That's Just Wrong

We are a divided people: Republican versus Democrat; conservative versus liberal; urban versus rural; west versus east versus south versus north; boogie fever versus boot-scooting; real mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip; toilet paper over the top versus bottom of the roll. It seems sometimes that we Americans have very little in common.

As Ben Franklin famously said, at the signing of the Declaration of Independence: “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.” With that in mind, I propose that there is common ground, if we just put our minds to it and think about the everyday events, people and situations about whom we can chant in unison; THAT’S JUST WRONG.

To put my money where my mouth is (which may entail several visits to the ATM since I have a biiiig mouth), I offer the following suggestions. You’re invited to add your own through the “comment” feature of this blog. In no particular order: 

·       Clothing, hair styling or accessories on dogs, cats, gerbils, snakes or chickens. My wife just had our Maltese, Max, decked out with a “faux-hawk.” hair do, sprayed in place by the groomer. Not only is this freakish, but it assaults the dignity and status of the animal. Already, the backyard squirrels have begun a campaign of taunting that is sure to leave this already neurotic critter with lasting nightmares. Another negative is that the reputation I’ve gained from neighborhood passers-by on our daily dog walks as a closeted gay man because of the little, fluffy white dog on the end of my leash can only be intensified by this “do.” Maybe I should just give up and dress like the leather-clad cop in The Village People.

              Other related no-no’s include matching dog/owner outfits, dog or cat “bling” and spandex bicycle shorts on Irish Setters. 

    

·       Any product that claims, in it’s advertising, that it will “change your life.” Let’s be clear. Digital nose-hair clippers, magic pillows, exercise programs involving bungee cords and salsa music, investment schemes that promise to triple your money with no risk and bringing 12,000 satellite channels into your home for only $39.95 a month will NOT, I repeat NOT change your life. The reason is simple. The only thing truly capable of changing your life is you, with a few exceptions. Those are (a) Getting hit by lightning. (b) Winning a gazillion dollars in the lottery. (c) Having quintuplets. And the life-changing part of those events still comes down to you and what you do with what has been given/inflicted on you.

·       Know-nothing know-it-alls. These include, but are not neccesarily limited to:

                       1. Bloated, smug, white politicians who either inherited wealth or figured out how to play the system to line their own pockets, insisting that all the poor need to do is work harder and everything will be fine.

              2. Any male variety of the above (although this is a multi-racial opportunity) who claim they should have a say in women’s health issues.

              3. Anyone who claims to be an expert based on listening to a  radio talk show, reading a blog or getting their news from only one source. (What to use for an example? Hmmmm. Let’s see now. Oh, I’ve got it. Fox News).

              4. Anyone who starts a conversation with; “It’s none of my business but . . .”

·       Gluttony masquerading as a sport. Let’s be honest. Do you really believe someone who can eat 72 bags of Cheez-doodles in 8 minutes or guzzle a gallon of hot sauce without hurling in Technicolor, is an athlete? This is near the top of my “I don’t get it” list. The only explanation I can come up with is that people watch to make themselves feel better about sneaking out to the refrigerator in the middle of the night and inhaling enough calories to feed the people of Yemen for a week.

·       Pharmaceutical products whose legally-mandated side effect warning takes up more than half the television commercial. You know the one, with the happy couple strolling hand-in-hand on the beach while the deep-voiced announcer-person rips through the drug’s hazards as rapidly as possible, hoping you won’t notice. “Phlegm-o-phex, mildly effective for treating annoying underarm clamminess. May cause dizziness, fainting spells, projectile vomiting, painful rectal itch, blotchy skin, hair loss, warts, gum disease, sudden kidney failure and a plague of locusts. In a few isolated cases, depending on your definition of isolated, instant death may occur. Ask your doctor, who may have already have deposited our check in his son’s college fund if Phlegm-o-phex is right for you."

