Know Why I Pulled You Over?

Twice in a week, I have been pulled over by policemen.  The last time was in March 2020, when the pandemic was just kicking off.  On Thursday evening, I was driving home from Jeff's house (we had watched a Spanish art horror film from the Seventies and . . . well, that pretty much says it all), when a police car pulled up behind me and flashed his lights.  Often, when that happens, I assume they're after me, but they're really after someone else (conversely, when I'd speed and a cop flashed his lights, I often hoped they were after someone else, but alas) so I tried to pull over quickly, but safely.

I parked and took off my seat belt so I could get my wallet out, then quickly put the seat belt back on, worried that he'd think I was driving without it.**

I put down my driver's side window.  The cop--super-young, possibly aspiring to be a policeman when he grows up--came up to my passenger window and knocked, startling me a little.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" he asked, and it was a good question, as I was sure I hadn't been speeding.*  

I could think of nothing snarky, so I said, "No, sir."  

He said, "I can't read your license plate."  

I thought that was odd, so I asked, "Is it gone?  Did somebody take my licens--"  

He interrupted, "No, it's still there.  License and proof of insurance please."

Well, I leaned over and opened the glove compartment, and grabbed the registration paper, but he said, "That's your registration, I need your insurance form."  Well, I have insurance, but as I had an accident a month or two back, I must have left it in the house when I was dealing with that.

I gave him my license and he then said, "By the way, I saw you putting on your seat belt just now." 

Now maybe I was impolite about it (I tried not to be), but I insisted I had had my belt on, but took it off for my wallet then put it back for the exact purpose of not being accused of not having it on.  "Uh huh," said the man, like I do when I hear people claim Trump's going to drain the swamp (or has already).

Maybe I overstated my case, because I promised him I had had it on, and have to admit that I wasn't pleased that he didn't believe me.

Anyway, he explained to me that there's a reflective material on license plates, and mine has faded to the point of not being able to read the number, then he went back to write it up.

I took advantage of the lull to get on my phone and look up my insurance information for when he came back.  When he did, I tried to show him, but he said, "It needed to be in a timely manner, sir," which sounded kind of like he thought I was a douche.

"Sorry," I said.

He added, "Oh, and you really shouldn't reach over the way you did when you get pulled over."

"Well, I was reaching for my proof of . . . never mind."  As soon as I said it, I knew it sounded lame.

"We don't know what you're reaching for, so be aware," he said.

"Sure, sure," I said, trying to sound like one of the good guys here.

Regardless, he told me I needed to go to the DMV and order a new license plate, one that was readable, and that he'd just let me go with a warning, on the assurance that I'd take care of it.

Honestly, I was just relieved about the insurance thing, so I thanked him and went home.

Hey Rish, you may be asking, why are you wasting my time with this?

To which I say, Is it a waste of time?   You don't like this blog post?

No, I'm just asking, why would you blog about something like this when there seems to be no good reason for it?

To which I say, Well, now I feel bad.   Do you really think it's a w-- 

No, no, I didn't mean waste of time.  I just meant you seldom write about things that happen to you anymore, and yet you spent the time to write this one up.

I did.  Yeah.

But this one doesn't seem to have a f***ing point.

Huh.

So, here's my point, basically.  That night, as soon as I got home, I printed out my proof of insurance, and made one for the glove box and one for my wallet.  Just in case.

And on Sunday, I took out the 8.5 metric tonnes of crap from my trunk until I found the other license place (the one that goes on the front) and I switched it with the old one, since it was still brand new (I also stuck the registration sticker on it, hoping it would stay on at least until next year's stickers came).

I went to the cabin for the day and came home this morning, and as I was emerging from the canyon, I passed a sheriff's department vehicle on the side of the road.  I was going too fast, as was the truck that was riding my hind end, presumably trying to figure out what my bumper sticker was supposed to represent.***

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" this cop asked me.  Well, I was pretty sure it was because I was speeding, but he'd also pulled over the pickup truck too, which I'd never seen before.  It may have been that he was pulling everyone over that came through the canyon, because they might not be aware of the zombie apocalypse going on in the cities.

Maybe they ask the question that way so that people will say, "I dunno, is it because of the baggies of heroin under the spare in the trunk?" or "Because you finally found out what I did at the synagogue?"

Anyway, in this case, he said, "Clocked you and the other guy doing 46 in a 35."

Ah.  Anyway, I got out my license and said, "Can I grab you my proof of insurance?"

And the cop said, "I don't need it.  If I want to, I can check to see if you have insurance."

Ah again.

Anyway, he checked to see if I had any outstanding warrants, then let both of us speeders go.

And that's it for my scintillating tale . . . unless I get pulled over a third time this week.  I'll let you know why he pulled me over.

*I wouldn't have said my car was capable of speeding until today, but that's putting the patrolman before the horse.

**My car, and I assume yours as well, has an ear-splitting beeping that goes off if you don't put your seatbelt on, or if you've got a box sitting on the passenger seat until you're about to lose your mind and you pull over, get out, and put a seatbelt over the box.

***It's the second Death Star.  You know, the one that was still under construction.

Crack For Kids

Several years ago, someone interviewed Joe Quesada, then Editor-In-Chief of Marvel Comics, and asked him about the appeal of the medium.  He (somewhat infamously) said, "Comics are so addictive.  Put bluntly, they're crack for kids."*

And yeah, I know of which he speaks.  I was absolutely ADDICTED to comic books in the late eighties and the start of the Nineties, and kept having singing lessons my Junior and Senior year of high school (despite never being a good student) just so I could borrow my mom's car to go to the lesson, and sneak over to the comic store afterward.  Every spare dime I had went toward comics, and I still only got about half of what I wanted.**

Anyway, cut to today, when I went to the local comic book shop for the first time in ages (I assumed it had been since 2019 or '20, but the cashier said I'd last made a purchase in 2016).  I really just wanted to talk to the employee about comics and collections and his advice about what to do with my old books and hear his stories of widows or grandchildren bringing in their dead loved ones' books and finding out they had something of a goldmine on their hands.  I love those kinds of stories (and not to get off on another tangent, I spent an hour listening to a comic seller at a con tell me moving stories of people blindly discovering a book they had would pay off their house and the like, as inspiring as any church sermon).

