooed on her underarm, then the couple broke up in real life a week after the taping of that particular episode.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Okay, I need to stop. Gotta go listen to my Justin Bieber CD.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Burn, Baby, Burn</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Lose weight and increase metabolism in a healthy, scientific way?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Nope, this isn't a Billy Mays (deceased) commercial. I wrote an article this week on research advancements at the University of Tennessee, and interviewed Joy Fisher with the UT Research Foundation. She mentioned quite a few upcoming medical breakthroughs at UT, including:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“We're backing a company that has developed a can't-miss, scientific weight loss product called Innutria,” Joy said. “Innutria is a food ingredient with a specific blend of natural nutrients, which when added to food or a beverage helps your body burn fat and increase metabolism.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Joy doesn't yet know the launch date (it will be soon) or where Innutria will be sold. Innutria.com will have updates.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Speaking of Food</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My friend Tony visited Sea World the other day, then relayed this joke:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Why does Sea World have a seafood restaurant? I'm halfway through my fish burger and I realize, Oh my…I could be eating a slow learner.”</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-4036201250887992011-07-27T09:42:00.000-05:002011-07-27T09:42:50.347-05:00Johnson Rod<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My last blog pointed out how proud I was of ridding our house of ants, then followed that achievement by painting the entire downstairs of our two-story house. But since pride goeth before a fall, I could almost count on something else popping up at home to quell my enthusiasm.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Sure enough, only hours after last Saturday’s blog was posted, our air conditioning unit went on the fritz. Luckily, our home is cooled by two pumps – one for the upstairs and one for downstairs -- with the pump failing for the upstairs. Everyone in the family stayed downstairs for the remainder of Saturday and all of Sunday, with the temperature upstairs reaching 99 degrees one time when I checked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The repairman was at our house at 8 a.m. Monday and gave me a detailed explanation of the problem, and I was pleased that the bottom line for fixing the unit was only $120.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Yeah, it was your start capacitor,” the repairman began to tell me. “Those capacitors used to run on oil but the government ended all that with the environment thing, so now every capacitor wears out after maybe three years of torque-starts to cycle the motor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Do what?” I thought to myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I can hold a pretty good conversation about cars and most home improvement projects, but air conditioners and furnaces – not so much. The guy could have told me that the air conditioner needed a new Johnson rod and I would have gone along with it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Sorry. Only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seinfeld</i> fans would understand that Johnson rod reference.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Bell Tolls</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Back when I attended grades K-12 and then took six years to earn my four-year college degree, I never began a school year prior to Labor Day weekend. The first day of a new school year was always Sept. 5 or 6 or 7.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">That’s why it always surprises me when wife Jenny, a teacher at Spring Hill (Tenn.) Elementary School, begins every school year at the end of July. Jenny was back at school this week on July 25 to attend teacher and administration meetings in anticipation of students arriving back to class this coming Monday, Aug. 1.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But there is actually a method to this madness of being in school with basically two months of summer remaining, as current-day temperatures hover around 95 degrees. Spring Hill and the rest of the overseeing Maury County Public Schools district adheres to a year-round school calendar, with everything beginning in late July and ending in late May. The late May graduation is one advantage of year-round schools – I never graduated from any grade prior to June 14 or 15.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Plus the year-round schools get two weeks of vacation in October, a long Christmas vacation, and a two-week vacation in the spring. However, that is being altered a bit this year by having some days cut from both the fall and spring vacations, then those cut-days are being added to dates throughout the year that will allow for a few three-day weekends and a few four-day weekends.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Jenny says she likes the year-round calendar.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“We still get a full two months for summer vacation, and looking forward to that break in October is really nice,” she says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So good luck, Spring Hill Elementary and all Maury County Public Schools as you already embark upon 2011-2012. It’s still boiling hot outdoors, so I hope all classrooms have good air conditioning units that have no chance of Johnson rods ever breaking.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-50401548673758427922011-07-23T09:41:00.002-05:002011-07-23T09:41:40.745-05:00Humble Home<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Being a homeowner is tough. There always seems to be something to fix, upgrade or address.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Two weeks ago a colony of ants charged into my living room like a Marine invasion, and the reason for their unwelcome appearance remains a mystery to this day. But a quick trip to Home Depot followed by strategic positioning of ant traps got rid of the pests overnight.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Then last week I decided to paint the entire first floor interior of our two-story home, fully confident that it would be an easy undertaking. Oh, how wrong I was, what with the taping, ladder-climbing, sanding, priming, spackling, caulking, rolling, edging and trim work.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I figured it would take 3-4 days to complete everything, but I wasn’t able to rest until the seventh day. The whole project moved slower than rush hour traffic, but you know what? Now that it’s finished and I look it over, I couldn’t be happier with my accomplishment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But as I walk around as proud as a peacock today, the next home problem will surely occur tomorrow. Today I’m a peacock. Tomorrow, a feather duster.