·       Twitter. Okay, okay, I know millions of people twit. Or is it tweeting and the people who do it twits? I get so confused. But here’s what it looks like from the outskirts of Twitsburgh. People who tweet are either:

                  (a) Self-obsessed. They truly believe an anxious world wants to know they had peanut butter and jelly for breakfast, bought butter lettuce instead of iceberg or are waiting in line to buy a ticket to a Lady Gaga concert.

                  (b) Totally without the vocabulary skills that would allow them to speak aloud to another human being, or

                   (c) Afraid to not jump on whatever new high-tech fad that some smirking celebrity tells them they need to be though of as “hip.”

·       Fashion models so skinny they can bang their shoulder blades together. Not only are they truly unattractive, they’re like silent spokespersons for anorexia, bulimia and other eating disorders. C’mon, have a cheeseburger and move up to a size one from your current size negative two.

·       People wheeling oxygen tanks around the smoking section of Indian Casinos. Not only does it cancel out the benefits of the oxygen, the multitude of people flipping their Bic might spark a tragic case of spontaneous human combustion that could make the slot players look up momentarily from their own addiction.

Okay, let’s wrap this up before I move to the top of someone else’s “That’s just wrong,” list. Here’s my final rant for today.

·       Anyone incapable of thinking of other people in any other terms than stereotypes. African-Americans don’t all have a sense of rhythm, girls aren’t all bad at math, Muslims aren’t all suicide bombers, geezers aren’t all cranky and people in Alabama aren’t all racist rednecks. Conservatives aren’t all heartless greedheads and liberals aren’t all patchouli-wearing business-hating woo-woos. The more we can think of each other as unique individuals, the closer we are to finding solutions to our common problems. 

Can you think of more examples that are JUST WRONG? Fire away. 

RUNNING FOR A JOB AS A WRITER--PART THREE

 In my final posting on whether I’d run for a job as a writer if that was required, I’ll look at my attributes, assets, and the dirty little secrets that might be revealed in the course of a campaign.

First, assets and attributes.

# 1  I’m honest.

Well, I’m mostly honest. Okay, I’m honest most of the time with most people. But, let’s face it, there are times when honesty just won’t cut it. For example, when someone asks, “Does this make me look fat?” or when the police officer who pulled me over asks, “Do you know you were going 53 in a 25 zone?”

# 2  If I make a promise, I keep it.

Actually, if I make a promise I try to keep it. Most of the time. Generally the promises I break are to myself: I won’t eat at my desk, I’ll clean up my office once a week, I’ll use those hand weights five days a week, I’ll rake the lawn tomorrow.

# 3  I balance my budget.

I’m all good on this one. I’ve never bounced a check (except once when a bank teller hit the wrong keys and accidentally wired money out of my account). And, while I’m not as frugal as some of my friends, I’m not a shopaholic—unless you count spending sprees at Goodwill. And, while we’re on that subject . . .

# 4  The trappings of wealth don’t mean much to me.

That doesn’t mean I couldn’t be bought, just that the stuff of barter might not be cash or vacation homes but rather donations to charities that are close to my heart.

# 5  I’m organized.

Fortunately, there’s wiggle room there. Everyone has a different definition of organization and a different method of achieving it. I know where my stuff is. Most of the time.

# 6  I’m disciplined.

Fortunately (again) there’s wiggle room here, too. Compared to a member of an elite military unit, not so much. Compared to most two-year-old kids, I’m the personification of self-control.

# 7 I don’t require a huge staff.

Okay, that’s mostly because I’m not good at delegating, but I’m still counting it as an asset.

# 8  I don’t mind public speaking.

Well, I don’t mind it as much as I mind a root canal or a mammogram. It all depends on the group, the venue, and the topic.

# 9 Multitasking is practically my middle name.

While I’ve been writing this I’ve also been checking my e-mail, talking to my aunt, making a grocery list, and eating chocolate-covered cranberries.