But the guy had none, and frankly, wanted to do anything other than talk to me.  I tried changing the subject to something he MIGHT be more interested in, like old Magic The Gathering cards I had from the Nineties, but he simply didn't need any new friends.  I know comic shop proprietors have a reputation of being jag-offs, but this guy wasn't that, he just wanted to be left alone to do his internet searches or look at his phone, and I get that.***

While I was talking to him, a kid (around twelve, I'd say, but prepubescent, so he could have been ten or younger) asked me, "Are you interested in buying comic books?"  My initial thought was, "No, I'm here for the filet mignon," but I couldn't say that because I knew I wouldn't be able to spell it in this post.  Instead, I said, "Well, yeah.  How about you?"  I thought maybe the kid would tell me about his favorite characters and the semi-valuable issues he owned, then I could blow him away with having bought the first appearances of Venom, Deadpool, Silver Sable, Jubilee, Bishop, Cable, and the living black Spider-man suit when they were new. 

But no, he opened his backpack and said, "I've got some comic books here.  Do you want to buy them?"  Immediately, the dude behind the counter called over, "Hey, you can't sell stuff in here, you know that." 

I told the kid I would look at what he had to offer if he wanted to step out to the sidewalk--and yes, having typed it out, I now realize why the police were called on me.  Whoops.****

Anyway, the boy went away, having been chastened by the Comic Book Guy™, and crossed over to the role playing game side of the store, where he started talking to the Mormon missionaries that were playing Magic The Gathering there, about Pokemon cards.  This is NOT a lie, and is sort of important to the point of writing this blogpost, okay?

He--the boy--had his eye on some Pokemon cards and while I asked the cashier how much a back issue of Dazzler was (it was early enough that Rogue was still a villain--an era I'm almost completely ignorant of), I could hear him ranking the cards in order of how much he wanted them.

Well, the back issue was surprisingly cheap, and it turns out nobody EVER buys old comics from them, to the point where the Comic Book Guy™ said that if somebody brought in an issue of Fantastic Four #1 to sell to the store, he would tell them to take it elsewhere.  (again, he really told me this)  

The child was still darting around, hanging close to the rare card case, as though he'd had nothing but sugar packets that day.  I asked the cashier, "Is he the son of someone who works here?" and she said, "No, he's just a boy who comes in and buys cards sometimes."  No idea why he wasn't in school, but hey, I didn't have a good excuse for not being at work, or why I would be in a comic book store four decades outside of my childhood, so I'm not one to judge.

I paid for my comic and as soon as I stepped away, the boy ran up to me and said, "Did you want to see my comics?"  I said, "Sure, but I don't want you to get in trouble."  He said, "I don't care; I need money for cards," and took out a stack that ranged from the Eighties to the 2010s.  One of them was Web of Spider-man 29 which, believe it or not, I was never able to afford when I was a kid.  I said to him, as softly as I could, "Would you take twenty bucks for that one?"*****

He said, "I need money for Pokemon cards.  Would you give me thirty for the whole stack?"

I said, "Yes, but I don't have thirty.  You can have what I do have, though."  He said, as though I had argued with him, "Would you give me twenty-five?"  And it was weird, he glanced back, not to see if he was being observed making a n in-store transaction and breaking the rules, but to see if the Pokemon cards were still there.  "Sure," I said, and gave him twenty-six dollars, which was all I had.  He greedily snatched it away from me, handed over the books (there were about fifteen in all, probably none of them valuable, but I'm certain he could have gotten five or six apiece for half of them), and turned and ran--RAN--to buy those cards, not at all unlike a junkie on the street.

So, though I am loath to contradict Mr. Quesada, I have to argue that while comic books may be crack for kids, there's something out there that's even worse.

R.B.O.

*To be fair, this quote may be apocryphal.  I did do a search on it, and nothing immediately came up. But cards on the table . . . it was a Yahoo! search.

**Now, with hindsight, I wish I had bought extras of the books that became invaluable afterward, but of course, nobody knew which books those would be, hence the risk of speculation.

***Right now, I want no one to approach me asking about where to find something in the library, just long enough to finish my blog post.

****That bit is a joke, but not the kind you can freely tell nowadays (I think I blogged about working on a TV show a decade back when a little kid and his mom pulled into the lot at the same time and later, when we were checking in, the boy exclaimed, "Hey, you're that guy from the parking lot!"  The assistant director said, "Say what?" and I kid you not, the child actor said, "He asked if I wanted to get in his van."  This is not a made up story, and I'm sure I blogged about it, all those years ago.

*****Not to keep annoying you with these footnotes, but I have no idea what that comic is worth (and I don't even care, really), but I was never able to read that issue as a lad, and the boy was a hustler, which I was also never able to be, then or now.  So I either took pity on him, or with three mediocre to fair income streams, I felt like I could toss a bit of cash his way.  Also, it was my turn to buy lunch today, but Jeff arrived before me and paid for my meal anyway, so I was streets ahead. 
P.S. I did look it up, and the book is utterly worthless.  Whoops.

August Sweeps - Day 568

I've never told you this before, but I love Hide the Pain Harold.

Yes, the meme guy.  I just love that dude.  I'd stand in line for two hours to get a picture with him, one hour to get his autograph, and three hours to sleep with your sister.

How 'bout you?

