tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31359900943993765682024-03-14T05:05:11.505-06:00My Weird and Welcome to ItBeing a collection of random thoughts by a writer who seems to attract weirdness.Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-44721612292625443522012-07-29T19:19:00.001-06:002012-07-29T19:19:57.287-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
One of the main reasons I started blogging again was that I thought my experiences could help anyone else who is grieving. Well, that didn't work out. I think I depressed people more than anything else. For once, the genius switch was turned off.<br />
<br />
I went through Gwen's wallet today, because I have to, along with the rest of her stuff. <br />
<br />
As I went through her wallet, a movie played out in my head. I see it almost every day, usually late at night. In the movie, I'm standing at the gate of a long white fence. Gwen has passed through the gate and walks down a dirt trail that leads down into a valley. Halfway down, she turns and waves at me, a big smile on her face. I don't smile back. I am filled with fear, of the loneliness will I have to endure and all our plans that will never come to be.<br />
<br />
Gwen walks on until the path curves to the left and she's out of sight. I want to call for her to come back but my voice won't work. I pull and kick at the gate but it won't budge. Darkness comes, but I stand at the gate hoping Gwen will walk back up the path and through the gate. I stand there a long time, waiting.<br />
<br />
If I could only get through the gate. Then I could find where Gwen went and we could be together again. I could give her a hug, because I didn't do that enough when she was here. I could look into her brown eyes and see the love there.<br />
<br />
I know she's gone forever. I have to keep telling myself that. I have her wallet, a closet full of her clothes, and lord knows how much paperwork she left behind. I have everything but Gwen.<br />
<br />
And with that, I think I'm done blogging. <br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-82811913125414388682012-07-22T13:09:00.003-06:002012-07-22T13:09:46.154-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
My heart goes out to the people in Colorado. I worked in TV news and I still have that news gene in my blood, so I've been glued to my set. I wish somebody could figure out why people go to so much trouble to kill random people. I can't say anything new because it's all been said. But always, the big question is WHY?<br />
<br />
I feel the need to change things. I have thought about dying my hair red, an impulse that I've had before over the years. I have bought some new clothes that are somewhat different than what I usually wear. Lots of superficial changes.<br />
<br />
The big decision is that if we can wrench my inheritance away from the crooks, I'm going to build the house Gwen and I designed. We took an existing set of Mediterranean plans and modified them to our needs. (My youngest now insists that I put in a secret room, which I might actually do.) I did put in a small saltwater pool that I think will help me with the fibromyalgia.<br />
<br />
It's a big house for one person, but I may have one of my spawn living with me and going to college nearby. I hope someday I can find someone special who will share the house with me. I'm in no hurry, and I know I can't replace Gwen, who will always be a part of me. But I don't think she'd want me being lonely all the time. I hope the Fates will give me a break in the future and let me find some security and happiness. That's assuming there are Fates. If they exist I'm giving them a one-finger salute.<br />
<br />
Building a house is stressful but it will keep me busy (but not too busy to write, Carwash!). I've been buying things for this house, little decorative things for the most part. There is a huge photograph of the Chicago skyline and a painting of a geisha (they fascinate me) looking through a Viewmaster. I had to explain Viewmasters to my kids. Their reaction: "No video games? Wow, did you ever have fun?"<br />
<br />
Anyway, as the days go by I think more and more about the house and I think it's become a symbol of a new life for me. Or I'm being a complete idiot.<br />
<br />
In other news, I pitched a PB idea to my agent and she seemed enthused. It was originally an email post but I started thinking, this is fun story. With some work it could be a real book. I'm not mentally ready right now for the complex process of editing, but that will come, sooner rather than later.<br />
<br />
Last, and in no way least, I want to thank everyone for caring. I had no idea I had so many friends who cared so much. I wish they were nearby but you can't have everything. I met Gwen on the Internet, by the way, but I never dreamed we would become partners. That was nearly 14 years ago.<span id="goog_84709666"></span><span id="goog_84709667"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-6102857644212426622012-07-20T01:08:00.002-06:002012-07-22T22:22:21.763-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
Note: I thought I posted this. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Only Randolph Mantooth knows.<br />
Other note: SAO, I cannot write you if you don't provide a valid email address.<br />
<br />
So here's probably the same blog entry again. Blame it on the Buddhists--nobody ever blames them for anything. It's about time. <br />
<br />
Okay, this was one of those relapse days they told me would happen. Believe me, I'm ready to get back to the funny. Making people laugh brings me joy. I think it's probably my best talent. But the day wore me down and I got a letter from Gwen's mom, which she wanted posted--you can see it below. <br />
<br />
Went to the grief group at the hospital. Four women and a "bereavement counselor." I think I gave as much good advice as I got. Anyway, the 90 minutes went by fast. I'll probably try it again next month.<br />
<br />
Finally picked up Gwen today. Gwen's mother called yesterday howling that Gwen hadn't been cremated yet but I knew better. Paid my $5300.00, if you're curious about what these things cost, and now she's sitting in the family room. I will probably cry later but right now I'm comfortably numb, as that Archies song goes. Or was that a Cowsill's song. Beats me.<br />
<br />
The bad thing is that I saved my last check for the funeral home. I ordered more, but they haven't shown up yet. Until then, I ain't paying no bills, as they say around here. I heard enough of that when I owned a couple of apartment buildings. I must have had every deadbeat in the world.<br />
<br />
David's MacBook Pro laptop fan is making horrible noises, so I hope someone knows a fix for it. I don't do hardware so I hope it's not something awful.<br />
<br />
Still no rain and a high of 99 degrees today. I haven't mowed in well over a month. This is getting really bad, the worst since 1956 according to the news. The county where I keep my farm has been declared a disaster area. Maybe I'll get a few bucks from the government but I'm not holding my breath.<br />
<br />
Listening to Macca's new CD,, Kisses from the Bottom. It's soothing but the love songs are starting to hurt. I'm going to gut this out. I love Macca and the old standards he does on this CD are great.<br />
<br />
I promised I would post this next letter. It is from Gwen's mother, who does not have a computer. She wrote it six days after Gwen's death:<br />
<br />
Dear Gwen,<br />
<br />
I was so happy to hear I was going to have a baby--your father and I went to dinner to celebrate. When you were born the nurse put a yellow ribbon in your thick black hair.<br />
<br />
You went to school and Sunday school. I remember our minister at the Congregational church saying you would make a good minister someday. Life went on and you went into the Air Force. You married and gave me a wonderful grandson.<br />
<br />
I hope you found happiness in your life. When you called me you always seemed to be so happy with Melissa and her children. I hope you will find some peace now that you have left us. I'm sorry you were so ill--I wish you would have called me.<br />
<br />
I will miss your phone calls and all the funny and lovely cards you sent me. I still have them all of them. I told Melissa about the Easter card, the one shaped like a big egg and when you opened it a chicken on a spring popped out. You and I laughed about this one many times.<br />
<br />
I love you and I will miss you--my heart is aching and I have cried every day since you left us. I wish I could have kissed and hugged you before you left us.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mother<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-8270682310757139462012-07-19T01:08:00.000-06:002012-07-19T01:09:40.888-06:00Dear Dairy, <br />
<br />
The Celebration of Gwen went well. Almost everyone on our end of the street came, plus some other friends. I did most of the talking, telling about how we met, what Gwen liked to do, and hopefully a few funny stories. One of neighbors gave me a single red rose. I told the man next door that I called him Mr. Bushida and I'd blown up his house in my writing at least half a dozen times. Thankfully, he thought that was hilarious.<br />
<br />
I still have the attention span of a gnat. Got up this morning, made a pot of coffee, and when I came back ten minutes later, I discovered I had made a nice pot of hot water. And after congratulating myself on getting up and making it to Champaign to my doctor appointments with time to spare, they told me I'd missed the first appointment by half an hour.<br />
<br />
While I waited to make new appointments, the old man standing behind me in line made a angry face at me. "You think this line is long?" he muttered. "Wait until Obamacare gets here." I shook my head and told him I wasn't getting in any political arguments with strange men in baseball caps. That hasn't stopped my son and for blaming <i>everything</i> on Obamacare, like we ran out of toilet paper and I spilled a bamboo vase. Our pizza could have been warmer at dinner, so we blamed that on Obamacare too. I'll bet that's why my knees hurt so bad. Obamacare!<br />
<br />
Forgot to eat again today. The neighbors wanted to organize a "Make sure
Melissa eats campaign." I'm not too torn up about losing some weight so
I'm not worried. Obamacare!<br />
<br />
The UPS man brought a lovely teddy bear from my Net Mom, the woman who watches over me. And it was from FAO Schwartz. Classy.<br />
<br />
Today was a wash for getting things done but I do need to do laundry, cleaning, and some purging. There's no big hurry with the purging, I know, but it seems like I'm moving forward a tiny bit.<br />
<br />
Thursday is the Grief Group meeting. If it's a room full of people sobbing, I'm outta there. I don't see that being helpful.<br />
<br />
I do find myself wondering about souls. Do they exist? Do our loved ones watch over us? That would be cool but I don't want my parents watching me take a dump or do some other things I won't mention. Maybe it's souls that make humans different than African TzeTze flies and Rush Limbaugh. <br />
<br />
I'm thinking about the new house a lot. My youngest spawn is now demanding a secret room. Come to think of it, that would be pretty cool. But now he wants a secret tunnel to the next lot. I don't think so.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-84401342697065197922012-07-18T21:55:00.001-06:002012-07-18T21:55:11.449-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
Gwen's obit appeared in Tuesday's paper. They put a flag under her picture because she was a veteran. And they said "she served her country with distinction," which I really liked.<br />
<br />
Wednesday is the Gwen Celebration for the neighborhood. I was happy to find two of my father's caregivers whom we got to know well. In fact, one of them told me it was a recommendation from Gwen that got her a new and better job after my father passed. The other caregiver is rather timid and was bulled constantly by my father's nurse. The nurse was an ass. A major ass. She had a police record and attacked a cop. But:<br />
<br />
1. When the nurse bullied the woman in my presence, I told her very seriously that I would rip her rotten head off if it happened again. Geez, did she go pale in a hurry.<br />
<br />
2. The nurse kept a notebook full of everything that went on in the house. My sons got a hold of it, drew a picture, and wrote underneath, "We just drew a picture of a pirate in your f@cking notebook and there's not a thing you can do about it."<br />
<br />
3. When the nurse showed up (in a pink tracksuit) at my father's house while it was still burning, a sheriff's deputy asked me what I want to do. I said, "Throw her out of the neighborhood." Two deputies escorted her to her car and told her to stay at least five miles from my father's house. The next day, she posted a weird announcement in the newspaper about how much she missed my father. Get over it lady! My father couldn't stand you! He wanted a wild dingo to eat you!<br />
<br />
I had no idea I had such clout! I wish Gwen had been there but she was helping some firefighters push my father's car out of the garage. It was already covered with wet plaster and looked like the world's biggest bird has taken a dump on it. When I did tell Gwen, she about busted a rib from laughing.<br />
<br />
We've been cleaning out the refrigerator. So far, we have discovered 654 new life forms, many of which are mean and have teeth. My son had to Taser one of them to get it inside the garbage disposal.<br />
<br />
I don't know where I am with grieving right now. I think the meds have built a wall where the horrible images of that night still pop up, but they don't hit me as hard. I can't take meds the rest of my life, so I'm hoping to learn how to grieve on my own. We'll see what Thursday night with what I call the Grief Group at the hospital. I'm worried it will be a room full of sobbing people. That I don't need.<br />
<br />
Can't either of my sons interested in the Straight No Chaser concert at the Chicago Theater in December. The tickets are bought, so maybe I can find somebody up there who wants to go. I'm pretty sure I know a few writers up there. (I'm mentioning this because the tickets fell off my desk today. There ain't no way it's December, not around here.)Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-87814772012299836512012-07-17T11:10:00.002-06:002012-07-17T11:10:49.706-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
Weird thing. I couldn't shake the idea that I wouldn't be around for Gwen's birthday in late October. Lots of morbid thoughts about my demise. So I started ordering birthday presents so she would have presents to unwrap. Now I have all these unopened boxes sitting in my den. One is really cool: a Starbucks white-gold travel mug with a ceramic interior. I finally opened it today and it's gorgeous.<br />
<br />
Also opened a fake antique sign that reads "Books" in vertical letters with a old-fashioned hand pointing to the right. It's heavy and substantial and has a glass front, which I didn't expect.<br />
<br />
I got her a Dalek key ring that lights up and threatens to exterminate you. I have no idea where it went. Maybe it exterminated itself. Oh, and an Abby bobblehead from NCIS. Gwen watched that damned show every day on one channel or another. Why don't they just make an NCIS channel and be done with it.<br />
<br />
Looking at Gwen's stuff in the bathroom. I'm not at the point of throwing it out yet, or maybe I'll just use it. But the important thing is that even though Gwen owned my heart and soul (and still does), she never really owned the material things. She is gone but her stuff remains. Now it's mine, and when I go, my stuff will go to my children. We're really just renting, when you get down to it. Sometimes, if you have good stuff, the person who sums your life is an auctioneer. <br />
<br />
I wish I could control my emotions better. I started crying at the grocery store when I saw something Gwen liked. People tell me it's normal, but that doesn't help, plus women bawling in stores tends to frighten other shoppers--well, more than I usually frighten them. <br />
<br />
I'm having a lot of trouble concentrating, except for one thing: early this morning (2:50am), it was exactly one week since I lost my Gwen, at least according to the coroner. She died sometime before that. She kept making gurgling noises at first and I took that I took to be a good sign. I remember yelling at the 911 lady about the gurgling. I've since been told those were death rattles, and I don't want to know what those are or why they happen.<br />
<br />
It would be romantic if she had died in my arms. But I couldn't get her up so she died with me on top of her nude body, pounding on her and yelling for her to wake up. A policeman dragged me off of her and took me to another room while the paramedics did their thing. <br />
<br />
This is weird in a way, I'm angry that my world has stopped but the rest of the world goes on. Hearts beat, hearts stop beating, people laugh and cry, the birds sing their song, men drive semis full of meat down the Interstate, the yard turns more yellow from the drought, now the worst in 56 years.<br />
<br />
So, this week seems like forever. Will the hurt ever end? It's not for lack of trying. Last night I stood on the front porch, looked up at the cloudless sky, and told Gwen how angry I was that she left me like this. Just when things started to turn in our favor, she went away to wherever people go. We worked so hard to beat the crooks--it was time to drink the wine, so to speak.<br />
<br />
Found out today from someone who secretly overheard a conversation between the crooked lawyer and the crooked accountant I've been fighting since 2008:<br />
Lawyer to accountant: "You better not do this. Melissa will find out and destroy you."<br />
<br />