# 10  I have cute dogs.

They’re ready 24/7 for photo ops and a chance to show off their tricks in exchange for dog cookies. Cute dogs might distract reporters and constituents from the tough questions.

# 11 My husband is photogenic.

Mike has a great smile and is ready at all times to talk about golf and deflect those aforementioned tough questions.

Now, let’s get to what we’ve all been waiting for, my dirty little secrets. Prepare to be disappointed. Most of these aren’t secrets and they aren’t dirty—at least not by today’s standards.

# 1  I have no tact and plenty of opinions.

My friends have standing orders to step on my toes or tell me to shut up when I run off at the mouth.

# 2  I hate meetings and “process.”

If being a writer involves serving on committees, then forget it.

# 3  Compromise doesn’t come easily . . .

. . . unless that was my idea in the first place.

# 4  I came of age during the 60s.

I’m sure some things happened back then that I wouldn’t want to hear about now. My hope is that if I can’t remember, no one else can either.

But, since it would be the job of reporters to question my qualifications, reveal my secrets, and dig up any dirt they could, I’m delighted that I don’t have to run for this job, that I can forget about campaigning, appoint myself, and get on with the writing.

RUNNING FOR A JOB AS A WRITER--PART TWO

 

I’m continuing my look at whether I’d be a writer if I had to be elected to the position. Previously I reviewed the benefits and drawbacks of the job; now I’ll consider the term of office and job performance standards (defined as the number of books I could write during a term of office), and take a look at my constituents and how I’ll reach them.

Supreme Court Justices serve for life or until they’re fed up with attorneys arguing and with having to defend decisions plenty of people don’t like. Then they retire. But those folks are appointed and confirmed by high-ranking office-holders, none of whom would be likely to appoint or confirm me—to the high court or any other post. So I’d have to run for my office.

The question is: How often do I want to do that? What are the pros and cons of a 2-year, 4-year, or 6-year term as a writer?

I called together a focus group at a Hawaiian restaurant noted for its low-priced happy hour adult beverages. Long after dark we emerged with several damp and ink-blotched napkins. Two days later my vision cleared and I was able to decode them and write out the pros and cons in more legible form.

2-year term

As members of my focus group pointed out, it takes me about a year to write a novel. Two years equals two books—not exactly the greatest job performance on record and not a huge body of work on which to base a re-election campaign, especially since I’d need to begin that campaign before I completed the second work, and especially since said campaign would eat into my writing time.

4-year term

If I kept up my pace, I could have at least three books written before I had to hit the campaign trail. That would give me more time to build a larger platform, do more marketing, and reach more members of my constituency.

6-year term

This would give me even more time to write before I had to run. But wait. Do I have enough of an idea backlog to write five novels? (Picture me counting on my fingers. Picture the thumb standing alone. Picture me deciding that four years would be just fine.)

But this leads to another question: Where the heck would my campaign trail lead? How large is my constituency? And where is my constituency?

Well, with internet marketing and ever-increasing sales of e-books, even if you’re with a small press or an indie publisher, you have the potential to reach a national audience—add the UK and other European nations that audience is international.

Yikes.

My budget barely stretches to a long weekend at the coast. How can I afford to campaign across the entire U.S. and Europe?

Wait a minute! I forgot that key word—internet. There’s no need to press the flesh, kiss babies, or wave signs except in a virtual way. My friends—all way better at social networking than I am—might pitch in to come up with slogans and increase my positive name recognition (now limited to a few square blocks of Vancouver and about a hundred people who took my novel-writing class and are still speaking to me without gritting their teeth).

But what will I stand for? What will I promise to cut or do away with? What are my assets? And what are my dirty little secrets?

I’ll look at that next time.

If I had to run for a job as a writer, would I vote for myself?--Carolyn J. Rose

I don’t watch much TV, I limit my radio listening to time spent in the car, and I make a point of skimming past political ads in my daily paper, but it’s almost impossible to avoid being spattered when mudslinging campaigns reach a crescendo.