If you don't know, "Hide the Pain Harold" is the internet name for a stock photo guy who is smiling, but it's barely more than a grimace, as if he's suffering so much this is the happiest he is able to pretend to be.  

Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In August: 2365

Hasbro made an action figure of Anthony Hopkins's Odin this year, but it doesn't look like Tony Hopkins . . . it looks like Harold.

Hide the pain, my son.

It's hard to predict what will speak to you, what will make you laugh, what will make you cry.  But Harold is one for me.  

Push-ups Today: 70
Push-ups In August: 2729

Harold is actually a Hungarian senior citizen named András Arató, who is hopefully being rubbed against "accidentally" by European beauties young enough to have been babysat by his grandchildren . . . but somehow I doubt it.  But I do hope the knowledge that he is so loved (at least by me).

Words Today: 425
Words In August: 14,483

August Sweeps - Day 565

I woke up just after dawn, having had a dream where I was an extra, playing someone in the Holocaust at a concentration camp.  We were in a big line of people, and there was a sort of assembly line of wardrobe and hair and makeup assistants who would make our clothes look dirtier, mess up our hair, and make us look gaunt and/or mistreated.  I was trying to put myself into character, but there was this guy who kept pushing himself up in the queue, taking all the crutches and Stars of David and donuts and souvenirs for himself.  Something tells me that there were people like that, even in the Holocaust.

I was going to do a "concentration camp inmates" image search, but changed my mind last minute.

The sun just came up and is shining redly through the trees, casting an orange glow on the room in front of me (which has gotten quite cold during the night, though I didn't build a fire).  Marshal Latham has been posting, a couple of times a week, photos he's taken of the sunrise when he heads off to work, and there's something inspiring about that, even though I'd rather dream about being in a concentration camp than get up that early.

I did take a picture of it today, just to pretend I'm a go-getter, my whole day ahead of me.  

The sun is right at the perfect place to shine through the window and onto my hands, and it's got to be a metaphor for something, but I really only know the dirty ones, and even then, a couple years after everyone else in the schoolyard learned them.

(I couldn't figure out how to take a picture of both my hands)

Sit-ups Today: 150
Sit-ups In August: 2043

It's a very cool day outside for August--in the forties--and it's cold enough here in the cabin that I put on a long-sleeved shirt, then a second one over that.

In fact, I went into the bedroom for quiet to narrate another public domain story*  and when I came out of the room, I was horrified to discover that it was snowing outside.

It was snowing.  In August.

Not long after the snow stopped, though . . . came the fog.  Fog is immensely cool.  Fog is rare and special.  Fog is endlessly fascinating.  Fog is, basically, everything I am not.

I am rapidly (okay, not rapidly, but inexorably at least) closing in on the end of my book.  I've known, pretty much since since conceiving of it (I wish I had written down the day I thought, "Oh, I've got an idea for "a darker Lara Demming story," as I wrote in my notes) how it probably would end.  But here I am.  Basically, I need to write maybe two bits leading up to the climax of the story, and then--

Well, I just made my decision, and jotted down how the climax would go.  I'm tempted just to write that bit, then work backward, as long as it takes, to get to where I left off.  A really fine writer, someone who tells stories for a living, would be able to set up a question in the audience's mind, that could go one way or the other, and they wouldn't know which way it would go (kind of like the insufferable "Girl has to choose between two worthy boys" cliché that has permeated YA fiction for the last decade and a half).  I don't know if that's me or not, but I'm gonna go for it.

Push-ups Today: 210
Push-ups In August: 2378

Not once this year have I spent a second night at the cabin.  My schedule just doesn't allow it.  But I'm going to TRY to do it next Thursday night.  We'll see.

Today, I left the cabin with plenty of time to get out of there before nightfall (though not necessarily before dark, since it was still pretty grey out there), but as I was loading up my car, I saw a guy in a truck and trailer trying to back down the road from where the tree had fallen the day before.

I decided I would help guide him, but that was harder than it sounded (I've only ever driven a truck with a trailer attached once, when I was bringing my car back from L.A., and I vaguely remember crashing into everything).  Finally, we ended up moving the barriers the rich folks down the hill have blocking the driveway to their cabin and parking lot (the lot is big enough, no exaggeration, for a dozen cars, whereas I'm quite proud of the two parking spaces we have at our cabin, each almost big enough for a compact sedan (or Big's daughter's Mini-Cooper)), where he was able to turn around and head back.

Head back home, he told me.  He had come up all that way (from where I didn't ask), but was unable to get to his cabin, so he was going to go home to get his chainsaw.  You see, there are two roads leading to where his cabin is at: and A SECOND TREE had fallen today, blocking the other road to it.

Talk about the old Parker luck.

This was right at the start of the second road, and a much bigger, fresher tree than the first.

The man, a heavyset older guy, was really grateful that I had helped him out, and I didn't mind at all (though he did scrape his trailer on a property line marker because of me), but it had cost me the daylight.

I drove down through the canyon, just as the sun--a terrifyingly red sun--was setting.  

It started to rain again, and when I reached the little town at the mouth of the canyon (where I always park to check my text messages from my cousin to tell me who had died), I got a flash flood warning for the road I was setting out on.  That, added to the fact that it was darkening, and there are always deer on that road at night (and an elk that one time), made me nervous to drive.

But I did my best.  That is, until a big black Ford F-150 pulled up behind me, and followed.  They were too close, so I pulled to the right, so they'd go around . . . but they didn't.  Every time the road straightened out and the single line became a double line, I would slow down so they would go around . . . but they wouldn't.  Soon, I had slowed from 62 miles an hour (it was a 65) to 58, then to 55, then to 50, and finally, to 45, hoping they would get upset and pass me.