You bet your ass I will. It's already started. We're bringing down the Illinois Attorney General's office on your greedy *#&(*&#@s.<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, the same lawyer told my ex: "Watch out for Melissa. She's really intelligent." <br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah, intelligent people are dangerous. Especially if you're a crook who stole from me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-30547705631457324602012-07-16T11:46:00.002-06:002012-07-16T11:46:50.620-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
First things first. Gwen and I had two rescued dogs: Scooter, a huge Stafforshire bull terrier; and Thor, an Australian terrier. It would make them happy if people honored Gwen by sending something to the Cumberland County Pet Connection Charity, P.O. Box 1, Toledo, IL 62468. We know one of the people who run the charity and they are always strapped for money. It's tax deductible, so do it. Or let me know when you first joined Al Queda.<br />
<br />
Bought a book from Amazon called "How To Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies." And a Micky Dolenz CD. And two Ruff Hewn tops at Carsons. The retail therapy didn't really help. At least the tops fit.<br />
<br />
I'm purging, I guess. Washed some towels today and threw out all Gwen's undies I found in the laundry. There's not much else to do with them. I donated her glasses to the Lion's Club. They refurbish them and give them to people who can't afford them.<br />
<br />
The fridge needs to be cleaned out. You don't want to know what the head of lettuce I found looked like. Thankfully, the garbage disposal is still working, but it sounds weird. The sink was hideous until I found some Barkeeper's Friend at the store. The kitchen was Gwen's domain. I had no idea things had gotten so bad.<br />
<br />
Rummaged around her desk and found some unpaid medical bills. Now that she's gone, I will lose my insurance, since I piggybacked on hers. That's scary. Maybe AARP has something.<br />
<br />
I have to pick up Gwen today, I think. I know I have to give the funeral home a bunch of money. Her obit didn't show up in the paper today. I thought it would, but maybe the funeral home wants the money first. Makes them sound nasty but it is a business. The man who owns it was a class behind me in high school. <br />
<br />
Wednesday afternoon the neighbors who knew Gwen and having a quiet celebration. They are shocked at what happened. I have to tell the same story over and over--today it was the lady at the alterations shop who Gwen befriended. She just kept saying, "Your father just died and now Gwen is gone? No no no no."<br />
<br />
Let's see...has anything good happened? I think this is making my youngest grow up, since he's almost my parent at the moment.<br />
<br />
Oh! I talked to the family geneologist who has become something of an expert on DNA. Part of our family came from the O'Neill clan in Ireland. As it turns out, the two guys--the white cop and the black professor who had beers with president Obama--turns out that the professor carries the same DNA bits as me. So he's a relative of sorts since we came from the same clan and DNA pool. And I guess he would be not an African-American but an Irish-American. So of course he would drink beers with the president! I was drinking one (Blue Moon) when I found out (really). Ha ha! Stereotypes!Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-73791764775440008902012-07-15T10:31:00.002-06:002012-07-15T10:31:11.276-06:00Dear Dairy,<br />
<br />
I think the writer's retreat held by my agent starts today. I'm a little fuzzy on things like that right now. Matter of fact, it took ten minutes to figure out it was Sunday. And like always, ten seconds after my eyes opened, the flood of reality hit. Gwen is gone.<br />
<br />
Last night I slept the most I have since...probably Wednesday night. I have only a few memories of Tuesday in the early morning when Gwen left me. I don't remember calling my son in hysterics, I don't remember him being here when they took Gwen away, or him driving me to the hospital. I don't remember talking to the coroner or any doctors. I do remember being shown to a room where Gwen was on a table. They must have cleaned up her face a lot since she fell. Her head was crooked, so I straightened it out and kissed her one last time. I squeezed her cold hand and told her I loved her.<br />
<br />
God, people are going to hate me for saying all this stuff. <br />
<br />
Mornings are the worst. I took my anti-anxiety meds but nothing yet. Still fear, loneliness, and the battle to make myself realize she isn't coming back. I'm crying now, writing about it, but it seems to be important to write. Yesterday a friend said I should write a book about this. I went nuclear on her because people always say that about tragedy and I think it's stupid. Right now, I want to be numb. I don't want to relive it all through ten revisions of a manuscript.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow to the bank to raid my CD for the money to pay for Gwen's urn and cremation and whatnot. It's expensive but money is water right now. Maybe I'll try to get the neighbors together to speak about how they felt about her. Then the $900 urn will go in a closet so I don't see it all the time. We never made any mutual plans so I don't know what else to do.<br />
<br />
She has a memorial page at http://www.mitchell-jerdan.com/ You can make comments, light a virtual candle, read the abbreviated obituary I had to write for reasons I can't share, at least not now.<br />
<br />
Thursday the grief support group meets at the hospital. I will go but I don't know that it will help. What can they do about my horrible loneliness, my fears for the future? <br />
<br />
Gwen and I have been living under a mountain of stress since 2008, when my father told he was being robbed and he wanted me to help him get it back. Shortly after, we started hearing I was disinherited. When he died, that turned out to be a lie. But a crooked accountant put two codicils in the will that basically take my inheritance and my sons'. Gwen dealt mostly with my attorneys to protect me from further harm and worry. And just when it seemed we were on the verge of final victory, Gwen left me all alone. We had just planned a new house in a new town, Gwen picked out a lot she wanted, and we hoped to build a new life, hopefully without so much stress.<br />
<br />
Gwen had a minister friend who I think is going to school near my writer buddies' retreat. I told him I had killed Gwen by letting her get involved. But he said, very wisely, that Gwen chose to share my life, that she chose to share my burden, and she chose to take the lead in the legal matters. And that's true. Gwen's mother told me how happy she was to do things for me and try to keep me from harm.<br />
<br />
Now my protector is gone. Sometimes I want to follow her, wherever she went, and be with her again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-24763020852354274622012-07-14T10:05:00.000-06:002012-07-14T10:05:06.794-06:00<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Dear Dairy,</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
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I haven't posted here since forever. I thought I'd try to work out my horrible grief by writing it down. It will probably come off whiny and selfish, not that I mean it that way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My partner of 12 years, Gwendolyn McIntyre, died last Tuesday at 2:50am. The autopsy showed that not only had she had a major heart attack at age 29, she had suffered several smaller ones before the massive attack that took her from me. If she had gotten heart surgery and taken medication she likely would have lived many more years. I'm angry at her for not doing that.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's Saturday morning for me. Gwen and I were night owls and I am up way too early. I have medication to slow down my brain and allow me to rest but I haven't anywhere near eight hours of sleep since Monday. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I ate a couple of chicken planks at Long John Silver's yesterday. It's the only food I've had since Gwen passed. I'm told this is normal but it worries my son for some reason.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I've talked to Gwen's mother, LaVerne, every day. Never had much contact with her before but when I called from the funeral home she told me she loved me. Didn't see that one coming. But now the urn is picked and the cremation will go forward. The whole thing will cost me about $5200. I had no idea how much these things cost, so I will have to raid my emergency fund again. Unfortunately, Gwen's mother was financially unable to help and so it fell to me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
When I think about what hurts so much, I might be a selfish ass. Yes, I miss Gwen dearly. I still ask my son if she's gone or I just think she is. At the same time, I worry about the future. I'm terrified of being alone. Gwen and I didn't socialize here in town--it was almost all on the Net. In fact, that's how we met. So, I miss Gwen but I want to have someone to love--real, tangible love--in the future. But I'm a klutz and shy so I can't see meeting anyone down the road.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
I'm aware I will never replace Gwen. As so many people have said, we were like two puzzle pieces that fit together. Losing her scares me so much. She took care of me, she loved me, we did so many things together. Right now we should be at my writer's retreat. I am afraid to fly and afraid sometimes of crowds, so Gwen got the plane tickets and hotel room. She was looking forward to meeting my fellow writers and seeing new places.</div>
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Okay, that's enough self-pity for today.</div>
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<br />Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-19418274906489634272012-03-28T02:10:00.000-06:002012-03-28T02:10:20.534-06:00In Which Dr. Missy Likes Some Things Better Than OthersI like a good sentence. Who doesn't? Well, probably creepy people who lurk in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">cemeteries and eat anchovies for fun. What was I saying? Oh, I like a good sentence, and here's one from a book called "The Brixton Brothers: The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity," by Mac Barnett. Yes, that's the real title--I didn't hiccup or anything. </span><br />
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<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">I enjoyed this book a lot, especially when I learned that the Brixton Brothers were only one person. </span>But let's get to that sentence. "The inside of the Red Herring was shabby and dim and smell like beards." </div>
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There are other quite good sentences in the book, but I think this is the best. Even better, the book is free of any dead mother nonsense. Hah! Take that, you cliche users!</div>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-25806264421733461742010-05-14T18:00:00.003-06:002010-06-03T16:14:02.501-06:00In which Dr. Missy sucks up to her agent for no apparent reason<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">My new toy</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Okay, so I'm a gadget freak. I did not sleep in front of a Best Buy in order to be one of the first to get an iPad, but I did check the inventories of the local stores until I found one that had the iPad in stock. Then we rushed off like a hurricane or blizzard or typhoon or some other weather condition and I got one.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So far, I think it's terrific. Playing Bejeweled on it is awesome. Also, the iPad did an admirable job standing in for my iMac and Powerbook when both came down with maladies. In fact, I took it with me to the....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Writer's retreat</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Every year my agent has a retreat and this year was my first time. I was very nervous because I figured everyone knew everyone else from previous retreats and I would be like the new kid in school and have to stand in corner by myself. In fact, they couldn't have been nicer and more supportive. I read a couple of pages from my WIP and they were all good enough to laugh where I had hoped people would laugh. At least I didn't hear any crickets chirping.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Still, when I think about the kind of stuff I like to write, I feel overwhelmed by the stuff other people are doing, stories with all kinds of deep emotional conflict and multiple subplots. I'm writing about a boy who gains super powers and flies around and gets lost. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">At the retreat, I listened to excerpts from about 25 other writers and I knew my turn was coming. I started thinking, "Dang, maybe I can sneak back to my room without anyone noticing. Or maybe I could shout, "Help, I have horrible diarrhea!" and make a run for it. I'm sure no one would have tried to stop me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We showed up the day before the retreat officially began and I wore a t-shirt from the Steve Dahl radio show that proclaimed in large letters: "Reading is for Losers." Obviously, I don't share this view but I wanted to see what kind of reaction it would get. Unfortunately, the one person at the retreat who knew me by sight spotted me, and then, horror of horrors, my agent showed up. I'm sure she was thrilled with the shirt. The scary thing is that it got a lot of attention when we went shopping, but only from young women. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">My agent's birthday</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Nearly every year I write a short story about my agent's birthday. They always involve monsters, vampires, ogres, etc. and I always visualize my agent as being 12 years old. I have no explanation for any of this. It just is. This year's story is no exception, except that I decided to limit myself to 750 words like in a typical picture book, except I might be the world's worst picture book writer. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Thing is, picture books require such tight writing and I tend to be a little sloppy. I am reminded of the quote by the great Mark Twain, who said, "And madam, if I were your husband, I'd drink it!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">No wait, that was Winston Churchill. Mark Twain once wrote a friend and said, "I'm sorry this is so long. I didn't have time to make it shorter." Or words to that effect. I'm not a Bartlett's, you know. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So, without any further ado, here is my homage to my agent's birthday.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Erin slept with a grin on her face. She dreamed of her birthday and the fun she would have when she woke up.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The quiet of her room was broken by a scratching sound at the door. “Hello?” came a muffled voice from outside.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Who’s there?” Erin asked groggily.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The door creaked open. A hairy foot appeared, followed by an equally hairy body two feet tall. The thing wore a small purple hat. Two dark eyes glittered from under the fur.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The thing gave Erin a small wave. “Hi. I’m Larry, your birthday monster.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">"My what?" Erin mumbled.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Birthday monster. I’m here to terrify you on your birthday.” Larry raised his arms and let out a growl. It sounded more like a kitten mewing. "Are you scared yet?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“There’s no such thing as a birthday monster,” Erin said. She nestled under the covers and closed her eyes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A few minutes later, she felt someone wiggle her big toe.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Excuse me. Hello?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Erin opened one eye to see Larry standing next to her bed. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Wake up. I have to frighten you now." Larry bared his small teeth and crossed his eyes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Erin sighed and sat up in bed. “I don’t know if you’re real or not, but why do you have to frighten me?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">"You're my homework," Larry said. "I'm supposed to ruin your birthday. I'm going to…." He stopped to scratch his head. "I can't remember. But it's really scary stuff.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Erin frowned. "Birthdays aren't scary. They're about cakes and presents and parties and silly hats and—”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“That’s it!” Larry cried. “I’m supposed to frighten the birthday cake, scream at the presents, eat the silly hats and then…no, that’s not it.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">He kicked the bedpost in frustration. “Ow!” he cried, hopping in circles on one hairy foot.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Serves you right,” Erin said. “Scaring people on their birthday is dumb.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The monster stopped hopping. “You really think so?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“How would you like it if I showed up on your birthday and frightened </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">you</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Larry shook his head. “I wouldn’t like that. But if I don’t frighten you and ruin your birthday, I’ll get yelled at by my teacher. Steve is the best birthday monster ever. One year he ruined fifty birthdays in one day.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Sounds rotten to me,” Erin said. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The monster began to pace next to the bed, deep in thought. “Okay. Maybe I should frighten the birthday cake, eat the presents, and…oh boy, my teacher is going to be mad if I don't figure this out.