tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60332777606912049262024-03-05T00:09:07.811-05:00Closet Space Musings"Wrong in the very best way..."Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-27682712442750082262013-11-06T11:29:00.000-05:002013-11-06T11:32:31.108-05:00Shakespeare, but not really<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JSCBdraKrKrmoaFHYZwG8v3lZvYbwfTYHo_PJVs9fG-FqKuiDJ3goR9tlCdx_kSsnV7zVq5XuHGDiWcRyX4Sc0lXUtAas-HJxyAhp5lnMgCSC7wU53U5_XfgZLDNDi0ytgPjFhwpEZKW/s1600/Jeni+shakespeare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JSCBdraKrKrmoaFHYZwG8v3lZvYbwfTYHo_PJVs9fG-FqKuiDJ3goR9tlCdx_kSsnV7zVq5XuHGDiWcRyX4Sc0lXUtAas-HJxyAhp5lnMgCSC7wU53U5_XfgZLDNDi0ytgPjFhwpEZKW/s400/Jeni+shakespeare.jpg" width="352" /></a></div>
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Sometimes when I'm bored, I reimagine some of the Bard's delightful works for shits and giggles. One thing I discovered about the man while wading around in his prose is that he was kind of a wuss. I hope the subject of all his gummy sonnets whacked him upside the head at some point because, <i>dude</i>, man the hell up and quit all the whining for God's sake.<br />
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Since I've been a horrible blogger lately, and would rather eat a cockroach than regale you with my mundane daily activties, please enjoy some Shakespeare - pilliaged, plundered and pulvurized.<br />
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<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sonnet #18 (sort of but not
really.)</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Shall I
compare thee to a Summer's Eve douche?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thou art not
feminine hygiene related, but prone to hibernate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Less an
appetizer than a delightfully arranged amuse-bouche,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
served to
distinguish the discriminating aggregate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Accompanied
by a complementing brew,<o:p></o:p></div>
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offered, no
doubt, but for a rough-hewn glimpse;<o:p></o:p></div>
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a hacking
approach to life’s existential stew —<o:p></o:p></div>
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by chance,
or nature's changing course and whims.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Like a plate
of olives or a crock of tapenade,<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘words be an
equally simple tithe;<o:p></o:p></div>
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soothing
under pretense to abrade,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and awaken
where appetites hide.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So long as
men can taste and have eyes with which to see,<o:p></o:p></div>
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So long
lives this, and this, and this… and it gives life to thee.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>(not by William Shakespeare)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt;">Shakespeare’s Sonnet 117,</span>
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">recalibrated and reimagined</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;">To make memories less keen, bitter sauces do our palates urge,<br />
and prevent emotional maladies unwanted,<br />
we partake to shun melancholy; gluttonous,
we splurge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;">In sickeningly-sweet
prose did I frame my meandering nattering;<br />
and tired of apathy, found joy in understanding my neediness,<br />
too unsubtle in my revelations, truth so often is unflattering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
Such robust devotion, did plainly illustrate my ills for naught,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;">and grew to faults
assured, too many and too plainly seen,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;">carried friendly rapport
to a tasteless state of drought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;">Such reeking rank
goodness is still an ill-fated flask<br />
and thus have I learned, and find the lesson true,<br />
such drugs can fell the interest of those uncomfortable with truth.<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>(not by William Shakespeare)</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sonnet #76 (Re-imagined, badly)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Why is my
arse so lackluster and wide,<o:p></o:p></div>
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So
determined to avoid any change?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Why, in
these modern times, could I not coincide<o:p></o:p></div>
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a snazzy
addition on this twin mountain range?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps a
butterfly or a three word bon-mot; what shame,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
to keep a
canvas pure white as it goes to seed?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Such
remorse! I would have myself to blame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But if I
ornament my tush, will regret quickly breed?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
O, I know,
my liege, I always ask these trifles of you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And you
patiently abide my foolish temperament;<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I guess
what I’m asking with old words anew,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Would a
newly-inked ass reinvent?<o:p></o:p></div>
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For I know
my buns are quickly growing old,<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
and would
appreciate being grandly extolled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>(sooooo not by William Shakespeare)</i></div>
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<br /></div>
Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-51121439138167059482013-09-24T14:03:00.000-04:002013-09-24T14:08:13.262-04:00...in which I rant all over you about "Entitlements"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;">en·ti·tle·ment noun -</span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">ˈ</span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">t</span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">ī</span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">-təl-mənt\</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><br /></span></span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">Definition of
<b>ENTITLEMENT</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">1: the state or
condition of being entitled ; a right to benefits specified especially by law
or contract</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">2: a government
program providing benefits to members of a specified group; also : funds
supporting or distributed by such a program</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 15pt;">3: belief that one
is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges</span><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Let’s just get this all out in the open, shall we? Because I like
nothing more than a little brutal truth with my afternoon coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Calling any one of our many social safety nets “entitlements” is a very
basic way of trying to demean someone, because in your head you’re calling them a
dirty, lazy bastard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It’s also gross and says more about you than them, but that’s beside
the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Today, that word is used very politically to frame an issue while being
disingenuous in the process. Because those who use it—those who get their
abridged, talking-pointed information from politicians with an agenda who have
passed it on to others to impart from a studio somewhere, with jazzy graphics
behind them and a ticker scrolling below—don’t want you to concentrate on the
whole picture. They only want you to glom onto the aspects they think can
ratchet up the rhetoric enough to get them into office… or get them higher ratings
- respectively.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: white;">But, “entitlements” wasn’t always used as a bad word, nor was it
applied in the way that it is today, and if you don’t want to take my word for
it, take a quick second to </span><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/talk/comment/2013/04/08/130408taco_talk_hertzberg" target="_blank"><span style="color: cyan;">read about the “spin” on “entitlements” </span></a><span style="color: white;">and its
social etymology.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">See, number three in the above definition is the nasty stain people who
use this word to malign are trying to get across – that most people on welfare,
food stamps, unemployment and/or Medicaid are somehow lazy good-for-nothings
who don’t want to work. But if you really care about being correct, rather than
divisive, pull up Google and do some research regarding who actually gets some
of these benefits (no, I won’t do it for you, you lazy, good for nothing) and
you’ll find otherwise… unless you limit yourself to Fox News and their
subsidiaries. (Pure, for-profit propaganda and they could give a witch’s tit
about silly things like facts.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">However, be warned. To understand “entitlements” you have to understand
the basic premise behind minimum wage, poverty, class warfare, political
divisiveness, how someone gets into office, and what they have to do to stay
there. So, whew… yeah. You have to know more than a little bit about a whole
lot of shit to even get a glimpse of the entire picture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Let me just say this… I have never met ONE SINGLE SOLITARY PERSON who
relies on food stamps, Social Security, Medicare, unemployment, or the like,
who acted as if they were entitled to anything. Mostly they acted embarrassed.
Ashamed. And that’s because certain politicians want it that way. Because it
benefits their platform—while they, of course, kowtow to Big Tobacco, Big Oil,
Big Pharma and god knows who else with their palm greasing and such, so that
the richest of the rich can get the tax breaks they so richly deserve. One
might effectively (and easily) argue that these are the real folks who think
they’re entitled... but that’s a discussion for another day. (It should also be
noted that these same folks are the ones who help get them into office.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Of course, there are people who abuse all of the above programs, but is
that a reason to shame the majority who aren’t, while simultaneously and
drastically reducing or eliminating these social safety nets?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">People also abuse alcohol, should we stop selling it? People abuse
public parks and recreation areas by defacing things, graffiti, etc. Should we
get rid of those altogether? People abuse Emergency Rooms and doctor’s offices
to try and get pain meds when they really don’t need them, should we get rid of
those medications altogether? How about people who use handicapped parking when
they don’t need that, should we just not have those spaces available at all?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">GASP! You know what people also abuse? Guns. Yeah, I won’t even go
there, because you’ve either stopped reading by now, or you’ve pulled my little
analogy together on your own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Another thing. Please don’t tell me you’re a God fearing person and
then malign a theoretical someone you don’t know and have never met but you
just KNOW is out there (because a bobble head on TV told you so) and shame them
because they can’t feed their kids, or themselves, because they’re a teacher
who doesn’t make enough to survive but they’re working hard every day to make
sure YOUR KID has a good education, or a returning Vet who can’t feed his
family and get the mental health care he deserves and fought for… or any number
of folks who are just trying to get by without being treated like third class
fucking citizens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How about the elderly in our midst? They who already paid into the
system but are one of the main reasons for the growth of the Big Three
“entitlements” - Social Security,
Medicare and Medicaid - which account for 71 percent of all government spending
other than the third of the budget dedicated to defense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Take a second to wrap your head around that one, budgetarily speaking –
and then we’ll discuss how cutting food stamp benefits, or even taking them
away altogether, will have any valuable effect on our budget. That’s like
hacking an ice cube off a glacier and saying you’ve effectively altered its
weight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/scott-lilly/the-choice-congress-wont_b_3785619.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: cyan;"> From Scott Lilly’s article inHuffPo, </span></a><span style="color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"We have dozens of federal entitlements and they go to all kinds of
people for all kinds of reasons, ranging from crop subsidies to student loans
to unemployment benefits. While there are a lot of entitlement programs, only
three are big enough and growing fast enough to have a real impact on the
trajectory of government spending. (Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid)
Over the past quarter century, these three major entitlement programs have
accounted for more than 100 percent of the growth in real per capita federal
spending and more than 100 percent of the growth of government as a percentage
of the overall economy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The growth in these programs has been driven primarily by the aging of
the U.S. population. Over the past quarter century the number of Americans over
the age of 65 increased at a rate of half a million a year. But the big story
is what is happening now. Starting in 2011, the elderly population has begun to
grow by a million and a half a year. That's three times as quickly as before
and it's a trend that will continue in the decades to come.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>One other fact is worth noting: Over the past 50 years we have brought
about a remarkable transformation in the nature of retirement and the quality
of life of our senior citizens. In 1959, more than 30 percent of seniors lived
in poverty and only 25 percent had health insurance. Now, nearly all have
health insurance and less than 9 percent live in poverty, the lowest of any age
group. But providing these benefits has required a substantial commitment by
the federal government."</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What does this mean? Well, first off… you have Granny and Gramps to
blame for a nice chunk of our “entitlement” woes. I urge you to go tell them
that, right now. Tell them the paltry monthly check they get is just too much.
I’ll wait. If Nanna doesn’t strangle you with her Snuggie®, or Gramps doesn’t
poleaxe you with his four-footed cane, come on back and we’ll finish up this
discussion…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: white;">Listen, I’m all for reform in any area where there is abuse. How about
we start with offering a true living wage and keep behemoths like Walmart—</span><a href="http://www.motherjones.com/mojo/2013/06/report-walmart-forces-employees-dole-taxpayers" target="_blank"><span style="color: cyan;">the largest low-wage employer in the US</span></a><span style="color: white;">—for whom many of their products are made
outside the US by slave labor, thereby denying Americans even more shitty, low
paying jobs—from fueling the need for these kind of government subsidies in the
first place?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> How about we stop trying to
intervene in messes that aren’t ours to fix and cut that goddamn defense budget
a bit? And while we’re at it, how about making sure all military personnel get
the health care they deserve without having to beg for it? You know, just for
shits and giggles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How about paying teachers what they’re worth? Teachers spend money, you
know. Quite often on YOUR kids because their districts can’t pay for supplies.
The more dough they have, the more they can support your children, while also
stimulating the economy with more money. See, that’s how it works? The more
money you have, the more you can spend, and the better off the economy is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">While we’re at it, how about we address poverty and how a lack of
education and school funding in many areas only perpetuates things like
violence, drug use, and unemployment? How, if we’re not prepared to educate our
kids properly, we shouldn’t be bitching when they’re all working at Walmart or
McDonalds and subsidizing their income by getting food stamps… or worse, being
meth-heads, and/or ending up in the clink? Unless, of course, the only kids who
deserve a good education are the ones who were lucky enough to be born in
certain places…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How about we start enforcing penalization of employers who hire illegal
workers because they’re offering paychecks so low, nobody wants the jobs but
people who shouldn’t be getting them in the first place?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How about we take a look at oil subsidies and Big Pharma and medical
related price gouging?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How about taking Wall Street and the banks to task for their part in
our economic mess, and maybe see if some monetary restitution to America is in
order? Let them plug some of the holes they gouged into the USS Titanic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Make no mistake. A lot of those gouges that were made were far out of
the hands of the average American. We The People never asked or approved of so
much war spending. We The People didn’t turn bankers into burglars, We The
People didn’t do a great many things to cause the economy to hit the shitter,
but now that it’s come time to clean up the mess, We the People are the first
ones to be lined up over the kitchen sink while Uncle Sam looms ominously
behind us with a lubed up truncheon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How about we try to look at facts and statistics, rather than baseless
rhetoric, and understand that you can’t pull one thread out of the afghan and
not address the other snags, without turning the goddamn blanket into a pile of
useless string?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And finally, on a personal note, how about a little fucking empathy and
less judgment?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">If you’re one of the lucky ones who have DONE EVERYTHING ALONE AND
NEVER ASKED ANOTHER PERSON FOR A DAMN THING, well… you’re a liar. Someone
taught you to wipe your ass, make your way safely through a fire drill, donated
some clothes that their kids grew out of, fixed your toilet/heater/car because
you couldn’t afford a plumber/electrician/mechanic. Someone babysat your kid
because you needed a break. Someone took you aside and taught you some lesson
for which you are a better person. Someone walked you through your first steps
at your first job, and maybe covered for you when you were late so you didn’t
get your ass fired. Someone washed your clothes at some point, and someone even
built that house you’re living in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Someone put out a fire in your house, or stopped when you had a flat
tire. Someone treated you when you were sick, someone read to you, someone told
you that you were being an asshole when you needed to hear it, and another
someone said thank you because you did something for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Someone left the pharmacy open an extra ten minutes after hours in
order to fill a prescription because your kid was wailing in the car and they
knew that their small act would make your night easier. Someone loaned you some
sugar, or their car, or some money when you needed it. All of us have had a
someone or two in our lives—I’d venture to say more than a few.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For the religious amongst ya, someone took you to church, preached a
bible verse to you, maybe even baked you a pie, simply because they knew you’d
like it. Someone thought you needed God, so they showed you the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Nobody, let me repeat that, NOBODY has gotten to where they are today
all by themselves. You’ve all had family, friends, teachers, and yes, sometimes
the government, lend you a hand along the way. If you’ve never been unemployed,
disabled, on welfare, or a senior citizen—excellent! But I guarantee you,
you’ll be at least one of these very soon…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Final thought and it’s a snarky one because you already hate me by now,
anyway:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I hear tell that some Jesus fellow had an interesting way of handling
the sick and hungry…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He cured and fed them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">***If you’re interested in how a couple of the Big Entitlements might
actually be the answer to the problem,</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: cyan;"> <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/wonkblog/wp/2013/04/05/washington-thinks-entitlements-are-the-problem-maybe-theyre-the-answer/" target="_blank"><span style="color: cyan;">check out this article by Ezra Klein</span></a></span><span style="color: white;"> –
one of my favorite wonky debunkers. The reader comments are pretty interesting
here, too. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-9320283277822499792013-07-03T10:53:00.003-04:002013-07-03T10:53:50.237-04:00The Raven, defiled<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCrdvSv7RflIM4XFiAdUZDu4oxZ7kRuQz5D2R1WWzbv4TQRk68mY1LZ0dSjTBySoMTpxKcTTtZF9vj4lU54l1KnvqLNwEqw_G6WN1prDP-qKvf6mbUTN_h13xsZaDbbAahlQEdvIfhpg-/s1600/Raven+Defiled+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCrdvSv7RflIM4XFiAdUZDu4oxZ7kRuQz5D2R1WWzbv4TQRk68mY1LZ0dSjTBySoMTpxKcTTtZF9vj4lU54l1KnvqLNwEqw_G6WN1prDP-qKvf6mbUTN_h13xsZaDbbAahlQEdvIfhpg-/s400/Raven+Defiled+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: cyan; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">NOTE: (This is what happens when a writer gets bored...)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;"><b>The Raven</b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">,
defiled.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">—(</span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">not</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">) Edgar Allan Poe</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>O</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;">nce upon a mid-day dreary,
while I labored, weak and bleary,<br />
I read a strange and curious roll of un-forgotten lore — (word-of-the-day TP)<br />
With angst I prodded, nearly snapping, suddenly there came a tapping,<br />
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at the bathroom door.<br />
"‘Tis occupied," I started. "Stop tapping at the bathroom door —
<br />
Aggrieve me with nothing more!" <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How distinctly I remember, my
angry bowel that bleak December;<br />
Standing… spasm! <i>Leaking</i>! ‘fore it wrought its contents on the floor. <br />
Horrified I prayed for morrow; vainly I then propped the window<br />
As the stench increased my sorrow – anguish on my fickle core!<br />
For a rare and radiant maiden would never, <i>never</i> poop upon the floor!—<br />
Shameless, blameless… nevermore.<br />
<br />
Presently my stool grew harder; hesitated, then no longer,<br />
"Sir," wailed I, " -or Madam, for your patience I implore; <br />
But the fact is I was pooping, awfully, when you came a rapping,<br />
So I blame you interrupting and your bloody tapping at the door,<br />
That I was un-compacted when I did hear you" – here I opened wide the
door; <br />
Grudgingly, I looked at the floor.<br />
<br />
Deep into the detritus peering, long we stood; me pondering, he leering,<br />
Knowing what we’re seeing, no mortal had e’r done on a colleague’s floor; <br />
Tho’ the silence was unbroken, I took his stillness as a token,<br />
And the only word there spoken was his gasped indictment, "ON THE
FLOOR?"<br />
"Yes," I whispered, on an echoed sob did burble, "On the floor…"
—<br />
Ghastly, this, and so much more.<br />
<br />
Back into the soiled chamber lurching, with the gut inside me burning,<br />
As he retreated, feet tap-tapping, I sobbed, but somewhat louder than before.<br />
"Surely," said I to God above, "this only happens at the Jersey
Shore."<br />
Let me think, then, what to do, with this ghastly refuse on the floor — <br />
How to deal alone with the pile of revulsion on this floor?<br />
‘Tis bad luck and nothing more!"<br />
<br />
Open here I flung the door wide, when, with invective did I mutter,<br />
"Bring me bleach and Ajax, if you want this shite-splashed room
restored!"<br />
Not a comforting gesture made she; nor a minute of pity or compassion for me;<br />
With nasty mien did the lady, stare in horror at her defiled bathroom floor —<br />
Perched upon her Jimmy Choos just outside her dung-filled bathroom’s door —<br />
She lurched and gagged, away she tore.<br />
<br />
Thus I sat engorged and guessing, but no syllable expressing<br />
To the foul what fiery reek ‘n havoc had seared unto my lower sore;<br />
This and that I sat divining, with unsteady unease reclining<br />
As the commode tank labored burbling and the john thusly bloated o’er,<br />
Oh <i>offense! </i>while they downstairs, about my shame were gloating o’er, <br />
This too shall pass… ah, <i>nevermore</i>!<br />
<br />
Then, methought, the reek grew denser, perfumed with wholly unseen censure<br />
Stung by the sound of foot-falls tinkling on the tufted floor.<br />
"Shit!" I cried. "Why, God?
Why smite me? By the devil, you hath done mightily!"<br />
I needed respite — respite and distraction, from what lies behind this door;<br />
I shall flee this Tupperware party, and forget this unseemliness on the
floor!" <br />
Quoth my conscience, "Like some common crack whore?"<br />
<br />
"Stop it!" said I, "I’ll clean it, still, if someone brings me a
shovel!" <br />
Whether he or she sent, or whether tempest tossed a bucket against the door,<br />
Desolate and daunted in this deserted lavatory I canted —<br />
Dragged the filled bucket and mop inside on haunches—alone, I shut the door.<br />
"Is there – is there bleach in this bitch? – tell me – tell me ‘fore I
pour!"<br />
Quoth my conscience, "OH, JUST POUR!"<br />
<br />
"Mop it?" said I, "By odor defiled – mop I will, turd clods and
deviled-swill!<br />
But by that son-of-a-whore that bends above us – I’d rather it be blood and
gore!" <br />
Such surfeit, sorrow-laden exudation, sloshing, slipping, sliding, "Fuck
me!" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You shall not break this
sainted maiden with a mere fecal storm on the floor —<br />
Scrape and squeegee with bare hands, I’ll attack this shit-storm that I alone
bore. <br />
Quoth she outside, "OPEN THIS DOOR!"<br />
<br />
"Begone you who would pity me still, faux friend!" I shrieked,
down-sliding —<br />
And shit! - Get thee back into the pot and take the to the Plutonian shore!<br />
"I’ll leave no brown plume as a token of that which lie polluted and now
broken!<br />
Leave my pitiful-ness unspoken! – quit the haranguing banging on the door!<br />
Take a break from how you mock, and move thy form far from the door!"<br />
Quoth my judgmental conscience, "Bloody, bloody bore."<br />
<br />
And the woman, never flitting, still is fretting, still is fretting<br />
On the spiky heels of Choo just outside her cunny poo-chamber door; <br />
And tho’ I’ve now done all the cleaning of a demon’s that is teaming,<br />
And the light o’er the commode now gleams unsoiled reflections on the floor;<br />
My soul knew I’d ne’r surmount the shit embedded in the grout upon on the floor<br />
It shall be lifted – nevermore!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-20636905635983126092013-04-05T21:00:00.000-04:002013-04-05T21:00:33.546-04:00Musings on Menopause and Public Farting<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i></i></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<i><i><span style="font-size: large;">Nashville to Cleveland</span></i></i></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<i><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4jWWXFsIxAxzFETD4XmridMoTlo6UDdanQ0E_vXGgv5vvq-MGWbv1u3ruaqLwcgkrEYvE_XXYVu7YHxcOoAjhEwUdgtWUJsq9LI_SK5mh_BOQnIChRpZhYLVFHrXcDT-74WCgTDAQLxw/s1600/ramp+agent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4jWWXFsIxAxzFETD4XmridMoTlo6UDdanQ0E_vXGgv5vvq-MGWbv1u3ruaqLwcgkrEYvE_XXYVu7YHxcOoAjhEwUdgtWUJsq9LI_SK5mh_BOQnIChRpZhYLVFHrXcDT-74WCgTDAQLxw/s400/ramp+agent.jpg" width="265" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> What really got me were his
shoes. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I sat on a plane, staring out a
rain-dappled window at a kid who couldn’t be more than twenty. He was wearing
one of those fluorescent yellow vests and held up two
orange batons in an X formation over his head, presumably giving some signal to
the pilot.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> What are these people called, the baton toting people directing airplanes
on the runway? I should Google that at some point.*</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">But I digress…</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So, the shoes on this kid (thick soled
black sneakers) were untied. Both of them. Here we have a fellow who’d been
tasked to do whatever it is one does within the context of getting an airplane
off the ground (while holding orange batons) yet he didn’t have the where-<i>fucking</i>-withal to tie his goddamn shoes.