Well, upset they got, but they absolutely would not pass me, just riding my bumper with their lights on bright to the point where I had to adjust both my rear-view and side-view mirror so as not to be blinded.  I passed a couple of deer eating grass on the side of the road, and it occurred to me that if one were to jump out in front of me, that I would hit it, and then the truck would barrel into me from behind, being unable to stop in time.

However, if this hemorrhoid-with-a-driver's-license would just pass me, and HE hit a deer, I'd be able to stop in time, because I wouldn't be driving immediately behind him like a total sociopath.

I started to think about what James Bond would do, going through them from Connery to Brosnan, deciding which ones would run him off the road, which ones would leave him in their dust, and which would simply shoot him ("He's licensed to kill whom he pleases, where he pleases, when he pleases!").  For about a half an hour of my drive, he tailgated me, and ruined any pleasure I would've had from the drive, as I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I kept having to wipe my hands on my pants.

Only when we got to the main road out of the canyon did the affectionate driver pass me by (I pulled into the far lane first thing), and I was able to see what kind of vehicle it was (the rest of the time, it was a dark shape and blinding headlights).  I felt closer to Dennis Weaver than I ever had before.

Words Today: 480
Words In August: 12,967

*Remind me to tell you how dumb I felt reading this one in an English accent sometime.

June Sweeps - Day 500

Today marks five hundred days writing in a row.  When you do the math, it comes to almost three thousand words total!

Even though I know I'll sit for an hour surfing the internet instead of writing, I mean to go to the library this afternoon, and force myself to write at least five hundred words before I leave.  Five hundred is nothing.  It's what Stephen King writes before nine in the morning, every single day.  It's what James Patterson contributes to each one of the books his name's on the cover of.  It's how many words Brandon Sanderson accomplishes between sitting down on the toilet and flushing.  It's what George R.R. Martin writes in a month.

I can do this.

Of course, I've been sitting here more than an hour, and I've only managed 106 words so far.

Sit-ups Today: 111
Sit-ups In June: 1638

The drought continues, along with the hottest temperatures ever recorded for June.  Add to that, wildfire season, which occurs in mid-summer every year, has been moved up a month or so.  There was an article in the local paper today about restrictions about campfires, target shooting, fireworks, welding or grinding metal, and, most surprising to me, "no smoking unless in an enclosed vehicle" or building, "or while in a paved area free of vegetation."

These restrictions don't apply to city limits, but there is talk that there will have to be some kind of regulation on fireworks in July, since--

You know what?  Land of the free and home of the brave and all that, but dude, there are always little wildfires that break out the first week in July--in fields and orchards and hillsides and apartment complexes, houses that burn down and children that are turned into Fred Krueger lookalikes* . . . and that's on a regular summer, without record heat and preternatural dryness.  Can't we just tap the brakes and say, "Okay, for every fire that breaks out, that's more water we're not going to have to water our lawns or wash our cars . . . or worse, shower in and drink when August arrives.  Just have a little consideration this year, like we all were supposed to do last year with mask-wearing and social distancing.

Oh, but I remember how that went over.  The outcry of people who refused to cover up their ugly, triple-chinned faces because some radio personality told them it made them seem weak, in order to maybe protect the health of strangers and loved ones alike.  The near-deafening shouts of "My comfort is more important than your safety, rah, rah, rah, make America great again, you can't tell me what to do, emails, Bengazi, Pizzagate, Freedom Fries."

Hey, I love the Fourth of July.  But I walked to my nephew's school last year and sat on a blanket, separated from other families, and watched the town launch over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of fireworks into the sky, while the next city over did the same thing, both within sight of each other.  And every neighborhood had their own private fireworks display, and every family had sparklers or towers or whistling petes.  It just seemed like such a waste, so much competing noise, like a political rally where every attendee had their own megaphone.**

I guess I'm getting off on a rant.  I didn't mean to.  I just wish people could say, hey, we live in a community, and sometimes, I need to put my personal wishes on hold--just momentarily--so that society can benefit.  Somehow, we now laud and respect the people who refuse to do so, rather than encourage and recognize the many that nod and say, "Sure, I can hold off until ____ (it rains again, there's a vaccine, it's safe to toss cigarettes out of a moving car again, the wind dies down, etc.)."

Push-ups Today: 184
Push-ups In June: 1832

What I decided to write--if I actually decide these things (who knows how my brain chooses these thing?)--was on my latest "Lara and the Witch" story, the one I've mentioned a couple of times here, that takes place when Lara's a Senior and is asked to go undercover to investigate another teenage witch, one who has been less under the radar, so to speak.

Yes, it's a lesbian love adventure featuring Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and it's going to be so explicit, Larry Flynt would've turned away in horror.

Okay, that's not the case.  But still, I'm sure Old Widow Holcomb had adventures much more akin to those, when she was seventeen.

Something that's remarkable (to me, anyway--you might have been doing this for centuries) is that writing a story about Lara years in the future means I can throw in little references to stories I've already written, but also to those I haven't written.  Adventures she has had in the five years since "You're In Good Hands" that I may never get to.  Stuff like "Already she had had two different magic users try to take her life.  Encountering a third one wasn't exactly enticing."  

I could do any number of things to amuse myself in a story like this, such as referring to a scar Lara got at some point in the past, or mentioning a character I introduced in a previous story but is now dead (but not spelling out what happened to them).  Just little shortcuts to writing future stories one day.  We each have our mechanisms to keep ourselves entertained.

I got about seven hundred words written, and would've gotten more, had I not decided to include a reference to an extinct bird (I originally typed "Great Auk," but it wasn't what I thought it was), and fell down the rabbit hole of reading about what are known as terror birds. I read about them, looked at fossil pictures, then investigated a 2016 horror film (starring such luminaries as Greg Evigan and Leslie Easterbrook) called TERROR BIRDS.

It's a real shame, because had I not gone onto this mental tangent (and then blogged about it), I might have managed a thousand words.