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Larry began to sniffle. A tear trickled down his cheek.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Okay, don’t get all gooey about it,” Erin said. “I have an idea.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Later that day, all of Erin’s friends came to her birthday party. They brought presents, they wore silly hats, and they ate birthday cake. But mostly, they looked at the hairy thing sitting next to Erin at the head of the table. It wore the silliest hat of all, and held a piece of birthday cake in each paw.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“That’s the ugliest doll I’ve ever seen,” said Ruth, Erin’s best friend. “How do you get it to eat cake like that?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Erin watched as Larry finished another piece of cake, candle and all. His furry face was covered with crumbs and icing. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“I don’t know how it works,” she said, giving Larry a wink. “Maybe it has a computer in it.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Ruth shrugged. “It’s ugly and it just ate a birthday hat. What do we do now?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“We’re going to play a game,” Erin said. “We’re going to run outside and scream as loud as we can. And the loudest screamer gets a big prize.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And that’s what they did. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They screamed so loud that people blocks away opened their doors to see what was going on. Dogs began to howl. Huge flocks of birds flew from the trees. Somebody called the police. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It was the loudest scream anyone had ever heard.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The next day, in a classroom far, far away, a large monster patted Larry on the head. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Good work,” Steve said. “We could hear the screams all the way down here. You are the scariest monster in the school.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“Aw, it was nothing,” Larry said. He burped and a birthday hat flew out of his mouth. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“People are weird. Those things taste </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">awful</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">.”</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Email of the day</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Dear Dr. Missy,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I am a newbie children's author and I'm ready to buy a computer. The trouble is, I don't know which kind to buy. I've heard that PCs are cheap but they all have trouble with viruses and whatnot. Macs cost more but don't have the virus problem. However, a friend told me that Macs are prone to being haunted. What should I do?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Dazed and Bewildered</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Dear D and B,</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It should be obvious from what I wrote above that I am a Mac Person and proud of it. At least with a Mac I don't have to worry about my computer bursting into flames or being infected with a new virus every five minutes.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:verdana, serif;font-size:medium;">Unfortunately, the reports of "haunted" Macs are true. Apple has acknowledged the problem, which is due to certain logic boards mutating into irrational boards that somehow summon the spirits of creatures from another dimension that take up residence in Macs. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:verdana, serif;font-size:medium;">Hey, what can I say? It happens.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">My agent was the victim of a Technohaunting, and it changed the programming on her computer so that every third word she wrote was replaced with "poop." As a result, I received emails that read:<br /><br />Dear Melissa,<br /><br />Poop was good poop to hear poop from you poop. About your poop: I sent poop to Ed poop at Random poop and he poop as soon poop he can. Poop.<br /><br />Well, you get the idea. She had a Buddhist guy come in and do some kind of exorcism thingie and now "poop" only shows up every fiftieth word or so. That's not so bad and she doesn't have to worry about flames and poisonous fumes shooting out of her keyboard as is the case with certain other brands. I think you know what I mean.<br /><br />Dr. Missy</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p></span></div>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-78694939545986578102010-03-25T12:29:00.031-06:002010-03-25T20:21:44.391-06:00Fun's over, time to do the blog<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I'm back!</span></div><div><br />I haven't really gone anywhere but real life gets in the way of blogging. Well, I did go to Chicago and look for ghosts with children's author Adam Selzer, though we didn't find any. Then we went back to Chicago again to see if we could find the best cheeseburger in the city. Much more research remains before a winner can be crowned.<br /><br />My youngest son got a taste of city life while we sat in a park late one evening. A man who had perhaps drank a little too much plopped next to him and introduced himself as Pete. Within five minutes they were involved in a lively argument about whether Inspector Gadget said "Go go gadget hat!" or "Go go gadget copter!" when he needed to fly. I'm not sure this vitally important issue was ever decided. I'm not sure how the subject even came up. I'm not sure I want to know.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love using Chicago as the locale of my stories, so I try to learn as much about the city as I can whenever we head up north. Last time, I spent an hour walking from one end of the Navy Pier to the other with a video camera glued to my eye. I'd written a specific scene that takes place there and I wanted to make sure I had it right. One day we spent over an hour near Michigan Avenue looking for a suitable alley for another story. These activities, of course, thrill my family to no end. I hear a lot of "Can we go now?" and "All right, already!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Civilians. They'll never understand the heart of the true artist.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Dead Mother Report</span><br /><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqGiY88YbBLAJWUGsLE7hqU8rc9sbRr6aKtMb_fZXmTmU1zk0LRlZvcEXOrCMeEQRrRRYireieADEsCDHIRL5BI_7Y7oq7GJUrXX5z-Mb8kDTUPOASSmfKmcYTOep_oAqxj82ip4S4VgQ/s320/big+nate.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452729899552396034" /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I just finished reading <i>Big Nate: In a Class by Himself</i> by Lincoln Peirce. At first glance you might say to yourself, "Aha! This is just a crummy ripoff of Jeff Kinney's <i>Wimpy Kid</i> books! But there is a red banner running across the top of the front cover with Kinney quoted as saying "Big Nate is funny, big time."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Big Nate appears in over 200 U.S. newspapers. So there.<br /><br />Big Nate is what I call a hybrid book, one with text and pictures mixed together, like the Wimpy Kid books or Ruth McNally's Barshaw's<i> Ellie McDoodle</i> series. I'm sure the publishing industry has come up with its own nifty term for these books but I haven't been paying attention if</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">they have.<br /><br />Anyway, <i>Big Nate</i> is a quick and enjoyable read. I had the plot figured out early on but that didn't take away from my enjoyment of the characters and Nate's unending battle to stop being sent to detention. The artwork, while similar to Kinney's, is appealing, and the story is fun. This book should be very appealing to MG readers, especially boys.<br /><br />What you want to know, of course, is whether or not there is a dead mother in this book. The answer is: I don't know. Nate has a somewhat stereotypical doofus dad and annoying older sister, but his mother is nowhere to be found. Is she dead? A zombie? A vampire? Did she run off with the milkman? Was she hit by a shrink ray and is trying to climb up a table leg in order to get the family's attention? The author gives us no clues.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33CC00;">Dead Mother Rating:</span> Who the heck knows?<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">News of the weird:</span><br /><br />From Illinois Homepage: An argument between a father and his adult son over the best way to change diapers sent one man to the hospital.<br /><br />Gregory Bishop was fighting with his son about how he was changing his baby's diaper. Police say that the argument got physical and Bishop tried to get a knife to defend himself. In the process of doing that, he accidentally cut himself and had to be treated at a hospital in Springfield.<br /><br />The son took off before police arrived to the scene. They say the baby was unharmed because its mother took the child from the bedroom when she heard the fight break out.<br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Email of the day:</span><br /><br />Dear Dr. Missy,<br /><br />Are all little boys weird or is it just mine? If I'm going to write books that will be appeal to them, I need to know what they are like.<br /><br />Concerned<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Dear Concerned,<br /><br />My little boys have grown up to be ginormous teenagers. One of them has a beard that makes him look fairly Amish. But here's a true story from when my youngest was a cute little bugger without any beard, Amish or otherwise: </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We're at Bed, Bath & Beyond and I notice these rubber squishy balls near the checkout. They're about the size of a racquetball and are supposed to be used for relieving tension or as therapy to combat carpal tunnel. Since my youngest spawn is the fidgety type, I grabbed one for him to fidget with in the car. And since my wrist had been a little achy, I grabbed another one for me.<br /><br />As it is with all things, my son insisted the balls be given names. He decided his would be Steve. I couldn't think of an appropriate name for a ball, so I snagged the first idea that flitted through my head and christened mine Hey Albert, which came from my failed attempt the night before to recall the name of the cartoon series, Hey Arnold.<br /><br />Later that day, I walked into my bedroom to find my son sprawled on the bed on his stomach, staring at the two balls, which sat an inch part, unmoving.<br /><br />"What's up?" I asked cleverly.<br /><br />He gave me one of those "Duh!" looks. "Can't you see? Steve and Hey Albert are fighting."<br /><br />Sure, why not? I left him there, a silent spectator to an epic battle between two enraged and motionless squishy balls. I never asked who won but I hope it was Hey Albert. There is such a thing as loyalty, after all.<br /><br />So yeah, my son was fairly weird, but now he has actual prestigious universities vying for his attention despite the beard. So don't give up hope. I've got plenty more stories from where this one came from.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Dr. Missy</span><br /></div></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-78266694041507378772009-08-12T13:12:00.006-06:002009-08-12T14:28:29.011-06:00News bulletin! Liar controversy resolved!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Liar</span></div><div><br /></div>As everyone in the children's publishing knows by now, a controversy erupted over the cover of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Justine <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Larbalestier</span></span>’s novel, </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">LIAR, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">published by Bloomsbury.</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">The original cover, which featured a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Caucasian</span></span> girl with straight hair, did not match the author's description of the main character, an African-American girl with "nappy" hair. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Larbalestier</span></span>, which is a very hard name to spell, made it known that she was upset over the cover but was told the cover could not be changed. </span></span></em></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">This led to a storm of protest from people on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Interweb</span></span> who like to protest things, although you can hardly blame them in this case. A similar outcry occurred in 1969 when a Hardy Boys book (The Secret Under the Sink) was released with a cover inexplicably showing Joe Hardy dressed as a Rastafarian and Aunt Gertrude firing a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Glock</span> 19 at the family dog.</span></span></em></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">In the case of LIAR, one proposal that caught fire amongst children's authors suggested that everyone who buys LIAR should return the jacket to Bloomsbury, along with a polite note stating, "You better send me a different cover or else, chumps." </span></span></em></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">In the end, Bloomsbury recently announced that the book with be re-jacketed in time for its release in October.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;">The odd thing is, the new cover will feature the late Bill Cullen (see right), host of the original The Price Is Right and many other game shows. We could not discover why this decision was reached, although we did receive a whispered late night phone call from a woman who said, "Everybody liked Bill Cullen, okay? Who's going to complain about him?"</span></span></span></em></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Email of the day</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Dear Dr. Missy,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I was thinking of going to one of those <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">SCBWI</span></span> conventions. Have you ever gone to a convention? Is it worth the time and money? What the heck does <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">SCBWI</span> mean, anyway?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Bev</span></span> (My real name)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Dear <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Bev</span></span>,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I went to the last <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">SCBWI</span></span> convention in New York. Well, I tried to get there but it didn't work out. First I had trouble at the airport because I refuse to travel without my collection of antique tweezers and nail clippers. It was a bad scene and the security guys got jumpy and Maced me. Big deal. These days, all that does is make me sneeze a little. After I got away from them, I thought I'd found my flight but my eyes were a little watery and I didn't read the sign quite right. I ended up flying to York, Pennsylvania.<br /><br />When I got off the plane a woman pointed at me and started yelling that I was the Sweet Potato Queen of literary fame. Okay, the Sweet Potato Queen is real tall and has big curly hair and I'm real tall and have big curly hair but I'm still not her. Despite my protests, no one would listen, so I was taken to the local high school to give a talk on sweet potatoes to the student body.<br /><br />Thing is, I hate sweet potatoes. I can't stand to have them near me, so my speech was mostly a lot of yelling about how people who eat sweet potatoes should be thrown out of the country because only communists would eat the stupid things in the first place. That caused a fuss and they tossed me out of the high school. Unfortunately, they still had my suitcase, so I had to fight my way back in to get it because I was not leaving my collection of antique tweezers and nail clippers in York frigging Pennsylvania.<br /><br />Luckily, I was able to hitch a ride with a trucker taking a load of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">urinal cakes</span> to New Jersey. Unluckily, he insisted we sing C.W. McCall's "Convoy" all the way there. It's not a bad song, not really, but it's a long way to New Jersey and we must have sang the &*^%$#@! thing a thousand times. Hey, Rubber Duck, you got your ears on?<br /><br />The trucker let me out somewhere in eastern New Jersey and I caught a cab the rest of the way. I stopped off for a look in the newly-opened Museum of Socks, then hung around the Ed Sullivan Theatre for a while to see if David Letterman might show up. By the time I got to the convention site, all the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">SCBWI</span></span> people had left. I wandered the hotel aimlessly until I found a meeting for fans of the old TV show, "Emergency." I chatted with a professional Randolph M<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">antooth</span></span> impersonator until he started grabbing at me, then I decided it was time to go home.<br /><br />Next year I'll try and do things a little differently.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dr. Missy </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">P</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">S</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. I don't know what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">SCBWI</span> means. It's probably one of those secret things like the Masons have. It's better not to inquire about that kind of stuff because you don't want to wake up with a goat's head in your bed or whatever it is they do.