The black laces flopped around on the tarmac as he did his arm acrobatics and
pointed his batons here and there. Something about that brought me to tears
though, if pressed, I couldn’t tell you what, exactly. I sat there dabbing the
pads of my fingers into the corners of my eyes, catching the tears before they
had a chance to make their pathetic trek down my cheeks and alert my fellow
passengers to my sudden onset of <i>what the
fuck is going on</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Don’t ask where the tears came
from or even their cause. These days they arrive suddenly and unbidden, for reasons
that can be attributed to anything from a pile of dirty laundry or a Hallmark
commercial to the fact that there’s a diminutive probable psychopath in North
Korea who would gladly toss a nuke our way if he got drunk enough one night and
was feeling frisky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> So with regard to the sudden waterworks, there’s no rhyme or reason. It’s
just hormonal insanity in the form of unwarranted facial precipitation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I think it’s probably time to
check into some sort of herbal something-or-other because this debilitating heaviness
that’s suddenly taking up residence over my heart every twenty-eight days <i>or so</i>* suggests I’m sauntering up to
full blown menopause with all the finesse of Jason Voorhees spooning someone’s
eyes out with an ice cream scoop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">*When Mother Goddamn Nature doesn’t see fit to arrive ridiculously early
(or horrifyingly late) with the blood and the crankiness and the existential </span><i style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;">What the hell does it all mean and why the
fuck am I so damn hot all of a sudden?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> All these fermenting emotions were
syncopated to my throbbing pulse as the bitch sitting across from me fingered
her iPhone well after the stewardess made the ‘No Electronics’ announcement, so
now I should probably research whether being peri-menopausal is sufficient justification
for any negative action attributed to it… you know, for when the bitch decides
to become litigious. Because her goddamn phone was bouncing down the center
aisle of the plane before I even realized I’d snatched it out of her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Internal Monologue: SHUT OFF YOUR
GODDAMN ELECTRONIC DEVICE ON THE PLANE, BITCH! I HAD TO TURN OF MY KINDLE SO
YOU CAN’T CALL YOUR MOM AND INQUIRE ABOUT THE CAT!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Apparently blind rage takes no pause
and I suddenly have zero fucking tolerance for fuckers who can’t
follow a simple goddamn direction IN THE NAME OF COLLECTIVE COMMON DECENCY.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Note</i>: The above didn’t actually happen but I could see it
happening and was seconds away from making it happen, so I’m taking
metaphorical license to get my point across. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The point is this: The intent was there. Oh so <i>bloody fucking there</i>… </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Luckily my sanity hasn’t completely
eroded. </span><i style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Just yet.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I think it’s safe to assume none
of this is going to end well. I can only hope it will prove to be a mildly
amusing hormonal transformation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>*Another note</i>: I’ve been informed the airport employees who wear bright
vests and wave the batons are called marshallers or rampies - short for ramp
agents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Connecting flight; Cleveland to Grand Rapids<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I’d like to know from what kind
of socially retarded burg you must have been spawned to assume it’s perfectly
acceptable to fart on a crowded airplane. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">…repeatedly over the course of one hour and thirty-eight minutes. Seriously,
what makes some idiot say to himself, <i>‘Yeah,
I’m gonna let this puppy burble out of my pucker into the faux-leatherette of
seat 14A as I casually peruse the Sky Mall catalog.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Sky Mall catalog — we’ll
get to that ridiculousness in a minute because I’m still trying to wrap my
cranium around who it is that conceives and raises the cretin who eventually
matures into an airplane farter. Who are these fucks of nature and why isn’t
Piers Morgan doing an in-depth interview alongside a statistic-toting medical
(or mental health) professional about the nasal affronters in our midst?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The fact is, some of you people are busy raising little people who will
one day grow up and think it’s perfectly acceptable to fart just anywhere, willy-nilly.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Listen, I get it. Farting is
necessary. Sometimes the only option in public is to let it slide out and hope
for the best, particularly when it’s an out-of-your-control type scenario. We’ve all been there. But I’m a human being
with average bowel activity and I know it’s possible to stifle such an urge
should the physical need arise. Where I draw the line is infringing on the
right of another in close proximity to enjoy anything other than my stench-ridden
gaseous discharges.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i><u><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Note:<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i><u><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Grocery store farting</b>: Okay, I’ll give you that one. The aisles are
big and your victims have the means, motive, and opportunity to get the hell
away from you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Elevator farting</b>: Unacceptable under any circumstance other than
you actually wanting to torture your fellow passengers — because there’s no
elevator ride in the history of mankind that's so long you can’t hold your fucking air. Seriously, how far you going, mate? Twelve floors? Buck up, tuck
it up, then let it slide when you exit. I recommend walking fast and finding a
secluded spot because it’s gonna feel so good, an orgasmic moan will emanate
from within you — one to which you’ll be entirely unable to do anything but yield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="font-size: x-large;">Open-air surroundings</b><span style="font-size: large;">: Absolutely. Let your ass gasses fly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>In the company of friends and family</b>: No problem. They should love
you despite your internal stench and in this case, knowing the <i>stinker</i> makes it bearable (even charming
in an <i>I-love-you-in-all-your-humanness </i>kind
of way) to the <i>stinkee</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Airplane farting</b>: Fucking unacceptable! </span><span style="font-size: large;">I can’t get away from your stink,
man! (Or woman… I wasn’t able to pin down the sex of the putrid perpetrator on
my plane but I’m well aware that women are as prone to the natural funk of
humanity as men. I wouldn’t wish my personal gassy prowess on anyone, I assure
you.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So yeah, we’re all allowed those
occasions when there’s physically no choice. But I’m beginning to believe there
are some who take sadistic pleasure in regaling others with the malodorous byproduct
of their digestive process. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> It’s like they’re daring others to
call them on it! You know who I’m talking about, don’t act like you don’t. We’ve
all encountered these offenders and if you say you haven’t then you’re probably
one of the offenders in question.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I ask you this, kind (and possibly stinky) reader: How would </span><i style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;">you </i><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">like it if I held the strap of my
purse, reared my arm back and smacked you in the head with it and its fifteen
pounds of various and sundry girly shit? Because that would have the same basic
effect as you projecting your putrid ass-gas in some innocent bystander’s
direction.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So, here’s the take-away from a
hormonal, pre-menopausal female: If I love you, I’m happy to receive you in all
your foul-smelling glory — but if I don’t know you like that, please keep your
stench to yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <b><i>When in doubt, don’t let it out.</i></b> Consider this the Eleventh Commandment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Now to the Sky Mall issue: What
the actual <i>fuck</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> You’ve seen this thing, right? It’s
a catalog shoved into the seat-backs of airplanes and if you didn’t have the
presence of mind to bring an e-reader or mp3 player are forced to peruse to
keep from mentally harping on the fact that you’re just one <i>Swiss Army knife wielding</i> <i>terrorist</i> or <i>bird-in-propeller</i> away from death by fiery jet-fueled inferno.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> What I don’t understand is who
its target audience is, this odd little catalog. Who opens up this thing and
says, “Yes! I must have the <i>iGrow</i>™
helmet immediately because it will help me achieve thicker, fuller looking hair
in weeks – <i>Guaranteed</i>!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> ($695.00 + shipping and handling)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Or, “Boy howdy, I’ve always
wanted to get me one of these here <i>Portable
All-In-One Sun-Tracking SunSocket™ Solar Generato</i>r’s!" </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> ($1499.00 + shipping
and… are you fucking kidding me?) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> "I guess I’ll jot this info down and order me
one just as soon as we touch down in Dulles and the pilot turns off the <b>Fasten your Seatbelts</b> sign!” — which is
now the universally understood signal to passengers that we can collectively
power up our iShit.**<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">**Take a fucking hint lady on United Airlines economy
flight 5728 Thursday evening who wouldn’t deign to follow a simple
instruction and apparently thinks SELFISH ANARCHY SHOULD REIGN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway… whatever. Not even sure where I was going with all this. I guess, perhaps, don't fart in public unless you have to... and beware of females embarking upon the joys of menopause. I’ve
been experiencing a disconcerting amount of memory loss lately and I don’t even
have the energy to end this tirade with something pithy or meaningful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Send chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-68512905969548764452013-03-19T07:09:00.002-04:002013-03-19T07:09:26.731-04:00If you gotta write a video eulogy, let it not suck. ~Confucius, probably<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85OXmGPYEBDa6ND9fxIGTjrSTo0TC99-Yw3fmnyWAlKtHWlzlHFZl93PLTCEX_rL0lbWhgtJQqotzjrI3qSwFg-E0dwp-_r5lECvzAxqgIIfwCaRwtiutkqcOZdYJ3naEUUuWx5hXnlI3/s1600/Nanna+young+BEER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85OXmGPYEBDa6ND9fxIGTjrSTo0TC99-Yw3fmnyWAlKtHWlzlHFZl93PLTCEX_rL0lbWhgtJQqotzjrI3qSwFg-E0dwp-_r5lECvzAxqgIIfwCaRwtiutkqcOZdYJ3naEUUuWx5hXnlI3/s400/Nanna+young+BEER.jpg" width="253" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I rarely cry anymore. When I popped out two kids, the first thing that leaked out after them along with the amniotic liquid was my timidity in times of import and my outwardly emotional side when the shit hits the fan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Oh, I’ll yell. I’ll gasp… I’ll get pissed. Maybe I’ll even make a joke. But I won’t fucking cry. I’m the rock and rocks don’t cry. I learned pretty early on in my parenting life that the people around me didn’t like it when I cried. They got white-faced and nervous and had no idea how to handle it. So I don’t let them see it much. When the rock feels shaky it hides in the bathroom, chokes out a couple sobs and then pulls it the fuck together.</span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Methinks this has a lot to do with my Nanna’s DNA.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Concetta Angelina Morizzio Stec</b>; 4’10, emotional powerhouse, I rarely saw
her cry. Oh, she could curse a blue streak in English and Italian. Until he got
sick with prostate cancer later in life, Nanna’s favorite term of endearment
about her husband, my Poppie, was <i>The
sonofabitch</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My grandmother was one of my favorite people in the world and her spirit
is irreplaceable. She died on Monday March 11, 2013, just after 5a.m. Her loss
has left a small hole in my heart, though the memory of her laughter and antics
will continue to echo inside me forever. She is one of the reasons I am who I
am— I didn’t learn it from a cliché, I learned it from my grandmother; laughter
is a powerful inoculation against everything in life that ails you. She gave me
that because she lived it, and I will be forever grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFPNFKgnijXvoomFdI4ErakeHCLPZZrePXqBwEVvZ_VA794tHQEoIbg7RQEXTZtggPgAhWk2RtoNjqkgnzBmI1U4rQFKczYiABqUdMe9TQh1SEYNCD5LswIytYt1boaSr_jjfMtm0-Xd9/s1600/Nanna+with+BEER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFPNFKgnijXvoomFdI4ErakeHCLPZZrePXqBwEVvZ_VA794tHQEoIbg7RQEXTZtggPgAhWk2RtoNjqkgnzBmI1U4rQFKczYiABqUdMe9TQh1SEYNCD5LswIytYt1boaSr_jjfMtm0-Xd9/s320/Nanna+with+BEER.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: justify; text-indent: 48px;">About 14 years ago, I got my first video camera and spent as much time taking footage of her as I could, even though there’s no movie in the world that could fully illustrate the character she is in real life; a delightful little Italian lady prone to the use of malapropisms…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*Excerpt from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wish-Were-Engulfed-Flames-Raising/dp/1616084855" target="_blank"><b><i>I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames</i></b>:</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She calls Neosporin <i>neosperm</i>, and once announced to a packed theater
during a showing of the movie <i>Gigli</i>
that, “I never liked the sex. Too messy and then you have to douche.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Why did you pay good money to go
see <i>Gigli</i>, you might be asking
yourself? Nanna picked the movie — that’s the only explanation I have because
aside from the slightly interesting vagina monologue in the middle, my
recollection of the event is that it was one-hundred and twenty-one precious
minutes of my life I’ll never get back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> One year, we planned a birthday
celebration for Nanna and decided to kill two birds with one stone, scripting
an idea for a short film that ended up requiring a bit of improvising. In case
you haven’t figured it out by now, not much is sacred in my family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Nothin’ says lovin’ like being
made the butt of a deliciously inappropriate joke for their birthday and having
it posted on one of the most visited video sharing websites. It is truly the
gift that keeps on giving. Nanna was seventy-nine at the time and in
retrospect, we could have given her a heart attack. But that’s not what we were
thinking about when we called the funeral home and inquired about purchasing a
cremation urn identical to the one that housed my grandfather’s ashes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Poppie and his prostate cancer
had gone the way of the ash two years previous and we were movin’ on. <i>C’est la vie</i>. No need to wallow in grief, it’ll find you again soon enough.
Steep in it for a few seconds - a week, tops. Then move on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> When we arrived at Mom’s and got
settled in, we headed to the back porch to sit around chewing the poo while Mom
gave Nanna a perm. The first fifteen minutes of the conversation were all about
toilet paper. (My grandmother has preferences, much like her great-grandson,
Jake. She likes very soft, pricey toilet paper. Months earlier, she’d been
forced out of her trailer in a Florida retirement community due to an impending
hurricane and had to stay with my Aunt JoAnn. They fought the entire time about
the lack of appropriate toilet tissue.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The next morning, after a nice
breakfast, Mom put the wooden box into a small duffel bag and set it at the end
of her dock by the lake. We lured Nanna out on to the dock and Resi held her
hand, just in case she got too close to the side. We didn’t want her going into
the water, since she can’t swim. Killing Nanna on her seventy-ninth birthday
wasn’t the plan. Giving her ticker a little jolt was. My step-father took me
out on the water in a small aluminum boat, so I had a front row seat from which
to film. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> As Resi pretended to show Nanna a
turtle in the water, Mom snuck around, removed the box from the duffel bag and
prepared to toss it into the lake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Resi feigned confusion, “Mom,
what are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> This got everyone’s attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “What’s that?” Nanna asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “I’m gonna’ throw it in the
lake.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> JoAnn, seeing the box and not in
on the plan, went for Mom…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Okay, so here’s where the <i>short film</i> portion of our little
escapade went south. Mom chucked the box and it landed a mere three feet away
from the dock and bobbed in the water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Nobody said anything for a long
time, awaiting Nanna’s response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “That’s not your father,” she
said, rolling her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> My aunt JoAnn, however, was a bit
more gullible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> There was a fair amount of
yelling. This, set against the backdrop of me laughing from the boat as the
camera jerked around, ensuring anyone viewing the video footage later would
need a Dramamine or two. Kind of like <i>The
Blair Witch Project</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I’ll let you watch the video to
see what happened… Nanna yelled at Mom for making JoAnn upset, while Resi and I
waited for the right time to spill the beans. Of course, we let the camera roll
for a while first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “Okay, now go get the God damned
box,” Nanna yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The script had flopped but we
were bound and determined to get it right so after fessing up, Nanna and JoAnn
decided to play along. I came in off the boat, found another angle and we
prepared for take two. We’d use the footage from the beginning of the scene, up
to the yelling, and then we’d improvise, adding more conflict. All good stories
need conflict.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Resi decided it would be funny if
someone actually went into the water, and the rest of us decided she should be
that person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> <i>Take two</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> JoAnn pushed past Resi and Nanna,
tried to get the box away from her sister, and in the process, my sister ended
up in the water. It didn’t occur to me till after Resi had joined the box that
the lake was full of snakes and alligators.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “Get out, get out. There’s snakes
in there. Get out!” I screamed from behind the camera as my sister struggled to
grab the side of the dock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Nanna, fantastic actress that she
is, repeated her initial line without prompting, “Now go get the God damned
box!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> …add some editing and cheesy
music and, voila; plenty of hits on the Tube.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Nanna got a few presents that
weekend, including an urn that matched Poppie's, and few memories she wouldn't
soon forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The following is my memorial
tribute to her. I’ve spent the last few days wallowing in grief and today I
realize I’ve steeped in it long enough. It’s time to be moving on. Nanna
believed in God. I’m not sure I do, but in case one of the wisest women I’ve
had the pleasure of knowing is right, and I’m just an idiot floundering in existential
malaise, wherever you are…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I love you, Nanna</i>.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-808681132298571742013-02-24T16:50:00.003-05:002013-02-24T16:57:36.062-05:00… in which she waxes philosophical regarding 50 Shades of Publishing<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwJo4pa7TqO0mXA-aLYat9ClVBS-RsRQPeLiiTM6KPAxFcoe1TKdGpLA6vWIX-wITDwgTNqs_SdYfuzMFb4yWSwcTzxMlj5QcDn_Khc8MUHJldqMis7IxYwO3lfQ651z4Y4KZj6Xzc-No/s1600/50+SHADES+OF+film_strip_.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwJo4pa7TqO0mXA-aLYat9ClVBS-RsRQPeLiiTM6KPAxFcoe1TKdGpLA6vWIX-wITDwgTNqs_SdYfuzMFb4yWSwcTzxMlj5QcDn_Khc8MUHJldqMis7IxYwO3lfQ651z4Y4KZj6Xzc-No/s640/50+SHADES+OF+film_strip_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I get asked questions about publishing frequently, whether by e-mail or
at book signings and events. Usually I shrug and mumble something about luck,
because it does feel kind of arbitrary. But I thought I’d use this opportunity
to answer as many of those questions as I can.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">To make it more entertaining, let’s start by discussing <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> – since it’s one of
those anomalies we really can’t use as a basis for any true conversation about
publishing. But it’s always the kind of example writers pull out of their hats
when they have dollar signs in their eyes and naiveté in their hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> by
E.L. James… The plot isn't exactly new, though I do find this cookie-cutter premise (used widely over the years) slightly creepy; vulnerable young woman, brooding older man, the former wishes to capture the latter's heart, thus achieving equality and love by physically submitting to him. Yeah, good luck with that. I'd expect this couple to either end up Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil's couch if this were real life. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">But when a book blows up like Fifty
Shades, and you can’t get through two paragraphs without cringing or laughing,
you want to know WHAT THE MOTHERFUDGESICLE THE BIG DEAL IS. What are you
missing? So I went on a quest — and by quest I mean bought my sister a copy for
Christmas and told her she had to read it and then be vigorously interrogated. Since
I knew I probably wouldn’t get through it, someone had to take one for the
team. And by </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">the team</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">, I mean me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Oh, I tried. Sweet baby Jesus, I
tried. See
normally, this is what you do: Pick up a book <i>they </i>say is all the rage. You read a few passages, think <i>Meh</i> and
put it down. That’s fine. That’s okay. I shouldn’t judge it by the fifteen or
twenty 3 and 4 page samples I managed to choke down. Maybe I just happened upon
all the creepiest, most oddly written bits. I should sit down and give it a fair chance in all its
read-in-one-sitting glory before I eviscerate it...<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>with love</i>. Right. Fine.
I sit down and start turning pages.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> An hour of my life later (which I
will never get back) I had to stop. Just not my cuppa. And that’s fine because
it certainly is <i>someone’s</i> cuppa. A <i>lot</i> of someones.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<u><b>EXCERPTS:</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<h3>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">~“I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back
of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end. He’s
my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder …<span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"> </span></i></span><i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Hmm<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i>… My
inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.”</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></b></div>
<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
</span></b><b><div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">~"‘Why don’t you like to be touched?’ I whisper, staring up
into soft gray eyes. ‘Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.’ ”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></b></div>
</b></h3>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The book has its own <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fifty_Shades_of_Grey" target="_blank">Wikipedia page</a>, fan clubs,
been dubbed <i>mommy porn</i>, inspired
chuckles, ire, and newfound sexual shenanigans for flagging married couples…
allegedly. It’s even
spawned Culinary erotica. I give you <i>Fifty
Shades of Chicken</i>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> One man even
<a href="http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/fifty-shades-of-grey-steak-sauce-assault-e-l-james-348688" target="_blank">assaulted his girlfriend with steak sauce</a> after she refused to stop reading the
book. <i>Come on! </i>I
wish someone would threaten assault by condiment on their partner after reading
passages from one of <i>my</i> books! I’d
wear that steak sauce as a badge of honor. And then
there’s the <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/International/wireStory/brazil-judge-orders-50-shades-grey-removed-18251225" target="_blank">Judge in Brazil </a>who ordered 50 Shades of Grey removed from
bookstore shelves.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So, that’s how you do it, people. </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
how you sell books. We can all chuckle to our generic-buying, Walmart-shopping,
collective heart’s content. FIST BUMP, E. L. James. You get mad props from me.
Who cares what some elitist readers think when you’re raking in the royalties?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Of course there are <a href="http://livefreerange.com/guest-post/fifty-shades-of-dumbing-down/" target="_blank">valid criticisms to be made</a>. And not just about <i>50
Shades</i>, but the dumbing down of literature as a whole, an argument that
I’ve had all too often, given I’m an avid book buyer/reader and find it
harder and harder these days to connect with what the NYT Bestsellers list has
to offer. <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The argument that “at least it gets people reading” is like saying,
“another McDonalds will get more people eating.” My answer to both is the same
– everything in moderation is great, but too much grease can give you diarrhea.