Words Today: 804
Words In June: 11,670

*Or Reggie Nalder, if you're Marshal Latham and happen to be reading this blog.

**Or, as Webster's Dictionary calls it, the internet.

February Sweeps - Day 384

I did two story pitches in the last twenty-four hours.  Not professional pitches, but just telling others about two story ideas and getting their opinion.  The first was to Big Anklevich as he was stuck in the car driving home from work last night.  There was a story contest I saw with a premise I thought I could get behind, and I told him my idea.  Unfortunately, I later discovered that it was one of those writing contests where there's a fee for you to enter it, and I'll admit that that deflated my excitement quite a bit (Big likened it to a vanity press saying, "You pay us and we'll publish your book!").  He did suggest I write it anyway, not necessarily for the contest, but I have SOOOOOOO many works-in-progress that will never get completed that it seems foolhardy to even consider that.*

The other pitch was today, to that twin that I have been pestering, telling her I had come up with a twin-centric story for her.  About halfway through the pitch, she said, "Wait, where is this from?  This is something you've made up?"  I couldn't tell if she was impressed or disgusted (probably the latter), but it was a pretty darn good idea, if I do say so my own self, and later, I came up with the way it could end, but didn't quite dare bother her with it, since she seemed less-than-impressed that I came up with a story about her and her sister.** 

Push-ups Today: 50
Push-ups In February: 1822

I came to the library and found almost no one here (my suspicion is that young people have exciting and fun things to do on Friday afternoons, and they're off doing them), and sat down in the exact same chair I sat in yesterday.  But yesterday, I was annoyed to discover that the legs were uneven in the chair and I rocked back and forth as though there was a hole in the floor or something.  Of course, I am far too lazy to get up and sit somewhere else, despite this chair rocking to a John Cougar Mellencamp song only it hears.

I got very little writing done in my time at the library.  Although, in my defense, I did write up notes on my story "Identical" (although it might be better to call it "Exact Duplicate"), so that, a year from now, when I stumble upon the file, I say, "Oh, I had completely forgotten about that idea!"***

Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In February: 1963

I saw somebody online mention how much they loved the song "Drivers License" on Wednesday or Thursday, and remembered hearing a few seconds of a song called that after leaving my cousin's house Tuesday night (playing 9s and 10s to stay awake until the icy road did it for me).  I checked out the song myself, frankly pretty dubious, since the singer/songwriter was born in 2003 (she turns eighteen tomorrow.  Whoa).  

But to my surprise, "Drivers License" by Olivia Rodrigo, which is apparently the biggest hit song of . . . the 21st Century? . . . completely wrecked me.  It didn't matter that I have stains on my pillowcase older than Olivia Rodrigo or that I've been around way more than twice her lifetime (while only racking up a third of her life experience, oddly), the song totally spoke to me and broke my heart.  And I've listened to it a dozen or more times since, like a fudgin' Zoomer.

My whole life I've been afraid of saying I love something, because you put yourself out there when you do ("Holy smoke, I love SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE."  "That movie's gay and so are you."), and it's so much easier to just say you hate something (which I do often . . . maybe too often).  But dude, I'm old enough now (I've started getting those Reed Richards white streaks in my hair right above my ears) that I need to just own what I love and give as few shits as possible that people feel differently.

So, hey, I'm a fan of this song, even with that awkward "insecure" in the second verse.  I guess it's like my unabashed love for Taylor Swift, that Ed Sheeran song where he says "grass" but makes it sound like "cross," or PEARL HARBOR (which I apologized to Kate Beckinsale for asking to autograph the poster of), or just last week talking about that "Golem and the Jinni" book, or JENNIFER'S BODY, or the greatest movie ever made, 1987's MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE.  Except the last one is kind of meant to be funny, even though it probably isn't.**** 

Words Today: 550
Words In February: 13,770

Christ, I'm gonna keep talking.  We always--we old people, I mean--always talk about how worthless and stupid teenagers are (I know, I do it too), and how their feelings aren't real feelings, their life experiences aren't real life experiences, and when they get older and grow up they'll understand that all that drama in high school was for nothing.*****

But at the same time . . . it is real.  The teenage years tend to be (a generalization, yeah) when you fall in love for the first time, break up for the first time, make new friends and lose them, and experience so much newness that I can forgive them for all the noise and melodrama.  I remember what that was like . . . because it was five minutes ago.

And this girl, Olivia Rodrigo, really seems to be feeling it in the song (whether that's manufactured by her billion-dollar record label or not).  I believe it when I hear the song, and that's half the work right there.  And I feel it too, even though her experience is surely 99% different than my own (or lack thereof).

Part of me will never get over my bitterness about my teenage years (and believe me, I've enough bitterness to fill a Smiths album, two Counting Crows singles, plus a Fallout Boy EP), and that may be why I'm always writing about teenagers.  In a lot of ways, I never evolved past that stage of development--I'm still that kid that wanted to cry because the Eighties were over and I never got to do anything in them.

I'm never going to be a successful writer, I realize that.  But I'm gonna keep writing my "little stories" (as my dad called them), because that's what keeps me sane(ish), and because it gives me purpose and a feeling of control in my life.  And maybe, just maybe, somebody will read one of them one day and say, "Wow, that was really excellent, and exactly what I wanted/needed to read tonight."  You never know.

Yes, this is what you think it is.

*I got this idea on the drive to the library just now of doing an Outcast episode where I talk about unfinished stories/novels, and read either Edgar Allan Poe's last incomplete story or one of my own, or both.  Still think there's something there worth talking about.

**I had told her, a month or so back, "I'm gonna write a story about it, about identical twins," but she must not have considered the icky implications of that.  And by icky, I mean, absolutely no implications whatsoever.  