</span></span></div></div>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-57271400114027675332009-07-18T14:35:00.005-06:002009-07-18T15:54:31.644-06:00That was zen, this is tao<span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"><div>The new me</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Yesterday I took my son to the Social Security Administration to get him a new card, seeing as how he lost the first one. As I expected, there was quite a crowd, so we took seats in the back row. A couple of minutes later, a disheveled man came in, looked over the available seats, and decided to sit next to me. They always do. After he settled himself, he took out a container of doughnut holes and began to carefully examine each one. Perhaps he was looking for defects or maybe he was counting them--it wasn't clear.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">I tried my best to ignore the guy and his aroma, but I made the mistake of sneaking a peek at him. He caught my eye, smiled a gruesome smile, and said he knew a "a real pretty lady over to Gibson City" who looked just like me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">"He's trying to pick you up," my son whispered, trying not to laugh.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">"I've never been to Gibson City," I said. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">"Oh," the disheveled guy said. "Well, you sure look like her." He went back to inspecting his doughnut holes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">My son and I, with a long wait ahead of us, decided to use the time by coming with a nickname that would help my writing career, something that would grab the attention of an editor or the reading public. Here are some of the nicks we evaluated:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Missy "Tourist Hater" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Missy "The Inkinator" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Missy "The King of Pop" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Missy "Get Down with Your Own Bad Self" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Missy "Gonzo" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Missy "Melissa" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Melissa "Missy" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Melissa "The Italian Stallion" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Melissa "Read or Die" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Melissa "Dr. J" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Well, you get the idea. Coming up with a good nickname, especially one for use in literary circles, turned out to be quite difficult. In the end, we decided on... (drum roll)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Melissa "The Enforcer" Neal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">I need to tell my agent of this new moniker, if she would only answer her phone. I think she will be quite happy, telling editors that she has a new manuscript from... The Enforcer. "Whoa," the editors will say. "A new one from The Enforcer! Break me off a piece of that because I am hungry for some great reading!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">After a long wait, we didn't get a new Social Security Card because my son forgot his school ID. So, we went over to Barnes & Noble, where I stood near the front door and pretended I was having a book signing. "Hey," I said to customers entering the store, "The Enforcer is here. Have pen, will sign."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Most of the customers shied away from me. One woman started to cry. A big, nasty looking guy glared at me and said, "Who do you think you are?" I replied, "The Enforcer." After that, the cops showed up and we had to leave.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Email of the day</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Dr. Missy,</span> <div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I am a children's author but my children (Augie, Robert, Kristal, Gwen, and Petey) refuse to eat cauliflower no matter how I prepare it. They say it looks like brains! Do you know of a way I can get them to eat this most important vegetable?</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Bev (My real name is Dotti)</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Bev and/or Dotti,</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">What the heck does this have to do with children's writing? Never mind. As it happens, here is my recipe for cauliflower:</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Take one pound of lean ground beef</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Three tablespoons butter</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">One pound sharp cheddar cheese</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Six slices of English muffin bread</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">One pound of cauliflower</span></div><div>A nice bottle of merlot</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Shape ground beef (ground sirloin is best) into three patties and cook over medium heat until the meat is slightly pink in the center.</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Break cheese into pieces and melt over medium high heat in a double boiler</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Toast English muffins in toaster (duh)</span></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Place each ground beef patty on one slice of muffin and cover generously with melted cheddar. Cover with second slice of muffin.</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Throw the caulflower out the back door and hope the danged squirrels will eat it because it does look like brains and it tastes horrible.</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Return to kitchen and invite two friends over for burgers. </span></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Wash down burgers with merlot.</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Put butter back in fridge since you never got around to using it.</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Optional: Serve chips next to burgers</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Also optional: Put ketchup or mustard or mayonnaise on burgers</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">There. I hope that helps.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Sincerely,</span> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy</span> </div>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-44365231175168294052009-04-07T15:32:00.006-06:002009-04-07T16:10:09.108-06:00Nothing about cobras this time, I promise<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Squirrel Man</span><br /><br />I was cleaning out my computer desktop yesterday and found a file called "Squirrel Man." I had no idea what it was so I opened it and started reading. I read a little of it and decided I must have downloaded it from the Interweb and kept it for some reason. Then I read a little further and saw a couple of personal references. Turns out I wrote the thing, probably one of those late night ideas that wouldn't let go of me until I wrote it down.<br /><br />Since I don't have anything terrifically witty today. Here's the Squirrel Man.<br /><br />I passed the old man every day on my way to work. He sat on the same park bench from daybreak to sundown, in rain and snow, heat and cold, he was always there.<br /><br />He dressed in a gray wool overcoat that had seen better days and an ancient Cubs cap. His face was deeply lined, his hair thinning and gray. His eyes gave no sign of happiness or sorrow. They just stared ahead, looking at something in the far distance.<br /><br />I called him the squirrel man because he was covered with squirrels. They perched on his shoulders, arms, and legs, even on his scuffed boots. Without seeming to move, a piece of corn or a nut would appear in his hand for a second before one of the faster squirrels grabbed it in both paws and hurriedly nibbled at it.<br /><br />After a while, I ceased to notice him. He was another park fixture, more like a statue than a man. The seasons changed but he did not.<br /><br />A few days before Christmas, I hurried through the park on my regular route to work. Fat snowflakes skidded past, borne by a gusty wind. When I reached the park bench, the squirrel man slowly turned his head and looked at me for the first time. I stopped and gave him an awkward wave. His eyes lowered, indicating the vacant seat on the bench. After a moment’s hesitation, I sat next to him, causing a mass exodus of squirrels.<br /><br />“I’m sorry,” I said.<br /><br />“Don’t be,” he said in a whispery voice. “They’ll be back, soon as they figure you’re okay.” An acorn appeared between the squirrel man’s thumb and forefinger. A squirrel approached, and after giving me a wary look, jumped on the man’s knee and grabbed his prize.<br /><br />“See? They’re just a little shy, that’s all.” He paused and took a long breath. “You come through here ‘bout this time every day.”<br /><br />I nodded. “It’s a shortcut to work.”<br /><br />“You got a good job?”<br /><br />“I think so. I enjoy what I do.” I paused, feeling my curiosity get the better of me. “Are you…are you retired?”<br /><br />He nodded. “Long time.”<br /><br />I flinched as a gust of wind hit us. The snow came faster. Drifts began to pile up against the trees.<br /><br />“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. "It's terrible out here."<br /><br />“I’m always cold. Ever since I was in Bastogne. That’s a Belgian town, you know. Everybody thinks it’s in France but it’s not.”<br /><br />“You were there during World War II,” I guessed.<br /><br />“Yep. I was a paratrooper. Got caught in the middle of the Battle of the Bulge. Them Krauts came through the forest with everything they had. Shot the hell out of us.”<br /><br />A nugget of corn appeared in the man’s hand. Two squirrels jumped in his lap and fought for it, chittering angrily.<br /><br />“The whole world wants to fight,” the man said. “It don’t solve nothing.”<br /><br />“You must have been brave to be at Bastogne,” I said.<br /><br />“Nah. It don’t take bravery to jump out of a burning building, does it? We were there because we had a job to do. Besides, if we’d come out of our foxholes, the Krauts would’ve picked us off in a second.” He paused and closed his eyes. “It was real pretty in those woods. Sometimes at night, it got so quiet, all you could hear was the snow dropping from the branches.”<br /><br />I groped for something positive to say. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”<br /><br />He stared at the ground in silence while more squirrels advanced. He made sure they all got a piece of corn.<br /><br />“Soon be Christmas,” he said. “You can hear the bell ringers all over the park. They got real pretty lights strung up on the buildings.”<br /><br />I could no longer feel my toes and I was late for work but I couldn’t leave. “Do you have family?”<br /> “Probably so. They don’t much want anything to do with me.”<br /><br />“Why?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn't.<br /><br />“I got shot up pretty good at Bastogne. I weren’t the same any more.”<br /><br />“I’m sor—”<br /><br />“I don’t want nobody to be sorry. I took my life as it came, and that’s all anybody can ask of me.”<br /><br />I started to feel a little frantic. I wanted to get inside where it was warm but I couldn’t get up and leave the old man alone. “Do you have somewhere to go for Christmas?” I heard myself ask.<br /><br />He nodded. “Got my post right here. The squirrels don’t know about Christmas. They get hungry no matter what day it is.”<br /><br />“It’s too cold,” I said. “You can’t sit out here in this kind of weather.”<br /><br />His head slowly swiveled toward me. “Bastogne was worse, lady. At least here I don’t have nobody shooting at me.”<br /><br />“I’ve got to go.” I stood and shook snow off of my coat. “What if I brought you something warm later on? Maybe some coffee or some soup?”<br /><br />“I’m okay just like I am.” He pointed at the lapel of my coat. “I like that pin. I used to keep bees, long time ago.”<br /><br />I glanced down at the gold honeybee pinned to my lapel. “My sons gave this to me a couple of years ago. I’d almost forgotten it was there. Look, are you sure there isn’t something—”<br /><br />“Get out of here before you’re late for work.” The old man turned away and gave his attention to the squirrels. As I walked away, they swarmed over him, waiting for something to eat.<br /><br />That day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the squirrel man. I felt guilty sitting in my warm office. After taking a sip from my fourth cup of gourmet coffee, I made up my mind to do something for him.<br /><br />The snow continued to fall. Schools let out early; street closures came over the radio. It looked to be one of the biggest snowfalls in years. Surely the squirrel man had gone for shelter somewhere. No one could last long in this weather.<br /><br />I left work a little early and hurried to the park. It was nearly dark. A police car and an ambulance stood at the entrance, their lights flashing. A fender bender, I decided. Cars were skidding all over the icy streets.<br /><br />The park bench was empty. All around it, shoeprints had churned the snow into mush. I felt eyes peering at me and looked up into the trees. Dozens of squirrels looked back.<br /><br />A policeman approached, scribbling something in a notebook.<br /><br />I pointed to the park bench. “There was an old man—”<br /><br />“Crazy old coot.” The policeman snorted. “Sat there so long he froze to death.”<br /><br />“No!” I blurted. “Not him.”<br /><br />The policeman shrugged. “’Fraid so. Happens all the time.”<br /><br />“What was his name?” I needed to know.<br /><br />“No idea. Just another vagrant.” The officer peered at me and pulled a small package from his pocket. It was wrapped in a greasy menu from a Chinese place down the street. He glanced at the package and nodded. “Found this on the old guy. Are you the bee lady?”<br /><br />I nodded. “He liked my pin.”<br /><br />“Works for me. No crime committed here, so we don’t need this for evidence.” He tossed the package to me and walked away.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> <br />Give this to the bee lady,</span> the old man had written in a shaky hand. I fumbled to unwrap the paper and found a worn velvet box, and inside that, a medal with a striped ribbon. A silver star. I turned it over. <span style="font-style: italic;">For Gallantry in Action, </span>it read.<br /><br />I stared at the park bench, now empty, and tears began to burn my eyes. “I didn’t even know the man,” I said out loud. “I shouldn’t be this upset.” I started to walk away but after a few steps I stopped and looked into the trees. “Okay, I’ll be back,” I told the squirrels. “You won’t go hungry.”<br /><br />I hugged my coat a little closer and turned into the teeth of the wind. I wondered how cold it got in Bastogne.Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-56220736947444531652009-01-29T18:41:00.002-06:002009-01-29T21:22:41.620-06:00Odds and Ends<span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy's Almanac</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">1/31: Send a Fan Letter to Bob Keeshan Day in Gnaw Bone, IN</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />2/3: Remember that Bob Keeshan Is No Longer with Us Day in Gnaw Bone, IN</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />2/7: Feel Bad About the Bob Keeshan Thing Day in Gnaw Bone, IN<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">2/12: Set Fire to a Pumpkin Festival in St. Louis, MO</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />2/14: National Salad Fork Day in New York City</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I Didn't Make this Up</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Here is a picture from an ad I received yesterday, which has not been altered in any way. I find it disturbing. Perhaps the economy is worse than I thought. Also, I don't want to think about what that orange stuff in the bowl might be.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk48YJHXwRU6bae4sEE2Odzr3OUnnot3cQmvxzHhJnCTkxW9vFibkjhbUACcBIRIHRL4C7D5WAynG-WvFWL09EoITnD5OMSX3aKg0Z2HU3y24LynzhltsLzAMC5Y5tqqUsgdSfqYzwNm0/s1600-h/Babycook.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk48YJHXwRU6bae4sEE2Odzr3OUnnot3cQmvxzHhJnCTkxW9vFibkjhbUACcBIRIHRL4C7D5WAynG-WvFWL09EoITnD5OMSX3aKg0Z2HU3y24LynzhltsLzAMC5Y5tqqUsgdSfqYzwNm0/s320/Babycook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296865816505644866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Arcola Strikes Again!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The National Toy Hall of Fame features such well-known playthings as Legos, Hot Wheels, Tinkertoys, Tonka Trucks, and the Hula Hoop. No surprise there. In 2002, the Raggedy Ann doll joined the inductees, followed in 2007 by Raggedy Andy. These dolls were created by Johnny Gruelle of Arcola, Illinois.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />The 2008 inductees included the baby doll, the skateboard and a stick. Yes, a stick. A plain old stick from a sycamore tree, to be precise. This choice received a great deal of media attention but what I find interesting is that the owner of said stick is one Julian Harshbarger of that hotbed of toy design, Arcola, Illinois.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />By the way, Mr. Potato Head and Crayola crayons failed to make the cut this year. Apparently they weren't invented in Arcola.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Barack Obama: Senator, President...Lawn Ranger</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Here is a picture of Barack Obama brandishing a toilet plunger.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb5Z68CKfGV5tSLLOAAHSpEpEMQU0_QHVrokZDeRx9IHyzGDLgmuLbVrlfsYKdL8n-w5B22dtskQr0tr5VANaO7yncdSGM1AC6JNdiKtMwniWqyM9R3OtumoYalKbMZui85KKHUdSxxY/s1600-h/Barack.