Soapboxy Today

Why didn’t Google draw a graphic about Flag Day on its search engine home page yesterday?

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.

Two days for a birthday? His mother must have had a difficult delivery.

Law of Average

I’m watching Judge Judy 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.

The U.S. falling further behind in math, science and engineering? I rest my case.

Khloe Who?

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.

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.

Serendipity

Wikipedia defines serendipity as when someone finds something they weren't expecting to find. It means a happy accident.
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.
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.
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.
It was a tow truck. How serendipitous was that?
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.
“Yeah?” he asked in total confusion.
“What are you doin’ here?” I inquired.
“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?”
“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.
“You’re kiddin’,” he said. “Do ya need a tow?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”
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.
‘Dore Prize
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.
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.
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.

Tumbleweed

The ground is being laid for my own madness and torment.

Maybe a bit dramatic but I’m getting a little down about this publishing quest.

“It’s an impossible market right now. Just keep trying,” says my wife, Jenny.

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.

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.

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:

Kevin:

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.

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.

Richard Curtis

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.

Wii Bowling

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes & No

Yes, I like writing.

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.

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.

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.

What’s in a Name?

Friends Gerald and Karen say I never offer any tidbits about Crazy Lucky Dead, so here’s one. There are about 25 fictitious characters in CLD, and all of their names are connected to people and situations in my life.

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.

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.

Tim Sousley

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.

Besides teaching, Tim also worked many weekends for the Columbia (Tenn.) Daily Herald 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.

Yes, Tim Sousley – a good reporter and a good guy.

Fire

My dad and I once saved a lady from a burning apartment building.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pizza, I Do

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.

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.

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.

If Romo would have chosen cream- and jelly-filled donuts for dessert, it would have been the dream wedding of a lifetime.

Salute

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.

Heroin and Champagne

I used to write NASCAR stories for a magazine called Track Record 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Too many Budweisers?” I asked, believing that I guessed his correct beer brand.

“No, man,” he answered nonchalantly. “Too much heroin and champagne.”

Heroin and champagne? What? At a NASCAR race?

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.

The Big O

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.

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.

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.

Grubby Hands

I’m whiney because of a diet I’m two days into, so this blog could sound cranky today. Turn back while you have the chance.

Gogh Away, Kid

I can barely draw a stick man, so I greatly admire the master artists. My favorite has always been Vincent Van Gogh.

I saw a couple of his paintings online yesterday and it reminded me of an incident about a year ago that involved both VVG and me. I was viewing a special exhibit at Frist Arts Center in Nashville and found myself alone in an open room with one of Vincent’s early works.

But I quickly realized that I was actually close enough to the painting to touch it if I wished, because the area wasn't condoned or roped off. I was literally inches from a Van Gogh creation that I could have done anything to.

I mention this because I walked away to look at another piece but happened to look back at a grubby-handed boy – probably 4 or 5 years old – who walked up to the Van Gogh and rubbed his nasty little fingers over the canvas. Then the kid's mother walked up with a smile and didn’t even scold her son.

I darted to find a security guard who hustled to the room and politely admonished the mother and child, then ultimately set up a roped area so nobody could get within six feet of the valuable painting. But I couldn’t help wonder why Frist officials didn’t barricade the painting in the first place.

The whole incident was so strange – kind of like playing darts with spaghetti. It made no sense whatsoever.

Fast Food Funk

When giving me my change, why don't fast food cashiers hand me the coins first and then the dollar bills, instead of first handing me the dollar bills and then balancing the coins precariously on top of the bills?

And also, does any customer ever answer “yes” when fast food employees on the drive-thru intercom ask you to order something just introduced on the menu?

“Would you like to try our new oatmeal and crushed walnuts cereal this morning?” they might ask.

“No,” I will always answer. Those poor employees might have to ask 500 consecutive motorists if they want to try the new oatmeal and crushed walnuts cereal, with every motorist answering “No.”

It's no wonder there’s always so much turnover at fast food restaurants. If I had to ask 500 motorists that kind of question 500 consecutive times, I would bolt from that job faster than a chicken being chased by Ronald McDonald.