You know what I mean. I’ll let you pull the rest of that metaphor together
yourself.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> So, as an obviously biased writer
who believes life’s too short to read a badly written book, I took my questions
to the readers – two women I respect and admire: one being my sister, another
being an “Anonymous Popular Mommy Blogger who refused to use her name because
you people are judgmental bitches.” I hope you’re proud of yourselves.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> This is what Sis had to say:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “The sex part of the book was not
good. Childishly written, even. She refers to her vagina as “down there.”
That’s creepy as far as I’m concerned. Whenever she's turned on, Anastasia says things like: <i>Holy Crap!</i> or <i>Holy Moses!</i>" </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><u>EXCERPT:</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<h3>
<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on
the floor. Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. <i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Holy cow! </span></i>… He kneels up and pulls a condom onto
his considerable length. <i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Oh no … Will it? How?</span></i>”</span></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sis continues. “In my head I kept picturing Dorothy trotting along the
yellow brick road singing <i>Lions and
Tigers and Bears, Oh My! </i>Not sure that’s the visual I’m supposed to be having
every time Anastasia gets horny. And Christian started speaking like a cowboy half
way through. <i>‘Mighty fine, ma’am.’</i>
Not sure what that was about – but again, creepy. I don’t think the author
understands the importance of leaving a little to the imagination, either. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">I felt like she’d written me into a corner of predictability and I
couldn’t get out of it. Also, I wanted to throat-punch her </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;">inner goddess</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> by the end of the book. I wasn’t interested in her
POV, frankly. I think the author missed an opportunity when she didn’t write it
from Christian’s perspective. I was way more interested in what he was
thinking, but I never really knew because she just kept referring to him being
“in a mood,” but it was never clear what that mood was because it was the only
time she wasn’t overly-descriptive in the book.
The rest of the time she used too many adjectives. </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Bad adjectives</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">, repetitive adjectives.”</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b><u>YET ANOTHER EXCERPT:</u><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<h3>
<b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">“Sitting beside me, he gently pulls my sweatpants down. Up and
down like a whores’ drawers, my subconscious remarks bitterly. In my head, I
tell her where to go. Christian squirts baby oil into his hand and then rubs my
behind with careful tenderness—from makeup remover to soothing balm for a
spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid.”</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></i></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #fce5cd; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Whores' drawers, indeed.</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This is what my “Anonymous
Popular Mommy Blogger who refused to use her name because you people are
judgmental bitches” had to say:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> “Look, I went to college. I've
taught English, am a librarian, and actually get paid to write sometimes. I'm
supposed to be one of those folks who can discern between Virginia Woolf and
E.L. James. Having said that, I think
people just need to sit down, fan themselves, and be calm. Who honestly thought
this was going to be great literature? It's a fantasy! And it's a fantasy based
upon a monogamous, committed relationship. It doesn't need to defend itself. It's
erotica. It just is. As a story, it is of some interest. Can a damaged soul
heal enough to love? What is the fine line between sexy and kinky? Should fantasy become reality? And it's
interesting from a psychological point of view. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">But great prose it is not. Nor
did I expect it to be. So what is the value of shredding her style? I read it
for a book group, and read the other two so that I could intelligently moderate
our discussion. (At least, that's the
story I'm sticking to.) Though most of the actual writing made me cringe, I was
engaged enough to stay up late reading to find out what… happened. My husband didn't read a single page, but he
has many favorable things to say about it as well. Which brings us full circle to the point, I
think.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“You know what, Jeni? Use my name: Leigh Merryday. Feel free to mention
that I thought long and hard about being anonymous because of all the
judgmental bitches out there but valiantly strove for truth instead.” *nods sagely*</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> (Now you can see why I like
Leigh.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> So, friends, the take-away here
is: writing is subjective. What I think is pure shit, someone else might get
something from and that’s great. That’s life, baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Now… on to the subject at hand:
Publishing!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Something to remember: Publishing
is a business, not an art. Well, there may be an art to it, but everything that’s
published certainly can’t be considered art. Agents and publishers are here to
make money and you better get nice and cozy with that premise. Sure, they may <i>occasionally </i>get a bee in their bonnet
and publish something they personally related to, assuming sales will be low,
but for the most part, if it won’t make them money EVEN IF THEY LIKE IT, they’re
not going to spend their time and resources on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Okay, so you’ve written the next
Great American Novel. (Have you spell checked it, gone over it for flagrant
adverb/adjective abuse and point-of-view issues? Have numerous other people (who
don’t share your DNA) read it and given constructive feedback? Have you crafted
a one page query letter and researched the agents and/or small publishers that
might be amenable to what you’ve written?) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">First, let me say that there is no right answer here. Everyone has to make
their own decisions based on what they write and where they want to try and get
published. It’s about many things including genre, platform, how much control
you wish to have, and the realities of an ever-changing publishing world. If
you write genre stuff with mass-market appeal, I’d say get that query letter
and synopsis ready and start querying agents. Because that’s really the only
way you can get access to the large publishing companies. Most of them don’t
take unsolicited queries unless you’ve been referred to them by someone. Plan on dedicating a good year
on querying, though. That route isn’t a fast-track. Patience is a virtue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Another choice is to query small publishers on your own. Many of them
accept submissions directly from writers. But first do your homework. Look at
their publishing track record and contact some of their authors to see if they
are happy with their experiences. If you find yourself the lucky recipient of a
contract offer, treat yourself to a little happy dance. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">THEN CAREFULLY GO OVER THE CONTRACT. In every case this is important. I
can’t stress this enough. CAREFULLY GO OVER THE CONTRACT. Having a lawyer who
deals with contract law take a look at it is usually a good idea. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Make sure you’re comfortable with the royalties being offered; make sure
you understand what’s expected of you as well as what you can expect from the
publisher. Things like confidentiality clauses and, let’s say, what happens if
they fail to publish after a particular period of time elapses is of particular
import. You need to cover yourself in the event that they don’t live up to
their end of the bargain, and make sure you’re okay with all of the fine print
in that regard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Another thing: E-book royalties. Pay attention to this. These days,
there’s a good chance the bulk of your sales will be digital sales. As far as
I’m concerned, any publisher, big or small, offering a paltry 10% royalty on e-books should be ashamed of themselves. Seriously, there is NO
OVERHEAD in preparing a book for e-book distribution and if anyone tries to
tell you otherwise (other than the editing already done for the dead-tree
version) they should be taken out back, dipped into a vat of honey and unceremoniously
dumped into the bear cage at the zoo so we can all partake of the ensuing
festivities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sure, with a publisher, what you’re buying is their ability to get your
book to a wide audience. But what THEY are buying are YOUR WORDS. Only you can
decide the true value of those words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Pardon the vulgar metaphor (or don’t, I don’t give a flaming poo) let’s
take a look at the pimp/whore relationship:
Sugar Daddy will justify his “business” practices in any number of
ways, including the fact that, but for his existence, the whore in question
wouldn’t be safe in the shark-infested waters in which they’re… <i>performing</i>. Also, he'd argue, he's the one supplying the “johns” and fishnets, right? Well, I’d argue that it’s still the
whore who’s on her knees (or back) doing the dirty job of bringing in the dough
for Pimp Daddy so, ultimately, it’s her place to say whether or not her cut is
sufficient. <i>Or, find another profession. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Most small publishers worth their salt will offer a 50/50 split on
digital royalties, and for my money, that’s fair. I couldn’t tell you what the
Big 6 offers, (or is it 5 now?) but I stick to my earlier assessment – if
they’re offering less, shame on them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In some cases, depending on how small the small-publisher is, and how
much they are able to market your book, you’d make more money self-publishing
than you would even signing their 50/50 split. This is another area you really
need to research and consider, since many small publishers don’t have the
budget and/or connections to get your name and work out there to a wide
audience. That’s just reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Then, there’s self-publishing. Perhaps you’ve tried both options outlined
above and haven’t had any success. You say, “Fine! I’ll publish this book on my
own!” Good for you. Now do your research. I could wax poetic about
self-publishing but there are far too many good sites and articles out there —
Google self-publishing and prepare to spend an inordinate amount of time
learning about everything from preparing an e-book for distribution to
marketing. I will say that self-publishing is all about self-promotion. It’s a
full-time job so don’t expect sales if you’re not hitting social media hard and
on a daily basis. Also, do yourself a favor – get a good editor. There’s
nothing worse than a crappily-produced self-published book. (Except, perhaps, a
crappily-written, mass-produced, best-selling piece of drivel.) Also a good
cover is important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Basically, it’s up to each individual author to decide where their work
fits best and then be informed about what they should expect. With “big publishing”
you have less control in exchange for their vast sea of publicists, marketing
geniuses, and the mound of cash they have to back that up. You can probably
expect to sell a butt-load more books if you’re lucky enough to go that route but it’s not the road for everyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’ve been fortunate enough to have some pretty damn good experiences with
both traditional and self-publishing. But I know many who have not. I’ve heard
some horror stories this year. Personally, I like working with small
publishers. I did have one experience that left me feeling a little… stabby. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The not-so-nice side of publishing, particularly with small-publishers,
is that there have been a glut of recent companies who have found themselves
floundering in the current economy and their authors have suffered for it. The
main thing I’ve heard is a lack of communication with those they’ve promised to
publish. Not answering e-mails. Putting off questions. Not paying royalties in
a timely manner… or not at all. These are things you’d (hopefully) see less of
when working with larger publishers but again, I’ve heard a story or two in
that regard as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Once you’ve signed that contract, you’re under a legal obligation to
stick with the terms of that contract. That goes to the authors as well as the
publishers. Getting out of a contract when it appears a company is tanking can
be harder than it seems, particularly if they’re not answering their e-mails.
Or putting authors off with various and sundry excuses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, here’s my final piece of advice and it comes from the purist in me, as a reader: don’t write if you don’t love doing it. As
with everything in life, it’s about the journey not the destination. If you
don’t have fun getting there, you’ve wasted a shitload of time and that’s a
shame. Write because you can, because you’re good at it and you can’t imagine
doing anything else. That way, you can’t lose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’ll let someone more talented and wise than I have the final word: (It
should be noted that this is posted on the corkboard at my local library.
Apparently, librarians agree.)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">So You Want To Be A
Writer</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
by Charles Bukowski<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if it doesn't come bursting out of you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
in spite of everything,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
unless it comes unasked out of your<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
heart and your mind and your mouth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
and your gut,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you have to sit for hours<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
staring at your computer screen<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
or hunched over your<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
typewriter<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
searching for words,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you're doing it for money or<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
fame,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you're doing it because you want<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
women in your bed,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you have to sit there and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
rewrite it again and again,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you're trying to write like somebody<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
else,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
forget about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you have to wait for it to roar out of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
then wait patiently.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if it never does roar out of you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
do something else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
if you first have to read it to your wife<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
or your parents or to anybody at all,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
you're not ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't be like so many writers,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't be like so many thousands of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
people who call themselves writers,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't be dull and boring and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
the libraries of the world have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
yawned themselves to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
sleep<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
over your kind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't add to that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
unless it comes out of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
your soul like a rocket,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
unless being still would<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
drive you to madness or<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
suicide or murder,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
unless the sun inside you is<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
burning your gut,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
don't do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
when it is truly time,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
and if you have been chosen,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
it will do it by<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
itself and it will keep on doing it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
until you die or it dies in you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
there is no other way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
and there never was<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-55827262150354289812013-01-11T12:29:00.001-05:002013-01-17T10:06:48.531-05:00Rigor Mortis - Chapter One AUDIO<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
Chapter One of <i>Rigor Mortis</i> - narrated by the inimitable <a href="http://veinarmor.com/" target="_blank">Greg Crites</a>.<br />
(WARNING: Explicit language)<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SVtmH_AaqC4?rel=0" width="520"></iframe><br />
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-56867127981242224112013-01-02T09:27:00.000-05:002013-01-17T10:10:12.178-05:002012 Road to Not-So-Wellville... burp... (WITH VIDEO: possibly nipples and porn)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1KOn_1irs-XjRja9-2I8t_q91T3h50ep5odXLkEdA3hrAXAW6r_U5H_oFuRdjd3sjpNm9PiNZhUHBGCMNj0lnjZrM11D3Ig_7HFo6G_v0nD7MjJ3X7tsvne8X4ZxcUq_Nv4MdnXpw3Za/s1600/Perry+and+Lady+in+KITCHENARTISTICBEST.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1KOn_1irs-XjRja9-2I8t_q91T3h50ep5odXLkEdA3hrAXAW6r_U5H_oFuRdjd3sjpNm9PiNZhUHBGCMNj0lnjZrM11D3Ig_7HFo6G_v0nD7MjJ3X7tsvne8X4ZxcUq_Nv4MdnXpw3Za/s400/Perry+and+Lady+in+KITCHENARTISTICBEST.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As we all know, one of the most entertaining aspects of 2012 was the lineup of Right-Wing wackadoos on the fringes of this years’ Presidential election. I’m not talking about the handful of well-meaning conservatives – I’m talking about the Herman Cains, Rick Perrys and Michelle Bachmanns… you know, the ones that belonged in an SNL skit. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This
year, for shits and giggles, my sister and I filmed some fun parody campaign
spots, under the premise that Kat Nove and I would be running as a write-in
candidate. As a gift to you, should you need something to chuckle at after the
absurdity of the “fiscal cliff” debacle – enjoy a few minutes, if you wish. I
think there’s a spot in there rehashing my porn-making fiasco with mom, as well
as a nip shot, if you look close enough… (not my nips, nobody wants to see
that.)</span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Happy
New Year, folks.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='520' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/btBzrxJcM9c?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='520' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1dLw7Cf-Y6Q?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='520' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/4LOSRB4QlCg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='520' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw-otaWnrPrT5ExcaPkRXMsJnue8vV5OkjyXuDNQ9mW8bTAk_VdCiH2O_n0-TuqMcHthQRhKy0mtg1AK9gX6g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />We even did some parody attack ads. Here’s one. If you want
to see the others, you’ll have to search around Youtube under agorophobejeni. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve got to go walk on my treadmill… damn those New Year’s
Resolutions.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='520' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1HSxZVL1wmI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-19510135165468127392012-12-19T11:10:00.000-05:002013-01-17T10:11:08.813-05:00Words; across the universe… <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FsTwQXqn6fFmz_QkpjDFpTKxXAjcIPnhn_99Y_VhqtlKKrUixbmLSbXZheTnusOIP2X8fJkZ4G1PcNa7NHNUvpKpw3pavzo4OHVOik8QZYPfpE3pHPeIJVhoBLqxC49BJO-PxfLIxrud/s1600/universe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FsTwQXqn6fFmz_QkpjDFpTKxXAjcIPnhn_99Y_VhqtlKKrUixbmLSbXZheTnusOIP2X8fJkZ4G1PcNa7NHNUvpKpw3pavzo4OHVOik8QZYPfpE3pHPeIJVhoBLqxC49BJO-PxfLIxrud/s400/universe.jpg" width="370" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s Wednesday, days after the massacre at Sandy Hook
Elementary, and today, for the first time, when I dropped my kids off at
school there were armed police officers at every entrance. I guess it wasn’t
something I was prepared for, visually; happy children skipping to class in the final, fun-filled days before they are off for the
Christmas holiday, set against the backdrop of a solid police presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may have had a minor panic attack as I drove home. Minor; just
a few heart palpitations accompanied by sobbing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then one of my favorite songs came on the radio: <i>Across the Universe</i> by the Beatles. It’s
a beautiful song, haunting and thought provoking, if you care to listen to the
lyrics. Simple, yet sublime.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Words are flowing out
like endless rain into a paper cup, they slither wildly as they slip away
across the universe. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy, are drifting through my
opened mind, possessing and caressing me…”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being a writer, words have always had more power for me than
anything physical or visual could ever hope to accomplish. Just last night,
after finally getting a handle on my sorrow, I broke up again listening to a
letter from a schoolmate to one of his deceased friends, a letter left in a
tiny casket. A six year old chose to leave his words with his friend, for
eternity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words; so effective when we use the right ones, so dangerous
when we use the wrong ones… or fail to speak at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words; we choose not to hear, words we over-use, words left
unsaid, words that speak volumes. Words have
the power to heal, provoke, comfort, sadden, support, build up, tear
down, bring together, rip apart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A friend recently said to me, offhandedly, “Sometimes words
are just words, Jen.” I thought about it a lot and I don’t think words are <i>ever</i> just words. They’re too important. They
are an integral part of the construct under which we all communicate. I choose
a word, a few words, a phrase, and the simple act of doing so means something.</div>
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Whether consciously or otherwise, every syllable counts. Why else would I choose one word over another?</div>
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It all means something…<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wasn't even finished writing this blog post when I received an e-mail from a school official explaining the police presence at my local schools this morning:</div>
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Reed City police, school investigating possible threat made by student</h1>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><i>REED CITY — Police and school officials in Reed City are investigating threats allegedly made by a student</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">But
police and school officials were quick to say that students and staff are safe.
The student has been removed from the school while officials investigate the
validity of the comments and whether or not the student actually intended the
comments to be threats.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Reed
City Chief of Police Chuck Davis said that the department has been
investigating reports from students, a school employee and a local church
official regarding comments from a student. Davis has been working with Reed
City School Superintendent Steven Westhoff to determine the validity of the
threats, including interviewing the student’s parents and classmates about some
of the stories floating around the school and Reed City community.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Westhoff
and Davis both say they do not believe there is any real danger or that the
student intended to carry out the threats, if any were even made. Davis said
his department is investigating each allegation. However, in light of the
tragic school shooting in Connecticut last week, the school is taking every
precaution necessary, said Westhoff. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>“We
will do everything in our power to make sure the school is safe no matter what,
despite the fact that we have not been able to find any factual information to
support that this was a legitimate threat,” he said. “Everything is being done
in the interest of safety and we are taking this seriously.”</i><span style="font-size: 8.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I don't think I've even begun to
process the article, or what it means within the context of my own little universe.
All I know is that my universe is but a tiny part of the greater universe, one
that you and I and every other living person are tasked to care for in a way that I'm not sure we're doing such a good
job at, presently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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While searching for the Beatles version of the song to share
with you, I came across a version performed by one of my favorite artists,
Rufus Wainwright. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I think the accompanying video is poignant under the
circumstances. Take a moment out of your day to check it out. It’s as fitting a
visual tribute as I’d ever be able to come up with, because the words… today,
they are my words…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='520' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/cAe1lVDbLf0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-35794943691149252712012-11-28T19:18:00.001-05:002012-11-28T19:18:19.084-05:00Life Minus 3 ½ By Dennis Hart <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMczFmFdpndfkxApODfW9MscRrPmfN_9sS6Z1GymhBSeiJwJzkuqO9-ei6TPDm9NFHzP1Tof21q8KCc5b1C6cWojeqL9vSZQORp9Szv2FJVW_hyphenhyphenLm7mZIcJ3vOPZUWRShYnNKhpI2YW3U/s1600/Life+book+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMczFmFdpndfkxApODfW9MscRrPmfN_9sS6Z1GymhBSeiJwJzkuqO9-ei6TPDm9NFHzP1Tof21q8KCc5b1C6cWojeqL9vSZQORp9Szv2FJVW_hyphenhyphenLm7mZIcJ3vOPZUWRShYnNKhpI2YW3U/s640/Life+book+cover.jpg" width="417" /></a></div>
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<i> “There is nothing more unnerving than having
a gun pressed firmly against your head while a fat fucking moron wearing some
cheap cologne sits at the other end of it, making jokes as his sausage-like
finger massages the trigger.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Yeah, that’s quite the opening line. The fact that it’s a true story
makes it all the more intriguing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like my own twin Doppler radars,
which tingle when trouble is afoot, Dennis Hart has a “trouble magnet” which
pulses ominously when things are about to get real. Real like being threatened
by bookies and embezzling millions of dollars from your place of employment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That kind of real.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first few chapters outline the demise of the authors’ first marriage —
one he humorously likens to an alien abduction — and a life plagued by feelings
of inadequacy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“It was the summer of 1979, the last year I can remember smiling with
any sincerity…” </i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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The gambling begins when, off a co-worker’s tip, Dennis begins playing
the options market – sneaking $5,000 out of the matrimonial checking account as
start-up capital. His first venture pays off to the tune of $1,750 in a few
weeks. Then, as quickly as he made the first $1,750, he lost $6,000. What
started as a snowflake, turned into an avalanche. Each day he’d check his
portfolio and each day he’d think it would get better. He did quite a bit of
creative finagling to keep his wife in the dark and for a while it did get better.