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb5Z68CKfGV5tSLLOAAHSpEpEMQU0_QHVrokZDeRx9IHyzGDLgmuLbVrlfsYKdL8n-w5B22dtskQr0tr5VANaO7yncdSGM1AC6JNdiKtMwniWqyM9R3OtumoYalKbMZui85KKHUdSxxY/s320/Barack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296874775608674514" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">To be honest, Mr. Obama was not president when this picture was taken. He was campaigning for the U.S. Senate in 2003 when he happened to run into an interesting bunch called the Lawn Rangers. (Official motto: You're only young once... but you can always be immature.)</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />The Lawn Rangers are a group of men who describe themselves as a "precision lawn mower drill team." They count among their membership such famous authors as Dave Barry. Okay, Barry is the only famous author in the group but who's counting? Barry describes the Lawn Rangers thusly: "We are an extremely random group of middle-age guys who carry brooms and push specially decorated show lawn mowers, which we use to perform synchronized broom-and-lawn mower maneuvers that always get a big crowd reaction (usually: 'Huh?')."</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />So far, the Rangers have marched in over 200 parades, including those for the Holiday Bowl, the Indianapolis 500, the Fiesta Bowl, and the Broomcorn Festival to name but a few. During these parades, the Rangers often carry batons, or as most of us call them, toilet plungers, which is how Obama came to be photographed holding one.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />When Obama won the presidency, the head Ranger, Pat Monahan, remembered that 2003 picture. Overcome with patriotic fever, he decided it would be a good idea for the Rangers to march in the inauguration parade.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />For reasons no one understands, the parade organizers agreed. And so the Rangers, clad in red graduation gowns and cowboy hats, thrilled (confused) Washington with an exhibition of their lawn mower pushing skill. According to Barry, five Ranger women dressed as Abraham Lincoln (with beards) were also on hand, carrying a banner announcing the Rangers' world-famous status.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">As you probably know, the Lawn Rangers are based in Arcola, Illinois. Must be something in the water.</span></span><br /><br />See the Rangers in action in this ABC News clip: <a href="http://tinyurl.com/cr54yj">http://tinyurl.com/cr54yj</a><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Email of the Day<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Dr. Missy,</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">My agent thinks we should hire a freelance editor. Problem is, an editor will cost anywhere from .015 cents a word to .03 cents a word, which can get pretty expensive. I figure a full manuscript would cost about $2,000. Is this a good idea?</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Lost Linda (My real name is Bev but don't tell anyone)</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br />Dear Lost,</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />My agent, Eddie "Carwash" LaRue paid a freelance editor to read one of my stories. He blew the money buying rude pictures of Angela Lansbury on eBay and skipped town.<br /><br />The next editor was better but not much. He actually read my stuff but when he finished, he threw himself out of the nearest window, screaming "I can't live in a world where people who write like this exist!" or words to that effect.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Thing is, the fall wouldn't have killed him, as it was a first floor window, but he landed in the middle of Chinese throwing star competition and died of massive blood loss plus his head came off. Needless to say, he didn't do us much good.<br /><br />I hope this helps.<br /><br />Dr. Missy<br /><br /><br /></span></span></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-30225609419971279502009-01-06T19:01:00.005-06:002009-01-06T19:58:17.791-06:00Procrastinating!<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy's Almanac</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">1/16: Rearrange Your Dirt Day in Westmoreland, TN</span></span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />1/21: Be Mean to Mr. Claude Templar for No Good Reason Day in Parkland, OR</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />1/25: Valentine's Day in Canadia</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />1/28: Order the Clam Special at Howard Johnson's and Refuse to Eat It Day in Houston, TX</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />1/30: Wear Your Shoes Backward Festival in Kansas City, MO</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /><br />How to procrastinate</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It's a whole new year! Woo hoo! Yay!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Everyone is busy making resolutions to make this the bestest and brightest year ever! In fact, people on the CW list are being forced (possibly at gunpoint, possibly by blackmail) to come up with their "one word" for 2009, that single clump of letters they will use to steel themselves for the challenges of the next twelvemonth period. These words include: hope, contract, dedication, confidence, pus, finish, and kretch.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">As the purpose of this blog is to be as dysfunctional as possible, my word shall be... PROCRASTINATE! Ha ha!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Here are ten activities I will use to successfully procrastinate throughout 2009:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">1. Tweezing the middle out of my unibrow</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">2. Singing the Madagascarian national anthem (it rocks!)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">3. Playing my extensive collection of Cowsills records backward to find secret messages</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">4. Spying on my neighbor, Mr. Bushida, via one of the cameras I secretly installed in his home</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">4. Playing Wimpy Bells over and over at www.wimpykid.com/WimpyBells.html</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">5. Writing hysterical letters to Dotti Enderle claiming that her books have caused my soul to be taken over by Randolph Mantooth</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">6. Counting how many staples are left in the staple gun</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">7. Bandaging wounds caused by checking how many staples are left in the staple gun</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">8. Staring at interesting bits of metal discovered in the driveway</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">9. Seeing how many different words I can make out of "SCBWI"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">10. Arranging my tubes of foot lotion in alphabetical order</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">What happened to this blog?<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Okay, it's been a long time since I updated this blog. I could say that sinister forces were at work trying to corner the world's supply of Corn Nuts and only I could stop them. I could say I had been kidnapped by a cult dedicated to the overthrow of the Jonas Brothers, whoever they are.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Or I could say I've been busy managing my real estate empire, which consisted of a couple of apartment buildings my mother left me. After a month, I decided to rename the apartments Mom's Revenge because being a landlord is a crummy job. People called up constantly wanting things! My bathroom faucet doesn't work. I lost my keys. My apartment needs to be repainted. I think I saw a mouse last night. There's a vampire hiding under the kitchen sink. On and on and on, except when it was time to pay the rent, and then half of them became very quiet and were never home when I came around to collect. Then I had to toddle off to court in a vain attempt to get the non-payers to cough it up.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Eventually I found someone to buy the apartments. I didn't quite get the price I wanted but my life suddenly became less complicated and now I have enough money to buy a trebuchet capable of hurling a grand piano at least 500 yards. (Never mind why I need one--I just do.)</span><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Email of the day<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Dr. Missy,</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I'm writing a story and I want to include this line: "The sun shone bright." But then I got to thinking, maybe it should be "The sun shined bright." Or the "The sun shone brightly."</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Now I'm horribly confused and don't know what to do. My writing has come to a standstill and I now spend most of my time wandering the back yard muttering to myself. I'm afraid the neighbors will think I'm crazy.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Please help me finish my book!</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Perplexed in Vegas</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br />Dear Perplexed,</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />One thing is for sure. You will never get a book published if you continue to write like a hack. If you were an author with any real talent, you would have written this: "The sun blazed in the sky like some massive sun-like object, a roaring furnace of fantastic heat that, if you were to touch it, would hurt like the dickens and probably cause a blister. And while the sun shined brightly overhead, the mother died and her kid acted up and got all full of angst. A bunch of other people died too, horrible lingering deaths with a lot of pus and bile and stuff. In the end, though, hard lessons were learned, lessons that would carry them through the tough times when robots ruled the world and everyone was forced to eat asparagus."</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">That, my friend, is the stuff that wins Newbery Awards. Get with it!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Do you have a question for Dr. Missy? If so, write in care of this blog and it might get answered, depending on how busy I am with the new </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">trebuchet and any legal problems that result.</span></span></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-35109554716364687932008-05-08T22:10:00.008-06:002008-12-14T06:53:25.887-06:00The French love me and Jerry Lewis<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />Dr. Missy's Almanac<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Upcoming holidays:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">May 11: Throw a Hex Nut Wrench Through Your Neighbor's Window Day in Deland, Florida</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">May 15: Snicker at a Republican Day in Pittsburgh, Kansas</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">May 24: Follow Someone You Don't Know Until They Get Nervous and Call the Cops Day in Boston, Massachusetts</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">May 25: Refer to Your Best Friend as Albert Even If That's Not His Name Day in Lansing, Michigan</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">May 30: National Claim to Have Eaten a Deadly Black Mambo Viper Day in Madagascar</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Great review for moi!<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">For some odd reason my big people novel has shown up at Amazon France. Not only that, it received a four-star review! Unfortunately, I don't read a lick of French but I did pick out a few phases, like </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">monde de la perversion, que chaotique,</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">beaucoup amusée. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Hooray for me!<br /><br />I think.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">People always ask, why do you keep your book a secret? I don't, not really. In fact, this very blog sat around for a month with a picture of me wearing a Santa hat whilst reading my opus and declaring it to be the best book ever written, or some such thing. No one said a word.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">In other news, I am seriously considering creating the world's first DMI, or Dead Mother Index. It would consist of examining whatever books come my way and then summarizing how the parental units fare in said books. Of course, you readers are welcome to make submissions as well! The more the merrier!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The DMI so far:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">THE TRUE MEANING OF SMEKDAY: Absent father, missing mother</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">THE DAY MY BUTT WENT PSYCHO: Dead mother</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">ENDYMION SPRING: Parents separated</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BLACK BOOK OF SECRETS: Parents alive but creepy and homicidal</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">TUNNELS: Missing father, deranged mother</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">FLORA SEGUNDA: Deranged father</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">ATTACK OF THE FROZEN WOODCHUCKS: Dead mother</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">AIRBORN: Dead father</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">AIRMAN: Parents alive and reasonably normal</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">PURE DEAD FROZEN: Parents alive but odd in a cool way</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">You get the idea. </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br />Bev Cooke tears the roof off the sucker!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Bev Cooke is the author of KEEPER OF THE LIGHT: SAINT MACRINATHE ELDER, GRANDMOTHER OF SAINTS from Conciliar Press, the newly released FERAL from Orca Books, and the forthcoming KEEPER OF THE LIGHT, also from Conciliar Press.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy: Looking at these titles, I would say they are about a </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbYl1UgNL50x7HzEKWx2k82-NfpOKBF8YNIKmw9qevfcax5zYRqv-x6wG3IABWJYrx-V4-UvBzcZEXctT0WxQE2yrItdDQInF1g-h_aRM9xXOIBi95gvPCUL4_-CBOoNj_HhpLRKKf58/s1600-h/Keeper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbYl1UgNL50x7HzEKWx2k82-NfpOKBF8YNIKmw9qevfcax5zYRqv-x6wG3IABWJYrx-V4-UvBzcZEXctT0WxQE2yrItdDQInF1g-h_aRM9xXOIBi95gvPCUL4_-CBOoNj_HhpLRKKf58/s320/Keeper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198234449113000274" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">lighthouse keeper, a wolf, and a different lighthouse keeper. Am I right?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Bev Cooke: Close - very close! the third book is "Royal Monastic" about a snooty princess who has a secret identity as a nun and works as a spy for Interpol.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Seriously, Keeper of the Light is about St. Macrina the Elder, an early Christian saint who was exiled for 7 years into the wilderness (and she had about as much woodlore as a life-long New York City native who might be able to identify a squirrel in Central Park) then, once she returned to her city, became destitute when the Roman Empire took away all she owned. She was basically a street person for a few years, then when Christianity became legal, got all her belongings back.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Feral is about a cat who lives in the subway and the street kid who befriends her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Royal Monastic is a biography of Princess Ileana of Romania - who was not your typical princess and her life was not what you'd call a typical life of royalty, unless of course, being exiled, broke and sick all your life is your idea of how royal people live.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: What moved you to write these particular books?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: This little guy sneaked into my office and held some kind of weird ray gun to my head and promised that if I didn't, he'd take me into his space ship and forcibly marry me to Elvis. I figured anything was better than that, and besides, I'm already married, so I wrote the books.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Seriously, the first two have to do with my faith - in the first, I was drawn to St. Macrina, not just because of what she suffered for her faith, but for the fact that she taught her grandsons about the faith. Her grandsons went on to become giants of the Christian religion - the work they did still affects us today, and monks and nuns still live under the rules St. Basil the Great wrote down for monastics. But without Macrina's teaching, they wouldn't have been able to take the steps they did to make the discoveries they made.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Royal Monastic was suggested to me by my publisher - and the more I learned about Ileana and what she went through in her life, the more impressed I was by her - her courage, her good humour, her ability to get up and keep going when things knocked her down.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Feral is about belonging and acceptance and what you'll do to belong. Since I spent a lot of my younger years feeling very much an outsider, the book was an exploration of that. And a lot of kids spend a lot of time feeling like they're outside - I think because they're not really kids anymore, but they're not adults either, and so they don't quite fit into either 'box.' And I like cats a lot - so it was easy to write about a cat.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: Which of the following words describes you best?