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Horizontal Author</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I’ve always heard that author Truman Capote was strange, which was somewhat proven to me this week when I read about his writing style.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Capote, who penned classics such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breakfast at Tiffany’s</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Cold Blood</i>, claimed to be “a completely horizontal author.” He always wrote lying down, in bed or on a couch, with a cigarette and coffee. The coffee would switch to tea, then sherry, then martinis as the day wore on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Capote said he wrote his first and second drafts in longhand, in pencil. And even his third draft, on a typewriter, would be done in bed – with the typewriter balanced on his knees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Where’s Gramma?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">A quick joke e-mailed to me yesterday by friend Mike:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“You have to stay in shape,” Mike says. “My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She’s 87 today and we don’t know where she is.”</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-26434770924168069522011-07-20T11:26:00.002-05:002011-07-20T11:26:44.286-05:00Mrs. Kracht<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">What is the capital of Nevada? Carson City!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">What’s the capital of Washington? Olympia!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">What’s the capital of Maine? Augusta!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I found out last week that my old fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kracht, passed away a couple months ago at her home in Ferndale, Mich. I don’t remember many of my former teachers – I vaguely recall one from second grade, another from sixth grade, one from high school and a couple from college – but Mrs. Kracht stood out. She had innovative and fun ways of getting her students to learn, and to this day I remember competing in row races to learn all of the U.S. state capitals.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Mrs. Kracht would sit at her desk and announce a state (for example, New Mexico) at which time the first students in each of the six rows in her classroom would rush to the front blackboard, grab a piece of chalk, write Santa Fe on the board, then run back to the second student in their respective row and hand off the chalk – all while Mrs. Kracht was announcing the second state.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The pandemonium in the classroom was uproarious, and her students excelled. I still know all of the state capitals to this day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Mrs. Kracht was a lady who exuded kindness in everything she did. Someone once told me that you should live so well that when you die, even the undertaker will be unhappy. Mrs. Kracht lived life as well as it can be lived.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The capital of West Virginia? It’s Charleston, Mrs. Kracht.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Heaven Is for Real</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My mother read a book the other day entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heaven Is For Real</i>, then called to chat about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Kevin, I no longer have any anxiety about dying and going to heaven,” she said. “This is such a beautiful book. It brought me to tears every chapter.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The true-story <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i> bestseller details small-town Nebraska pastor Todd Burpo, whose then-four-year-old son, Colton, suffered from an undiagnosed ruptured appendix. After emergency surgery, little Colton began describing people who were impossible for him to have seen or met, such as his miscarried sister who nobody had told him about, and his great grandfather who died 30 years before Colton was born.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“It’s so amazing that I’ve started reading it a second time,” my mom said yesterday.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">End With a Joke</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My Uncle Rich loves to tell jokes, and told me this one last week:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">A man has six children and is very proud of his achievement. He is so proud of himself that he starts calling his wife “Mother of Six” in spite of her objections.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">One night they go to a big party. The man decides it’s time to go home and shouts to his wife at the top of his voice across a crowded room, “Shall we go home, Mother of Six?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">His wife, irritated by her husband’s lack of discretion, shouts back:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Anytime you’re ready, Father of Four!”</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-73737058696827454452011-07-16T07:58:00.000-05:002011-07-16T07:58:18.786-05:00Flowers in Concrete<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Stephen King says he writes 10 pages every day without fail, even on holidays.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">That tidbit is from his book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On Writing</i>, which provides insightful advice on the craft. I was thumbing through it this week and came upon a chapter where King discusses pace. I’ve always thought that fast-paced writing results in enjoyable reading, and was pleased to find out that King feels the same.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Mostly when I think of pacing, Elmore Leonard explained it perfectly by saying that when he writes, he leaves out the boring parts,” King says. “Take out the fluff so you don’t intrude on the story. Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Rewrite 44 Times</span></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">While King writes 10 pages a day, other greats had different routines. Ernest Hemingway wrote only 500 words daily, but was meticulous. Someone once asked him why he rewrote the final chapter to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Farewell to Arms</i> – supposedly 44 times.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Hemingway’s answer: “To get the words right.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Like Hemingway, author James Joyce prided himself on taking his time with each sentence. A famous story has a friend asking Joyce on the street if he’d had a good day writing.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, I did,” Joyce replied.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“How much did you write today?” the friend asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Three sentences,” Joyce happily answered.