A lot better. Then he made a pact to keep it to himself until he'd reached a
profit of one million dollars.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not a thing could go wrong with
that scenario, right? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Add to this, upheaval at work
involving a start-up company one of the co-workers asks Dennis to join,
secretly. Thinking he’d be a millionaire soon anyway, it wasn’t much of a stretch
to jump on the mutiny train. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>All aboard! <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> </i>New
company, new pressures, and new ways of gambling culminated in him having
numerous touts and bookies he was bringing bags of cash to each week. <o:p></o:p></div>
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From here on out, I was the clichéd guy in the heartburn commercial,
popping Tums with the turn of every page. It gets bad. Like MILLIONS,
bad. I can’t even imagine how he was functioning at this point. So let’s ask
him, shall we? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>So, Dennis. First off, I feel the need to
ask: How are you? Are you in Vegas playing blackjack right now?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I’m doing
just fine, Jeni. LIFE Minus 3 ½
tells a story that is over twenty years in my rearview mirror, so I’m over it,
but I think I’m the only one. Right now I’m not in Vegas playing blackjack. I’m
clipping coupons from the Sunday paper. To suggest I might be in Vegas is a
silly assumption on your part. Vegas is not a place I frequent. I prefer
Foxwoods for the occasional night of twenty-one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>I’ve always thought that addictive behavior
didn’t simply occur in a vacuum. It’s clear from the book that a terrible lack
of self-esteem played a big part. Do you feel like your gambling issue popped
up out of the blue? Do you have any other addictive behaviors – other than
popping M&M’s with the frequency and urgency that someone with bladder
control issues visits the toilet? Is there anyone in your family with addiction
problems; gambling, substance abuse, or the like? I guess I’m wondering if you
think there’s a genetic link.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Unlike most
people who spread their iniquities between smoking, drinking, and drugs to name
a few, the accountant in me decided to create one big habit in the hopes of
making it to Broadway someday. I’ve
never smoked, taken drugs, or indulged in the spirits. After living my life
without vices, I’d agree gambling came out of the blue, just like getting
married at seventeen did. I think it shows that we all have a malfunction
waiting to happen. No one in my family ever had any addiction problems and I
made sure by drilling down my research to my grandparents who came over on the
boat. And please leave my M&M’s out of this. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>After an initial scene that played like
something out of <i>Goodfellas</i>, you
relay with painful specificity how a little options trading turned to sports
betting and the acquisition of bookies and touts. It’s unbelievable the amount
of money that you stole, gambled, and lost. I found myself holding my breath at
times. By the time it all came to a head, I was almost relieved when you got
caught. Did it feel that way for you, too? <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Actually,
the initial scene played like one out of The Godfather. I figure I wagered in
the neighborhood of thirty-five million dollars over seven years with up to six
bookies. I won somewhere around twelve million and lost around twenty-three
million. It was the perfect storm for disaster. A guy with a self-esteem
problem due to an early divorce and lack of respect meets up with a company
with a severe lack of control over their cash. Add a sprinkle of options
excitement to suddenly make me feel as invincible as Spartacus, and a whole lot
of illogical sports gambling and you have a recipe for ruin. Let’s not forget
my inherent magnets, trouble and bad luck, that guided me down that path of
destruction. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, I
suppose I felt the weight of my misdeeds fall off my shoulders when the Fatal
Calls were placed, but as soon as that relief was gone, another weight climbed
aboard called…prison sentence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>For anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure, the
scenes in prison are fascinating. What, if anything, do you feel like you
learned from the experience, other than not to drop the soap?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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There isn’t
much to take away from my time in Allenwood Prison Camp, other than to say I
left with a sad appraisal of the human experiment. I mean the characters I met,
good and bad, you just can’t make up. And this was a minimum security joint. I
can’t imagine what really happens in the higher level facilities.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dropping the
soap is pure Hollywood. What’s real is walking into a shank because some dude
thinks you’re a rat. Even in minimum security, you sleep with one eye
open. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>I have to give props to the wife. You two
are still together, right? To what do you attribute her staying power? (Lots of
gifts and ass-kissing better be in that answer, somewhere…)<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Yes, we are
still together, although she scratches her head daily wondering why. Maybe she
believes, as the masses do, that the eleven million will show up one day. Now
there’s a losing bet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>What are you working on now? Any new books
on the horizon?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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LIFE Minus 3
½ was my first serious attempt at
writing. When it was done, I found it compelling and hoped it might reach
someone in need. After receiving praise for my writing skills, I started
wondering if I could create novels. I have a thriller finished titled <i>Pictures of Children</i> which deals with a
subject matter that appears almost daily in the newspapers. It is presently in
the query stage. I’ve also completed <i>Gulf
Boulevard</i>; a humorous adventure which I’m proud to say has been picked up
by a literary agency. It’s about a burned-out accountant who wins the lottery,
quits his job, and moves to a barrier island off Florida’s west coast to live
the life of a hermit. Unbeknownst to him, a mafia hit-man is hiding on the
island after a botched hit. Hey, write what you know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And finally, I’m now working on the
sequel to <i>Gulf Boulevard</i> because people tell me it’s that damn funny and they
want more. There you have it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jeni, I want to thank you for this opportunity
to hang out my dirty laundry. You can find my book on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AES0MEW" target="_blank">Amazon for Kindle</a> and the paperback will also be available shortly.<br />
<br />
For more information visit my blog at:
<a href="http://writingsbyhart.com/">writingsbyhart.com</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfMbKUnj3cjfO1XPmdyD26jfoTsbJWkZ4JToCZ9PqkZsoHLtTeIaKTAfqq30YPZYbGj4ZSmJTiTFc2ZIW54ewr_6cxiPJU6v95rqHLKAKfMCMUTCsKKKk3GMW5nhKzIx9tY7aPEP7ZFCQ/s1600/life_3_half_final_back_cover_with_excerpt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfMbKUnj3cjfO1XPmdyD26jfoTsbJWkZ4JToCZ9PqkZsoHLtTeIaKTAfqq30YPZYbGj4ZSmJTiTFc2ZIW54ewr_6cxiPJU6v95rqHLKAKfMCMUTCsKKKk3GMW5nhKzIx9tY7aPEP7ZFCQ/s640/life_3_half_final_back_cover_with_excerpt.jpg" width="412" /></a></div>
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Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-64062013047326888232012-10-19T11:07:00.001-04:002012-10-19T11:07:14.427-04:00Waiting for Karl Rove - The Sequel... sort of.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65bzfjnH4CD1Yk-PCm8ALIo_vwJeoRnbnPgJ3gjukzQrA5YIlORBRebWWqjbMDoqcytp6bK2IECkmfVOtqCWWi_pyoUiv0bWQRPrDXjs8Cs9E_LM7XxZmkgn-t-7monE5g_m3naaPqlpO/s1600/Terrible,+Horrible+Brown+BEST+for+ebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65bzfjnH4CD1Yk-PCm8ALIo_vwJeoRnbnPgJ3gjukzQrA5YIlORBRebWWqjbMDoqcytp6bK2IECkmfVOtqCWWi_pyoUiv0bWQRPrDXjs8Cs9E_LM7XxZmkgn-t-7monE5g_m3naaPqlpO/s640/Terrible,+Horrible+Brown+BEST+for+ebook.jpg" width="435" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Finally! The sequel to <i>Waiting for Karl Rove</i> is available. You can find the e-book on Amazon and Barnes & Noble... the paperback will be on Amazon soon. Here's an excerpt...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(... from Chapter 2)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Flash-forward.
Oh so bloody* forward. Let’s say, ten years from the moment Kat and I discuss
being turned into refrigerator magnets by a deranged killer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(*I,
Jeni, have Brit language envy so I often pepper my writing with words like
“bangers & mash,” “gobsmacked” and “minge.” Look up minge. You’ll get a
chuckle.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m in <i>Lez
Salon </i>in the Village, partaking of a pedicure while waiting for my wife,
Rachel Maddow, to return from the hipster record shop next door. She’s looking
for something by Louie Armstrong or Ella Fitzgerald. We like listening to music
on vinyl while we do our scrapbooking. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Around
the time I was traipsing around Las Vegas with Kat Nove, Rachel had a
significant other, but that “other” has become insignificant now. We don’t even
think about her, except when we get those off-putting phone calls where Alanis
Morisette can be heard shrieking in the background from a state-of-the-art
sound system. Once, when Rach put it on speakerphone, the “other” referred to
me as a “jagged little pill.” I took it as a compliment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What
happened to The Breadwinner and Thing One and Two, you ask? Sadly, they
perished in a freak meteor accident while on the way ice fishing one frigid
Michigan morning…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(*Okay,
I’m getting editorial feedback suggesting a gory death involving my husband and
two autistic children, even fictionally, is perhaps not the way to go if I want
to sell books. Yeesh, people are so fucking sensitive… as if The Breadwinner
would take Thing One and Thing Two anywhere without me there to chaperone.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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What <i>actually
</i>happened, in a nutshell, is this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
Breadwinner is now known as The Former Breadwinner since our book hit the New
York Times bestseller list. He spends a lot of time fishing and doesn’t ask
questions like, “Were those divorce papers I signed last month?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thing
One graduated from high school and went on to become a dog groomer. With all
the filthy lucre rolling in, I was able to purchase a corner shop downtown for
his new business —a business that’s thriving despite his penchant for tie-dying
the dogs various shades of blue. Once his customer base learned he was
autistic, they were hesitant to complain about it* so the fad took off. Our
small town is overrun with aqua, sea-foam and royal blue hippy dogs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(*Americans
With Disabilities Act of 1990)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thing
Two is presently directing a film in Yemen — accompanied by his
paraprofessional, of course. He still doesn’t speak in complete sentences, but
he manages to get his point across. Let’s face it, it’s not like you need to be
Mensa material to work in Hollywood these days. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My life
is good…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later,
as I cook dinner for my gal, I hear her sigh into the phone before she pads
into the kitchen in her baggy sweatpants and wife-beater. She pushes the
speaker button and sets the phone down on the table before opening the refrigerator.
As she retrieves a can of V-8 and pops the top, a harried voice emanates from
the phone, choking out angsty lyrics along with Alanis… <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You
oughta know!” I startled awake, screaming a line from the famous breakup song.
I wiped the drool from my chin and turned to see Kat with my video camera
pointed at me, close enough to get a shot of each of my oversized pores.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You
fell asleep leaning against the elevator doors,” Kat replied. “I was hoping
they’d open and I’d get to film you falling on your ass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nudged
her with my elbow. “A little personal space, please.” My words were noticeably
slurred.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m
hungry.” Kat’s declaration was equally garbled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re
drunk,” I giggled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I get
hungry when I’m drunk. Let’s find something to eat.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leaned
against the elevator doors and rubbed my temples. Eating was the last thing on
my mind. In fact, I was starting to get that feeling in my stomach that usually
precipitated—<o:p></o:p></div>
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A river
of chunky stomach effluent sprayed from my mouth, covering Kat’s shirt and the
camera just before the elevator doors opened and I landed in a tawdry heap in
front of a half dozen hotel guests. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Twelve
feet took a step back; six heads looked down at me in disgust.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kat
laughed uproariously, crossed her legs, presumably in an effort to quell the
impending tide, and yanked her baggy t-shirt up to wipe a chunk of something
off the camera lens*. Then she panned down to get a shot of me rolling onto my
stomach and pulling myself up using someone’s legs for support.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(*Simultaneously
revealing her tattered bra and what looked like a very new tattoo on her
stomach: Eric Cartman from South Park, bent over and pulling his butt cheeks
open, her naval strategically placed in the center to form his puckered
bunghole. Tattoo: $78.50. A lifetime reminder of Vegas shame:
Priceless.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
circle of people who gasped as she flashed her new body art hadn’t clued Kat
in, so I decided to let her find out about the tattoo on her own. I’m pretty
sure she’d never have done it in her right mind, and about now I was wondering
what else we’d been up to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pushed
past the now whispering (judgmental) crowd and checked my watch. Just after one
AM. I had no idea what had transpired over the last hours - except that Kat had
a new tattoo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hurry
up, I gotta pee.” Kat stumbled down the hallway toward our room as I fished in
my purse for the credit card key.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t
find the key,” I muttered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kat
danced in front of the door. “Seriously, Jen.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m
trying… wait, here it is.” I pulled it out and a receipt with a piece of chewed
up gum was stuck to my hand. “Oh, gross.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kat
grabbed the card, swiped it, opened the door, tossed my video camera on the
bed, then tripped into the bathroom. As the door closed behind her, I pondered
the gummy receipt from Club Tattoo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh,
no</i>… The crumpled piece of paper in my hand clearly showed two tattoos had
been paid for. For a brief second, I prayed Kat had an image of Kenny in his
red parka on her ass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With
dread, I shoved the receipt into my purse, dropped it on the bed and turned to
the mirror over the dresser. I squeezed my eyes shut and lifted my shirt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I
opened my eyes, the reflection in the mirror revealed the same tattoo Kat had,
only mine was of Butters (wearing bunny ears) pulling his butt cheeks open to
reveal his pink li’l pucker - the pucker being my navel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I
screamed Kat ran out of the bathroom, still zipping up her jeans. “Wha—?” She
pointed at my belly. “AHAHAHAHAHHAHA.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You
think that’s funny, huh?” I asked as she snorted and guffawed in a very
unladylike manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
grabbed the hem of her shirt, yanked her in front of the mirror and pulled the
shirt up to her chin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her
laughter cut off abruptly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How the
hell did that happen?” she shrieked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m
guessing all the Creepy Crawlies* had something to do with it!” I shrieked
back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(*Kat’s
drink of choice since it was Halloween. We had more than a few before and after
starting a riot and crashing a wedding. [Book One people, catch up.]
Unfortunately, what happened after the wedding was anybody’s guess.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t
shriek at me, missie. I doubt this was my idea.” Kat ran her finger over
Cartman’s head, wincing in pain. “Ouch.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So
we’re assuming I was the one who came up with the bright idea of getting
obnoxious tattoos where our belly buttons serve as cartoon anuses?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re
saying that <i>doesn’t </i>sound like something you’d suggest?” She put her
finger in her belly button and wiggled it around, sending us both into a fit of
giggles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked
down at my stomach. “I’m pretty sure The Breadwinner isn’t going to like this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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*</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQGg_RmsgqFHtgj8ayUAEAeUeAF-koiAUTnhnrSZuWe_A-RM3jpAzBhKuF1gNVVnYAWpzgKDtng8M7doJmjSB6Cjawn_fumg-0D3ijFDA1GvpR5Ienjysn_jCpD-99Ialkqm3GDDdCuNt/s1600/Terrible+Horrible+back+cover+72DPI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQGg_RmsgqFHtgj8ayUAEAeUeAF-koiAUTnhnrSZuWe_A-RM3jpAzBhKuF1gNVVnYAWpzgKDtng8M7doJmjSB6Cjawn_fumg-0D3ijFDA1GvpR5Ienjysn_jCpD-99Ialkqm3GDDdCuNt/s640/Terrible+Horrible+back+cover+72DPI.jpg" width="436" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-88449504395527393492012-09-13T22:51:00.001-04:002013-01-17T10:12:19.903-05:00Blog post goes Viral!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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No it didn’t,
you stupid sheeple. But the title got you here, so let’s talk about Tweetguilt™®©,
shall we.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9OxVHpNE6fSiC7-jPVpUy56VY2xDY3Tjk43fhIB7Z5WqXD6o_go9INZYEAdO23_Y-ebc86SPiu_593c0IU19eETiAzp6fAvMWqtchwtpv8NGjLC9jfdMyLeFdTX0H5f1Q_lBAnRtWRF_/s1600/filthy+richmond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9OxVHpNE6fSiC7-jPVpUy56VY2xDY3Tjk43fhIB7Z5WqXD6o_go9INZYEAdO23_Y-ebc86SPiu_593c0IU19eETiAzp6fAvMWqtchwtpv8NGjLC9jfdMyLeFdTX0H5f1Q_lBAnRtWRF_/s640/filthy+richmond.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Jocelyn Plums <a href="https://twitter.com/FilthyRichmond" target="_blank">@FilthyRichmond</a> :</div>
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<b>If you liked it then you should have blown a load in it.</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
ME:
MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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FRIEND:*
That’s not funny! That’s gross!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
(note: Not a
friend, actually. Nothing says I have no friends and live in a van down by the
river (actually I live on a farm across from a cow pasture) like using double
social media platforms to chat with strangers regarding your feelings about
Twitter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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ME: Yes,
that’s why it’s so funny. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
INNER
MONOLOGUE: Blown a load? <i>Ugh</i>, the
image conjures up buckets of sperm being reverse wet-vac’d into someone’s
vagina.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
ME: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Exactly! That’s why it’s good. Seeing something that obnoxious in print is
funny as hell. Someone WROTE THAT SHIT DOWN FOR OTHERS TO SEE!! You forget, we’re
a product of Catholic School upbringing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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INNER
MONOLOGUE: Don’t retweet that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
ME: Of
course I’m gonna retweet it!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
INNER
MONOLOGUE: <i>Jennifer Lynn!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
ME: You get
the reference, right? Beyonce’s lyric, “If you liked it then you should’a put a
ring on it…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
INNER MONOLOGUE:
DO NOT RETWEET THAT.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
ME:
(gleeful) I’m doing it…<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I didn’t.
I laughed until I fell out of my chair… then I went to dry my hair and debated
for thirty minutes as to why I hadn’t retweeted it. You laugh that hard, the tweeter
deserves a retweet, right? I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to be. There is a kind
of pleasing symbiosis to it all — in ingesting something, and then being able
to immediately pass judgment on it with the single click of a button. Thing is, I wonder how many people <i>want</i> to
retweet or even tweet stuff, but they don’t. For whatever reason.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know what
my reason was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>My mom follows me…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Not that I
have any reason to worry about what she thinks. In a few years when she’s
drooling into a cup, I’ll be the one holding it over her natty housecoat while three
King Charles Spaniels with wheezing disorders and hip issues writhe around our
feet, so I figure she’s pretty much at my mercy now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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ME: But what
will people think?<o:p></o:p></div>
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INNER
MONOLOGUE: Who are these “people” you’re worried about?<o:p></o:p></div>
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ME: Huh?<o:p></o:p></div>
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INNER
MONOLOGUE: Planning on running for President of the United States… <i>or</i> the PTA anytime soon?<o:p></o:p></div>
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ME: OH, YOU’VE
SUDDENLY CHANGED YOUR TUNE, MISSIE.<o:p></o:p></div>
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MONOLOGUE: Just playing devil’s advocate…<o:p></o:p></div>
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On and on it
went… and it got me thinking about all the shit we say and don’t say, and what
we will say and won’t say, and <i>all the
shit</i> floating around out there that’s horrible… and we <i>like</i> it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, don’t
even act like you don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ll be the
first to admit, I love Twitter. I love that it’s balls-out, that it gets
political, that it’s inane, explicit, ridiculous, fun, disturbing, stupid,
irritating… it’s a lot of things, not to mention a time consuming vortex that
could probably use an Over-Tweeters Anonymous program app to go along with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The whole
Favstar thing bothers me. It seems pandering. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch
yours; you DM me a nude pic, I’ll DM it to a few thousand of my Twitter
followers… And don’t get me started on Twitlonger (CHEATING!) Call me a twitter
elitist, but if you’re gonna play the game, stick to the 140 character or less
limit and take simple joy in knowing someone either thinks you’re brilliant or
a douche.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let that be
enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where else
can you talk politics, exorcise demons via short form projectile rant, get
stock tips, and learn varying and sundry things about everything from butt
plugs to bear gestation?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
DISCLAIMER:
If you’re a parent and let any kid under, let’s say eighteen, sign up for Twitter,
I’d probably call DHS on you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But , to
retweet the edgy/offensive/over-the-top or <i>not</i>
to retweet the edgy/offensive/over-the-top tweets, that is the question.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What say ye?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>(BTW: as soon as I finish this post, I'm going to retweet that damn tweet. Carpe diem!)</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-35224668235178007522012-08-23T09:34:00.003-04:002012-08-23T09:38:59.587-04:00Rigor Mortis<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhF2R8SItuuvHUhcTeuigxx8VDa8jw22YYN1UgBsZ54GK-cmCUFuIYv5-1XJDDTIvRhhDxz3X3VwSfQwWPqFd4MTFV2NgjNbNJtuWdtcya5aOt3zZwGNDnqwWGRyc_k8FWtCVXcEz_WfF/s1600/RIGOR+MORTIS+COVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhF2R8SItuuvHUhcTeuigxx8VDa8jw22YYN1UgBsZ54GK-cmCUFuIYv5-1XJDDTIvRhhDxz3X3VwSfQwWPqFd4MTFV2NgjNbNJtuWdtcya5aOt3zZwGNDnqwWGRyc_k8FWtCVXcEz_WfF/s400/RIGOR+MORTIS+COVER.jpg" width="222" /></a><span style="text-align: justify;">My new book </span><b style="text-align: justify;">Rigor Mortis</b><span style="text-align: justify;"> is available today in e-book format, so I thought I'd post the first chapter here so you guys can take a look. Kindle also offers the entire first chapter as a free sample.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Rigor Mortis is available at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009177OIO" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and at <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rigor-mortis-jeni-decker/1112606914?ean=2940014849746" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And I don't want to speak out of turn, but I have it on strict authority that <a href="http://veinarmor.com/" target="_blank">Greg Crites</a> is narrating the audio book as we speak. This book was written with his particular narration skills in mind, and I am extremely excited he's taken time out of his busy schedule to do it for me. If you're an audio book freak, go over and peruse his offerings on <a href="http://veinarmor.com/">veinarmor.com</a>. I suggest starting with <i>Crusade</i>, one of my favorite books of all time, and that's on a list that includes Christopher Moore's <i>Fool</i> and the amazing <i>Confederacy of Dunces</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And now, without further ado, Chapter One of <i>Rigor Mortis</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">1</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The human body demurring to
death is never pretty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rigor mortis had long ago set
in and receded, great gouts of seeping fluid taking the place of the muscle
fibers which had ratcheted shorter and shorter until fully contracted,
eventually succumbing to the swell of decomposition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, fuck me in the ass,
she's oozing all over a real Persian rug. What a waste." The buxom bane of
my existence hitched up her slacks and crouched next to the putrefying body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I gnawed on my unlit cigar,
still unaccustomed to the foul epithets that consistently slide from between
the pretty lips of my secretary-cum-assistant-cum-stalker. Six months ago,
Carla Danning sauntered into my life, all tits, temperament and testicular
torture, and she's been an invective-spewing shackle around my tackle ever
since. Also, I have reason to believe that is not the name she was given at
birth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But let me introduce myself
before we go any further.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My name is Declan Morneau -
Dex for short. If I look in the mirror, what stares back is a long-haired heap
of sinew and gristle, with too few clients and too much drinking time on his
hands. He's comfortable in his own skin, uncomfortable around anyone else's -
tired, apathetic, and generally resigned to both, due to his propensity toward
circumspection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As a consequence of the
aforementioned lack of clients, I supplement my private detective work as a
process server. Thanks to the generosity of our slave-owning forbearers, all
citizens of these fine United States have the right to be duly informed of
being summoned. Sounds good on paper, but you can't sprinkle powdered sugar on
that steaming pile and expect it to go down any easier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">From as far back as I can
remember, I've had this weird quirk where I see people and emotions in color. I
have no idea why, and frankly I don't care. Sometimes it helps me figure people
out, sometimes it just confuses things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Carla Danning is yellow.