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">A. Gangsta rapper</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">B. International weapons dealer</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">C. Zookeeper</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">D. Mixed martial arts fighter</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">E. Washed up soap opera actress</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Oh, you know, I'd love to be a combination of a gansta rapper, a zookeeper and and mixed artial arts fighter, but I'm probably more like the washed up soap opera actress.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: Tell us about your favorite book. Or not. It's not like I have any power over you or anything but if you don't tell us about it, I will probably do something awful to you. I hate to be that way, you know? Being an interviewer is hard, so very hard. I didn't sleep at all last night, knowing I would have to write these questions. I thrashed around in bed, bathed in a cold sweat, and occasionally I would cry softly to myself. It's a far greater burden than anyone should have to bear. It's not like I'm asking for pity, you understand. It's just that it's so bloody stressful trying to get people to answer simple questions! Tell us about your favorite book! Is that so hard? No! I don't think so! Just do it already!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Oh, Dr. Missy, it's too bad you stayed up all night - you missed the greatest dreams in the world. But do I feel sorry for you? Mwhahahahahahahaha no! Because that meant *I* got them all. And I'm keeping them and not sharing - not at all! Mine, all mine, I tell you! I have all the best dreams in the entire world and nobody else can have them!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Ahem.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">My favourite books: it's more like my favourite authors. Once I find a book I like, I search out other books by the same writer. Beth Goobie, Carrie Mac, Tim Wynne Jones, Kenneth Oppel, and Arthur Slade are about my favourite Canadian YA authors. Chris Crutcher, Dotti Enderle, Diana Wynne Jones, Arthur Ransome, and CS Lewis are some of my favourite US & British YA authors. Adult writers: Terry Pratchett, Peter Straub, Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Stephen Brust, Barry Hughheart, Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey. Anything by any of them.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: Have you done any book signings? How did that go? If you haven't done any book signings, tell us about latex catsuits or whatever.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: I've done two book signings. One was nice and quiet and straightforward - they gave me books, I signed them. Unfortunately, at that one, I met a fan who then showed up at the next one, and between the weird guy in the brown leather bear suit, my reclusive next door neighbour who only comes out when the moon is full and howls at it, the stranger who was only in the bookstore to buy the latest around the world cookbook and myself, we managed to overpower him and wrestle him to the ground before he was able to do more than torch the travel section of the bookstore. But frankly, if it hadn't been for the gold miner from the north part of the island, who drove everyone away with his smell, I'm not sure we'd have succeeded.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: What's the best part of writing for children?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Being a kid in my head - I don't think I ever really grew up and this way I get to be a kid all the time, without having to spend time in my local institution and take lots of medication.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: Who was the better Catwoman, Julie Newmar, Eartha Kitt, or Lee Meriwether? Discuss.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Julie Newmar - she originated the role and that black shiny plastic just works.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: What words of advice do you have for the beginning children's writer?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Stick with it, read everything you can lay your hands on, write constantly, and write what you love and moves you.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: Dead mother books: Cliche or not?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Cliche unless the mother is a zombie (but zombies are kinda cliche too), or the entire book is about dead people.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: What's the weirdest thing in your office or writing space?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: My four foot high stuffed raccoon, who doubles as my social secretary.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: What's next for Bev Cooke? And by that, I mean a writing project and not what you usually do next, which I can't mention on a family blog.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: Mwhahahahahahahahaha! I can't tell you anyway, it's top secret, but I will say that involves latex cat suits, international spies and a gold mine in the north part of the Island.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Seriously - I'm working on three projects - one is about a bioengineered troll who likes music and hair ribbons, one is a story told from the point of view of an insane teenager (I mean more insane than they usually are, and in different ways. Teen insanity is usually pretty cool, but this won't be), and a collaboration with a friend about a Fool for Christ.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">DM: Ask yourself a question. Go on, do it. Don't make me angry.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BC: What are you going to do when you get to the gold mine?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(None of your business, you nosy parker, Bev.!)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Email of the day</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Dr. Missy,</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">What's the deal with you anyway?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Susan (but not the one you know)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Susan,</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">What's the deal with me, you ask? I'll tell you. We swim in deep and treacherous waters, my friend, where behind every corner lurks one of those giant squid things with nasty suckers. Yes, we must face the fact that the driveway of freedom is cracked and in need of repair and the seven-point inspection plan of courage often omits step five. Why is it that we can rip a CD but we can't rip our hearts out to show our compassion? Why is the money-back guarantee of intelligence often sent in too late to receive a manufacturer's refund?<br /><br />Now is the time to step back and ponder how we can return to a time when the hair of wisdom gleamed with protein conditioners, when the six-pack abs of caring were ripped and well-defined. But that's not enough! We must stop buying things where the little plastic bits are going to break off after a week's use, just as our souls have broken off and lie strewn in the leaf proof gutter of despair. I think you know what I mean.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Sincerely,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy</span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-79862815707688219462008-03-10T01:16:00.005-06:002008-12-14T06:53:26.214-06:00Ruth McNally Barshaw and Rampaging PitbullsI've been flat on my back for the past ten days, fighting the Virus from the Depths of Hell Itself. Still it holds me in its grip, but I managed to sit up in bed long enough to update this blog. At least I think I'm updating the blog. This could be another hallucination brought on by the fever. I'm told the other day I ran through the house shouting that I was the former Belgian longjumping champion Nils LaFontaine. It was only when I stood on the dining room table to receive my gold medal that the Resident Brit and a couple of neighbors managed to tackle me and haul me back to bed. I am now relatively certain I'm not Nils LaFontaine but as they say, only a fool is completely sure of anything.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Ruth McNally Barshaw: the explosive interview!<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">After the raging success of my interview with Susan Vaught, I decided to try again. This time, the lovely and talented Ruth McNally Barshaw was kind enough to answer my questions and I didn't even have to threaten her much. Without further ado, here it is:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOhF1BrmDBJ_qE-rEdLzCssYPMZa2wNSpGR10ToZDN2PUTxd6CA0E10Ac8J_iHvh-Ruh1b3WYU4NuhBzIyZueaz1sfjhm1Cd0dZP4VA6QkaAZ_eQK5AoT9IdS4NOL_23IkpvDPcn26NM/s1600-h/ruth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOhF1BrmDBJ_qE-rEdLzCssYPMZa2wNSpGR10ToZDN2PUTxd6CA0E10Ac8J_iHvh-Ruh1b3WYU4NuhBzIyZueaz1sfjhm1Cd0dZP4VA6QkaAZ_eQK5AoT9IdS4NOL_23IkpvDPcn26NM/s320/ruth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187014210106071154" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Dr. Missy: Your first book is ELLIE McDOODLE: HAVE PEN, WILL TRAVEL from </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Bloomsbury USA, which received Two Thumbs Up and a Hoohah from Dr. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Missy. Your forthcoming book is ELLIE McDOODLE: NEW KID IN SCHOOL, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">also from Bloomsbury. Who the heck is Ellie McDoodle? Are you Ellie </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">McDoodle?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />Ruth Barshaw: Nooo. She's more brave than I ever was. When I was a kid, mostly</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I was embarrassed to be alive. Still, we do share many of the same </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">afflictions and idiosyncrasies. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">The Ellie books have a lot of little truth-becomes-art moments in them.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Like where Ben-Ben is eating Ellie's favorite cereal, with his toes, right out</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">of the box. In real life it was my daughter, Katie (who Ben-Ben is based </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">on, incidentally).</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Editors think I'm wildly imaginative, but really I just lead a twisted life.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: England. 1942. The Second World War at its height. Bombs falling in </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">London. U-Boats on the prowl in the English Channel. Spies </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">everywhere. Food, gas, and clothing rationed. Many people sleep in </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">tube stations because they no longer feel safe on the surface. Instead </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">of writing about that, you created a story about a girl who goes on a </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">camping trip. Were you inspired by wartime England or was it something </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">else?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: Actually it was the Korean War. My dad was a Major and enlisted in the </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">National Guard when he got back home. Every summer he'd spend two</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">weeks at National Guard camp in northern Michigan. Because he and my</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">mom had 7 kids and it'd be insane to leave her alone with us for two </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">long weeks every year, we went with him and camped at the state park</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">nearby. The Ellie story came from those annual trips. So did my affinity </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">for raccoons, packing things efficiently, and campfire smell.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: Tell us about Fing Fang Fooey.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMuSBm0mR3kA_XQBg9LioAuesQHHMo11eZPaPYzEPxShUu7HB_2r0Dya122MObGxjT1WDOoUUr6M9-xXhRyNqdS6SPEE1BSoh1PJHTy2-WU_UJep-oUUskNLGvbBPOWY-ue-MV82ilwc/s1600-h/ruth+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMuSBm0mR3kA_XQBg9LioAuesQHHMo11eZPaPYzEPxShUu7HB_2r0Dya122MObGxjT1WDOoUUr6M9-xXhRyNqdS6SPEE1BSoh1PJHTy2-WU_UJep-oUUskNLGvbBPOWY-ue-MV82ilwc/s320/ruth+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187014536523585666" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">RB: It's a variation on Rock, Paper, Scissors, and it's used to count out who</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">is "it" for a game of, say, Sardines, Ghost in the Graveyard, or </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Cereal Tag. Everyone stands in a circle with their fists in the center. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Together they all chant at the same time, pumping their fists, "Fing, Fang,</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Fooey!" and on "Fooey!" they all thrust one, two or three fingers into the </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">circle. Add up all the fingers, start counting from the youngest person </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">in the circle, and the person you land on is "it."</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">This is all carefully documented in the first Ellie McDoodle book.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: Kirkus describes ELLIE McDOODLE as "Part journal, part graphic novel" </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">which is also the case with such recent books as DIARY OF A WIMPY KID </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">and THE INVENTION OF HUGO CABRET. Are we seeing the emergence of a new </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">genre in children's books?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: I hope so. I'd throw AMELIA'S SIXTH GRADE JOURNAL in there too.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I'm thrilled to be in such good company with these nonstandard graphic</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">novels. It's fascinating that all these books/series came about at roughly </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">the same time. Each alone might have been merely a footnote. Together, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">and with HUGO CABRET taking the Caldecott this year (Yay!), each </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">gains street cred. Maybe we're a mini-trend -- we need a name. And a </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">spokesmodel.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: How did you come to the attention of your agent? And why does she want </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">to be known as Eddie "Carwash" LaRue?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: It was all very mysterious. One of her spies told her about my SCBWI </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">NYC conference sketchbook on my website (<a href="http://www.ruthexpress.com/">http://www.ruthexpress.com/</a>), and the ensuing discussion</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">on some of the writer groups about whether that style would work for</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">kids' books. Carwash approached me.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">As luck would have it, she liked the work-in-progress, Ellie McDoodle, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">and it sold. A year later I finally found out who my benefactor was: </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Susan Vaught, the wonderful and illustrious author of Big Fat Manifesto, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Trigger, and Stormwitch, among others. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I'm forever in her debt, because Carwash changed my life.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />Why the name? To remind her to sell, sell, sell, so she never has to</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">go back to her previous job.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: I'm not going to ask what tree you would be because the last author </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">actually answered the question. Instead, I ask this: If you could have </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">a superpower, which one would you choose? And don’t say invisibility. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Everybody wants that one but it’s really lame. Think about those </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Frantic Four people. There’s Flame Guy who shouts “Fire Ahoy!” and he </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">catches on fire and flies around, and the Mr. Stretchy, who can </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">stretch (duh), and Rocky, who’s made out of rocks or bricks or </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">something and he’s real strong. Then there’s Invisibility Gal, who </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">just stands around being invisible. Big deal. I'll bet she goes around </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">peeping in windows at night or something creepy like that. So choose </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">something else!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: Well, if I could be a tree, I would be back in first grade where I was a </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">tree in the class play. It was humiliating, especially getting my photo</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">in the newspaper next to the stars of the show.