***Stephen King would tell you that, if you forget about an idea for a story, then it wasn't that good an idea to begin with.  According to him, it's the ideas that nag at you, over and over, to write them, that make the best stories.  And I'll bet Big Anklevich would agree with him.

****When I first saw it in 1999, I proclaimed it to be the GOAT, and it upset my roommate so much I've never not said it since.

*****I often talk about the one production of "Romeo & Juliet" that I went to in college, and how the director said (in the program) that the titular characters were a couple of naïve, pubescent know-nothings that threw away their lives for no reason at all, and how wrong-headed letting someone like that direct the greatest romance in stage history seemed to me at the time (and even more so to me today . . . like whenever I'd hear Jack Sholder, the director of NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 2 [and about five other horror films] complain that he hated Horror, and yet the only jobs he got offered were in that genre and how I'd think, "You ungrateful knob.  Stop doing horror movies and go on the effing dole then, and let somebody who loves that subject matter take over), but I still was both thrilled and moved by it, regardless of the director's attempt to screw over his own production.

November Sweeps - Day 299

Today is Thanksgiving, and I am sleepy from overeating.  It was not a large gathering: just my sister's family and me, my mom, and then my older sister and niece came over (after going out and getting a COVID test to prove they were okay to visit).  After dinner, my brother-in-law's son came over and brought his Nintendo Switch.  We all played Mario Kart for a while, and while it was really enjoyable (except for the part where my nephew climbed on me to make me lose the race)--

--I was done after half an hour or so.  The boys, however, all played for several hours, again and again, until the sun was down, and the day was gone.  My sister decided to get them a Switch for Christmas, so I imagine the hours and hours of playing will not be a novelty anymore.

Normally, we have relatives come over from Las Vegas, or at least my uncle and his monsters will come over for Thanksgiving.  But this year, even my brother stayed at home (which I'm still not quite sure of the reason for . . . I suspect he thinks that the Coronavirus is a liberal hoax to make minorities vote or make homosexuality mandatory).  But we still had a much bigger gathering than most people, I imagine, and the food was good and plentiful.

Besides the obvious--the Monolith, Taylor Swift, the sunset--I am thankful for a lot of things.  Today is a day to focus on the positive, on the good things, to try to turn a blind eye to our problems, the things we lack.  I like Thanksgiving.

A bunch of people--religious folks, mostly--have been posting on social media all week the things they are thankful for.  Each day, I have been doing it too, posting something I'm truly appreciative of (haven't mentioned boobs, though), and reading what other people are listing.  It has been really inspiring and wonderful.

But . . .

One of my high school friends got on Facebook yesterday to talk about how Feline AIDS is the number one killer of domestic cats.

Actually, she got on there and said that it might be insensitive for people to get online and post about how much they love their spouses or their kids or their brothers or their cars or their eight inch dongs or their summer homes or their legions of screaming Korean fans or their health, because there are people out there that don't have those things.  Lest ye brag about the many things thou hast been gifted with on this special day . . . won't thou please thinketh on the children?

Oh, eff you and the cat you rode in on.  Nobody gives two alien dildos for the lonely or the poor or the sad or the people who name their pillows after your sisters on the other 364 days of the year*, so thanks for taking away the one day when people try to focus on their blessings, Debbie.  

Not all of us have been married four times, kids.  Some will be lucky to get married more than zero.

Sorry, I should not have let that make me angry.  I'd apologize, but then I'd have a hard time getting to sleep tonight on my vaguely human-shaped pillow.

Now, I'm not sure if it's okay for me to make a list (including boobs and the refrain in that Dua Lipa song) of things I'm thankful for on this day.  But I can't live in fear that somebody will take something the wrong way, especially if they've come to my own bloody blog . . . otherwise the terrorists win.

Thanks for the day, and all that is good about it.  

Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In November: 2988 (kind of a step down from the weekend where I did a thousand, but ah well)

Words Today: 359
Words In November: 23,358

*Except for Christmas, I will give you that one.

May Sweeps - Day 120

I took the laptop to the park today for a late lunch (I worked until two, then I'll go back and get a bit more done), and there are a couple of young men (around twenty, probably forced home from their missions early) standing in the stream, picking out the biggest rocks they can throw up onto the banks.  I've watched them do it, first with curiosity, now with mild disdain, as they toss the big
rocks out of the water, move along to the next one, and do it until there are many rocks alongside the stream.  Then they get out and pick each rock up and toss it further up the bank.

My assumption is that this is exercise.  The gyms are all closed, they aren't allowed to have sex, so they're doing what they can to keep themselves occupied and in shape.  Except that they--

Oh, I get it now.  I watched where they were tossing the rocks, all in the same place, and now I understand: they are damming up the stream.  They're using the biggest rocks to stop up the waterflow, I presume just for the fun of it.  Maybe they're younger than I thought.  But no harm done, I think I value what they're doing more now than I did.  Plus, it's keeping me from writing, and that is the most important thing.

The dam-in-progress

Despite the unseasonal heat of the day, there is a strong wind blowing that is making this all pretty pleasant.  I am one of approximately seven people here, in the whole park.  To put that into perspective, when I'd come here in the wintertime, there would usually be five or six people jogging or milling around.  On a normal weekday afternoon, there will be thirty to forty, but for there to be practically nobody on a Saturday, something is going on I'm not aware of.  Maybe it's a protest somewhere.

There are a bunch of protests going on across America right now.  Half of them are Trump supporters up in arms (literally, the fucks actually take weapons to these protests because they know they'll not be bothered, even by police) about the phony left-wing COVID-19 hoax the Democrats invented to tank the economy and try to trick good old boys into wearing facemasks.