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Act Two</span></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I started a second book yesterday. I think writing a book is the hardest thing I do without getting a hernia. It’s as difficult as growing flowers in concrete. But there are some moments in life that have an indescribable loveliness to them, and I experienced one yesterday after penning a satisfying paragraph.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">So act two has begun, of a continuing adventure where I never feel quite alright.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-26488380709749641212011-07-13T10:10:00.000-05:002011-07-13T10:10:28.436-05:00What the Faulkner?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Just exactly like father if father had known as much about it the night before I went out there as he did the day after I came back thinking mad impotent old man who realized at last that there must be some limit even to the capabilities of a demon for doing harm, who must have seen his situation as that of the show girl, the pony, who realizes that the principle tune she prances comes not from horn and fiddle and drum but from a clock and calendar, must have seen himself as the old worn-out cannon which realizes that it can deliver just one more fierce shot and crumble to dust in his own furious dust and recoil,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Oh, my gosh. That 120-word, long-winded beginning of a sentence is from William Faulkner’s 1936 novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absalom, Absalom!</i>, which I purchased and then began reading this week. Faulkner holds the record for the longest sentence ever published in a book – 1,257 words in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absalom, Absalom!</i> – and it runs from page 181 to page 184. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought the book specifically to read that passage, and did yesterday. In the pantheon of sentence writing, it is a freak.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">As for the novel itself, I’ve battled my way through the first fatiguing chapter and encountered quite a few sentences that are 400-500 words in length. Good grief, William. Were periods frowned upon in 1936?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">No Blog Fog</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Friends Roy and Diane asked me last week if I still enjoy blogging, and I do. It’s challenging. Who knows? If one of my eventual 7 books sells someday, I can put together a little compilation of these 104 blogs that I’ll end up with from this first book endeavor.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Andrea my niece just told me about a woman in Omaha who has been approached to do a book based on that woman’s blogs. Write on, all writers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Watts New</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I took an enjoyable ride in an all-electric car last week, a 2011 Nissan Leaf, that friend Mark purchased for himself and wife Karen. Very nice car and plenty of hop as Mark and I punched it along the freeway, hitting 85 mph in mere seconds.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Gasoline barons obviously dislike the Leaf, but an eventual major conversion to electric vehicles seems inevitable for America’s driving future. Congratulations, Mark and Karen, for being way ahead of the game.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Calm Frozen Face</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">And now, as I inwardly emit a blood-curdling scream of anguish, let me share with you the final 98 words from Faulkner’s 1,257-word sentence:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">…carry him up the front steps and through the paintless formal door beneath its fanlight imported pane by pane from Europe which Judith held open for him to enter with no change, no alteration in that calm frozen face she had worn for four years now, and on up the stairs and into the bedroom and put him to bed like a baby and then lie down himself on the floor beside the bed though not to sleep since before dawn the man on the bed would stir and groan and Jones would say, ‘Hyer I am, Kernel.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Hurray. A period.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-55086865245768321482011-07-09T11:04:00.000-05:002011-07-09T11:04:31.096-05:00Write Stuff<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">I am a charter member of the fraternity of dreamers, so I will begin writing my second book this coming week as I embark upon an 11-day vacation. I don’t want to divulge the subject just yet because I’m superstitious. All I can say is that I’m filled with verve and vigor as I look forward to book-writing again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">My goal is have the first draft written by the end of August and then clean it up throughout September, which is my favorite month of the year. I want to keep this schedule because I’m actually itching to get a third book started.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">The third will be especially sinister. Won’t it, Natasha Stone?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">Crazy Lucky Isn’t Dead</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">The start of a second book doesn’t mean that I’ve given up on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy Lucky Dead</i>. No, that’s not the case at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">I still haven’t heard anything from the three agents who contacted me a couple months ago and showed a modicum of interest, so I’m assuming that they have long rejected my project. Therefore, yesterday I e-mailed five more query packages as I begin actively trolling again for agents, as if they were largemouth bass.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">Absalom, Absalom!</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">Reading a book? I haven’t done that in ages but decided to tackle a classic by a writer who many regard as the most difficult author of all time. I accessed amazon.com this past week and ordered a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absalom, Absalom!,</i> written in 1936 by William Faulkner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">I bought the book for one main reason, and I’ll share that with you in Wednesday’s blog – after I’ve slogged through the first couple of excruciatingly difficult chapters.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">News of the World</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">Admission of guilt: My favorite newspaper in the world is the sensationalistic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Post</i>, and my favorite weekly tabloid is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Enquirer</i>. The irreverence of both publications intrigue me, and many stories they run simply serve as poignant eyewitnesses to man’s imperfection.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">So I was stunned this week – along with millions of other people around the globe – when officials with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">News of the World</i> newspaper in London announced they are discontinuing operations of the long-standing lurid publication. The final issue prints tomorrow after 168 years of being England’s top-selling paper.