 When catcalls drown out what I like to think of as sanity, I wonder whether I’d be a writer if I had to campaign and win an election to do it.

That wondering leads to considering the job description, the term of office, and the necessary qualifications. That leads to thoughts of my platform, possible campaign promises, who my supporters might be, and whether I would vote for myself.

And that leads to making lists of my attributes and assets, drawbacks and dirty little secrets.

Well, they’re not that dirty, so get your imagination out of high gear. And before I get to those juicy bits, I’ll spend the next few weeks looking at the job description, at what’s involved in holding down the position of novelist.

Like any job, writing has its good points and bad points, things you love and hate, reasons you signed on and reasons that sometimes you’d like to sign off.

So as not to discourage those who have not yet committed themselves to the writing life, I’ll begin with the positive aspects.

Creative Freedom. What’s not to love about this? As an indie author, I have total control over my plots and characters, over the worlds I create. I can make it rain up a toad floater, send rivers out of their banks, sweep my characters away in the deluge, set their homes on fire. I can make the sun shine, and have a character fall in love or strike it rich. I can make my characters lie, or cheat, or kill, and I can find ways to redeem them. Sure, I get advice and suggestions from my husband and friends, but in the end it’s all up to me.

Schedule. No time clocks. No need to justify time off to the taxpayers. I’m not under contract to a publisher, so my deadlines are my own. If I don’t meet them, I have only myself to reckon with. Some days I might write for ten hours. Some days I write for two or three and devote time to walking the dogs, weeding the garden, reading, or catching up on recorded TV shows.

Wardrobe Requirements. No need for red power suits or flag pins. If I’m at home, anything goes, especially if the blinds are drawn. If I’m at an event, “clean, neat, and covered” about sums it up. I shop at thrift stores and wear shirts and jeans until they beg to be trashed. That translates into more money for items necessary to the writing process such as paper, ink cartridges, sticky notes, index cards, coffee, and salty snacks.

Limited Commute. There might be a few dog toys on the carpet, but there’s never a traffic jam in the hallway between the living room and my office. It’s about 30 steps from my living room to my office, 40 steps if I detour through the kitchen, and I ALWAYS detour through the kitchen.

Travel Opportunities. Forget junkets to Europe or Asia. There’s nothing like the view from the panelists’ table at a conference, a seat in a book-club circle, or a podium in the center of a bookstore.

But there are negative aspects.

Salary. The pay is uneven and uncertain.

Schedule. If you aren’t disciplined enough to make a schedule, avoid distractions (or at least deal with them quickly), and meet your writing goals then, as Yeats said in “The Second Coming,” things fall apart.

Commute. Did I mention the proximity to the kitchen? Did I mention how easy it is to detour past the refrigerator, the snack basket on top of it, and the jar of nuts in the pantry? Did I mention that the commute also takes me past a TV set, two windows, and a pair of dogs always ready to go for a walk or run through their tricks? ‘nuff said.

Physical stress and strain. Carpal tunnel syndrome, shoulder pain, back spasms, eyestrain, headaches, a ballooning bottom—they’re occupational hazards

Mental stress and strain. Second-guessing market trends (Will vampires still be a hot ticket hot next year? Will paranormal romances lose their zing before I finish mine? Is anyone out there looking for a crime-fighting, cross-dressing, wastewater engineer? How about a tap-dancing taxidermist who survives a plane crash in Afghanistan?) can make you crazy. Disappointments can bring on depression.

Despite all that, I appointed myself to this job and, so far, I love it. But would I feel the same if there was a definite term of office and book production requirements in order to keep my constituents happy?

I’ll look at that next time.

Sneaking Up On Outrageous

What’s the most outrageous thing you’ve ever considered doing?