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I wouldn't want invisibility, actually. I've already had that, being born </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">into a large family.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">My fifth-grade daughter told her teacher last week the thing she craved</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">most was a voice -- she wanted to be an agent of change in the world,</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">but felt if the class bullies wouldn't even listen to her, then how could</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">she make the world listen, and stop the wars, and repair the earth? </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">The teacher thought this was rather profound, as do I.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">What I crave is the superpower to preserve that idealism in all our youth.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">She's my youngest, and while I love seeing her grow into a thoughtful, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">helpful member of society, and maybe even a good leader, I'm scared </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">about the changes that I know are coming soon. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I wish all 10-year-olds could keep that enthusiasm for learning, the </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">sense of wonder, strength and empowerment that so many of them</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">have, and that too many people lose over time.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">That'd be a collective superpower, and we'd all be better for it.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: I went into a Barnes & Noble last week and tried to buy ATTACK OF THE </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">FROZEN WOODCHUCKS by Dan Elish but they didn't have it. In fact, the </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">information desk guy sneered at me, like the book I wanted wasn't </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">worth his attention. I'll tell you what, he was a nasty specimen. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Later on, when we went into the cafe to get some Starbucks, the </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">manager came in and started fooling with the cash register and managed </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">to break it. "Nice job, Sherlock," I said after ten minutes of </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">waiting, and he sneered at me some more while he failed to fix the </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">register. In the end, we had to take our coffee and books to the front </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">register, which he hadn't managed to break yet. The next time you go to a bookstore, what will you buy? I </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">hope they have it.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: Wow, I'm surprised B&N didn't have Elish's book. You can get it on </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Amazon starting at $9.66 for used and new (I admit I was shocked</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">to discover the book actually does exist).</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I went to a bookstore tonight, for an author event, and bought:</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">A tote bag with waves screenprinted on it. (I plan to add a fish; my</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">mother's maiden name is Codd, and we do all sorts of fishy events</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">with kitschy fishy memorabilia. Maybe I'll bring it to the next wedding)</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">- A cow keychain that poops cola-flavored candies.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">- A mini Uglydoll keychain: Ice-Bat. Hmm, apparently I collect keychains.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">- THE DISORGANIZED MIND by Nancy A Ratey. About coaching ADD-</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">addled brains like mine--I hope I manage to read the whole thing. :x</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">- FUN DOLLS by Aranzi Aronzo, basically how to make cute, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Japanese stuffed animals.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I got paid for some author visits this month and went on a book-</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">buying binge that lasted two weeks. Some new favorites:</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Boni Ashburn's HUSH LITTLE DRAGON and Kelly DiPucchio's</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">GRACE FOR PRESIDENT. If I buy something the next time I'm in</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">a bookstore (critique group meeting next Saturday) it'll likely be</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">a sandwich and a sketchbook.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: Dead mother books: cliche or not? Explain yourself.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: Sooo old and cliche. Disney started it with Snow White in 1939,</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">and nearly every Disney mother since is dead. Haven't we had </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">enough of this sorry trend? Though I admit I may write a dead father </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">book eventually. My dad died when I was 12 and it nags at me.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I think dead mothers exist in novels to give characters desperation, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">loneliness and independence. Maybe there are other ways to achieve</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">that.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: What inspires you to write? Do you listen to music, do you sit under a </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">shady tree, or do you stand in the middle of your writing room and </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">scream for an hour as I do?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">RB: </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">:::laughing::: I'm sorry, that's such a disturbing visual (so unlike you).</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Deadlines inspire me. Paying the mortgage inspires me. The rising</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">cost of travel inspires me.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I do listen to the radio, often classical music in the daytime, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">NPR news in the evening. Or I listen to the small selection of MP3s </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">on my computer, over and over and over. I'm a rut sort of person.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Last year and the year before, while doing book revisions, I watched</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">all available seasons of The Office, over and over and over, laughing</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">my fool head off. It was glorious.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: What is next for Ruth Barshaw?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">My studio's a mess. My adorable dog is elderly. Our dishwasher is</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">broken. Two of my kids got engaged recently, one's pregnant. Most</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">of our family birthdays are in April and May. I am reading two great </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">books on illustration and transcribing harmonica songs in musical </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">notation. My picturebook is almost ready to submit to Carwash, and </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I have a few new ideas for the next Ellie. March is Reading Month </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">turned into March is Visiting Author Month. I've been running </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">sporadically and want to make it regular. I need a haircut before I </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">start hacking away at it myself. I want to make some Ellie dolls.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Life looks to continue as it has been: Tumultuous.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />DM: Ask yourself a question. Go ahead, it won't hurt.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />RB: Were you ever given an upside-down spanking?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Why, yes, in third grade, for talking too much, and at the time I was, </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">regrettably, wearing a dress. Why do you ask?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /><br />Thanks so much, Dr. Missy. I appreciate your patience. You, Susan</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Vaught, Carwash and Mr. Bushida are my heroes.<br /></span><br /><br />Email of the day</span><br /><br />Dear Dr. Missy,<br /><br />My first book is coming soon and I want to do as many book signings as possible. Since my book is about pets, do you think I should bring my dog to the signings? His name is Rupert and he's a really cute poodle who just loves people.<br /><br />Pet Lady<br /><br /><br />Dear Pet Lady,<br /><br />I also have a dog. His name is Scooter and he is 95 pounds of Staffordshire bull terrier. We "liberated" Scooter when he was a puppy from one of those Michael Vick places that train dogs to fight. Contrary to popular belief, bull terriers are not naturally violent. What makes them popular as fighters is that they are very powerful and possess approximately 3,000 huge teeth.<br /><br />The biggest problem with having a bull terrier is that Scooter developed the idea that he could best show affection by gnawing on us--whatever arm, foot, hand, breast, nose or other extremity he can reach is equally satisfactory. He is particularly fond of toes, perhaps because they have an interesting flavor or maybe they're just the easiest target, what with toes being at floor level most of the time. When Scooter still possessed his razor-sharp puppy teeth, the entire family went around with scabby toes. It looked like we shared a particularly disgusting foot disease.<br /><br />Another thing about bull terriers is they like to shop. Scooter becomes positively giddy when we take him to Petsmart or Petco. We have to go up and down every aisle to make sure we don't miss anything, with plenty of stops to sniff especially interesting items. We finish at the hamster cages, where Scooter sticks his nose against the glass and causes the hamsters to suffer panic attacks.<br /><br />One time Scooter decided he wanted to shop at Best Buy. He ran inside before we could stop him and proceeded to start a small riot. "There's a pitbull in the store!" a woman screamed, and people started running around aimlessly while Scooter patrolled the aisles. The security guy hopped in place near the front door, waving his arms and shouting about keeping calm while my son stood in front of him yelling "Don't shoot my dog!" I guess my son thought the security guy was packing heat.<br /><br />Anyway, my son finally corralled Scooter near the cell phone area and brought him back to the car, where he found the Resident Brit and I sprawled in our seats, helpless with laughter. I am laughing now, just thinking about it.<br /><br />Hmm. Looks like I didn't address your question about taking your dog to a book signing. That's a shame.<br /><br />Dr. MissyDr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-32979998948420492912008-02-17T16:05:00.008-06:002008-12-14T06:53:26.395-06:00A Children's author reveals all!<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A Quicky with Susan Vaught</span><br /><br />Susan is the author of several nifty children's books, including Trigger, Fat Tuesday, Stormwitch, L.O.S.T. and Shadowqueen. In her spare time, Susan is a neuropsychologist and recently began sending me emails insisting she was a superhero named Insulation Plaster Woman. (Don't ask, because I don't know, okay? Sometimes it's better just go along with these things.)<br /><br />I recently disguised myself as a foreign book reviewer named William "Big Bill" Schoonover and tricked Susan into conducting the following interview:<br /><br />Q. Your newest book from Bloomsbury just came out. It's called The Communist Manifesto. No wait, that's Karl Marx or somebody. It's called Fat Girl and the Goblet of Fire. No, not that either. Junie B. Jones and the Manifesto of Doom? The Stinky Cheese Girl? Heck, I can't remember. What is the danged title?<br /><br />A. BIG FAT MANIFESTO<br /><br />Though in our endless struggle to find a title (never mind the cover), we might have cycled through all those options. Trust me.<br /><br /><br />Q. What's the book about? Does it have any wizards or unicorns in it? I'm getting pretty tired of wizards and unicorns myself.<br /><br />A. Big Fat Manifesto is about Jamie Carcaterra, a fat girl trying to survive and fighting for her right to be herself in a thin, thin world. No wizards or unicorns. Sorry for the oversight. I should have at least added a dragon? A fire-spitting lizard? I'm remiss...<br /><br /><br />Q. Why did you choose to write this story? Or did it choose you?<br /><br />A. This story definitely chose me. The character of Jamie popped into my head while I was trying to write something else, and *would not shut up* until I wrote her story instead. She's pushy.<br /><br /><br />Q. According to Amazon, Big Fat Manifesto features "searing prose." What the heck is that?<br /><br />A. I have absolutely no idea, but it sounds hot, doesn't it?<br /><br /><br />Q. Why did you choose to write for children?<br /><br />A. This sort of chose me, too. My natural "voice" seems to emerge when I write a teen character. Perhaps my inner child doesn't want to get a real job and move out on its own<br /><br /><br />Q. Barbara Walters always asks people what kind of tree they would be if they were a tree. Would you like to answer that question? I hope not.<br /><br />A. A Willow! No, wait, a dogwood. I would never want to be a Genko, though. Too stinky, if fertilized. The "fruit" smells a lot like rotten dog vomit.<br /><br /><br />Q. What is your favorite book? Are you sure?<br /><br />A. All time favorite: The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. Yep, positive. Current favorite: Who the heck knows. I'm reading Duma Key, though. You know something about Duma Key and that crazy writer fellow who produced it, right? Fellah named Stephen King--?<br /><br /><br />Q. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what artists? I can't do it because it's too distracting but I heard that Stephen King guy likes to blast death metal or some such thing while he writes. Maybe that's why his books are so creepy.<br /><br />A. I listen to music. I have 10 days of music stored on my computer. I couldn't begin to list all the songs. There are thousands of them. I can tell you that my family has applied for government intervention and relief because I will play the same song over and over during particular scene constructions. For days.<br /><br /><br />Q. What's next on your agenda? I don't mean something like "In an hour I'm going home to have dinner and scratch myself and watch season three of Charles In Charge." I mean, what's next on your writing agenda?<br /><br />A. For young adult stuff, the book EXPOSED is next. Howzzat for a title? Charles In Charge-- jeez, I barely remember that show, but you have irrevocably and horribly reminded me of it now. Thank you so much.<br /><br /><br />Q. Dead mother books: cliche or not?<br /><br />A. CLICHE.<br /><br />Though I am preparing to write the dead mother story to *end all dead mother stories*, forever and ever amen because no one will be able to outdo this one. I shall dedicate it to you.<br /><br /><br />Q. Who is your favorite author?<br /><br />A. Currently? Philip Pullman--though figuring out where to put the "l"'s in his name makes my brain collapse.<br /><br /><br />Q. There are rumors that you live in a fortified compound in the Smokey Mountains, where you keep herds of peacocks, sheep, cats, and lemurs. Also, there are rumors that you also keep a lot of henchmen with metal teeth around, and you make them all dress in orange jumpsuits. The whole thing sounds really creepy. How do you respond to these rumors?<br /><br />A. I know nothing about any lemurs. Or sheep. And you forgot turkeys, guineas, pigeons, chickens, and a parrot who knows how to fart, bark, and meow.<br /><br /><br />Q. Ask yourself a question. Any question.<br /><br />A. Why do I let my son make me watch Dr. Phil? Answer: I hope my new parrot will learn to say ARE YOU KIDDING ME? in Dr. Phil's voice and drive the entire family insane.<br /><br /><br />As a reward for being this week's interviewee, Susan will receive a case of Simoniz car wax. Simoniz sprays on clear, dries clear and gives your car a sleek-looking shine in just minutes! That's Simoniz!<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Frozen Dead Guy Days are here again!<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiaOPjekQysXbiZp5n-P9nYTb4SZECgNsmkXaMDZfHCZG_2vyd3Pu1-tzD6ymwItBch5_SZ-L1lXKUOKEoyUNpcszVq25Oi8uyJsF20wIiKk8RhQD8jYO2_d4rtCkzsmFjKcGdaDJpIc/s1600-h/Frozen+dead.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiaOPjekQysXbiZp5n-P9nYTb4SZECgNsmkXaMDZfHCZG_2vyd3Pu1-tzD6ymwItBch5_SZ-L1lXKUOKEoyUNpcszVq25Oi8uyJsF20wIiKk8RhQD8jYO2_d4rtCkzsmFjKcGdaDJpIc/s400/Frozen+dead.