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">Yes, it has been in business non-stop since 1843. The newspaper’s owner, Rupert Murdoch, is stopping the presses following scandalous accusations that the paper’s top editorial officials illegally eavesdropped on the phone messages of murder and terror victims as well as politicians and celebrities.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">News of the World</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">, which sold more than 2.5 million copies every Sunday for decades, now sees 200 employees out of jobs. In these days of newspapers dying for a variety of economic reasons, here is a wildly successful one that meets its demise for an entirely different reason.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt;">Cause of death? Unscrupulous suicide.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-1383505961057655502011-07-06T10:30:00.000-05:002011-07-06T10:30:38.969-05:00Open Vent<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Quick change of plans: Today I'm flying to Orlando for a big party at Hooter's. I hear Casey Anthony is already there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Interesting that you can <span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">kill your child or have knowledge of how they died, then hire a snake-tongued lawyer and ultimately go free to continue your gallivanting lifestyle. Casey Anthony is lucky she didn’t go to prison, because hardened inmates think child killers are the lowest form of human life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">But from what I’m hearing, many people think she’ll now be killed in the free world. Party hard while you can, murderer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Gaga</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">MTV – is that an acronym for Maternity Television?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Much of its programming these days focuses on reality shows about 16-year-old girls who are pregnant. And once they give birth, viewers can enjoy their fascinating journeys into ridicule, despair and welfare.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">That's good entertainment, MTV. But who am I to talk? I’m looking forward to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jersey Shore</i> returning.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Great Gurgitators</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">On a somewhat comical note, did any of you watch the Nathan’s Famous Hotdog Eating Contest on ESPN July 4? The winner was Joey “Jaws” Chestnut, who in 10 minutes ate 62 hotdogs, including the buns.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Chestnut defeated competitors such as Erik “The Red” Denmark, the current world champion of smelt eating; Tim “Gravy” Brown, the reigning potato wedge-eating world champion; and Bob “Notorious B.O.B.” Shoudy, the world's current chili spaghetti champion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">To the scoffers among you, including any of you who live in Missouri, I'm not making this up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The ESPN announcers said that for normal people, it takes about two minutes to devour maybe 3-4 hotdogs if we hurry. Chestnut had 12 hotdogs and buns eaten in the first minute, and a total of 20 after two minutes on his way to 62. No wonder he is holder of the coveted Yellow Mustard Belt.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Oh, and the reason why champion eaters drink water basically after every bite, or soak every bun in water? The water takes all the air out of the hotdog buns, making them easier to slide down the esophagus.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Geez, I know entirely too much about this.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-20005315216688489632011-07-02T08:52:00.001-05:002011-07-02T18:03:52.457-05:00Left Eye LopesWarning: I’m all over the place today.<br />
<strong>Gimme a Brake</strong><br />
The recent car crash and death of <em>Jackass</em> star Ryan Dunn prompted the askmen.com website to post a list of Top 10 Celebrities Who Have Died in Car Crashes. Thanks, Natasha and Lisa, for giving me a heads up about this, and yes, I correctly guessed the No. 1 death – James Dean.<br />
But me, being a trivia nut – how did I not come up with No. 2, which seemed so obvious? The answer never even crossed my mind. Of course, Princess Diana would rank high on that list.<br />
The rest of the top 10 dead car-crashers in order were Grace Kelly, Jayne Mansfield, Gen. George S. Patton, Jackson Pollack, Porfirio Rubirosa, Billy Martin, Steve Prefontaine and Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes.<br />
<strong>Book It</strong><br />
My big boss, Bob, and friend, Maurice, both suggested at lunch the other day that perhaps I should publish 25 of my books myself locally, then I can keep about 15 and maybe hand out 10 as mementoes of my initial push-to-publish experience.<br />
Then, if an agent eventually shows interest in <em>Crazy Lucky Dead</em>, that would be fine, but if nothing happens, at least I’d have a handful of copies as keepsakes. Maybe I’ll do that – I don’t know yet.<br />
<strong>Barry True</strong><br />
A longtime friend, Barry, lives in Cleveland and is a diehard Browns football fan, and he called last week to talk sports. First, we both hope the NFL has a 2011 season, given that the lockout is now in its third month.<br />
“How’s things look in Nashville? Your Tennessee Titans any good?” Barry asked.<br />
“Nah, I’m thinkin’ 6 or 7 wins this year – they’re rebuilding,” I said. “But hey, we’ll never be as bad as your Browns. You guys are horrible every year.”<br />
“I blame management,” Barry instantly answered. “They can never find any good players. Those idiots couldn’t find their ass with both hands and an ass map.”<br />
He sighed, then continued.<br />
“And I blame the coaches and players,” he said. “If they’d give 100 percent every Sunday, maybe we’d win more than 4 or 5 blasted games a year."<br />
He sighed again.<br />
"But I really blame my parents," Barry said. “If I was born in Pittsburgh instead of Cleveland, I could root for a decent team."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-33707483737581882482011-06-29T11:23:00.000-05:002011-06-29T11:23:16.095-05:00ColumboWikipedia gets checked by me every week to see if any celebrities died, so I can keep up on pop culture. Their deaths never affect me one way or the other, although I remember being sad for two entire days when Dale Earnhardt was killed in February 2001. I’m a NASCAR fan and Earnhardt was always my favorite driver, and his shocking death hit me hard.<br />
Other than that, I’ve never been sad about another celebrity’s passing until I heard last Saturday morning that actor Peter Falk died.<br />
“Oh, man,” I muttered and was legitimately sad for the day.<br />
Falk became famous on TV in the late 1970s for playing the role of detective Lt. Columbo, but all the episodes aired as reruns throughout the 1990s on the Biography channel, which is how I got hooked on the series. Columbo was a cigar stub-smoking, wrinkled raincoat-wearing, old beat up Peugeot car-driving, irritating murder-solving genius. The show was groundbreaking because in almost all <em>Columbo</em> episodes, the murder occurred early and the TV audience knew who did it, then the plot steadily unwound as Columbo eventually figured things out for himself and nailed the killer.<br />