The other half of the protests are about a man who was killed while being arrested by Minneapolis police.  He was a black man, unarmed, who expressed "I can't breathe" as one of the cops knelt on the back of his neck.  It's one of, I dunno, a thousand cases of this sort of thing happening, but it both happened to have been documented and occurred in a time when tensions are super-high, so there has been a huge outcry about it, with marches, vandalism, messages on social media, and looting.  The response to these demonstrations has been very different, and that has only enflamed the tensions.

Tensions between the races have been high for my entire lifetime, and I don't know what the solution is.  I used to think that one day, the racists would die out, and we'd enjoy a more golden age as people, but racism is taught and passed on, like religion or storytelling or language, and there's always a new generation willing to say that "____ aren't like the rest of us.  They're not really people."

The black voices have been very loud in all this, because they're sick to death of this sort of thing continually happening.  Being a policeman is hard (my cousin started out as a deputy and is now part of the local equivalent of the Special Crimes Unit, and he sees the worst mankind has to offer), but there are people who get a little power in them and it seems to increase their racist or violent tendencies, as much as a gang or prison does.  I do understand that being around criminals all the time can make you think that everybody's a criminal, but it will always be hard for me to fully grasp the plight of the black man in this country.

When I lived in L.A., I became friends with several African Americans (only one of which, sadly, I still talk to all the time), and they did have an innate sense of Us versus Them when they got together, which I often found myself on the outside of.  I always wanted them to know that I liked and respected them, regardless of race, but it just wasn't possible for me to blend in with them like it was on the rare occasions that I spent time around Latinos (where at least I had the language as an advantage).

My friend Matthew once told me, "You have no idea what it's like to feel eyes on you every time you walk into a 7-11, because the clerk is afraid of your skin color."  And he was right--the only comparisons in my experience have been when some employee came after me and my cousin in a Walmart one night absolutely certain we were shoplifting, or a time when I got pulled over (again, with my cousin) by a cop who said, "You just couldn't help yourself, huh?  You thought you'd drive by one more time."  I didn't know what he was talking about, and said so.  He accused us of being the guys who were driving around, making trouble, getting chased by the cops all night (or several nights, maybe).  But I explained we'd just come from Taco Bell, and I hadn't been in town until just now.

And he took our word for it and let us drive away.  But you hear stories ALL THE TIME about black guys getting pulled over and harassed like that because they've got dark skin, or because their car is too nice, or because their grandparents wouldn't ride at the back of the bus.  Would that policeman have just let me go my way, if I hadn't been a dorky white guy?  I do try to understand, try to empathize, but I admit that I don't know what it's like, and the few glimpses I've had--somebody locking their doors in a parking lot as I walk past their car, for example--are almost always the exception rather than the rule.

I remember telling Matthew, "When you and I are older, we'll get together and your kids will play with my kids, and we'll raise them to believe we're all the same and they'll look at us, white and black, as best friends, and their lives will be better."  It seems charmingly naïve to repeat it now, but it was heartfelt at the time, because I had found in him a brother (not a brutha, but somebody who I loved like he had always been there, part of my family), and I thought that would last forever.  My friendship with him changed me, for the better, as a human being, but not everybody has that kind of relationship, and like the Cash song says, everyone I know goes away in the end.

I've heard some of the protesters say they don't want whites on their side, that this is our fault, so we should save our tears and expressions of support.  And I sort of get that, or at least I'm trying to.  But They win every time we're divided against one another instead of against Them, you know?  The best I can do is try to do what I can in my small sphere of influence, open my mind up a little more than it has been, and see if I can't make myself better.

Once again, I'm blogging when I should be writing.  If blogposts counted as daily words, I'd be over 200,000 by now.

Since I sat down here, the rock-dammers have stopped and gone home (leaving their job only half-finished), a small group of about ten came and sunbathed for a little while (too far away with my eyesight to really ogle), and a boyfriend and girlfriend went over to the baseball diamond and practiced batting with each other.  Such a dearth of activity I again wonder what I'm unaware is happening elsewhere that everybody is so focused on.

I just checked yesterday's post, where I was at a park with a swimming pool and it was filled to the brim with people (if I had to guess, I'd say two hundred, maybe three), and it was just as hot as today, only a day different.  I can't explain it.

I got VERY little writing done as I sat on the blanket under the tree in the empty park.  Well, I did the word count, and it was six hundred words, so maybe not so very little.  I may have mentioned this, but Monday, the library reopens.  I feel like I did talk about this, but I'll reiterate that, you have to wear a mask to go into the library, and you have to ask permission to use their computers (after which, they'll wipe down the mouse and keyboard, and probably the seat).  No one is allowed to stay longer than two hours, apparently (my guess is that this rule--and the mask one--will not last beyond June first, just because of human nature).  My plan, if I can get my work done in time, is to go there and sit and write like I used to, but REALLY focus my time--no surfing the internet, no messing around on Wikipedia.

Shoot, I just remembered I have to do a Patreon address this weekend.  I will be embarrassed to admit I haven't even started recording "Three-Time Visitor," which was a goal for both April and May, if I recall.  And I can't make it a priority tonight, because I haven't gone running, and I need to sit down and record Abbie's story, which is called "Lucky."  She and I spoke for a good while today, and I regret mentioning that we butt heads in yesterday's post.  She's good people, and have a couple of profoundly similar things in common.  I must just be intimidated by her intellect.

Sit-ups Today: 82
Sit-ups Total: 1738

I got no more writing done at night.  I sat down and started recording "Lucky," and before I knew it, I was falling asleep.  It takes a tremendous amount of concentration to get all the accents, words, and performances right, so I stopped and went to bed.  Tomorrow I will try again.

Words Today: 607
Words In May: 31,080

February Sweeps - Day 100

Haven't written today yet.  But it is Mother's Day, so that sort of thing tends to take priority.

