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, dude, man the hell up and quit all the whining for God's sake.
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.
Sonnet #18 (sort of but not
really.)
Shall I
compare thee to a Summer's Eve douche?
Thou art not
feminine hygiene related, but prone to hibernate.
Less an
appetizer than a delightfully arranged amuse-bouche,
served to
distinguish the discriminating aggregate.
Accompanied
by a complementing brew,
offered, no
doubt, but for a rough-hewn glimpse;
a hacking
approach to life’s existential stew —
by chance,
or nature's changing course and whims.
Like a plate
of olives or a crock of tapenade,
‘words be an
equally simple tithe;
soothing
under pretense to abrade,
and awaken
where appetites hide.
So long as
men can taste and have eyes with which to see,
So long
lives this, and this, and this… and it gives life to thee.
(not by William Shakespeare)
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 117,recalibrated and reimagined
To make memories less keen, bitter sauces do our palates urge,
and prevent emotional maladies unwanted,
we partake to shun melancholy; gluttonous,
we splurge.
In sickeningly-sweet
prose did I frame my meandering nattering;
and tired of apathy, found joy in understanding my neediness,
too unsubtle in my revelations, truth so often is unflattering.
Such robust devotion, did plainly illustrate my ills for naught,
and grew to faults
assured, too many and too plainly seen,
carried friendly rapport
to a tasteless state of drought.
Such reeking rank
goodness is still an ill-fated flask
and thus have I learned, and find the lesson true,
such drugs can fell the interest of those uncomfortable with truth.
(not by William Shakespeare)
Sonnet #76 (Re-imagined, badly)
Why is my
arse so lackluster and wide,
So
determined to avoid any change?
Why, in
these modern times, could I not coincide
a snazzy
addition on this twin mountain range?
Perhaps a
butterfly or a three word bon-mot; what shame,
to keep a
canvas pure white as it goes to seed?
Such
remorse! I would have myself to blame.
But if I
ornament my tush, will regret quickly breed?
O, I know,
my liege, I always ask these trifles of you,
en·ti·tle·ment noun -ˈtī-təl-mənt\ Definition of
ENTITLEMENT 1: the state or
condition of being entitled ; a right to benefits specified especially by law
or contract 2: a government
program providing benefits to members of a specified group; also : funds
supporting or distributed by such a program 3: belief that one
is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges
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.
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.
It’s also gross and says more about you than them, but that’s beside
the point.
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.
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 read about the “spin” on “entitlements” and its
social etymology.
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.)
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.
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.)
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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."
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…
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—the largest low-wage employer in the US—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?
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.
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.
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…
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?
How about we take a look at oil subsidies and Big Pharma and medical
related price gouging?
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.
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.
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?
And finally, on a personal note, how about a little fucking empathy and
less judgment?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
Final thought and it’s a snarky one because you already hate me by now,
anyway:
I hear tell that some Jesus fellow had an interesting way of handling
the sick and hungry…
He cured and fed them.
***If you’re interested in how a couple of the Big Entitlements might
actually be the answer to the problem,check out this article by Ezra Klein –
one of my favorite wonky debunkers. The reader comments are pretty interesting
here, too.
NOTE: (This is what happens when a writer gets bored...)
The Raven,
defiled.
—(not) Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a mid-day dreary,
while I labored, weak and bleary,
I read a strange and curious roll of un-forgotten lore — (word-of-the-day TP)
With angst I prodded, nearly snapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at the bathroom door.
"‘Tis occupied," I started. "Stop tapping at the bathroom door —
Aggrieve me with nothing more!"
How distinctly I remember, my
angry bowel that bleak December;
Standing… spasm! Leaking! ‘fore it wrought its contents on the floor.
Horrified I prayed for morrow; vainly I then propped the window
As the stench increased my sorrow – anguish on my fickle core!
For a rare and radiant maiden would never, never poop upon the floor!—
Shameless, blameless… nevermore.
Presently my stool grew harder; hesitated, then no longer,
"Sir," wailed I, " -or Madam, for your patience I implore;
But the fact is I was pooping, awfully, when you came a rapping,
So I blame you interrupting and your bloody tapping at the door,
That I was un-compacted when I did hear you" – here I opened wide the
door;
Grudgingly, I looked at the floor.
Deep into the detritus peering, long we stood; me pondering, he leering,
Knowing what we’re seeing, no mortal had e’r done on a colleague’s floor;
Tho’ the silence was unbroken, I took his stillness as a token,
And the only word there spoken was his gasped indictment, "ON THE
FLOOR?"