I mention Peter Falk today because <em>Columbo</em> was kind of an inspiration for my <em>Crazy Lucky Dead</em> book. A murder in CLD takes place somewhat early, then the psychological bizarreness of the main characters is showcased throughout the rest of the novel.<br />
A quick fact about Peter Falk himself – he was blind in one eye due to cancer at age 3. Falk’s daughter, Catherine, offered this anecdote about her father at his eulogy.<br />
“My fond memories of Dad include watching him on Hollywood sets, and taking family trips with him to the California mountains,” she said. “Oh, I also remember many exciting car rides because that man behind the steering wheel had only one eye.”<br />
<strong>Look into the Abyss</strong>Still no word from any agents. I’ve pretty much given up hope and am starting my next book when I go on vacation in mid July.<br />
“You’ve given up?” wife Jenny remarked when she read the draft of this blog. “Get back on your horse and start mailing and emailing packets again – there are hundreds of agents out there. You’re not giving up so easily on your dream, are you?”<br />
I’m a Seinfeld fan, and that was the exact sentence that Jerry once spoke to Newman when Newman, a mailman, said he had given up hope of ever getting a mail route in the paradise state of Hawaii.<br />
“You’re not giving up so easily on your dream, are you?” Jerry asked.<br />
“I usually do,” Newman answered.<br />
Okay, I won’t yet. There aren’t many things I dislike more than mailing query letters and trolling for literary agents, but just about everything I’ve ever dreaded doing in my life has actually turned out well.<br />
Wait a second. I’m out of stamps. There goes the dream.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-83556954583956122582011-06-25T10:44:00.002-05:002011-06-25T10:44:58.342-05:00Gut Check<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Aaaahheeeeyaaahhheeeeeeee!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">That Mardi Gras scream is in tribute to the first Cajun meal I’ve ever eaten, which was two days ago. Co-worker Mark and I bought lunch for another co-worker, Marcus, who is leaving the company, and we all decided on Cajun because Marcus and I never had such food, and Mark barely has.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Three bloody Marys (a going-away toast) were followed by six appetizers and two soups, and those eight different menu items allowed us to sample a lot of famed New Orleans dishes all in one sitting. The appetizers were hog-tied shrimp, crawfish etouffee, boudin, red beans and sausage, crab cakes and fire shrimp, along with seafood gumbo and jambalaya soup.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Amazing, amazing meal. One of the best lunches ever. When the waitress first served all the food, our table looked beautiful. It was as eye-pleasing as a Bob Ross painting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“My favorite dish? The hog-tied shrimp,” Marcus said following the feast.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“I gotta go with the fire shrimp,” Mark said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“The crawfish etouffee for me,” I chimed in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">We all agreed that all eight selections were incredible. Who dat? We dat. Great Cajun cuisine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Hives</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A quick shout out to another co-worker, Jeff, who has a sideline beekeeping and honey production operation. Jeff bottles honey under a Tru Bee brand name, and his honey was just highlighted in the July 2011 issue of <i>Cooking Light</i> magazine. <i>Cooking Light</i> is a national monthly publication with a circulation of 1 million readers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I bought a bottle of Tru Bee a few weeks ago because my son Andrew has bad allergies, and I’ve heard that natural bee’s honey – specifically produced in the part of the country where you live – is a medicinal wonder. Well, it has certainly helped Andrew, to the point where he hasn’t needed his Friday allergy shots for the past two weeks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Congratulations, Jeff…and Andrew, too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Cowhide</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I was walking along the street the other day when a lady approached me and angrily pointed at my suede jacket.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“It makes me sick that cows are used for food and clothes,” she yelled. “Y’know, a cow was murdered for your jacket!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Ma’am, I didn't know there were any witnesses,” I said. “Now I'll have to kill you, too.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Just a joke. Sorry if I offended any cows.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-48405078968636867882011-06-22T10:55:00.000-05:002011-06-22T11:21:33.589-05:00Just FoulI was walking around the stadium between games of the College World Series in Omaha four years ago and noticed a young boy, maybe 8 years old, approach a player from the University of South Carolina baseball team.<br />“Could I please have your autograph?” the boy politely asked, even though he probably had no idea who the player was. The little baseball fan just wanted an autograph from a baseball player.<br />“No, kid. I don’t have time for that. No,” groused the South Carolina player, even though it was between games and he was doing nothing except shooting the breeze with a couple of teammates.<br />The dejected youngster walked away and the arrogant player spit on the ground, then continued talking about nothing with his chums. Maybe it was an isolated incident and that player was a jerk of a human being, but I’ve never forgotten that scene and will never root for the University of South Carolina in anything.<br />That’s right. If South Carolina had a ballgame today against Al-Qaeda, I’d probably root for Al-Qaeda. Well, not quite that far but you get my drift.<br /><strong>Decline and Fall<br /></strong>I’ve never considered sports stars to be idols or heroes, and tend to cringe whenever those words are used to describe these celebrities. I once read <em>The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire</em> and one of the key messages in the book was that the Roman public literally worshipped their athletes.<br />The common citizens adored their gladiators, and lavished chariot racers and other sports luminaries with huge amounts of money and privilege. Sound familiar?<br /><strong>Ted Williams<br /></strong>Now, let me turn this blog around. I once was in Florida watching spring training baseball and met Ted Williams, who the media historically characterized as a despicable cuss. I found myself only steps from the retired slugging great and not many people were around, so I took a shot at asking him for his autograph. I’m not an autograph seeker by any means, but Ted Williams is Ted Williams.