There was quite a get-together today in honor of my mom.  Two of her brothers came, with their wives, two children, and then all of my siblings (my brother, two sisters, my niece, my brother-in-law, and three nephews).  In the days leading up to this, my niece, who goes by Cathexis when we do our "Twilight Groan" podcast*, had asked several of my mom's friends and family members to record video greetings for her, then had spent the weekend editing them all together into a video, which we watched in the backyard. 

It was quite amazing, as we all gathered to watch it, and I was surprised by how many familiar (and unfamiliar) faces she'd gotten to send their best wishes and/or share memories of my mom.

I've heard of funerals for the living, and this really seemed like that sort of thing, with my mom's brothers, sisters, nieces, neighbors, nephews, former coworkers, children, and grandchildren all saying or singing something.  Cathexis had put my clip last, because it was the longest, and I have to admit I took off into the front yard when I saw my face show up (I had shared a story about my childhood, and then sang a Storage Unit Serenade for my mom, and while I'm totally comfortable with my voice--even if the singing isn't perfect--I just couldn't look at myself doing it [though I must admit, I didn't look as fat as usual in the video]). 

It was pretty fascinating to see the different video qualities (I think mine was literally the only one where I had turned the phone to get a horizontal image rather than vertical, so of course, it looked better than most, despite my shite camera), and the affectionate messages in both English and Spanish were pretty darn great.

Well done, Cathexis.

The day went on, and I talked to Big, and he hadn't gotten any words in at eleven o'clock his time.  Scary.  Of course, neither had I.  But it was Day 100, so I had to do it, whether I wanted to or not.  I wrote some words (plenty, I think), and I actually ended up falling asleep early, and woke up around two, realizing I hadn't done any sit-ups for the day. 

And saints be praised, I got up and did sit-ups before going back to bed.

Sit-ups Today: 30
Sit-ups Total: 329

I usually get a lot of sit-ups in when I watch "Better Call Saul" (I have this tradition of not fast-forwarding the commercials, but instead, doing sit-ups or push-ups through them, like my Uncle John used to do years and years ago when he'd spend the night at my childhood home and wake me up to watch "Saturday Night Live"), but that show is over for another year--I swear, they have shorter seasons than your average mayfly.  Maybe I'll find a new show to exercise through; I told Big I might watch the whole of "Community" once it hit Netflix Streaming, and that's now the case.

I look forward to my weekly hikes, and somehow, I did get a hike in today, but I was so tired afterward that I just recorded my thoughts into my phone, knowing I wouldn't want to spend an hour typing them.  We'll see if I can upload them tomorrow.

And that's i . . .  I don't know if I should share this bit or not, but I had typed it earlier, so why not?

The other day, my uncle posted a picture on Facebook that was truly revolting.  Imagine, if you will, the dirtiest picture you can think of, involving something coming out and somebody else about to eat it.  Now, transpose that disgusting thought to something political, involving the worst example of public office we've seen in my lifetime . . . and then throw religion into it.  You got it?

Well, I saw this image, and I almost couldn't believe it.  It was beyond reprehensible, and since there was no caption, I couldn't even speculate that it might be intended ironically.  So I typed a comment about being disappointed to see something like that, and started to scroll away.**

But a moment later, I regretted it.  My uncle is a good man, with a big heart, who does the best he can, and just like Trump says, "There are very fine people on both sides."  And it occurred to me that he might find my comment hurtful, of incendiary (although, dude . . .), so I went back up, and I deleted the comment.  I don't know if I was raised with the dictum "If you can't say something nice, don't say nothin' at all," but Thumper in BAMBI certainly was, and that dude's a hero to me.

So, I deleted my comment, and just put it out of my mind, just like Thumper's mother used to say whenever the Playboy bunny got brought up.

But today, the party for Mother's Day was winding down, and I overheard my uncle complaining to somebody about a message on his Facebook account.  My ears perked up: indeed, he was talking about somebody's comment on the picture he posted.  I sort of froze in place, the way a deer does in the headlights, right before you ruin your already-falling-apart Mazda 3 on I-70.  I thought, "Oh boy, did my comment show up after all?"  Because I don't know how Facebook works.  Sometimes, when I'm logged in, and somebody comments on my thread, it beeps and comes to the foreground, so I can see in real-time what a person just posted.  Maybe that happened with mine, despite me deleting it after twelve seconds.

But no, apparently, someone else had seen this utterly reprehensible photo (again, it's only offensive to me . . . and hopefully you too . . . and oh, I dunno, people with souls), and typed, "This makes me very sad."  And not only that, but someone else (a someone soon to be, as the Amish call it, meidung) had Liked the comment.  My uncle was going on and on about how ignorant that was, and how he thought he knew this person, but clearly, they needed to be un-Friended as soon as possible.

I was just a fly on the wall for this conversation, in which my uncle explained his interpretation of the picture he'd uploaded, and in his mind, yeah, I guess it's a little less repellent than how I saw it, but still, not something that is evident without a caption or a lengthy paragraph saying, "I know this picture is virulently offensive, but this is the spirit in which I'm sharing it . . ."

I nearly interrupted his conversation and mentioned that I too had been grossed out by the photo but thought better of saying so . . . and then I decided not to.  Better, I guess, not to open that can of worms.  Religion and politics are even more problematic than being a Star Wars fan.

Words Today: 1083
Words In May: 11,274

*I keep trying to get her to do a remote episode with me, but she has no recorder and seems unwilling to use her Voice app on her phone, so I may have to ask my Patreon supporters if they wouldn't mind paying for the last two episodes, so I can buy her a Zoom recorder.

**Imagine if I posted on my Facebook page, a photo of a dead child, covered with flies, and the caption, "What, no love for the Star Wars Prequels?"  And you, being a thoroughly decent human being, saw the photo, shook your head, and commented, "Maybe not the best photo to share?"  That's the understatement my own comment was.