Which is interesting, since yellow is a universally accepted signal for
caution. Sometimes she takes on an amber resonance, a bit of brown filters in
just below the yellow, which to me indicates an underlying darkness. She's
short of stature with an incongruously large presence and a tendency toward
crassness at inopportune moments. It's hard to ignore the woman, even if you
want to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I squatted down next to
Carla, my knees and ankles popping a painful symphony of regret.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"See these
inconsistencies?" Carla fingered the knots at the base of the tassels
running along the edge of the rug. "These are hand-knotted, for sure. And
the fringe isn't fixed with machine stitches."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">That's the thing. Carla's
smart, which was why I grudgingly agreed to hire her, despite the fact that I'd
taken out two restraining orders on her in the past six months; restraining
orders that had nothing to do with the questions I now have about her past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The restraining orders had
been much like spraying Raid at a scurrying cockroach; you know it isn't going
to do much, but at least you're making an effort to establish some boundaries.
The background check - that's something else. A more direct assault, one I'm
not so sure I can justify.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The heavy feet clomping
through the front door are going to belong to Sergeant Lash, a squat sparkplug
of a man, weeks from retirement. Lash is all meat with a bulldog square jaw,
cleft chin and a bald head. He and I will go through the standard, "How'd
you get in, Morneau?" followed by my typical response: "Door was
open, Sarge. Had a lead on a client, landed me here."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">If I get hired to track
someone down and they're dead when I find them, I like to check things out
before the cops come in and make my life more difficult. I have my job to do
just like them. So I do it, then I call it in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Crime scene's on the
way." Lash looked down at us and shook his head. "Carla, your
perfumery assault on this space, coupled with the stench of decomposition, is a
dual nasal assault no man or beast should have to bear."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I placed both hands on my
knees and stood, my joints repeating their earlier protest. I tried to cover
the chuckle, coughed it out, but the maneuver was unsuccessful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Our close proximity, on top
of my encouragement of the Sergeant's dig, begged retaliatory action. Carla
glanced at Officer Murkowski - much younger, more lithe and generally less
grumpy than his superior. He walked around the house scribbling in a small
notebook. Carla took the opportunity to stick her tongue in my ear while both
officers had their backs to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I batted her away and
continued to scan the room. As far as the body, the homicide in question was a
foregone conclusion, considering the knife embedded in the neck of the bloated
body, with its blade buried to the hilt. When pondering suicide, pretty young ladies
rarely take a kitchen knife to their own necks if options like razor blades,
pills and all manner of household chemicals are available.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A cursory check of the tiny
house had revealed razors in the bathroom, plenty of prescription sleeping
pills and anti-depressants in the medicine cabinet, two boxes of rat poison,
and enough lilac-scented Fabuloso under the kitchen sink to take down a water buffalo,
should the need have arisen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Family hire you?"
Lash eyed Carla, who was adjusting her low-cut blouse as she stood up. But his
question was for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yeah, you know the
drill," I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I'd received the call two
days earlier; a concerned woman wanted me to check into the disappearance of a
cousin she'd expected to hear from a few days ago, but hadn't. The woman said
she thought her cousin had gotten in over her head with something, but she had
no idea what that was. Just a feeling she had. Must have been some feeling for
her to fork over a five-hundred dollar retainer, which she deposited that same
night through my website.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Forty-eight hours and a few
background checks later, Carla and I found ourselves at the residence of one
Ward Deckard, the owner of the house we now occupied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Crystal Bell was the name of
the woman liquefying on the floor nearby. So far I'd ascertained that Ms. Bell
worked as an independent contractor for Deckard's cleaning company. Their
personal relationship was still in question, though it might prove difficult to
determine since Ward Deckard was presently in the hospital hooked up to all
manner of life-support devices, having succumbed to a massive stroke one week
ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">One of the guys from county
morgue entered and immediately set upon the body. I squatted down for the third
time that day, knowing I'd regret it later, and watched him pull open his
medical bag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Cavalry is on its way,
Morneau. Finish getting what you need and head out," Lash grumbled. He
gave me a bit of latitude at crime scenes, but from what I've heard, his
replacement won't be so easily managed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Carla bent over and whispered
in my ear, "And startling finds of science allied with beautiful tools to
spawn a plethora of pleasures. As I sucked the very pith of such sweet
reveries, then you appear, to make these splendors meager by compare."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Woman, stop with the
exclamations of lust over the stench of death. It's unseemly."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Murkowski grinned, tapping
the tip of his pen on his chin. "Shakespeare?" When Carla shook her
head, he tried again. "Shelley?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Carla winked at him.
"You got it, sweet-pea."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I stood and stretched out the
kinks. "You two are grating on my nerves. Take that higher literary
learnin' somewhere it'll be appreciated. Preferably another hemisphere."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Jealous?" Carla
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The sound that came out of me
is what's generally referred to as a harrumph. "Officer Smiley is welcome
to partake of your foul intentions. I've no patience for an overly libidinous
female with a mouth like a longshoreman."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"That's not the
impression I got last night." Carla wandered over to a stack of books on a
table and used a pencil to slide them around as she perused the titles in
between looking up to gauge my reaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Both cops stared at me,
hoping for some elaboration. I had no intention of sharing the events in
question; namely Ms. Danning cornering me in our office late into a night spent
pouring through old case files, after what even I had to admit was an
unfortunate amount of Johnnie Walker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Wretched wench, probably
the spawn of some otherworldly sea siren and one of those aforementioned
longshoremen," I grumbled, heading outside to light my stogie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I took a long puff and
pondered my insufferable assistant. If she'd just stop talking. . . if she were
mute, that'd be half the problem solved right there. Much as I hate to admit it
- and I'd never admit it to her - the cringe-worthy stuff that drips like honey
from her possibly-forked tongue inspires that same gut-burn I usually have
right before I guzzle antacid straight from the bottle. Stuff like that isn't
supposed to come from a mouth that I now know is glossed with peach-flavored
tint. How are you supposed to ignore someone when you know they taste like your
favorite fruit? How do you to erase that kind of assault from your sensory
processing center?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I kicked a small rock from
the gravel driveway and watched it skitter into the grass and come to rest at
the base of a stake with a For Sale sign on it. Vale Realty; I made a mental
note to contact them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Damn woman. I'd been minding
my own business, trying to track down a lead, something I remembered from an
old case file, and there she was in the doorway of my office, holding a pizza
out in one hand and a new bottle of scotch in the other, as the buttons of her blouse
strained against the maneuver I knew was not inadvertent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Opening that second bottle
hadn't helped matters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">By the time I could even
begin to start processing what was happening, she'd straddled me in my office
chair and commenced a slow-grinding assault. Add to that the incessant nibbling
on my ear, and the result was a perfect storm of unbridled tension that
required immediate release.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I shoved her off my lap and
onto the floor at my feet, but that had done nothing to dissuade her. She'd
popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box, her top three buttons popping at the same
time. She leaned over me, her unencumbered and extremely bourgeoning
décolletage aligned with my nose. Which
was just below my eyes, which were planted on her neck, and damned if I was going
to look left, right, up or down into the widening chasm that would suck me in
like the goddamned Bermuda Triangle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"We done here?"
Carla asked, coming around to plant herself in front of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Woman, I'm gonna get a
cow bell for around your neck so you can't sneak up on me like that." I
backed up few steps and took a long tug on my cigar, blowing the smoke into the
empty space between us, hoping it would act as a buffer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Carla moved through the haze
with the steely smile I'd expect Medusa to be wearing just prior to turning
someone into stone and dry-humping them into a pile of dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"For the moment, we too
must be twain, but your moment is almost up, Detective." Carla walked to
my sedan and opened the passenger door, sliding in with all the grace of a
predatory cat about to make a meal out of something. Namely me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My ass clenched, my sack
shriveled, and my pecker stiffened, in unison. I marveled at how that was
physically possible as I tried to unclench, un-shrivel and un-stiffen so I
could join her in the car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-35685990369861205192012-08-06T08:27:00.000-04:002012-08-09T18:40:45.866-04:00Consensual Infidelity<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLyvXinl5ykp6eMyrtlPJsJaSLW-LXGl6YPJ05MxWbokaCBBAdzmwm83g6NNY_d1K6YG-4iMTH26c68q-KY8ZIOOq5GeIibNuG3yGHGJR3VXBGUk3Sjf6B1X6uYCmq1ScBvMW3cW4sPFg/s1600/bobandcarolandtedandalice---011311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eda="true" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLyvXinl5ykp6eMyrtlPJsJaSLW-LXGl6YPJ05MxWbokaCBBAdzmwm83g6NNY_d1K6YG-4iMTH26c68q-KY8ZIOOq5GeIibNuG3yGHGJR3VXBGUk3Sjf6B1X6uYCmq1ScBvMW3cW4sPFg/s400/bobandcarolandtedandalice---011311.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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So, what do you think when you hear the term "swinging?"<br />
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I immediately think of the movie <em>Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice</em>, or 1970s style key parties as depicted in the movie <em>The Ice Storm</em>. Then, naturally, my mind progresses to sordid scenes with arms and legs akimbo, naughty bits all tangled together in one squished up delightfully debauched— <br />
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Ahem. Excuse me, I'm going to need a moment—<br />
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Oh, who am I kidding. I get frazzled with one person eyeing me naked. Add one or two more people to the mix and I'd be in full-on panic attack mode before anyone could scream Muskrat!<br />
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Note: Muskrat is the safe-word I've chosen in case I should ever need a safe-word during my lifetime. I like to plan ahead, even for eventualities that aren't likely to transpire. I've also written my Academy Award speech, in the event I somehow end up co-starring opposite Morgan Freeman in a romantic comedy.<br />
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Anyway, I think I could be a voyeur, if I were allowed to watch the goings-on from behind my hands, occasionally peeking between my fingers - the same way I watch tampon commercials and rated-R sex scenes.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, there's no judgment here. I think consenting adults should be able to do whatever they want, and shouldn't have to explain themselves to the moral majority. Let your freak flag fly, people. Just be sure to write about it once your finished so I can live vicariously through you.<br />
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Which brings me to today's interview. The book is called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Consensual-Infidelity-Ordinary-Experiment-Swinging/dp/0983893446/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1340641719&sr=1-1&keywords=Consensual+Infidelity" target="_blank"><strong>Consensual Infidelity: The True Story of One Ordinary Couple's Experiment with Swinging</strong>, by Kaysee Smart.</a><br />
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Here's how Wikipedia defines swinging: (What? Your immediate impulse when you need to consult an authority on sex isn't Wikipedia?):<br />
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<em>Swinging or (rarely) partner swapping is a non-monogamous behavior, in which singles or partners in a committed relationship engage in sexual activities with others as a recreational or social activity. Swinging can take place in a number of contexts, ranging from spontaneous sexual activity at informal gatherings of friends to planned regular social meetings to hooking up with like-minded people at a swingers' club. It can also involve Internet-based swinger social networking services online.</em><br />
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As I scroll down the Wikipedia page, I'm reminded of the All in the Family episode where Edith meets a couple whose names she finds in a "friendship" magazine. Cut to her inviting them over for coffee, only to learn they expect her and Archie to partner-swap.<br />
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<em>Archie</em>: Swinging! Is that what you call it? <br />
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<em>Male Swinger</em>: Yeah, what do you call it? <br />
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<em>Archie</em>: Communism!<br />
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<em>Consensual Infidelity</em> has its own humorous moments. At the outset, Kaysee is invited to one of those Tupperware-like parties for sex toys, and her utter mortification with regard to the objects for sale made me wonder how a woman who didn't even own a vibrator ended up in a "swinging" situation. <br />
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Then, there are lines like this: <br />
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<em>"I hadn't even had my husband's tongue down there until after we'd been married for five years." </em><br />
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Suffice it to say that if you spew iced mocha in the vicinity of your e-reader, that goo isn't coming out of those little crevices around the keys very easily. My Kindle is still sticky.<br />
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<em>Consensual Infidelity</em> was such an enlightening read, I asked the author and her husband if they would do a blog interview. Since the book is written from "Kaysee's" perspective, I wanted to put "Justin" in the hot-seat first. Which is where he now sits - bound, with his wrists behind his back. Kidding! I'm kidding… He's answering these questions from safety of his home, with the exact amount of distance most men in this situation would want between themselves and an inquisitive interviewer. <br />
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<strong>So "Justin," here's the question you posed to your wife one night, which eventually led to your swinging experience: "Have you ever thought about having sex with a woman?" I'm wondering if, at any point, you said to yourself: "I never thought she'd say yes! What have I done?"</strong><br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> I didn’t have any expectations of a yes or no.<br />
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<strong>Where did the initial question come from? </strong><br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> If you ask any guy, they’re going to tell you that a threesome is a sexual fantasy of theirs. Guys talk about it, you hear about it. So I wondered about it in my own life. I thought I might as well take a shot with asking.<br />
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<strong>In the book, we learn that at some point, while scanning a swingers website, you learned that you might have an easier time finding "couples" rather than just adding one other person to the mix. Was that a segue you were immediately comfortable with? Take us through the thought process, as well as any apprehensions you might have had about that.</strong><br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> I was pretty comfortable with it. I realized that it made sense. Apprehensions would be eased if both the husband and wife were involved. When I got to know how that world operates, it made sense. <br />
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<strong>There is a part in the book, a very poignant moment actually, where the swinging relationship takes a more serious turn. It is at the point that all four members of the couple get together, when previously you separated as couples to have sex. I wondered what the difference was for you, specifically, being in the room, and in hindsight, was it something you were prepared for?</strong><br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> Separate rooms were comfortable, like going on a date. When it went to the four person thing, I thought I would be okay, but it was more emotionally powerful than I was ready for at the time.<br />
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<strong>When you finally read the book, what did you think?</strong><br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> The book was good. It accurately depicted what happened. There were a few little things that I saw differently, but I understand how Kaysee saw it through her eyes. <br />
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Now for some questions for both "Kaysee" and "Justin."<br />
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<strong>What was the most positive experience you had during your swinging experience?</strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> Two answers come to mind immediately: the effect on my marriage and the feeling that somebody “gets me.” Throughout the swinging experience, I felt like Justin was not only my husband, but my confidante and my partner-in-crime. I couldn’t share this enormous secret with anyone but him, so my focus shifted from girlfriend talk time to husband talk time. We had so much to talk about!<br />
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The other terrific outcome was the relationship I had with Leslie. She and I got to talk about the frustrations of keeping secrets because our beliefs were so different from mainstream society. She was also the only girlfriend I could talk to about my unusual sexual experiences. Yes, it’s bizarre that I would talk to her about sex with her husband, but her enjoyment of the discussion is what gave us such a close bond. I loved the time she and I spent together. <br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> It made my relationship with my wife better.<br />
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<strong>What was the most negative experience you had during your swinging experience?</strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> Chapters 29-35. It’s so painful to think about, I’d rather not rehash it here.<br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> I was disappointed with the lack of understand from the other couple. When things got tough, the relationship changed. I think they immediately started planning their exit strategy. It would have been better if there was better communication from them.<br />
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<strong>How did swinging affect your marital relationship?</strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> I mentioned earlier how Justin and I connected through our secret conversations. We also reconnected sexually. Having sex as a focus in our social life translated into more sex between the two of us. As I mention in the book, I walked around town with sex on the brain, finally understanding what most men must feel like every day! While the sexual experiences with other people were great, the sex between the two of us was the best.<br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> I think it made it better. <br />
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<strong>During my research, I came across a website where a swinger defined swinging as "a way to experience the bodies of people besides your partner, while not having relationships with them." But that wasn't exactly the case with you two. Was yours more of a version of an "open relationship"? Do you think a swinging relationship would be better or worse if the actual "relationship" bit were left out, and it was only concerned with the physical? Why or why not?</strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> The thought of sex with strangers is scary. I don’t think I would feel safe. The fact that we knew our partners on a social level made the sex easy and fun. We had an open line of communication, so I knew I could say what I needed at any time. I think sex with strangers would be more awkward for me. <br />
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I didn’t see our situation as an open relationship because it had such strict boundaries. We weren’t open to sex with just anyone, we were only open to sex with Mark and Leslie. Our arrangement doesn’t fit any of the nice categories: open relationship, polyamory, orgy. Honestly, I don’t even like to call it swinging because there were no parties, no seducing, no clubs. I suppose if I have to define it, it was the couple version of “friends with benefits.” <br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> Our relationship with the other couple was a friendship relationship. That’s what worked for us. The quick and dirty version isn’t any “worse,” it just depends on the feelings of the people involved. Some people don’t want to get to know people they’re having sex with and that’s fine for them. Ours was not an “open relationship” because it wasn’t random. It was more of a closed setting with just the one other couple and us. <br />
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<strong>In what ways, if at all, do you think that swinging is different from simple promiscuity? Is being promiscuous as a couple different than being promiscuous as a single person? Is one moral, but not the other? I ask this to sort of get a "starting point" to your thought process and if morality comes into the equation for either of you. </strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> Morality does come into play. Justin and I discussed it at length before ever meeting anyone. We define “faithfulness” as a loyalty to one another. We are in love and we have each other’s back no matter what. Having sex with someone else does not make us unfaithful because it’s an experience that we’re sharing together. The strengthening of the marital bond that we experienced cannot be immoral.<br />
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I believe that promiscuity is considered immoral only by convention. Somewhere along the way, society decided it was a bad idea to have sex with multiple partners. And it is a bad idea if you’re not smart about it. Promiscuous people having loads of babies they don’t want and can’t care for is immoral. Using multiple sex partners for acceptance or revenge or power is immoral. When a single person or a couple has sex because it’s fun and feels good and brings them closer together, how can that be immoral?<br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> It’s similar. But in the swinging world, there are rules and structure. With a single person having a one night stand, anything goes. Morally, it’s up to the people involved. In the swinging world, no one is trying to impress their morals upon anyone else. Also, if you’re participating, you’ve had that talk with your partner, you’re on the same page. <br />
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<strong>The book outlines your relationship with one other couple. Is this something you'd consider doing again? Why or why not?</strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> I’m so glad we had what we had. Unfortunately, there are a lot of down sides. This lifestyle is simply not acceptable to most of society, so it’s stressful to be secretive about it. The process of searching for a great couple is emotionally demanding. If someone handed me an awesome couple and nobody cared what I was doing, I would pick it up again in a heartbeat.<br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> Yes, I probably would consider doing it again.<br />
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<strong>Do you have any advice for people considering trying swinging on for size?</strong><br />
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<strong>KAYSEE:</strong> Yes! Start with a strong, stable relationship. Talk about all your wishes, expectations, and boundaries. Be ready for a wild ride. Remember that your relationship with your partner is much more important than anything else. Have fun!<br />
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<strong>JUSTIN:</strong> You have to start with a strong marriage and good communication. There’s no owner’s manual. You just have to have your own experiences and work through them with good communication. Consensual Infidelity is a real life experience that people could read to get a feel for what it might really be like. Even though everybody’s experience is going to be different, it’s helpful to learn what other people have gone through. <br />
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I want to thank "Kaysee" and "Justin" for taking the time to do this interview and I recommend the book. I found it very interesting. <br />
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Finally, for all of you Archie Bunker fans out there, here's a clip from the Archie and the Swingers episode. It's one of my all-time favorites. <br />
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-10708190311718996762012-06-23T17:46:00.000-04:002012-06-23T17:52:59.840-04:00My Name is Jeni and I am a Chickenshit<br />
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I freely admit it: I am a chickenshit. </div>
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(Autocorrect wants me to change that to "chickens hit," which I'm pretty sure they don't do. I've never seen a chicken battering someone with their wings. Autocorrect is stupid.)</div>
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So, yeah - chickenshit party of one, my table is ready. Right over there in the corner by the swinging kitchen door. The place where I feel most comfortable: out of the way where nobody will pay attention to me and I can sit and watch everyone else <em>living</em>.</div>
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Shhh, don’t tell anyone of my chickenshittery. It'll ruin my street cred. </div>
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It would be a shame if the truth got out: the gal who has no problem writing a book that delves deeply into the dysfunction of her own life, not to mention graphic descriptions of her own hemorrhoids - the same person who in fiction will gladly explore any and all issues normally considered taboo - that same person is a Chickenshit extraordinaire.</div>
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This week I had two out-of-town book signings and I forced myself to go alone; to drive almost three hours to a part of the state I was unfamiliar with, armed only with a suitcase full of clothes, some toiletries and a handful of Mapquest driving directions that ended up being mostly inaccurate.</div>
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<em>NOTE: If you're planning a trip and need directions, let me suggest you use Google maps. Mapquest's motto seems to be: <strong>Leave the getting you lost to us</strong>.</em></div>
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Now, I'm not going to say that I had a panic attack <em>exactly</em>, as I pulled into the very cheap hotel I'd booked in a seedy side of town, (after having gotten slightly lost as I exited the highway into a downtown that was undergoing a huge amount of construction which required numerous detours) got my room key at the front desk, walked up the stairs with my bag, opened the door, entered, and closed the door behind me.</div>
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I didn't <em>exactly</em> have a panic attack. I promptly set my bag down and pushed one of the hotel tables in front of the door which was locked, bolted and had that little slide thing that prohibits the door from being opened more than an inch when engaged.</div>
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Oh yes, it was engaged. </div>
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<em>Still</em>, my first instinct was to rearrange the room so that access to the only exit, in the event of a fire, would be greatly diminished. I was prepared to die in a fire. I was not prepared for someone to come into the room while I slumbered and have their criminal way with me.</div>
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Perhaps I've watched too many episodes of <strong>48 Hours</strong> on WE. I am acutely aware that being kidnapped, chopped into a few dozen pieces, then mailed to various places of business, is not out of the realm of possibility. It happens.</div>
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But something strange occurred over the course of <em>my</em> next 48 hours: </div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> I arrived at the first signing only to find that I'd gone to the wrong bookstore location, and had to get a harried set of driving directions from the very kind employee. (<a href="http://www.schulerbooks.com/" target="_blank">Schuler Books and Music</a> in Lansing rocks!)</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> I breezed into the second Schuler Books location fifteen minutes later than the event was supposed to begin, sucking on an iced coffee - which I knew would only exacerbate the symptoms of my impending nervous breakdown.</div>
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Some <em>after</em> the lovely, dreadlocked Whitney (amazing event coordinator) made the storewide announcement over the intercom that I had arrived and we all made our way to the rear of the store.</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> I spoke to a very charming group of people for a couple of hours, all the while ignoring my inner monologue that never stopped bleating, "You're blathering; stop speaking so loudly; what the hell did you just say?"</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> I got back to the hotel, took a shower, then sat staring at the table I'd again pulled in front of the door as a barricade.</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> I spent a restless night praying to not be murdered in my sleep, or get lost the next day on the way to the next event (which I did)…</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> I got through the video presentation and chat with the gathered attendees at <a href="http://www.dtdl.org/" target="_blank">Delta Township Library in Lansing</a> and headed to my car, wondering if I'd make it back to the hotel on my own, rather than having to resort to stopping at the local gun shop or liquor store for directions… (The fantastic librarian gave me his cell phone number in case I ended up lost and sobbing on the side of the road. Thanks for everything Thomas!)</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> all of my required duties were complete and I got a couple hours of sleep, before heading home the next morning, a crumpled set of written directions from Google maps clutched in my paw…</div>
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Sometime <em>after</em> all of that, it occurred to me.</div>
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Holy chickenshit, I did it!</div>
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About fifteen miles from home I realized I had a huge grin on my face. I felt like I'd just stepped up to a door I was certain I wouldn't be able to open, balled my fists, clenched my teeth and kicked that damn thing off its hinges.</div>
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Okay, so most of you will say, "Big deal." Right? </div>
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Wrong. </div>
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It <em>was</em> a big deal for me. Like my two autistic kids, I'm very afraid of stepping out of my comfort zone. I don't do it if I don't have to. But I realized that if I was going to regularly require my kids to step out of their comfort zones, it was pretty goddamned disingenuous of me if I couldn't do it myself.</div>
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So I did it. And now I know:</div>
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I am still a chickenshit. But now I'm a chickenshit who knows she can push through that discomfort and come out the other side feeling like Xena Warrior Goddess Ass Kicker. I'm here to tell you, that feeling was worth two sleepless nights and the worry over being kidnapped, chopped into pieces and having my mutilated remains mailed around the state.</div>
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The icing on the cake: "I'm proud of you, Mom," Jake said when I arrived home.</div>
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So yeah, totally worth it.</div>
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Thanks to everyone at Schuler Books & Music, Delta Township Library in Lansing, and all the wonderful people who were a part of my successful chickenshit weekend, even if you didn't know it.</div>
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*Some of the attendees asked if I'd post the video clip I presented so they could pass it along. Here it is:</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/nF2L-Ei8eYI" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-61542935072770515742012-05-05T15:19:00.000-04:002012-05-05T20:30:09.024-04:00Perspective...When you write a book and put it out there, you’re never sure of the response you will get, and further, never prepared for the feeling when you learn how your work has touched someone else.