<br />“Mr. Williams, could I please have your autograph?” I asked with nervous trepidation.<br />“Yeah, sure. You got somethin’ to write with?” he answered.<br />I had a small notepad and a blue pen in my pocket, and he signed one of the notepad pages. Ted Williams isn’t my hero or idol, but he proved to me that sports celebrities can at least be role models if they want. All it takes is a little effort.<br /><strong>Shh, Movie’s Starting<br /></strong>I’m movie illiterate – I haven’t seen a movie in eons, because I really don’t enjoy them. Maybe I have a short attention span, but if a movie starts slow or sags at any point, my will to keep watching gets crushed like an ice cream cone under an 18-wheeler.<br />However, I’m taking a vacation soon and my list of relaxing things to do includes watching the DVDs of <em>Citizen Kane</em> and <em>Napoleon Dynamite</em>, both for the first time in my life. Several people have long told me that I must see these movies, so I’ll make the monumental effort and get it over with.<br />But before all that, my son Andrew has somehow wheedled me into taking him to see the new <em>Cars 2</em> movie, which apparently debuts this weekend. I guess he wants some dad time and even though I dread films, I’ll go with a positive attitude because I sure don’t want to disappoint the boy.<br />Not like that South Carolina ballplayer did.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-12923504137552655172011-06-18T09:53:00.000-05:002011-06-18T09:54:32.070-05:00FanaticalsMany who like sports also enjoy the violent aspect of the games. I do.<br />The controlled mayhem of football, the brawls of a championship boxing match, the hitting and fury of a playoff hockey game. Sports can appeal to the primal beast in us.<br />The now-infamous Wednesday night riots in Vancouver following a Stanley Cup playoff hockey game has garnered plenty of negative commentary internationally about the fans of Vancouver. Someone wrote that Canadians love hockey so much that it takes precedence over all facets of their lives, including civilized behavior.<br />Watching scenes of Vancouver residents rioting that night was like watching war footage from the Middle East. Ten guys beating up one guy, mobs flipping over trucks, fans throwing newspaper stands through store windows, looters wearing goalie masks, rioters throwing tear gas canisters back at police – those are images I’ll remember for a long time.<br />I’m sure alcohol along with anger over hometown Vancouver losing to the Boston Bruins had much to do with the violence, but even if you’re drunk and mega-outraged that your team lost, shouldn’t you still have enough human sense to keep yourself under the slightest of control? I mean, CNN reported that one innocent guy on the streets was wearing a Boston jersey and got stabbed in the neck, and is still in critical condition today.<br />I had a violent experience years ago in a Detroit bar when a fight broke out while a packed house watched playoff hockey on TV, and I suddenly and unwillingly found myself in the middle of escalating mob chaos. One maniac rooting for the opposing team pulled out a knife and started slashing wildly at everything, and cut my left forearm badly. I still have the scar today.<br />I guess my point is that crazed sports fans have a different mentality than people in normal society. I’ve always heard that Vancouver is a beautiful and progressive community, but whenever I think of that city from now on, memories of riot videos posted on YouTube will be what I think of first.<br />Trivia Pursuit<br />Speaking of sports, today Vanderbilt opens the 2011 NCAA College World Series vs. North Carolina at 1 p.m. in Omaha. Win or lose, Vandy will always be part of a trivia answer.<br />Question: Who were the first 2 teams ever to play a College World Series game in the brand new TD Ameritrade Park baseball stadium in Omaha?<br />Answer: Vanderbilt and North Carolina.<br />So go, Vanderbilt, go. I sure hope you win. But if you don’t, I won’t storm into my garage and flip-over my truck, then light it on fire.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-28355120428990282632011-06-15T08:32:00.001-05:002011-06-15T08:32:25.087-05:00Soapboxy Today<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Why didn’t Google draw a graphic about Flag Day on its search engine home page yesterday?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">You’d think these days when patriotism and our military are often on many people’s minds, Google would have observed such an occasion. I guess they only recognize things like Mozart’s 255th birthday. Last week, they even devoted two days to celebrating guitarist Les Paul’s 96th birthday.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Two days for a birthday? His mother must have had a difficult delivery.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Law of Average</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I’m watching <i>Judge Judy</i> last evening and there were four commercials for slip-and-fall lawyers during the half-hour I watched. I read a couple days ago that Chinese universities are currently graduating 1,000 engineers for every 100 lawyers, while the United States is graduating 1,000 lawyers for every 100 engineers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The U.S. falling further behind in math, science and engineering? I rest my case.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Khloe Who?</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">My wife likes any reality show with the Kardashian sisters in it, but I have trouble watching because they all have such nasal, whiney voices. However, I have seen enough of them to know the only reason why they are such a money machine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The Kardashians owe their entire empire to one distinct-and-famous body part on Kim. I honestly believe that. I’d bet my ass on it.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-70870648107310976392011-06-11T09:47:00.001-05:002011-06-11T09:47:23.103-05:00SerendipityWikipedia defines serendipity as when someone finds something they weren't expecting to find. It means a happy accident.<br />
A past blog mentions me motoring along a freeway at 75 mph one morning, and my engine totally died. I was able to maneuver my fast-coasting pickup from the left lane to the right shoulder, then called a tow truck.<br />
A similar incident occurred this past Wednesday evening as I was barreling home in the fast lane, and the engine completely shut off. Traffic wasn’t too heavy so I cautiously switched two lanes to the right and coasted as far as I could, looking for a safe place to pull to the shoulder and bring my vehicle to a halt.<br />
But while I was coasting and continuing to decelerate, I noticed in the far distance that a vehicle had already pulled to the side of the road – maybe 300 yards ahead of me. As I got closer, I recognized what it was.<br />
It was a tow truck. How serendipitous was that?<br />
I finally guided my pickup to a stop right behind the tow truck, then exited my vehicle and walked up to the driver’s side door. The guy was shocked to see me as he rolled down his window.<br />
“Yeah?” he asked in total confusion.<br />
“What are you doin’ here?” I inquired.<br />