I realize this is all relative to your own lifestyle. For my neighbor—let’s call him Gene—it might be putting a forbidden article in his garbage before rolling it down to the curb. For Lady Gaga it’s . . . it’s . . . Hmmmmmm. How can you possibly top wearing raw meat lingerie?

In the late eighties, I considered getting my ear pierced and sporting a gold ring hanging from one lobe. Several things stopped me. First of all, I’m a pain wuss. The idea of somebody shoving something pointy through any part of my face turns me into a quivering puddle of cowardice. Secondly my round face, chin and a half, and Brezhnev eyebrows don’t add up to a sucessful pirate or brooding artist look. Instead I’d come across as a remorseful Elmer Fudd after a cheap wine drunk. Finally, I kept manufacturing nightmare scenarios where fishermen would hook my earring while casting for spring Chinook and I’d be yanked into an icy river or my wife, miffed at some real or imagined transgression, might decide I looked like a 230-pound pull toy.

The earring idea, as you can imagine became a non-starter.

Today, in the shower room at the community center gym where I work out, I observed a guy with an amazing art gallery of tattoos. And before you ask, no, I was not staring at a naked man in the shower. I just happened to notice him while reaching for my oatmeal-hyacinth body wash. Anyhow, he had a three-masted sailing ship, a screaming eagle, a peace sign, a Star of David, a grove (not one or two, folks, an entire grove) of Pacific Cypress Trees, and caricatures of the entire starting lineup of the 1995 Seattle Mariners Baseball team. (Okay, I made that last part up. But he could have had them. He’d left the shower room before I could drop my body wash again.)

Carolyn and I have talked about getting tattoos. She wants a small and tasteful dragonfly on her ankle. I’d almost decided on a buffalo (the animal I feel most cosmically similar to), but now I’m not so sure. After the guy in the shower it feels, well, unimaginative. Maybe I’ll save my nickels and dimes and have a gifted artist stencil the opening dance number from West Side Story on my left gluteal. Or how about the poker-playing dogs from that famous black velvet painting? Or . . .

On the other hand maybe I’m not ready to do something that over-the -top. Perhaps I should ease into it a little. Write some poetry that doesn’t rhyme or order the 20-ounce white chocolate mocha instead of the 16 or show up at the 10-items-or-less line at the supermarket with 12 items. (11 wouldn’t make a bold enough statement).

Maybe Gene had the right idea. Let’s ease into this outrageousness thing. Start small and work our way up. Where’s that empty tuna can? I think I can just make this weeks garbage pickup. Oughta really honk off our neighborhood evangelical recyclers. Then I’ll work up my nerve to load my supermarket basket and clog the express aisle.

BARK-COUNTER BARK

Max: Remember last summer when we had fleas?

Bubba: (Biting at her paw) Yeah, it was horrible all that itching and scratching. And every time I got comfortable, Mom came after me with the flea comb.

Max: Or Dad vacuumed the rugs and I had to bark at the vacuum. That thing’s like a dog-sucking monster.

Bubba: I have nightmares. And then Mom washed our beds.

Max: And Dad vacuumed the sofa cushions and I had to bark.

Bubba: And Mom gave us baths.

Max: Dad vacuumed behind the dresser and I had to bark.

Bubba: (Shuddering) And Mom slathered more flea stuff on us.

Max: Yeah. I hate that stuff. It burns. Plus all the little fleas are scurrying around screaming “Help me, Help me.”

Bubba: I thought that was you.

Max:  Nope, I’m way too manly for that. But you know what I figured out?

Bubba: That the house was cleaner than it had ever been?

Max: No. (Runs in a tight circle, then jumps in and lays a full lick tongue on Bubba’s nose) I figured out that Mom and Dad do a lot of stuff for us. They buy food and walk us and brush us and put those drops in your eye, and brush our teeth.

Bubba: And clean up after us. Like the other night when you ralphed on the bed.

Max: (Looking innocent) Must have been that carrot.

Bubba: That’s the ticket. Blame the carrot.