I can’t tell you how moving it is to get letters every week from parents who have read <b>I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames </b>and say, “Yes! Finally, someone that I can relate to! Your family is <i>my</i> family!”<br />
<br />
I have always believed that we all want to be seen; to know that there are other people out there going through the same things. That we are not alone. <br />
<br />
So far, that has been the best gift I have received from writing the memoir.
Being able to make people laugh in the process is like the cherry on top. I firmly believe humor is one of the few things that can be a great equalizer - something we all need in our lives.
<br />
<br />
This idea became ever more apparent to me this week because I received two pieces of correspondence that really touched my heart. And on the same day, no less. If I were any further into my pre-menopause journey, I’d have been a puddle of sobbing flesh on the kitchen floor.
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<br />
First, from a woman whose recent journey has included cancer:<br />
<br />
<i>“I find myself thinking about your book when I want to complain about my Big C challenge and missing boob :) Thanks for giving me a different perspective.”</i>
<br />
<br />
Needless to say, it was she who gifted me with an instant dose of perspective.
<br />
<br />
Hours later, this message from <b>SPC Bradley Dorroh, US Army</b> hit the “Waiting for Karl Rove” website, and it floored both Kat and I:
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<i>“I’m actually deployed to Afghanistan right now and came across your book, “I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames.” I laughed my butt-hole off because I know my wife can relate to you on the ‘joys’ of raising two children, albeit mine aren’t autistic, though sometimes I wonder. Anyways, I read that one and had to have more, I’m almost done with “Waiting for Karl Rove.” You guys are friggin hilarious and thank you so much for keeping me entertained in this shitty place.”</i>
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<br />
Yeah, so <i>Holy shit</i>. Now I’m positively drowning in perspective. I’ve got perspective coming out of my ass, people. He was so grateful for the human contact from home, I realized that the next time I complain about anything, somebody needs to take me out back and pepper me with buckshot.
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SPC Dorroh sent us some pictures of his life over there, and from home, “to show you we are real people.”
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<b>“Me and my daughter, the night before I left for deployment, we just had the "Daddy's going away talk."</b><br />
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<b> </b>
<img alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" src="http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL1366/6712157/24106856/402420808.jpg" />
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<b>“Our emergency eye wash station out here in Afghanistan...gotta love our ingenuity.”</b><br />
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<img alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" src="http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL1366/6712157/24106856/402420810.jpg" />
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<b>“I took this picture of a CH-47D Chinook from the window of the one I was riding in. Told ya I get to do some cool shit.” </b><br />
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<img alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" src="http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL1366/6712157/24106856/402420807.jpg" />
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<b>“…a beautiful site in such an ugly place. Reminds me of home.” :( </b><br />
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<b> </b>
<img alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" src="http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL1366/6712157/24106856/402420809.jpg" />
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The big secret is that I write for me and rarely think about the “audience” as I write; I write what I know, I write what moves me, I write what I find entertaining. Sometimes, I write to figure out the world around me. But it is most certainly a selfish undertaking and I love doing it more than almost anything else in the world.<br />
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So, hearing from real people who have enjoyed something I’ve written almost makes me feel guilty. I get so much out of the process itself. But, my interactions with a woman dealing with cancer, and a young man serving in the Army will remain a constant reminder to be grateful that I enjoy what I’m doing, and I still get the benefit of these amazing connections I’m making along the way.<br />
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Thank <i>you</i>.Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-24802399504303162522012-04-14T15:35:00.000-04:002012-05-05T15:23:08.248-04:00A Plea to the Producers of the Amazing Race<br />
It’s no secret that Kat Nove and I would love to get on the show <b>The Amazing Race</b>.<br />
<br />
(Let me clarify: It’s no secret that <i>Kat</i> would love to get on the Amazing Race. She assumes that I feel the same. But I have no interest in rushing around a country with a producer filming my every stumble and wheeze - culling the most embarrassing bits for public viewing, only after getting a bunch of painful inoculations in order to visit a country I probably couldn’t find on a map. I only grudgingly acquiesced when she suggested I compile a video plea, because she is my best friend and that’s what best friends do. <i>Damn. It</i>.)<br />
<br />
Okay, so if I’m to get on this bandwagon, there are some things I’d like to suggest to the producers of <i>The Amazing Race</i>, having watched snippets of a few seasons, again grudgingly, to please Kat. She assumes I need to bone up on Reality TV 101 and, you know… how the race actually plays out. I don’t much care because there’s not a snowballs chance in the arse-crack of Rush Limbaugh that the two of us could complete that entire race.<br />
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We are not in the fittest of fit condition. We’ve got charisma, confidence and personality in spades - but all of our combined upper body strength is in our mouths. You won’t find a six pack, eating disorder or head of blonde hair between us. (Unless an anorexic, bleach blonde aerobics instructor happens to be standing between us.) <br />
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Neither of us are apt to win a sprint unless we’re paired up against Newt & Callista Gingrich - and even then, I’m assuming those two play dirty. Newt could easily trip Kat with one of his big ‘ole feet, which would cause her to fall on top of me, allowing Callista to climb over the already sweaty pile of Decker & Nove and make it to the finish line, dragging her chubby hubby behind her.<br />
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But, here’s my question: Where are all the Reality TV worthy oddballs? People we can really sink our teeth into? Here’s my dream cast for the next Amazing Race:<br />
<br />
<i>A pair of nuns<br />
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Two gay guys who argue like an old married couple<br />
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An Italian grandmother/granddaughter team who have to be ‘bleeped’ every fifteen minutes because they have naughty mouths.<br />
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A magician and his dimwitted apprentice<br />
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A sheep farmer and his wife<br />
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Brothers who own & operate a sex toy manufacturing business in New Jersey.<br />
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An old nudist couple who have trouble keeping their clothes on.<br />
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An alcoholic biker couple on the verge of divorce.<br />
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Two politically incorrect humor writers (hint, hint)<br />
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A pair of karaoke rappers who have gained moderate celebrity in their Podunk town. <br />
</i><br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Wait, why do YOU get to pick the cast, Jeni? Here’s my dream cast:<br />
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<i>Two old white male politicians who have been voted out of Congress by their constituents. America and the other contestants always need someone to hate while watching the Race.<br />
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Two paroled convicts, who between the two of them have more tattoos than brains.<br />
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Two disgruntled NRA members who can’t believe they can’t carry automatic weapons across Europe.<br />
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Two sisters, one a former Miss America contestant and the other bitter and resentful.<br />
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Two pet therapists. Imagine the hilarity if any of the challenges involves pigs or goats.<br />
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A former Vegas showgirl and a third-rate standup comic who have been married, divorced, married again, divorced again, and who are now dating.<br />
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A mother and her middle-aged “mommy’s boy” son.<br />
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An octogenarian and his twenty-five year old wife.<br />
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Two politically incorrect humor writers (my friend Jeni and I could cover that base)<br />
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A drill sergeant and his Goth son.<br />
</i><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: <i>Okay</i>, now that we’ve got that out of the way… Below are a sampling of the questions and our answers from the application. I’ll let you decide if we sound like a pair of contestants you’d tune in to see fumble their way through a leg or two of the race before being carted off on a stretcher following a mid-air heart attack after being forced to bungee jump from the Eiffel Tower.<br />
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<b>What is your current occupation? Please describe in 2 words. </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Homemaker, writer<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Bookseller, writer.<br />
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<b>In two sentences, please describe what you do.</b> <br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Mine the house for shit-pebbles hidden behind the furniture by my toilet-challenged ten year old autistic son while fielding obsessively compulsive questions from my fifteen year old (also autistic) son. Then, I write about it. Also, I do laundry and cook dinner, neither very well, according to my husband.<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: I wait on the type of people who suggest I should join a 12-step program when they don’t like my polite and honest answers to direct questions. I write stories so funny sometimes I pee my own pants.<br />
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<b>How will these skills help you to win the Race? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: I am a multi-tasker; I have dealt with enough bodily fluids that I don’t get queasy easily, and I have a good handle on my gag reflex and temper, respectively. Also, I’m prone to forgetting to flip on that internal “edit” button most people have that keep them from discussing their hemorrhoids in public. Let’s be clear, producers. This question isn’t about any skills I have that might help me win the race - it’s about any qualities I might have to drive up ratings. Also, I’m thinking with me on board, you’ll have at least one sponsor clamoring to buy time during your show. (Preparation-H™)<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: I can forever erase the image of the Ugly American by always being polite to even the rudest of cab drivers. At strategic moments in the game, I can cause my competitors to waste time changing their panties/boxers, thereby giving my team the edge.<br />
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<b>How did you meet?</b> <br />
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<b>JENI</b>: I’ll let Kat take this one… I need a bathroom break.<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: We originally met on a writer’s workshop online. We instantly recognized each other as literary soul mates (Jeni will try to claim she coined that term…don’t believe her. As a writer, she’s a gifted liar. Of course, she would NEVER lie on this application.) We had never met in person before April Fools’ Day of this year. We both traveled to Vegas and it was if we’d known each other since kindergarten.<br />
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<b>What do you hope to gain from participating in The Amazing Race with your partner (besides winning)?</b> <br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Getting out of the house. Did you not suss that out from the mention of the two autistic kids? <br />
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<b>KAT</b>: I’ve always dreamed of traveling. Taking an entire day to get across Texas is not what I had in mind.<br />
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<b>What communication issues do you have with your partner that you would want to address while on the Race?</b> <br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Kat (like my kids) has toileting issues. Apparently I’d be required to be at least 50 feet from the bathroom door at any time she needed to pee and 50 miles away should the need to evacuate arise. I would address this by regularly tormenting her in this regard, since the idea of going to the bathroom anywhere out of her comfort zone (the bathroom at her house) is most certainly a mental health issue for her. I already see a sub-plot forming. (I hope I get paid extra for all this technical support I’m providing the production staff.)<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Jeni and I agree on everything other than bathroom etiquette. I see no reason to post photos on the Internet of me sitting on the toilet, while she wouldn’t be averse to filming an entire documentary discussing bodily functions in graphic detail… while sitting on the toilet with her panties around her ankles.<br />
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<b>What is the biggest disappointment you have experienced from your teammate?</b> <br />
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<b>JENI</b>: She has steadfastly refused to videotape herself belly dancing so I can post it on YouTube. We’re working through it.<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: A script she wrote and entered in a contest. It lost to one that had the word boner in the title. I wish she would have asked my advice. I write great titles and it’s obvious all movie titles should contain the word boner to guarantee ticket sales to the male teen demographic. Her title is <i>Far from Happy </i>and she would have won if her title had been <i>Far from Happy Because I Can’t Get a Boner</i>.<br />
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<b>How did you resolve it? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: I Photoshopped her head onto the body of an overweight Belly Dancer and sent it, via-email, to sixty of our closest friends and all of her co-workers. Because, that's how we roll.<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Too late to resolve it now, but in the future I think you might see titles of her upcoming books changed to: <i>The Peacock Mirror Reflects My Boner – I Rather Be Engulfed in Flames Than Have to Deal With Your Boner – Waiting for Karl Rove to Give Me a Boner: That Will Never Happen Because I’m a Woman, Stupid</i>.<br />
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<b>What famous person reminds you of yourself? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Bette Davis <br />
<b><br />
KAT</b>: Jon Stewart, when he had the goatee. <br />
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<b>What famous person reminds you of your teammate? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Truman Capote<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Will Ferrell whenever he’s topless.<br />
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<b>What is your biggest pet peeve about your partner? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: The above mentioned toileting issues and her inability to discuss said issues. I’ve suggested therapy. She’s suggested I mind my fu*%^ng business.<br />
<b><br />
KAT</b>: She won’t come live with me. Something about her autistic kids and the great school they go to up in Michigan. I tell her there are schools here. Texas is ranked 51st in the nation in education! Woo-hoo! We’re #51! (Think District of Columbia in case you’re assuming we also suck at math.)<br />
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<b>How are you and your teammate most alike? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: We have the same sense of humor as well as a great love of coffee, chocolate and cigarettes. <br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Our writing styles are a bit different, but due to our near-identical twisted senses of humor, we’re a perfect fit.<br />
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<b>How are you and your teammate most different? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: On paper, I’m the balls of this operation. In real life, while Kat has no problem approaching strangers with odd and often disconcerting requests, I prefer not to bother my fellow man with such trifles. That’s me: ballsy on paper, a big ‘ole puss in real life. Kat is the exact opposite. She won’t even jump into a randy forum thread if it looks like it could get ugly. But ask her to eat leftover food off someone else’s table at a restaurant and she’s your gal.<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Jeni’s voice sounds like a chipmunk in heat and mine makes me sound like a middle-aged, three-pack-a-day transvestite.<br />
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<b>What is your opinion of foreigners? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: Foreigners are people too. I’m very foreigner friendly. In fact, I would probably enjoy foreigners more than most of my immediate family.<br />
<b><br />
KAT</b>: I once married a foreigner and am open to marrying another if the price is right. Sort of a reverse Russian bride thing. I have foreign relatives from Mexico & Vietnam and favorite foreign customers from Great Britain & New Zealand. I can only hope foreigners are as receptive to Texans as I am to them.<br />
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<b>Are there any locations in the world to which you absolutely will not travel? If so, identify where and explain why.</b> <br />
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<b>JENI</b>: I’d rather not spend the night at Karl Rove’s house, though I would if it was one of the stops on The Amazing Race itinerary. I’d do it, but I wouldn’t like it. Also, he’d better lock up his unmentionables, because I’m a wanderer and won’t stick to the designated areas.<br />
<b><br />
KAT</b>: While I’d be interested in scoping out Dick Cheney’s hidden bunker, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to leave. So that’s out. Other than that, I’m open to anyplace. CBS does take out kidnapping insurance, right?<br />
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<b>Do you speak or read any foreign languages? If so, which one(s)? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: My husband is Puerto Rican, so I speak a little Spanish, but only the vulgar words. Basically, enough to get me laid… or arrested. Also, the nuns taught us the <i>Hail Mary </i>and <i>Our Father </i>in German, French and Spanish, but I don’t remember any of it now - though if I’m required to do anything involving heights, I’m sure it will all come flooding back.<br />
<b><br />
KAT</b>: I can read any foreign language written in English – understanding it is another thing. I understand a little bit of Spanish, a little bit less of French, German and Italian, and almost no Danish. My one Danish word is <i>Dansk</i>.<br />
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<b>If given the choice, would you rather compete with 10 other people for $1,000,000 or split the million and give everyone $100,000 each? Why? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: What? I don’t understand the question. I’ve never been good at math.<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: Really, being nominated is the important thing. Wait! That’s my practice speech for my upcoming Oscar nomination for Best Original Screenplay. To be honest, it would be cool if every team got to split $100,000. (Jeni’s legs are pretty damn short and I’d hate to lose at the last minute because I have to piggy-back her to the finish line.)<br />
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<b>Do you have any phobias? </b><br />
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<b>JENI</b>: I don’t like the sound of that question…<br />
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<b>KAT</b>: I have the weirdest phobia on the entire planet, a phobia which should guarantee high ratings. I can see viewers having Amazing Race parties for the sole purposes of hoping I’ll be exposed to someone …hey, wait a minute! I’m not letting millions of people know my phobia. That’s just asking for trouble. Producers, I can control it. Really. I mean it. Nothing for you to worry about.<br />
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<b>JENI</b>: I will absolutely reveal Kat’s ridiculously funny phobia if it gets me out of doing anything I’m scared of doing.<br />
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<b>~*~</b> <br />
<br />
For the <b>comments</b> portion of the questionnaire, I (Jeni) proceeded to pitch them a better reality show concept, based on <i>The Amazing Race</i> model:<br />
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<b>Amazing Race: Chunky Edition</b> <br />
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All contestants must be at least 20 lbs. overweight and longtime smokers. Contestants will be given a strict diet they must adhere to during the entire race, which contains no sugar, saturated fat or carbs. Any contestant found cheating with regard to food or smokes (on first offense<b>*</b>) will be subjected to a loss of 4 hours of race time, and public humiliation in the form of mud-wrestling a native of whatever country we’re visiting, while wearing a bikini (applies for women AND men). <br />
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<b>*</b>Second offense - Immediate expulsion from the show with a parting gift of two King Size <b>Nestle Chunky™</b> bars to comfort them on their humiliating trip home.<br />
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(<b>NOTE TO PRODUCERS</b>: That’s one more sponsor! You really should hire me.)<br />
<br />
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Finally, (in desperation) here’s our video plea:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OK6Cu5m23q8" width="420"></iframe>Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-5433951850211899122012-04-08T14:02:00.004-04:002012-05-06T11:31:20.026-04:00Vegas!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzl_4xRu8uyGMHLxguplmYe0VN5PF6ge6p2vtUxvttbpvWfgCrM5hnXTRmDhzeTD3eMW8Y1KZaEO53qkZ0QbM0MH9jBqiNScVwM2tprhaQ_vF68SdPL-z5Ev0bjhZmxiRy8njVOqu0KW5/s1600/vegas+baby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzl_4xRu8uyGMHLxguplmYe0VN5PF6ge6p2vtUxvttbpvWfgCrM5hnXTRmDhzeTD3eMW8Y1KZaEO53qkZ0QbM0MH9jBqiNScVwM2tprhaQ_vF68SdPL-z5Ev0bjhZmxiRy8njVOqu0KW5/s640/vegas+baby.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Kat Nove and I managed to return from our whirlwind trip to Las Vegas without getting arrested, tasered, or contracting any sort of communicable diseases.<br />
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We received a bunch of great dares and performed some of them (mostly Kat) but chose to skip some because of lack of time, patience or inclination. There were plenty of “<b>Put a Little Rudd In It</b>” moments, which you can see on the video below, as well as Kat snagging leftover food from abandoned restaurant tables. (Thanks, <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/kayfro">Kay</a>!) <br />
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Below is a list of Scavenger Hunt dares submitted by Twitter friend <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/dkotucker">Diane</a>, as well as our “excuses” for why we might not have attempted some: <br />
<br /><br />
<b>1. Down a shot (or have anything alcoholic) at each of the following locations!</b><br />
<br /><b>KAT:</b> Taking shots at every place on the scavenger hunt was just asking for the early release of <i>Hangover 3</i>, starring Miss Calculate and Boozy McBoobs. I did have a beer in every casino where I could get one for free. (<b>Memo to Casinos:</b> Hire more cocktail waitresses!) Jeni was a total puss and drank club soda all weekend.<br />
<br /><b>JENI:</b> I was dehydrated!<br />
<br /><br /><br />
<b>2. Don’t want you wasting away. Better go get re-hydrated and don’t forget the salt!</b><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> Not sure, but we think you wanted us to go to <i>Tacos and Tequila</i> at the Luxor. That’s a long walk from the <i>Mirage</i>. I lost a shit-load of money at the <i>Luxor</i> while it was under construction and I'm still pissed about it. Screw the Pharaohs! <br />
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<b>JENI:</b> I only eat tacos prepared by myself. You have no idea what they put in those things. No idea!<br />
<br /><br />
<b>3. “Gambling Portion”: Take a spin and hope you get 1000, otherwise you could always ask to buy a vowel.</b><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> We lost approximately the same amount of money playing <i>Wheel of Fortune</i> that <b>Vanna White </b>spends on facelifts.<br />
<br />
<b>JENI:</b> We may have lost gobs of money, but I got all tingly down there every time I hit <b>SPIN</b> and the canned audience applause commenced.<br />
<br /><br />
<b>4. You won’t have to worry about Gladiators anymore, but on occasion you may hear the Titanic, Marilyn or Maggie playing.</b><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> We spent some time speaking Italian to some statue’s penis at Caesar’s Palace. We believe that fulfills this portion of the scavenger hunt.<br />
<br /><b>JENI:</b> Said penis conversation will be posted soon and will double as our plea to the producers of <i>The Amazing Race</i>. Kat insists we get on the show - probably so that millions of viewers can see how out of shape I am - right before I keel over and die, garnering huge ratings.<br />
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<b>KAT:</b> Quit your whining! Premature death sells books!<br />
<br /><br />
<b>5. Don’t expect to get your youth back or meet the cast of Ocean’s Eleven here.</b><br />
<br /><b>KAT:</b> We made it to the Bellagio, we stayed at the Mirage, but once again, the MGM Grand was a bit far to walk. Let’s blame Jeni.<br />
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<b>JENI:</b> I told you MY ANKLE HURT!<br />
<br /><b></b><br />
<b>6. A tropical rainforest with waterfalls, lush vegetation and indigenous creatures in Vegas.</b> <br />
<br /><b>KAT:</b> We saw three indigenous roaches at the <i>Mirage</i>. Okay, so we’re lying. The Mirage was a nice place to stay. We backed out of the habitat because it was $17.50 for hotel guests and that money was better spent on gambling!<br />
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<b>JENI:</b> I have the National Geographic channel at home. That’s as close as I need to get to indigenous creatures of any variety. <br />
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<b>7. They are one-half and two-thirds the sizes of the originals. Be sure to get a “Sugar” fix while you’re there. </b> <br />
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<b>KAT:</b> We spent just enough time in <i>The Paris </i>for Jeni to get video of the restroom. The chocolate was cheaper at Walgreens, but we did take our picture at <i>The Sugar Factory</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>JENI:</b> I really appreciated the dares that involved us taking a quick snapshot in front of a sign before moving the fuck on to the slot machines.<br />
<br /><b>8. George Clooney (ahhhhhh yes), Whoopi Goldberg, Jerry Springer…”grab hold” of your favorite star and try not to get arrested in the process. </b><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> At <i>Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum</i>, Jeni placed her hand on Elvis Presley’s ass, which I thought was creepy.<br />
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<b>JENI:</b> I may be the only person in the free world who would rather touch Elvis’ wax ass over his real one.<br />
<br /><br />
<b> 8. If you “Believe” that “Carrots” can improve your vision and lessen your “hot flashes” …have I got a Pyramid scheme for you?</b><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> What’s up with this challenger and the Luxor? Too far to walk... I saw Carrot Top at my last disastrous visit and kept pulling my bra out about six inches because of stabbing pain. Chris Angel’s <i>Believe </i>is there, but at least one of us has no idea who the hell he is. (Me.) <br />