“Uh, a cop just pulled me over for speedin’ but only gave me a warning,” the driver answered. “Why? What’s it to you? Who are you?”<br />
“My truck just died – I’m right behind you,” I exclaimed, pointing at my disabled truck as the driver looked in his rear view mirror.<br />
“You’re kiddin’,” he said. “Do ya need a tow?”<br />
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”<br />
So the guy hooked up my truck, then hauled it and myself 15 miles to my mechanic. The tow still cost me 70 bucks, but the whole experience sure was serendipitous.<br />
‘Dore Prize<br />
I can relate to Chicago Cubs baseball fans because I’m a long-suffering Vanderbilt University sports fans. The Commodores compete in the powerful Southeastern Conference against teams like Florida, Alabama, LSU, Tennessee, Georgia, Auburn and Kentucky, so Vandy teams and their fans must perennially endure the cruel foulness of fate.<br />
But the ‘Dores have a great baseball team this season, and are actually on the verge of qualifying as one of eight universities that will travel to Omaha next week for the 2011 College World Series. Vandy will be Omaha-bound if they can win just one more qualifying game, either tonight or tomorrow night at home against Oregon State.<br />
So, c’mon Vanderbilt. Throw this dog a bone. Don’t tear out my heart again – I don’t know how much heart I have left.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-36502049034227624072011-06-08T09:04:00.000-05:002011-06-08T09:04:41.654-05:00Tumbleweed<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The ground is being laid for my own madness and torment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Maybe a bit dramatic but I’m getting a little down about this publishing quest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s an impossible market right now. Just keep trying,” says my wife, Jenny.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">When this whole unknown adventure began March 8, 2011 with my first five mail-outs to prospective agents, I charged into this endeavor with the determination of a riled rattlesnake. But today on June 8, three months into this wild ride that I will officially deem derailed on March 8, 2012, I am feeling lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. That’s low.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">There are a few blips of hope. I sent the first 30 pages of my manuscript to a Hollywood agent who contacted me a few weeks back, then sent 50 pages in early May to a Los Angeles agent. I mailed two packets to New York in April, plus gave my entire manuscript to a girl I know in Nashville who has a friend who knows publishers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But my optimism currently resides in a ghost town – there’s a tumbleweed feel to it. Then, I get a letter from Richard Curtis, an agent in New York:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Kevin:</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I’m not in a position to commit to your project because my current roster of established writers requires enormous investments of my attention, service and resources.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But here’s a tip for you that I don’t normally tell others. Try contacting the Association of Authors’ Representatives, check out their website at aar-online.org, for agents who might help you. I hope you get published.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Curtis</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I’ll check out the site this weekend and start mailing-out more packets, which I haven’t done in weeks. Somebody once told me to strive for the top because the bottom is overcrowded. I need to start striving again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Wii Bowling</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The Journal Communications company I work for has organized a Wii bowling tournament, with the bracketed competition beginning this coming Monday in our open conference area that’s equipped with a large plasma screen. The winner will get a paid half-day off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">My Wii bowling average is about 200 so I inked “Kevin Litwin” onto the signup sheet, and expected maybe 6-8 people to join up. But as the tournament nears its start, a whopping 24 employees will be competing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">And my gosh, the trash talk has begun in earnest – mostly from the 16-or-so women participants. Kristy “Kick Butt” Duncan has already declared that the tournament is hers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Well, anyways, I’ve got to get back to work. No, not putting together manuscript packets to mail to agents. I need to go practice making my spares.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-51752815360374787412011-06-04T13:35:00.001-05:002011-06-04T13:35:28.101-05:00Yes & No<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Yes, I like writing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Yes, I also wish that I enjoyed the other parts of this whole book-publishing process. But no, I don’t like putting together query letters and packets of my book’s first three chapters, then mailing or e-mailing them to prospective agents. I don’t even like corresponding with agents once they contact me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve actually got a couple of e-mails from agents that I received a few days ago but haven’t checked them yet. I’ll wait until tomorrow when Sunday ushers in a fresh week that I hope will be sweeter than a Pacific Ocean breeze. Strange? Yes, but that’s how I roll.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">BTW: My Wednesday blog will update where this whole agent-searching process is right now. I’ll open my e-mails and all other correspondences by then.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">What’s in a Name?</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Friends Gerald and Karen say I never offer any tidbits about <i>Crazy Lucky Dead</i>, so here’s one. There are about 25 fictitious characters in <i>CLD</i>, and all of their names are connected to people and situations in my life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">For example, one character is William Screen, named after my brother-in-law Bill who owns theaters. A character Andrea Neese is named for my niece, Andrea, and there’s even a police officer named Lt. Andrew Josephson – after Andrew Joseph, my son.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">There’s Jenny Booker named for my wife Jenny, who is a librarian/teacher, and one character is Jenna Redd for my daughter, Jenna, who has red hair. There’s even a frightening scene in the novel that takes place on Lorens Street – my boss where I work is Natasha Lorens.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Tim Sousley</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A part-time newspaper reporter and friend – Tim Sousley – died last Sunday after falling off the roof of his house. Tim’s full-time job for the past 25 years was teaching technology and second grade, so his death is that much more unfortunate because not many men nowadays are teachers at the elementary school level.