"Yes," I whispered, on an echoed sob did burble, "On the floor…"
—
Ghastly, this, and so much more.
Back into the soiled chamber lurching, with the gut inside me burning,
As he retreated, feet tap-tapping, I sobbed, but somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I to God above, "this only happens at the Jersey
Shore."
Let me think, then, what to do, with this ghastly refuse on the floor —
How to deal alone with the pile of revulsion on this floor?
‘Tis bad luck and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the door wide, when, with invective did I mutter,
"Bring me bleach and Ajax, if you want this shite-splashed room
restored!"
Not a comforting gesture made she; nor a minute of pity or compassion for me;
With nasty mien did the lady, stare in horror at her defiled bathroom floor —
Perched upon her Jimmy Choos just outside her dung-filled bathroom’s door —
She lurched and gagged, away she tore.
Thus I sat engorged and guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the foul what fiery reek ‘n havoc had seared unto my lower sore;
This and that I sat divining, with unsteady unease reclining
As the commode tank labored burbling and the john thusly bloated o’er,
Oh offense! while they downstairs, about my shame were gloating o’er,
This too shall pass… ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the reek grew denser, perfumed with wholly unseen censure
Stung by the sound of foot-falls tinkling on the tufted floor.
"Shit!" I cried. "Why, God?
Why smite me? By the devil, you hath done mightily!"
I needed respite — respite and distraction, from what lies behind this door;
I shall flee this Tupperware party, and forget this unseemliness on the
floor!"
Quoth my conscience, "Like some common crack whore?"
"Stop it!" said I, "I’ll clean it, still, if someone brings me a
shovel!"
Whether he or she sent, or whether tempest tossed a bucket against the door,
Desolate and daunted in this deserted lavatory I canted —
Dragged the filled bucket and mop inside on haunches—alone, I shut the door.
"Is there – is there bleach in this bitch? – tell me – tell me ‘fore I
pour!"
Quoth my conscience, "OH, JUST POUR!"
"Mop it?" said I, "By odor defiled – mop I will, turd clods and
deviled-swill!
But by that son-of-a-whore that bends above us – I’d rather it be blood and
gore!"
Such surfeit, sorrow-laden exudation, sloshing, slipping, sliding, "Fuck
me!"
You shall not break this
sainted maiden with a mere fecal storm on the floor —
Scrape and squeegee with bare hands, I’ll attack this shit-storm that I alone
bore.
Quoth she outside, "OPEN THIS DOOR!"
"Begone you who would pity me still, faux friend!" I shrieked,
down-sliding —
And shit! - Get thee back into the pot and take the to the Plutonian shore!
"I’ll leave no brown plume as a token of that which lie polluted and now
broken!
Leave my pitiful-ness unspoken! – quit the haranguing banging on the door!
Take a break from how you mock, and move thy form far from the door!"
Quoth my judgmental conscience, "Bloody, bloody bore."
And the woman, never flitting, still is fretting, still is fretting
On the spiky heels of Choo just outside her cunny poo-chamber door;
And tho’ I’ve now done all the cleaning of a demon’s that is teaming,
And the light o’er the commode now gleams unsoiled reflections on the floor;
My soul knew I’d ne’r surmount the shit embedded in the grout upon on the floor
It shall be lifted – nevermore!
What really got me were his
shoes. 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.
What are these people called, the baton toting people directing airplanes
on the runway? I should Google that at some point.*
But I digress…
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-fucking-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 what the
fuck is going on?
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.
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.
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 or so* 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.
*When Mother Goddamn Nature doesn’t see fit to arrive ridiculously early
(or horrifyingly late) with the blood and the crankiness and the existential What the hell does it all mean and why the
fuck am I so damn hot all of a sudden?
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.
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!
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.
Note: 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.
The point is this: The intent was there. Oh so bloody fucking there… Luckily my sanity hasn’t completely
eroded. Just yet.
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.
*Another note: I’ve been informed the airport employees who wear bright
vests and wave the batons are called marshallers or rampies - short for ramp
agents.
*
Connecting flight; Cleveland to Grand Rapids
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.
…repeatedly over the course of one hour and thirty-eight minutes. Seriously,
what makes some idiot say to himself, ‘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.’
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?
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.
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.
Note:
Grocery store farting: 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.
Elevator farting: 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.
Open-air surroundings: Absolutely. Let your ass gasses fly.
In the company of friends and family: No problem. They should love
you despite your internal stench and in this case, knowing the stinker makes it bearable (even charming
in an I-love-you-in-all-your-humanness kind
of way) to the stinkee.
Airplane farting: Fucking unacceptable! 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.)