Max: Don’t get me started on what you did behind the chair.

Bubba: I got caught short. The sun was in my eyes. My rising sign was sinking into Venus. I—

Max: Try the carrot excuse, it worked for me. The point is, we should get them a present or something.

Bubba: With what? (growls accusingly) Have you been banking your biscuits?

Max. No, you’d find them and eat them, anyway. Besides, dog biscuits aren’t recognized as monetary units by financial institutions.

Bubba: (Sitting down and scratching forehead with her paw.) Whoa! Big words from a dog who hasn’t figured out what ‘Max come here’ or ‘Max get off Daddy’s chest’ means.

Max: Like you have room to talk, Miss Sits-In-The-Window-and-Barks-Her-Brains-Out-Even-After-Mom-Tells-Her-To-Stop.

Bubba: Hell-oh oh. It was a cat! On our lawn!

Max: Oh. A cat on the lawn. Well, excuuuse me.

Bubba: (turning and mumbling an aside) Secret cat sympathizer.

Max: (Running to get in front of her) But, see, the point is that Mom and Dad get all stressed out sometimes and sometimes we’re kind of not helping that, so we should do something nice for them or they might start thinking that we’re not worth the effort.

Bubba: (Gulps.) Much as I hate to admit you have a good idea, it might pay off to do something to distract them.

Max: I can dance.

Bubba: Not special. You do that all the time now.

Max: Jump through the hoop?

Bubba: (Yawning) Old hat.

Max: Look adorable?

Bubba: (Gagging) Been there, done that.

Max: Load the dishwasher.

Bubba: (Holding out paw) Really? Really? No opposable thumbs, remember, dufus?

Max:  Oh, yeah. The thumb thing. Oooh. Oooh. Oooh. I know what!

Bubba: What?

Max: It’s perfect. It distracts me every time.

Bubba: Not—?

Max: Yeah. It takes my mind off of everything. See next time Mom and Dad are stressed out I’ll just point to the back yard and yell—

Bubba: Squirrel!

Max: (Slams into glass sliding door) Where? Where?

KILLING TIME

          By Carolyn J. Rose

 

 “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.” Richard II

 “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.” Walden

         

If I had a page for every squandered hour of my life, I’d have at least a hundred more novels to my credit. Some of them might be a waste of paper or download capacity. Some might be just about worth reading. One might be pretty darn good.

         But life doesn’t work that way. So those wasted hours are just that—wasted, worthless, gone forever.

         I’m not talking here about the hours given over to activities that are a normal part of our biology and/or the routine of life—sleeping, eating, bathing, grocery shopping, cooking, getting an education, etc. And I’m not talking about hours lost to events over which I had little or no control—sickness, surgery, storms, friends in crisis, family in need.

I’m talking about the hours left after subtracting all of that.

         I chose to forfeit some of those lost hours—whiling them away watching mindless TV shows, driving endless miles to get no place in particular for events that, in retrospect only barely beat out watching paint dry, smiling through dinner and a movie on fix-up dates where it was obvious from minute one that there wasn’t a single volt of electricity between us. And I wasted many minutes wishing I was taller, thinner, and smarter, and lamenting rejection in all its many forms for all its many reasons. Those minutes are still accumulating.

I resent my poor time-management choices, but I hoard more resentment for those who intentionally squandered my time. I’m talking about bosses addicted to endless meetings with fuzzy agendas that expanded like accordions, professors who managed to take topics with the potential of raging wildfires and deliver lectures with no more heat than a smoldering chunk of charcoal, agents and publishers who held onto manuscripts for a year or more and forced me to ask for the rejection.

And I reserve much resentment for myself because I should have walked out or walked away.

So my resolution for the year to come will be to take more care with the time that’s left. I vow to kill less of it, to strangle fewer seconds, murder fewer minutes, and to find myself guilty of hour homicide less frequently.

Will I keep that resolution?

Only time will tell.