<br /><b>JENI:</b> Have any of you noticed that Kat is passive-aggressively blaming me for all the places we couldn’t hike to? I hurt my ankle on day two! I think I did a <i>magnificent</i> job of pushing through the pain, even with her calling me a pussy seventy-five times a day.<br />
<br /><br /><br />
<b>9. The “Dare” portion: Steak & Eggs for under $10 between midnight and 6 am.</b><br />
<br /><b>KAT:</b> We didn’t do this, but we did spend $29.99 for a FUCKING buffet our first night at the Mirage. After that, who had ten bucks for steak and eggs?<br />
<br /><b>JENI:</b> I would have eaten <i>Chex Mix</i> all week if it meant having more money to gamble with.<br />
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<b>~*~</b><br />
<br />
Our other winner, Kay, had a few dare suggestions:<br />
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<i>I'm going to need one/both of you to ride someone's pet. Bonus points awarded for service animals. If you are unable to do that, I'm going to need you to ride someone's (mobility assistance) ride. With or without the owner also using the device.</i><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> I looked everywhere for a yapping poodle to squash, but had no luck. I finally sat on the lap of the most adorable old man who had broken his hip. The overexcitement caused him to have a heart attack. We rode in a cab with his adorable old wife to the emergency room, but he was dead on arrival. We consoled her and promised to be at the funeral, but that was a bullshit lie. We didn’t even call to check on her like we promised. You know how you lose track of time in Vegas when you’re having fun.<br />
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<b>JENI:</b> Yeah… what she said.<br />
<br /><br />
<i>Might there be any interest in eating something found in a food truck/cart's trash bin? Or something left on a discarded table in a restaurant?</i><br />
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<b>KAT:</b> The challenge to eat food off someone else’s plate was no challenge at all. If I don’t have to pay for it, it’s a win/win for me. <br />
<br /><b>JENI: </b>The entire vacation was a win/win for me because Kat did most of the dares. I’ll gladly let her call me a pussy all week if it means she’s the one that has to endure the public humiliation. (See her complete the dare in the video below.)<br />
<br />
<b>~*~</b><br />
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<iframe ;="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4htqkw9qx14" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<br /><b>Random people signing the copies of Waiting for Karl Rove:</b><br />
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<b>Hot cops!</b><br />
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<b>Tourists from Brazil:</b><br />
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<b>Drunk Winnie the Pooh:</b><br />
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<b>Sign-board boys advertising the local Drag Show:</b><br />
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<b>Kat riding the zip-line! (Again, I pussed out.)</b><br />
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<b>Sgt. Sexy feeling Kat up:</b><br />
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If you’d like to give her a little Twitter love, you can follow <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/Sgtsexxxy">@Sgtsexxxy</a> (pictured on the left) <br />
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Finally, for those of you who haven’t seen it, here’s the book trailer for <b>Waiting for Karl Rove</b>.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8OOUxqtzw0A" width="420"></iframe><br />
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We'll get our Amazing Race Plea up ASAP, as well as a montage of bathrooms where the signed copies of <i>Waiting for Karl Rove</i> spent a little quality time.<br />
<br />Thanks to all who participated in our <b>Vegas Truth or Dare Challenge</b>. We had a fantastic time!Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-1012216646588936232012-03-25T12:12:00.000-04:002012-05-06T12:31:38.882-04:00Vegas Truth or Dare Challenge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Kat Nove & Jeni Decker will meet for the first time (in person) in Las Vegas on April 1st. (The day of fools, how appropriate!)<br />
<br />To celebrate us taking Sin City by tit-storm, we’re announcing the “<b>Vegas Truth or Dare Challenge</b>.” Your job, should you choose to accept it: send us your questions and/or dares. We will live tweet the answers from Vegas, as well as proof of each accomplished dare, in the form of pictures and video. <br />
<br />What would you like to see us doing in Vegas?<br />
<br />Here are the <b>rules</b>:<br />
<br />1. No nudity. (Nobody needs to see that.)<br />
<br />2. Nothing illegal. (Actually, we’re willing to work with you on this one. Misdemeanors will be considered, felonies will not.)<br />
<br />3. Jeni will not eat any form of bug. (Kat can be talked into eating anything - but it’ll cost you.)<br />
<br />4. Nothing that requires Jeni to run. Jeni does not run.<br />
<br />5. Nothing that includes feces or any type of bodily fluid. (What, are you an idiot?)<br />
<br />When we return (hopefully with all of our teeth and no tattoos) we’ll be doing a book giveaway. Two lucky winners will each receive a copy of <i>Waiting for Karl Rove</i>, which will most certainly become COLLECTOR’S ITEMS.<br />
<br />Why, you ask?<br />
<br />
Because the books will fly with us to Vegas, and when the winners receive them, will have the actual signatures of some of the characters from the book - including but not limited to: <br />
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<b>Black Elvis</b><br />
<b>Two old ladies playing slot machines</b><br />
<b>A happy couple getting hitched at <i>The Little White Chapel</i></b><br />
<b>… and any celebrities and/or politicians we run into (accost) while there.</b><br />
<br />
So, let ‘er rip - and be creative, for Jehovah’s sake. Submit your questions and/or dares as comments below, or to us on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/Jeni_Decker">@Jeni_Decker </a> <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/KatNove">@katnove </a> <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/WaitingforKRove">@WaitingforKRove </a>. Don’t forget to leave us your Twitter handle or some means of contact should you be the winner!<br />
<br />
<b>NOTE:</b> We will also be taking video comprised of scenes from <i>Waiting for Karl Rove</i> as well as our upcoming sequel, <i>Waiting</i> <i>for a Plot: or What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas, Especially If Someone Slips You Some Roofies</i>. So stay tuned for updates because we’ve already arranged for the use of a dead body for Karl Rove’s room!Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-9926744705183342412012-03-16T10:55:00.001-04:002012-05-05T15:27:16.236-04:00Fool: A Novel by Christopher Moore: Hit that shit.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I don’t normally review well established authors because, frankly, what’s the point? They already have a mass of followers who get all juicy down there over every witty turn of phrase and well placed adjective, all sufficiently lubricated and happy to spread the good word.<br />
<br />
That being said, after reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fool-A-Novel-Christopher-Moore/dp/0060590327/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1331907757&sr=1-1">Fool: A Novel by Christopher Moore </a>I felt the need to proffer a review for the sake of my fellow readers and writers who have not yet partaken. Yes, I know I’m late getting to this gang bang - in fact so many of my author friends recommended it, <i>knowing</i> it was right up my alley, given my propensity to adore all things irreverent and funny - particularly that of a cheeky nature. <br />
<br />
Their collective suggestions had become a nattering mantra in my head to which I’d reply, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll <i>GET TO IT</i> !” My “to read” list is a long and winding road paved with good intentions, not enough hours in the day, and two autistic kids who are sucking the life out of me as we speak. <br />
<br />
Only after reading something online regarding its sexual content did I add <i>Fool</i> to my Kindle, under the guise of “research.” My work-in-progress has a great deal of sexual content and is written in first person from the male POV, so I’ve spent months reading all kinds of books with similar content in order to see how other authors handled it. I should also note, I’m a 43 year old woman sidling up to menopause with all the grace of a cat having been launched down a Slip-n-Slide with a shuffleboard stick.<b>*</b> But the truly disturbing and unexpected side effect resulting from the onset of the shriveling of my uterine walls (and girlhood dreams) has to be my naughty bits resonating like a tuning fork. Yes, sir, my <i>bunny cunny<b>*</b> </i>is, all too often these days, hopped up on Red Bull and ready to rumble. <br />
<br />
Reading this glut of coital literature probably isn’t helping matters any, but I do want to mention that I don’t think the sex in <i>Fool</i> is even close to being over the top. Bawdy, perhaps, but certainly not vulgar or titillating. At least by my standards. But I just finished reading Henry Miller’s <i>Tropic of Cancer </i>and all three installments of <i>The Rosy Crucifixion (Sexus/Plexus/Nexus)</i> so having plumbed the depths and debauch of all that is Mr. Miller, perhaps my not-so-delicate sensibilities have just been numbed to the point of delirium by all the <i>cunt</i> he described, revered, manhandled, masticated, sautéed, flambéed… yeah, that guy liked him some va-jay-jay.<br />
<br />
But who among us… <br />
<br />
Wait, where was I? Oh yes, <b>Fool</b> - a re-telling of Shakespeare’s <b>King Lear</b>, narrated by Pocket, the court jester or “fool.” Along with his amusing but slightly daft sidekick Drool, there are a myriad of other characters, including the king’s daughters, plenty of buxom laundry women, a full court of hangers-on, and a ghost… because, apparently, there’s always a fucking ghost.<br />
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Let me just say that while I can appreciate The Bard as much as the next gal, while his works are often funny, more often than not, getting through Shakespeare’s offerings is as laborious as trekking through a shallow river of molasses - against the current, wearing a snow parka and cement Timberlands.<br />
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That said, Moore’s retelling is extremely accessible, with laugh-out-loud lines aplenty. My first hearty guffaw came with the opening of chapter two. I laughed so hard, so long, and so loudly while sitting outside Thing One’s middle school, awaiting the final bell, that a group of football players lifting weights congregated on the lawn, directed a collection of looks at me that would have been more appropriate had I pulled down my pants and shat upon their school mascot while humming <i>Clair de la lune</i>.<br />
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<i>“I found Drool in the laundry resolving a wank, spouting great gouts of git-seed across the laundry walls, floors, and ceiling, giggling, as young Shanker Mary wagged her tits at him over a steaming cauldron of the king’s shirts.”</i><br />
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I think this line perfectly illustrates the tone and tenor of the sexual content, so if this offends you, <i>Fool</i> probably won't be your cuppa tea. Also I assume you’ll be voting for Rick Santorum, so you and your moral superiority can kindly skip away from this review now, and keep your ten inch vaginal wand away from my who-ha, thank you very much.<br />
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The thing that stands out about the writing is Moore’s seemingly endless self-assurance within his craft. That, or he’s as good at faking it as a hooker who’s already been paid and is now yelping with wild abandon in the hopes of getting a big tip. <br />
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This being the first of Moore’s work I’ve had the pleasure of reading, I plan to go back and sample more, in an effort to find out if this confident writing style is something he’s always had, or something he’s nurtured over the years. Either way, no matter. He creates an atmosphere so the reader can feel certain he’s got the reins well in hand and we’re free to sit back and enjoy the ride.<br />
<br />
Moore’s firm grasp of how humor should play out on the page is no more evident than when he parsimoniously peppers the “thirteenth-century speak” with modern day phrases that deliver a one-two punch with glaring accuracy and delectable wit.<br />
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My only question is why Hollywood hasn’t pulled her head out of her fat ass and turned this gem into a movie, already. If dialogue is king, Moore’s already done all the heavy lifting. It seems a no-brainer. Think a Merchant/Ivory production meets Mel Brooks - if they met somewhere in the middle, the result would be brilliant.<br />
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<b>VERDICT:</b> Hilarious, unparalleled one-liners aplenty, and lots of naughtiness. A classic example for writers to study with regard to hitting the comedic beats.<br />
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There are few humor writers who are able to sustain the laughs, as well as my attention, from cover to cover. For me, his book falls into that category, along with <i>A Confederacy of Dunces</i>, and all of <b>David Sedaris</b>’ work. This isn’t because I’m some humor elitist, but because humor is my reading preference of choice, whatever the genre, and I hold its writers to a higher standard, however unfair that might be. To me, humor is <i>that</i> important.<br />
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A writer friend, author <a href="http://veinarmor.com/">Greg Crites</a>, said this to me recently: <i>“Make someone laugh and you’ve earned your oxygen for the day.”</i> God, but that’s the truth. There is no more universal language than laughter. We might not all agree on what’s funny, but I think we <i>can</i> all agree how important it is to laugh - to find the humor in the absurdities of life.<br />
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To be the person who makes someone else laugh is as much a privilege as it is to be the one doing the laughing. So, good on you, Mr. Moore. You’ve earned your oxygen for the day - and then some.<br />
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Friends, if you haven’t already read it, hit that shit. Hit it!<br />
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<b>*</b> Blatantly swiped from <i>Fool</i>.<br />
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<b>*</b> Have I used this line in a blog post before? I can’t remember, thanks to the memory loss that accompanies the hot flashes and heart palpitations.Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-61824355858140049252012-01-22T14:18:00.002-05:002012-06-25T19:17:43.915-04:00Pulp Fiction: Meet The Hack<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-Wj2zFpdSZ_ilQRW9FiwGoyVK92-1OPAMfgBLmynP1OHjqBSCQDjJNL5Oztod5Acd71LzsrG-1hQHHRa5HStfLJoFYN6bKpUOX-cA8f5wZb_YLiOsIvSoncMSgpaNMeH5cswYawnAmeL/s1600/The+Hack+Pulp+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-Wj2zFpdSZ_ilQRW9FiwGoyVK92-1OPAMfgBLmynP1OHjqBSCQDjJNL5Oztod5Acd71LzsrG-1hQHHRa5HStfLJoFYN6bKpUOX-cA8f5wZb_YLiOsIvSoncMSgpaNMeH5cswYawnAmeL/s400/The+Hack+Pulp+Cover.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />
Don’t let the Pulp Fiction-esque covers fool you. <br />
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What you need to know about <b>Greg Crites </b>is that he can write a mean story. And by <i>mean</i>, I mean escapist fiction for the masses that includes bigger-than-life antiheros and satirical and/or pop culture related “villains” - who may or may not be a metaphor for all that is wrong (or right) with the world. His writing is a heady feast of linguistic endowment rarely found in commercial fiction today. <br />
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Greg Crites is to words what Paula Deen is to butter. But, while both <i>artistes</i> create insanely appetizing fare, the former won’t necessitate a prescription for <a href="http://www.victoza.com/">Victoza</a> - the diabetes medicine for which America’s chubby culinary connoisseur is now the paid spokesperson. <br />
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He’d probably never admit this but... methinks Mr. Crites actually has something to say. His work, while entertaining as hell, not only speaks to the pulp zeitgeist and the simple, ironic absurdities of life, but also to universal truths. Thing is, you’re so busy laughing, you don’t pick up on things like exploration of social themes and mores until long after you’ve finished the book.<br />
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As an author, I can tell you that’s a good thing.<br />
<br />
When asked about the key to his success as a self-published author (by Jeanne Bannon, author of Invisible… <a href="http://beyondwordsblog.blogspot.com/2011/09/interview-with-author-greg-crites.html">read the full article on her blog</a> ) Crites said: <br />
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<i>“My stuff is always first draft... I do things the way the Pulp masters did. The guys who wrote Doc Savage, The Shadow, Tarzan, Conan. They got paid by the word and they churned out some words. I don’t do litrachur, which I’m unqualified for. I aim to entertain and I never lose sight of that goal. I keep a steady stream of stories underway. You have to produce. You have to imagine you are a writer for ‘Lost’ and you had better get some words typed or start looking for a real job.”</i><br />
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By his own admission, audio books make up the largest part of his sales, and having benefited personally from his oratory offerings, I can testify to the fact that he’s got a set of pipes Deity-made for narration. <br />
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So, without further ado, strap yourselves in and let’s chat with the author, himself. He’s sitting in a comfy chair with a drink at the ready and, now… me in his lap - which is how we’ll proceed with the rest of this interview.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCIFBw7v_wbOtHemESkUEp1bXS9xuV2bbakiyG3Iq5MCtoIuaMBvHg3RnnU4-Oe8D1oF7pwdu7z_MOPHStLyIocTA5JDzMbKziwpNDCI9qK_IcX2y7GJYPkAgM_Fq8pGKSfHb0p09nKZD/s1600/The+Hack+and+chick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCIFBw7v_wbOtHemESkUEp1bXS9xuV2bbakiyG3Iq5MCtoIuaMBvHg3RnnU4-Oe8D1oF7pwdu7z_MOPHStLyIocTA5JDzMbKziwpNDCI9qK_IcX2y7GJYPkAgM_Fq8pGKSfHb0p09nKZD/s320/The+Hack+and+chick.jpg" width="213" /></a><b>Greg, (may I call you Greg?) I recently read <b>Crusade</b>. Tell the folks out there what it’s about, then kindly explain to us what you have against God and organized religion.</b><br />
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Crusade is my tribute to Hunter S. Thompson. It is my inferior version of <i>Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas</i>. Thompson took a cynical look at America during a period when America really needed someone to take a cynical look at it. Not that it did any good. Or changed any minds. Or elevated anyone to at least try and do better.<br />
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I started with outright theft of his premise, two crazed journalists on assignment, and went from there. (Or, it could be based on my actual adventures as a reporter, but the statute of limitations has not yet expired on some of the crap we did.)<br />
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This will disappoint the thousands who’ve read Crusade, but I actually have nothing against either religion, or God. It is organized religion that I took to task in Crusade. As individuals, being religious has little impact on civilization, and, is actually a positive phenomena. But, when folks get together and start attempting to legislate or force others to adhere to their beliefs, it’s a negative thing and they should be hunted down and killed. In much the same manner organized religions have done throughout the history of humankind.<br />
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As in every human endeavor, greed sooner or later takes over, the greedy realize they need fanatics—and they find them. Contrary to new-age, liberal, progressive, hipster delusions, some folks are just smart enough to become dangerous but not smart enough to contribute anything to civilization. Hence, there always exists a ready pool of borderline imbeciles to whip into a frenzy of fanaticism. All that said, I am a spiritual person in that, I take comfort in the knowledge that there is no way my species sits at the top of the food chain. <br />
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<b>I see. Well you put a lot of thought into that answer. I’m impressed. Now, you seem like a guy who would take great pleasure in screwing the man - metaphorically, of course. Any suggestions for the sheeple reading this interview? How can they make a difference in the world around them while simultaneously pissing off the establishment?</b><br />
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Stop electing lawyers. Plain and simple. They complicate everything until it becomes unworkable, thus guaranteeing they always have work. Think for yourself. Analyze, don’t just swallow the popular line. Stop giving money to those whom you know are douchebags. Hit ‘em in the wallet. Works every time. Finally, love your friends, plot to kill your enemies.<br />
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<b>You seem a little… stressed. On a scale of 1 to 10, how happy are you? </b><br />
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I’m sober now, so I’m at a negative 2 or 3. Later, after a few drinks I’ll hover around the ten mark.<br />
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<b>Are you comfortable? Here… let me scoot this way a bit. Don’t want your legs to fall asleep. There. Now, tell me about the worst boss you ever had.</b><br />
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Myself. Way too lenient on the worthless fucker I see in the mirror. I could write a book a month if I weren’t a worthless, undisciplined, lazy bastard.<br />
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<b>Pretend I’m interviewing you for your dream job (bartender, professional taste tester - anything to do with a bar, alcohol, and/or sardine packaging plant). What are your three best qualities? What should I watch out for, other than theft and imbibing on the job?</b><br />
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Any bar that would hire me is far too dangerous a place to work. That said, for some reason, I feel it crucial that I actually do the best job I can if someone is paying me. I have no idea why. Some kind of genetic flaw. If you pay me to do something, I’ll figure some way to get it done—even if it requires me admitting defeat and suggesting you find someone else to do it.<br />
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I enjoy taking broken/non-functioning things apart to try and fix them. Usually I do, and that shit feels good.<br />
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I like to wander around and drink beer directly out of the pitcher.<br />
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<b>Let’s talk politics. If you could pick - er, scratch that. I don’t have time for all the railing against the machine I assume your answer would include. How about this: Tom or Jerry? Why?</b><br />
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Foghorn Leghorn! Because I love that voice and ain’t that all that counts? In this society don’t we all worship the strong delivery of platitudes and vagaries full of sound and fury yet signifying nothing.<br />
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<b>Why are you so drawn to me? And, feel free to make use of your mental thesaurus for adjectives and adverbs.</b><br />
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I’ve always been fascinated by Scientology adherents and Kat told me you’re like a twelfth degree moonbat soon to be elevated to Exalted Unicornucopia of Abundance. A level which is rumored to be the highest attainable short of metamorphosing into an immortal butterfly.<br />
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As an amateur scientist with no credentials, no formal training, no qualifications, and no slavish need to adhere to long-accepted scientific best-practices, my empirical observations of others always yields verifiably funny lines.<br />
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<b>If my feminine instincts are correct - coupled with the full sixty-two seconds it took you to come up with that answer - I believe you may have been trying to decide between a moment of intimacy, and humor. You chose humor. That’s fine. I’ll let it slide… for now. Next question: If you were invited to give the commencement speech at Harvard’s graduation ceremony this year, what advice would you have for the nubile minds about to embark upon the rest of their lives?</b><br />
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Young scholars, we beg thee, hie your numerous skills to another country and elevate them to the next level in civilization. You’ve done enough to us, and collectively, we can’t thank you properly.<br />
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<b>To follow up on the last question: What would the hospitality rider in your contract for said speaking engagement look like? (Dietary restrictions, requested items, etc.)</b><br />
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Two bottles of Sailor Jerry rum on ice, an eight-ball, and a fully-charged cattle prod.<br />
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<b>I assume the cattle prod will be used when your heartbeat goes on hiatus. I feel you squirming… don’t worry, just a few more questions. How would you design a spice rack for a blind person? </b><br />
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Hanging Scratch ‘N Sniff cards. BAM!<br />
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<b></b><br />
<b>What’s in your refrigerator right now?</b><br />
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Sliced jalapenos, beer, salsa, cheese, bacon, and a long-forgotten science experiment.<br />
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<b>Based on your answers to the last few questions, you may not be long for this world, so I've decided that you and I should write something together before you break on thru to the other side. So, what do you think? Fictional tell-all, tele-novella script, collection of poems, manifesto… whatever. If you can curb your enthusiasm for the drink enough to add another project to your list, and I can curb my enthusiasm for Twitter, what do you think we should write?</b><br />
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Bring Kat in and we’ll write some porn. That shit always sells.<br />
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<b>Done! But I’m gonna need that in writing, so I’ll have my people forward your people a contract immediately. One last question: What is the meaning of life?</b><br />
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An opportunity to experience long periods of mind-numbing boredom, punctuated by ass-clenching instants of stark terror, sprinkled bouts of abject misery, and priceless moments of pure, unadulterated joy.<br />
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<b>Unadulterated joy, indeed. You have been a pleasure, sir. Let me hop off your lap so you can regain feeling in your lower extremities. </b><br />
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I recommend working your way through his massive oeuvre slowly and with great diligence. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9ivtVNsFojL-d8WXufxhe9JO6dIZqfLOBSinOPD6_aZ8OmiSNFkJpToG6M3w2AP92FtVwjoZvP7Zb-ldqqeZ-91M8PwQDABsZE31zB3GqEKQX7p7zO7GDhVRf3hIUcsP9D6oE-FAJzY9/s1600/Dunkin+One+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9ivtVNsFojL-d8WXufxhe9JO6dIZqfLOBSinOPD6_aZ8OmiSNFkJpToG6M3w2AP92FtVwjoZvP7Zb-ldqqeZ-91M8PwQDABsZE31zB3GqEKQX7p7zO7GDhVRf3hIUcsP9D6oE-FAJzY9/s400/Dunkin+One+Cover.jpg" width="262" /></a>On that note, you can get the first of his vampire series, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/DUNKIN-VAMPIRE-Something-Porcine-ebook/dp/B003MAK6T0/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1340665411&sr=8-2&keywords=Dunkin+the+Vampire+Slayer" target="_blank">Dunkin the Vampire Slayer: Something Porcine This Way Comes</a> for FREE on Kindle right now. </div>
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<b>IN THE INTEREST OF FULL DISCLOSURE:</b> While preparing for this hard-hitting interview, I came across <a href="http://www.newnfresh.com/fun/good_amusing_job_interview_questions.html">this ridiculous website </a>and shamelessly appropriated a few of the questions. I thought the one about the spice rack was brilliant.<br />
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<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-61092478778438720132012-01-13T14:00:00.000-05:002012-05-05T15:32:59.901-04:00It’s all Fun and Games Till Someone Loses Their Mind<br /><br />
<b>TWEET: How do you make every teacher and kid within a 50 mile radius
happy at 5:30AM while simultaneously making every parent weep?