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Besides teaching, Tim also worked many weekends for the<i> Columbia (Tenn.) Daily Herald</i> primarily covering sports, and I first met him 10 years ago on the sidelines of a Spring Hill (Tenn.) High School football game. I covered the games for a Spring Hill newspaper and Tim was great with statistics, and he always handed me a sheet of his official game stats once he compiled them after each Friday night game – even though we worked for rival newspapers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Yes, Tim Sousley – a good reporter and a good guy.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-41140429043902787682011-06-01T09:53:00.001-05:002011-06-01T09:53:35.916-05:00Fire<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">My dad and I once saved a lady from a burning apartment building.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I was reminded of this two days ago as I drove along a busy road and suddenly saw a house on fire in the near distance. Luckily, the fire department had arrived and looked like they had things under control.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">My own fire incident occurred one morning years ago when my father was driving me to high school, and we noticed fire billowing out of a small window on the first floor of an apartment building. My dad, with no hesitation, whipped the car into the parking lot and then sprinted toward the fiery unit, with me on his heels.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">He immediately kicked in the picture window and yelled to a woman who was inside screaming and crying. She apparently couldn’t find an escape route because of thick black smoke that filled the apartment, so my father kept beckoning her to the window and she followed his voice to the opening.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">My dad then grabbed her arm and yelled for me to help hoist her out to safety, which we did. The fire department arrived quickly thereafter and an ambulance rushed the middle-age lady to the hospital, where I assume she recovered.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">My father, being a humble man, told me to hurry to the car and we eventually sped away while noticing that TV news trucks were arriving on the scene. Nobody but me ever knew of my father’s heroics.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Pizza, I Do</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Most grooms don’t have much say in the planning of their wedding. I remember that I wanted 10 people at our wedding and my wife wanted 200, so we had 200.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">That’s why I’m impressed with Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo for stepping up and choosing the menu for his Memorial Day wedding to model Candice Crawford. Wedding guests never had a choice of chicken, steak or fish – the couple instead had a full pizza buffet bar.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Talk about taking all the guesswork out of wedding food. There were 600 people in attendance with many of them being humongous football players, and those big lugs were probably happier than vultures eating road kill as they piled their dinner plates high with mounds of toppings-loaded pizza.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">If Romo would have chosen cream- and jelly-filled donuts for dessert, it would have been the dream wedding of a lifetime.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1543973504208227972.post-10279886290049426922011-05-28T11:31:00.001-05:002011-05-28T11:31:27.056-05:00Salute<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">We Americans might forget how sweet our freedom is, and how lucky we are to be protected by the men and women of our armed services. This Memorial Day weekend, I’m not forgetting. Thank you, all current and former members of the U.S. military. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Heroin and Champagne</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I used to write NASCAR stories for a magazine called <i>Track Record</i> and found myself in Charlotte one Memorial Day weekend to cover the Coca-Cola 600. Photographer David Mudd and I made the trip for three days of interviewing, photo-shooting and story-writing, and the temperature each day was an unbearable 100 degrees with high humidity. I was a moving puddle whenever I stepped outdoors.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">An early-afternoon Saturday assignment had David and me hiking about a half-mile from the track to an interview/shoot, and I started feeling woozy once we arrived. I immediately told David that I needed to leave, then embarked upon the sweaty, laborious walk back to the track with a goal of ultimately reaching the air-conditioned media center.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But that second half-mile hike in roasting conditions caused me heat stroke, and I was in trouble. Without hesitation, I weakly entered an infield care center where doctors quickly hoisted me onto a bed and placed a dozen ice packs on my neck, shoulders, chest, stomach and wrists.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But only 10 minutes into my incoherency, I suddenly heard a burly bear-of-a-guy on the next bed violently vomiting into a bucket. After his fifth gut-wrenching heave, I wearily hoisted my head and glanced at the guy, and he stared at me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">He was about 6 feet tall, 300 pounds, had a long ZZ Top beard, big beer belly, a multi-stained muscle T-shirt, filthy blue jean shorts and a pair of flip-flops that exposed toenails that hadn’t seen clippers in months. Then he retched into the bucket one more time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Too many Budweisers?” I asked, believing that I guessed his correct beer brand.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“No, man,” he answered nonchalantly. “Too much heroin and champagne.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Heroin and champagne? What? At a NASCAR race?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">We never spoke again. With every subsequent throw-up, he just got messier than an unmade bed, while I personally continued to sizzle like a T-bone steak.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The Big O</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I honestly never watched a second of Oprah during her 25 TV years, but I do have a slight connection to her. My niece and nephew were both in her Chicago audience in September 2004 when Oprah gave away 276 cars.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The cars were sporty Pontiac G-Six models that stickered for around $28,000, but my niece and nephew had to sell both vehicles because they couldn’t afford the taxes. Oprah didn’t foot that part of the bill, and the tax on each car was around $6,000. Still, my niece and nephew came out of that experience with a nice chunk of change.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Oh, one more slight connection with Oprah and me. She actually started her TV career in my home city of Nashville. Way to go, O.</span><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0