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.
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.
I ask you this, kind (and possibly stinky) reader: How would you 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.
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.
When in doubt, don’t let it out. Consider this the Eleventh Commandment.
Now to the Sky Mall issue: What
the actual fuck?
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 Swiss Army knife wieldingterrorist or bird-in-propeller away from death by fiery jet-fueled inferno.
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 iGrow™
helmet immediately because it will help me achieve thicker, fuller looking hair
in weeks – Guaranteed!”
($695.00 + shipping and handling)
Or, “Boy howdy, I’ve always
wanted to get me one of these here Portable
All-In-One Sun-Tracking SunSocket™ Solar Generator’s!"
($1499.00 + shipping
and… are you fucking kidding me?)
"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 Fasten your Seatbelts sign!” — which is
now the universally understood signal to passengers that we can collectively
power up our iShit.**
**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.
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.
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.
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.
Methinks this has a lot to do with my Nanna’s DNA.
Concetta Angelina Morizzio Stec; 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 The
sonofabitch.
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.
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…
She calls Neosporin neosperm, and once announced to a packed theater
during a showing of the movie Gigli
that, “I never liked the sex. Too messy and then you have to douche.”
Why did you pay good money to go
see Gigli, 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.
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.
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.
Poppie and his prostate cancer
had gone the way of the ash two years previous and we were movin’ on. C’est la vie. 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.
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.)
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.
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.
Resi feigned confusion, “Mom,
what are you doing?”
This got everyone’s attention.
“What’s that?” Nanna asked.
“I’m gonna’ throw it in the
lake.”
JoAnn, seeing the box and not in
on the plan, went for Mom…
Okay, so here’s where the short film 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.
Nobody said anything for a long
time, awaiting Nanna’s response.
“That’s not your father,” she
said, rolling her eyes.
My aunt JoAnn, however, was a bit
more gullible.
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 The
Blair Witch Project.
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.
“Okay, now go get the God damned
box,” Nanna yelled.
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.
Resi decided it would be funny if
someone actually went into the water, and the rest of us decided she should be
that person.
Take two.
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.
“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.
Nanna, fantastic actress that she
is, repeated her initial line without prompting, “Now go get the God damned
box!”
…add some editing and cheesy
music and, voila; plenty of hits on the Tube.
Nanna got a few presents that
weekend, including an urn that matched Poppie's, and few memories she wouldn't
soon forget.
*
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…
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.
To make it more entertaining, let’s start by discussing Fifty Shades of Grey – 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.
So, Fifty Shades of Grey 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. 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 the team, I mean me.
Oh, I tried. Sweet baby Jesus, I
tried. See
normally, this is what you do: Pick up a book they say is all the rage. You read a few passages, think Meh 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...with love. Right. Fine.
I sit down and start turning pages.
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 someone’s cuppa. A lot of someones.
EXCERPTS:
~“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 …Hmm… My
inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.”
~"‘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.’ ”
The book has its own Wikipedia page, fan clubs,
been dubbed mommy porn, inspired
chuckles, ire, and newfound sexual shenanigans for flagging married couples…
allegedly. It’s even
spawned Culinary erotica. I give you Fifty
Shades of Chicken.
One man even
assaulted his girlfriend with steak sauce after she refused to stop reading the
book. Come on! I
wish someone would threaten assault by condiment on their partner after reading
passages from one of my books! I’d
wear that steak sauce as a badge of honor. And then
there’s the Judge in Brazil who ordered 50 Shades of Grey removed from
bookstore shelves.
So, that’s how you do it, people. That’s
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?
Of course there are valid criticisms to be made. And not just about 50
Shades, 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. 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.
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.
This is what Sis had to say:
“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: Holy Crap! or Holy Moses!"
EXCERPT:
“Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on
the floor. Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy cow! … He kneels up and pulls a condom onto
his considerable length. Oh no … Will it? How?”
Sis continues. “In my head I kept picturing Dorothy trotting along the
yellow brick road singing Lions and
Tigers and Bears, Oh My! 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. ‘Mighty fine, ma’am.’
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. 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 inner goddess 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. Bad adjectives, repetitive adjectives.”
YET ANOTHER EXCERPT:
“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.”
Whores' drawers, indeed. This is what my “Anonymous
Popular Mommy Blogger who refused to use her name because you people are
judgmental bitches” had to say:
“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. 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.”
“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*
(Now you can see why I like
Leigh.)
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.
Now… on to the subject at hand:
Publishing!
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 occasionally 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.
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?) 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. 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. 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. 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.
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.
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.
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… performing. 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. Or, find another profession.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