SNOW DAY!!! </b><br />
<br />
That’s how the day started. And life was fine…<br />
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Thing One headed back to his bedroom to pull up Google Earth, his newest obsession, while Thing Two took to the bathroom to set up today’s Lego universe, as seen through the eyes of a 10 year old, still in Pull-Up’s, slightly verbal autistic boy.<br />
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I amused myself on Twitter, joking around with a few friends about this and that and some such nonsense, including an upcoming trip to Las Vegas, that I will, in just a few hours, begin to think can't possibly come soon enough.<br />
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At exactly 11:32 AM, I was staring at the alarm clock on my bedside table and praying for something to happen. ANYTHING to shut him up. Thing Two, at that point, had spent an entire hour screaming in my ear, poking and cajoling me, physically and emotionally.<br />
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“Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart Store, Lego Jungle, Singing Mickey, Gamestop, McDonalds. I wuv… Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart store….”<br />
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On and on and on and on and on… repeating the same thing over and over and over until I found myself on my bed in the fetal position with my fingers jammed in my ears, eyes scrunched closed and humming loudly enough to get his voice out of my head.<br />
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For the first, let’s say, thirty minutes of this tiptoe through Hades, I would like a huge dollop of credit for the patience I was able to exhibit.<br />
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“No, honey. Not today. No store today.” I said it as many ways as I possibly could, very sweetly and calmly, interspersed with portions of time where I ignored him completely - going about my daily routine of laundry and dishes, with him trailing behind me as I continued to hope the broken record would finally skip to another song.<br />
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He was on a roll. It was as far from a “normal” tantrum as one can possibly get. Because I can’t reason with this child. He doesn’t “get” words of reason, with the possible exception of “NO!” which I finally screamed - having done everything else I could possibly do, starting with TRYING to reason with him - hoping it would be the one time he <i>would</i> understand - “Mommy can’t go to the store today. The roads are icy and even if they weren’t, Mommy doesn’t have enough money today… and even if I did, I’d have to use it to pay the phone bill, not buy you another set of Legos to add to your ever-expanding collection…”<br />
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Reason. Ha! The universe mocks. <br />
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I knock, knock, knock on his little head. Nothing’s getting thru. So I try ignoring him, closing myself in the bathroom until he breaks in to join me - because we don’t have locks on ANY of the interior doors in the house. Locks? Are you crazy? Two autistic kids live here. The last thing I need is to have to crowbar either one of them out of a room they’ve barricaded themselves into with a lighter and a four pack of generic toilet paper. <br />
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Okay, so Thing One wouldn’t do that, but that’s totally within Thing Two’s modus operandi.<br />
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So, I’m in the bathroom and he’s at my feet and he’s whining and crying and it only takes ten minutes of this sheer hell to realize that the acoustics in the bathroom - coupled with his hysteria and the decibel level of such - is not conducive to me retaining a sanity level that is greater than or equal to a sanity level necessary to keep me from being carted off to a padded room somewhere.<br />
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For a moment, I laugh - the horrible guffawing of the clinically insane - as my mouth waters for a few moments in that goddamned padded room. I bet it’s quiet in there… and at this point I’d take ten seconds of silence over a ten minute orgasm.<br />
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I flushed (at least I got something done while I was in there), stepped over Thing Two and escaped to my bed, where I burrowed under the covers. Unfortunately, he burrowed right along with me. <br />
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I tried the finger to lips, “Shhhh.” A gentle cue for him to SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE MOMMY LOSES IT!!! - one I’m certain he understood. But, then come the tears. Tears in earnest, as if I’m torturing the kid because I won’t take him to Walmart. He doesn’t understand. He’s not getting it. And there’s not one goddamn thing I can do about it but ride the tsunami of dysfunction till <i>he</i> tires out or <i>I</i> have a stroke - whichever comes first.<br />
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And he’s poking me. Non-stop poking. This is not the hard, barbed, LISTEN TO ME poking at this point, but the very gentle, almost-a-tickle poking that says, “Please give me some attention because it seems, Mommy, that you’re not understanding my wants and needs and all I require is a little understanding.”<br />
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It is so sweet and so sad and so damned absurd… and if the little guy only understood that I completely understand his wants and needs, but his wants and needs, at this precise moment, juxtaposed against <i>my</i> particular wants and needs, seem to be at loggerheads.<br />
<br />
I need him to stop touching me. <br />
I need him to be quiet.<br />
I need a cigarette - which I cannot have because I’ve recently quit - ironically, <i>for my kids </i>because if it were only me I had to worry about, I’d gladly smoke myself into an early grave while enjoying every menthol-y drag on my road to emphysema.<br />
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Poke, poke, tickle - he continues his non-stop refrain, quiet, soft and accompanied with tears, and it is worse than the screaming of earlier: “Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart Store, Lego Jungle, Singing Mickey, Gamestop, McDonalds. I wuv… Mommy, Jake, Jaxson, Grammy, Grammy’s car, seatbelt, Walmart store….”<br />
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I lay there thinking about my flippant early-morning tweet and how the universe is a sarcastic bitch, (and how I could probably put this torturous situation to good use by inventing something similar as an effective form of torture for our government to employ on “enemy combatants”) when I start to laugh. It’s so over-the-top, having gone on almost two hours, so ridiculously, morbidly horrifying, that I’ve now reached that point where there’s nothing to do but laugh.<br />
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So I laugh, taking a brief few seconds to GROAN LOUDLY in frustration, then continue my hysterical laughter of the insane…<br />
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Then, it happens. Thing Two stops, the record skips to another song and suddenly he’s in the living room and I’m on the bed alone and I’m not quite sure how I got there, or what I did to make the bad thing stop, but it has stopped.<br />
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I close my eyes and do some yoga breathing I picked up somewhere, who the hell knows where because I’ve never done yoga in my life, and would most certainly risk pulling something vital like my aortic valve if I did. <br />
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When the coast seems clear, I tiptoe over to my computer and jot down this rant - which will never get properly edited because there are only so many hours in the day…<br />
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“Mom, look. Mom…”<br />
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Now, he’s at the computer, watching some Lego video on YouTube and pointing to something he wants me to help him build. I smile wanly and nod as he pulls the huge box of Legos into the living room. <br />
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Then, I sit down next to him, dreaming of a day, 79 days from now, when I will have four consecutive days to do whatever the hell I want to do …and I assure you, whatever happens in Vegas, it won’t include Legos or Walmart or me being screamed at or poked.<br />
<br />
…and for 4 days, life will be fine.<br />
<br />Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-20020822446157163862011-12-22T10:05:00.001-05:002012-05-05T15:38:18.991-04:00It's finally here!!!<br />
Time to get your read on, folks!<br />
<br />
“I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames” (my memoir about living and laughing with my two autistic sons) is now available in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wish-Were-Engulfed-Flames-Raising/dp/1616084855/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324484608&sr=8-1">HARDCOVER</a> and in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wish-Were-Engulfed-Flames-ebook/dp/B006O1MWL4/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1324484511&sr=8-2">KINDLE</a> ~ and will be available in bookstores in January.<br />
<br />
<b>*Early reviews*</b><br />
<br />
VERDICT: Brash, sarcastic, irreverent, heartfelt, and touching, Decker’s memoir is all this and more. Highly recommended. —<b><i>Library Journal</i></b><br />
<br />
“This is not your mother’s autism book! Raw, honest with ‘she said what?!’ laughs on every page.” —<i>Kim Stagliano</i>, author of <b>All I Can Handle: I’m No Mother Teresa</b><br />
<br />
As always, I'm continually working on my documentary about autism, so if you've got some time, I've uploaded some clips of what we've been up to in 2011.<br />
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Happy Holidays everyone!<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6WJzsMwzQb8" width="420"></iframe>Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-43719753192536596222011-12-20T16:30:00.001-05:002012-05-05T15:41:51.302-04:00Step Away from the Cliché<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<b>Javier Boredom<br />
1212 Superior Lane.<br />
Road to Welleville, USA<br />
RE: Book Pitch</b><br />
<br />
<i>Writers are full of clichés just as old barns are full of bats. <br />
… anything you suspect of being a cliché undoubtedly is one and <br />
had better be removed. ~ Wolcott Gibbs</i><br />
<br />
Dear INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, <br />
<br />
Haven’t you had just about enough of manuscript submissions so rife with trite expressions, their heady stench wafts around your inbox long after you’ve hit the delete button? <br />
<br />
Writers who employ such pathetic, phoned-it-in-because-I-wanted-to-get-5,000-words-written-today phrases and ideas, which have become the epitome of flotsam bobbing down the proverbial river toward the graveyard of good intentions, will absolutely benefit from my book <b>Step Away from the Cliché</b>. <br />
<br />
To transform lackluster seen-it-all-before prose, writers can utilize the handy annotated glossary to look up cliché “keywords” and “phrases” that will turn their customary dreck into dazzling nuggets of literary genius. <br />
<br />
Just like Glen Close’s character in Fatal Attraction, sluggish, cliché-ridden prose is hard to ignore. But if writers insist on upping their word count with drivel, at least the drivel should be inspired. Short words are lazy words, let’s be honest. (NOTE: Roget’s Thesaurus is a good companion to my book.) <br />
<br />
“Live and learn” could be transformed to “Subsist, observe, and sip a nice cup of coffee while you ponder your lack of alternatives.” <br />
<br />
“What goes around comes around,” says your protagonist as he stares (under hooded eyes) at the “villain.” I don’t know about you INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, but when I read lazy dialogue like this, I want to chop the author’s arms off and feed them to my pet iguana. They don’t deserve appendages when they could have written something like this: <br />
<br />
“Karma’s a sarcastic bitch and she’s got a wicked backhand.” <br />
<br />
At approximately 310,000 words, <i>Step Away from the Cliché </i>is certain to be a must-have for the robust manual-buying body of aspiring writers who lap up every published book on the “art” of writing in the hopes of producing the next vampire tome that has you agents creaming in your Fruit of the Looms. <br />
<br />
If you think this book has legs, (and I think we both know it does) you’ll also be interested in my other work in progress - a two part series for screenwriters: <i>Step Away from the Voice Over </i>and <i> Step Away from the Cheesy Flashback and/or Montage</i>. <br />
<br />
INSERT AGENT NAME HERE, should you decide to take me on as a client, you’ll be making 15% off me for years to come. I am nothing if not prolific. <br />
<br />
Much appreciation in advance for your solicitous (and astute) consideration on this matter, <br />
<br />
Javier Boredom <br />
<br />
<b>~*~</b>Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033277760691204926.post-56794423528199683632011-11-14T14:14:00.000-05:002012-05-05T15:44:12.180-04:00Confederacy of Dunces<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I have a premise. I’ve spent months working on it while riveted to the television and internet, watching the 2012 Presidential campaign develop like an origami snake - one pointed crease and sharp fold at a time.<br />
<br />
I’m certainly not the first person to ask themselves what vicious trick Fortuna is playing on us now. It can’t just be me who watches these GOP debates and thinks that scraping the bottom of the Republican barrel doesn’t even come close to describing what we are witnessing as a Nation.<br />
<br />
I cringe when I imagine what the world at large thinks of the line-up of Unusual Suspects vying to be President of the United States. It’s that same feeling I had every time George W. Bush came out to the podium to speak during his two terms in office. I wasn’t sure what gaffe he would commit next, how many times in one conversation he’d mispronounce the word ‘nuclear’ and on which foreign land he’d declare war next. I just knew that anything was possible and I spent eight years popping Tums.<br />
<br />
He seemed, to me, a shelter puppy who'd suddenly found himself in a new home with lots of carpet to pee on; wide-eyed, shocked to be there, and ready to rip into a juicy bone. Good thing for him he had multiple puppet-masters like Karl Rove, Donald Rumsfeld, and Dick Cheney - who clearly played the part of middle finger.<br />
<br />
I’ve had to break out the chewable antacid pills again as I ponder the current crop of GOP contenders and consider the possibility that one of them could eventually become President of the United States.<br />
<br />
Consider <b>Rick Perry</b>: from his disturbing and seemingly drunken, rambling speech in New Hampshire, to his debate performance in Michigan where he drew a blank while trying to name the third federal agency he would abolish if elected president. It was painful to watch. I felt sorry for the guy, but I’m sure pity isn’t the emotion he was going for. Just trying to imagine this guy in talks with foreign officials gives me heart palpitations.<br />
<br />
Then there’s <b>Herman Cain</b>; the King of the ridiculous 9-9-9 plan that would assure the top 1% will continue to benefit while the rest of us 99%’ers would be pushed further to the bottom of the pile. Now the former pizza magnate and motivational speaker - who is backed by the strong arm of the Koch brothers and their <b>Americans for Prosperity </b>- is embroiled in a sexual harassment scandal. But despite the drip, drip, drip of accusers, Herman continues to operate from atop a pedestal of righteous indignation.<br />
<br />
I’m going to skip right over <b>Ron Paul </b>and <b>Rick Santorum </b>because while Ron has that crazy Grandpappy vibe and I sort of enjoy him, Rick is so far to the right he’s almost invisible at this point. There’s no way in Hades either of these guys will get anywhere close to being the nominee and they both know it. It seems they’re just there for the free food in the many media green room pit-stops. Or perhaps they both enjoy hearing themselves speak.<br />
<br />
I can think of no other reasonable explanation for them continuing to travel the country, flushing contributor dollars down the toilet by the fist-full. My suggestion to both of them is to throw in the towel and donate the rest of the cash in their coffers to their favorite charities. It would do far more good in the grand scheme of things.<br />
<br />
<b>Michelle Bachmann</b> continually rails against entitlements and big government, but she and her family have benefited greatly from land subsidies and federal monies for her business. That is disingenuous at best... insidious at worst. And consider this statement: “Our nation needs to stop doing for people what they can and should do for themselves. Self reliance means, if anyone will not work, neither should he eat.”<br />
<br />
I wonder what she’d say to one of her constituents who relies on food stamps as the only thing standing between him and starvation because he was laid off a year ago and cannot find a job in this economy. Ditto the other 13.9 million people like him, all trying to scoop water off the bow of the Titanic with soup spoons.<br />
<br />
I further wonder why nobody has the cahones to publicly call her on this statement. At not one of these debates do the moderators seem intent on actually holding these debaters feet to the fire. Repeatedly, the GOP contenders are asked a question and repeatedly they do not answer that question, but circle around to their talking point of the day, which invariably begins with them waxing poetic about feeling our collective pain regarding the economic disaster and massive job loss, and ending with Obama’s failed policies being the cause of it all. No mention, of course, of how that pile of guano ended up on the President’s desk in the first place. Nor have any of them suggested that the GOP stranglehold via their Congressional amigos might have something to do with our inability to rectify the jobs situation.<br />
<br />
Why are these debate moderators and media pundits not asking direct questions and demanding they get a direct answers? At this point the word debate has become a joke, along with most of the media coverage - and all one has to do to see that is spend a little time on Twitter, Facebook, and any number of social networking sites and blogs.<br />
<br />
The general consensus: there is no debate going on. It’s a recurring sideshow-esque reality show featuring actors with virtually no accountability - and in some cases, no conscience.<br />
<br />
But the sideshow continues…<br />
<br />
<b>Newt Gingrich</b> and <b>Mitt</b> “Flip Flop” <b>Romney</b> appear to be the least problematic of the bunch, politically speaking, though neither of these men meet with anything other than tepid reactions from possible voters, pundits, and their own GOP party members. Probably because they’ve both been around long enough for everyone to have decided they’re not anyone's first choice. Or even their second one... both in his own way like a document run through the photocopier one too many times; a tired image of what might have been… if only. And there are a lot of “if onlys” for both men.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to my premise.<br />
<br />
What I’ve outlined above is a collection of undesirable contenders no more able to successfully lead this nation than my albino frog, Humbert Humbert.<br />
<br />
We must also take into account all of the <i>forces</i> behind the scenes: the <b>Brothers Koch</b> pulling the purse strings of Herman Cain as well as plunging their grubby paws into any political fight that serves them personally; <b>Grover Norquist </b>holding an entire governing body of lawmakers hostage due to a Tax Reform pledge penned and signed over a decade ago.<br />
<br />
For heaven’s sake, Grover. I have a kid who’s gone from diapers to big boy undies and is almost out of elementary school in that amount time. Am I to assume that I shouldn’t adjust the particulars of his daily care and rearing based on the circumstances of today rather than ten years ago when he surfed out of my who-ha on a tidal wave of amniotic fluid and only required a clean nappy and a bottle milk to keep him content?<br />
<br />
Cue the gaggle of Grand Ole’ Partiers like <b>Mitch McConnell </b>and his cronies, all bent on seeing our sitting president as a one-termer, and what we have is a recipe for a bilious stew of governmental gridlock; self-sustaining dysfunction with no end in sight.<br />
<br />
But perhaps that’s the intent. At least from the perspective of the congressional GOP. Imagine, for a moment, if there was effectively no pesky POTUS to get in the way of the daily Senate and House shenanigans. Imagine a United States where the President was a puppet for Congress; a figurehead bought and paid for to do their bidding. A leader who was just ineffective enough to bow to every demand of whichever party held the most seats in Congress - a group of lawmakers who change the rules when it’s convenient for them; when it’s politically convenient and skirts around silly little issues like simple majority votes cast.<br />
<br />
I don’t see anyone in the current line up of Republican contenders who, if President, would have the mettle to effectively do the job, or stones big enough to stand up to Congress when the need arose.<br />
<br />
And I suspect that certain members of the House and Senate don’t either. Only to them, that’s a good thing.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we, the American people are strapped to Fortuna’s wheel and can only hope she does not crush us beneath her spokes.Jeni Deckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06389728975568397450noreply@blogger.com2