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168079030795536770" border="0" /></a><br />Bredo Morstoel is still dead and still frozen. He died in 1989 and ended up being stored in a Tuff Shed in Nederland, Colorado. The people of Nederland celebrate this with the annual Frozen Dead Guy Days, which this year includes an Afterlife Auction, live music by Cutie and the Beast, a screening of the international award winning documentary, "Grandpa's Still in the Tuff Shed" by the Beeck Sisters of Boulder, an Ice Queen contest, a pancake breakfast, and the Tuff Shed Coffin Race, to name but a few of the activities jammed into one incredible weekend.<br /><br />More info at: http://www.nederlandchamber.org/FrozenDeadGuyDays/<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />Email of the Day:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Dr. Missy,<br /><br />There's somebody trying to get into my house and I think it's a vampire or a politician or somebody famous. Should I let them in? I don't think I should.<br /><br />Bev C. (Possibly my real name)<br /><br /><br />Dear Bev,<br /><br />What kind of letter is that? You're supposed to ask about children's writing! Oh well. We've gone this far...<br /><br />So who are we not letting in? Oh wait, I know--it's Dracula, isn't it? Or George Gobel. He's famous. It could be George Gobel except I think he passed away a few years ago. What about Nixon? No, I think he's gone too, unless he turned out to be a zombie and came back to life or unlife or whatever they call it.<br /><br />How about Mr. Whipple? He's famous but annoying. Please don't squeeze the Charmin, please don't squeeze the Charmin, blah blah blah. What the heck was wrong with that guy? I wouldn't take my children into any grocery store where some guy lurked around the toilet paper section spying on people. Creepy!<br /><br />Speaking of creepy, I </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">was standing in front of Max's Dog Bakery in Sarasota when</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> a real weird specimen walked past me. He yelled at himself all the way down the street! Really angry stuff, and he waved his arms over his head, and he tried to spit on some people, and once he took a swing at a parking meter.<br /><br />Once I told my kids that Max's was a bakery that made stuff out of dogs but they started crying so I said it was really a bakery <span style="font-style: italic;">for</span> dogs, although some of the iced cookies looked pretty good to me.<br /><br />Anyway, having eliminated everyone else, it must be Dracula after all. That's a good policy, I think, not letting him in, because he'd stare into your eyes and say stuff like "You must give your will over to me," and "Bend your head a little more so I can get a good angle on biting your neck and sucking out your blood," and "I hate the way you've done the bedroom--nothing in here harmonizes."<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Dr. Missy<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-40228664805803385022008-01-06T22:58:00.000-06:002008-01-08T16:22:11.179-06:00Merry Christmas!<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Life Lessons from Jane Eyre</span><br /><br />Okay, so the Resident Brit was watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane Eyre </span>on television last night. I'm not a huge fan of this type of cinema, as the characters tend to wail and moan about every little thing, but I stopped for a moment when a guy cruised up to Jane Eyre. He's wearing an awful hat that looks like a giant black burrito shell curled up at the edges. Just seriously bad headgear, if you ask me. I mean, imagine if Zorro fell off an 80-story building and landed on his head. That's what that guy's hat looked like. (By the way, I'm pretty sure the hat guy is the one with the crazy wife locked up in the attic, unless that's another book.) In less time than it takes to tell, I took one look at that hat and covered up Jane Eyre's angst-filled dialogue with my own: "Hey Chester, what's the deal with your hat? Somebody sit on it or something?"<br /><br />The Brit gave me the skunk eye for talking over the movie, but I think the dialogue would have been much richer if Jane Eyre had actually said that. Try it for yourself. Say it out loud: Hey Chester, what's the deal with your hat? Somebody sit on it or something?<br /><br />Sounds good, eh? Now you are ready to use this phrase in everyday conversation. Let's say you've been pulled over by the state police. You roll down your window and wait calmly in your automobile, hands on the wheel so the officer can see that you aren't going for a gun. When the officer pokes his head in the window, now comes your chance. You smile and say: "Hey Chester, what's the deal with your hat? Somebody sit on it or something?"<br /><br />What fun you and the officer will have as you share a hearty laugh! I'll bet you won't even get a ticket.<br /><br />Don't think for a moment that this phrase only works with law enforcement representatives. Let's say that for some odd reason you've invited the Bishop of San Diego over for tea and for some even odder reason he shows up, and he's wearing the official bishop outfit, including that huge headpiece thingie. When the bishop walks in, what do you say? That's right. Say it loud and say it proud!<br /><br />If people said more stuff like this, the world would be a much more peaceful place and fewer people would end up like Jane Eyre and hook up with weirdos who keep their crazy wives locked in the attic. If you ask me, that guy should have been the one locked up in the attic for wearing that stupid hat. What was he thinking when he saw himself in the mirror? "Lookin' good, Chester. You da man. Guess I'll go over and hit on that Jane Eyre chick next door."<br /><br />Yeah, right.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />The creamed corn that ruined Angela's Christmas</span><br /><br />Hey, it's time for my annual Christmas story! I know, Christmas was a couple of weeks ago but I've been really busy, okay? Here it is:<br /><br />Christmas was bearing down and I still had gifts to find. It was easy to find something for my niece Angela, as she devours books. Not literally, of course, but you know what I mean. I decided to order a book by an author I know, thinking I could get the book personally signed by said author. Angela would love it! (I won't name the author but her initials are RB.)<br /><br />A few days later, the book arrived from Amazon. I stuffed it in a padded envelope, along with letter to the author asking for a personal inscription. Unfortunately, Christmas came and went and I never heard back from RB. I had to rush out and get Angela another present, one of those Fortune Teller books where ghosts and demons shoot out of the toilet or take over one of those awful Bratz dolls and make it say horrible things.<br /><br />Three days after Christmas, Angela's book showed up, but the envelope was covered with odd stains. When I pulled the book out of the envelope, I found out why. It was covered with a substance that looked a lot like creamed corn. In fact, it <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> creamed corn. What a mess! The cover was mottled, the pages were mostly stuck together, and it smelled a little rank. When I looked at the title page, the author's incription was blurry. I'm not sure, but RB seems to have written "Rut in hall, you mothfarmer!" It's hard to tell.<br /><br />Why would RB fill an envelope with creamed corn? I couldn't figure it out. Was it a message of some kind? Did it have something to do with the plot of her book? Perhaps she is the forgetful type and dumped the corn in while cooking dinner. My brain seethed with ideas but the creamed corn remained a mystery.<br /><br />Later that day I received a visit from a couple of the guys at the local FBI office. It seemed that someone at the post office became concerned about the gooey envelope and sent out an alarm. As my readers well know, visits from federal authorities are nothing new, and I recognized the agents who turned up at my front door.<br /><br />The bigger and more senior agent was James, but he likes me to call him Jimbo. James (Jimbo) has taken a liking to me, and he sends me a Christmas card every year. This time it was a picture card, with Jimbo, Mrs. Jimbo, and their three young children standing in front of their Christmas tree, pointing what appear to be Beretta Model 92B semi-automatic pistols at the camera. The picture was a little blurry, but if I was taking a picture with five Berettas aimed at me, I'd be in a hurry to get it done, blurry or not.<br /><br />I showed Jimbo the envelope full of creamed corn and he took away a sample to test at the lab to see if it was anything heinous. I know creamed corn when I see it, so it seemed like a waste of time to me, but that's the government for you.<br /><br />After Jimbo left, I started to throw away the envelope but then I spotted Mr. Bushida's cat in our back yard. Waste not, want not, I said, and took the envelope out back. The cat was playing with a squirrel's head, batting it back and forth, but stopped to look at me with its big blue eyes. I couldn't help but think that Mr. Bushida's cat, one of those big white fluffy specimens, looked a lot like the cat that Ernst Stavros Blofinger guy was always stroking in the James Bond movies. Blofinger would get Bond strapped down to a steel table and aim a laser beam at Bond's crotch, and then he'd say, "I don't expect you to talk, Mr. Bond. I expect you to be cut in half by my crotch laser." Then he'd turn the laser on and go back to his office to stroke the cat some more.<br /><br />Mr. Bushida's cat went nuts when I dumped the corn on the grass. I guess he really liked creamed corn because it was gone in three bites. On the other hand, when you've been nibbling at a squirrel's head, I guess anything would taste good in comparison.<br /><br />An hour later, I got a call from Mr. Bushida. He started yelling about the cat throwing up on their new white leather sofa, and in the background I heard Mrs. Bushida yelling in a foreign language, none of which I understood. Then there was a crash and Mr. Bushida started yelling in the same foreign language. I listened for a while, but aside from a few American words like "satan" and "horrible she-demon," I had no idea what he was babbling about, so I hung up the phone. I hate to be rude like that, but he was yelling at me, and I can't help it if his cat decided to yack on the furniture.<br /><br />In the end, I decided not to give RB's book to Angela. I tried to get the creamed corn out but nothing worked, plus some of the pages fell out. Also, it started to stink even worse. I have to admit, I'm disappointed that RB decided to pour creamed corn all over Angela's book. I got to thinking about it, and I wondered if RB always pours food on books sent by fans. Then I wondered, does she always use creamed corn or does she switch off and use cream of asparagus soup or a can of navy beans? It's hard to tell with children's authors. They tend to be a little different, if you know what I mean. Most of them go around obsessing about dead mothers and hideous diseases all day, and that really messes up your head.<br /><br />Hmmm. It looks like this story was a lot more about creamed corn and not so much about Christmas. Sorry about that. Next year, if I decide to get a book autographed for Angela, I'll send it to an author who just signs their name and leaves it at that. Angela will be happier, Mr. Bushida will be happier, and I won't have federal agents on my doorstep. At least not because of soiled envelopes.Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-67861413083080727852007-12-09T01:13:00.000-06:002008-12-14T06:53:27.621-06:00The Holidays Approacheth<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">My first loot<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">If you look to the right, you'll see that I'm reading a book about the National Lampoon, a once-great humor magazine. (Aside from MAD, do we even have humor magazines any more?) I have a soft spot for the NatLamp folks because I made my first money from any sort of media enterprise from them. I still have the check stub, all these years later. They didn't pay me much, but money didn't matter then. The fact that they were willing to give me money for something I did...woohoo! The greed came later, after I'd become a calloused veteran of radio and TV.<br /></span><br /><br />Creepy books for kids</span><br /><br />Hey, it's easy to buy cutesy books for kids. They're everywhere! But what if you have a child who is...shall we say, different? Hah! You've come to the right place, and just in time for your holiday shopping.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifNbbecu3dNn8V-Oj8RUsIBt6MtuknjsVb64Bb1L0Ra1tt3D4QCDO5Tm12rsYq8J8BvodoMkoWQNDxdIqtdCxUQQeMq5Fq2-pp3BG_1Y566XBTonPnA9aSQcyDYzoktOIwGpOrPEJv1w/s1600-h/spookshow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifNbbecu3dNn8V-Oj8RUsIBt6MtuknjsVb64Bb1L0Ra1tt3D4QCDO5Tm12rsYq8J8BvodoMkoWQNDxdIqtdCxUQQeMq5Fq2-pp3BG_1Y566XBTonPnA9aSQcyDYzoktOIwGpOrPEJv1w/s400/spookshow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141869219473509810" border="0" /></a><br />For starters, we have Ryan Heshka's ABC SPOOKSHOW. Says Amazon, this alphabet book "brings together weird words and creepy characters to create one devilishly entertaining alphabet book. A Witch stirs her cauldron, casting evil spells, while a pig moans in pain from too much Yucky candy. A Quagmire monster rises from the dead while an Unlucky black cat lies squashed and still, the last of its nine lives gone.<br /><br />What creepy youngster wouldn't want to have this book under the Christmas tree, or Festivus pole, or Voodoo candle, whatever you have. Come to think of it, I might get this book for myself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgg_XNiUM1FEhk3f6p4k4CH3g3f7wsTCjTZAG9aT4UfmVbK7rUny1BdF5_Au8c0X4DE6IWL0fHFaSxNTOKY3yZcNZ_ObJ9DJobuyZutxGxx8chW9KK-NsPUhuz6TYroqO9l0gZD6A2dk/s1600-h/rhino.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgg_XNiUM1FEhk3f6p4k4CH3g3f7wsTCjTZAG9aT4UfmVbK7rUny1BdF5_Au8c0X4DE6IWL0fHFaSxNTOKY3yZcNZ_ObJ9DJobuyZutxGxx8chW9KK-NsPUhuz6TYroqO9l0gZD6A2dk/s400/rhino.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141871813633756610" border="0" /></a><br />How about this one: A COME RINOCERONTE/A IS FOR<br />RHINOCEROS by Harriett Russell. Last Gasp says this is the follow-up to Harriet's "utterly pointless counting book." That might be a good thing and it might not. Don't bother looking for this one is your local book store. It probably won't be there.<br /><br />Also, I don't think there's an A in rhinoceros. If there is, it's very well hidden.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjOkAdIiOVolI8kRntiNHtODKmRKKZjdaB3BDqXtCgrCaiwLw27MHkHkWDCquAfc4Sg2lRhEbTe_agXqooIiSXJwbYGxt0P-r_PTnFu8zkynhyXujlLlXVFVD04R4Erpx9458CO75_wI/s1600-h/lizard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjOkAdIiOVolI8kRntiNHtODKmRKKZjdaB3BDqXtCgrCaiwLw27MHkHkWDCquAfc4Sg2lRhEbTe_agXqooIiSXJwbYGxt0P-r_PTnFu8zkynhyXujlLlXVFVD04R4Erpx9458CO75_wI/s400/lizard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141878784365678034" border="0" /></a><br />Here's one I read when I first became interested in children's literature: LIZARD MUSIC by D. Manus Pinkwater. I don't remember anything about the plot except I thought it was dumb. What I do remember is that the main character, a 12-year-old boy, was obsessed with Walter Cronkite, the old CBS News anchorman. He was often called "the most trusted man in America." Cronkite, that is, not the 12-year-old kid.<br /><br />Thing is, it's pretty weird for a kid to be obsessed with Uncle Walter. Also, I don't remember that having anything to do with the plot. It's not Cronkite came in waving a couple of .357 Magnums and blew away the evil space lizards, or whatever they were.<br /><br />The other thing I remember about this book was that it contains a single paragraph that spans three pages. Really.<br /><br /><br />I will leave off with a classic, THE GASHLYCRUMB TINIES by Edward Gorey. A is for Amy who fell down the stairs. B is for Basil assaulted by bears. C is for Clara who wasted away. D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh...well, you get the point.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBpQkxNgmC0PMAa4lYMCOrRjjv1wPgwa66i4zR3FEUBFmome950PKA1G_GMBlineDlqWOjeBJSOBuYhyzsjBZUNjqIg9_-CoTR61tglne-kpacCHyaeBn7fw3JatFItHDJnAvmaY1Pp8/s1600-h/Gashlycrumb_Tinies.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBpQkxNgmC0PMAa4lYMCOrRjjv1wPgwa66i4zR3FEUBFmome950PKA1G_GMBlineDlqWOjeBJSOBuYhyzsjBZUNjqIg9_-CoTR61tglne-kpacCHyaeBn7fw3JatFItHDJnAvmaY1Pp8/s400/Gashlycrumb_Tinies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141892386527104514" border="0" /></a><br />Gorey is the master of creepiness, but it's a good kind of creepy, you know? All aspiring children's authors should read Gorey. You will not find one weird mention of Walter Cronkite in any of his books, nor will you find Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, John Cameron Swayze, or Wolf Blitzer for that matter.<br /><br />If you know of any creepy children's books, send 'em in so we can add to the list. Don't be stingy.<br /><br />Also, if a bookstore near you has an angel tree, I hope you'll think of children who might not have such a great Christmas. It doesn't have to cost much and it would mean a lot to the kids. It doesn't even have to be a Christmas thing. It's all about the spirit of the season, whatever you happen to be into.<br /><br /><br />And while we're on the subject of weird stuff, here's a picture of a goat on a trampoline. Just because.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3FeFrXasj7ERenmMV0MIgIMp7vdCuoKAlETYhel8PdofF-j1HAMBilxwQVHGSW784YKLhu-vwuqljmhDzZiSPqVqcDMSVblUfnLCP41Mzc6ZqWUMR8VWkoyBnYxTZmWa_ergS3tVLTU/s1600-h/Goat+on+trampoline.jpg"><br /></a></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GDcuTd35DaqVXh2BsxdoGRr7b4zauw4LaONfp7G3mYO8tpLWfuWEw_myB4xn_SprP9GDr6iW6vvLIvxi-Nt13SGsXKGqLlxtMoMHp525vZCDgIs5ResBy4zYCHzzws-WTmJ5Iu0P6vo/s1600-h/Goat+on+trampoline.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GDcuTd35DaqVXh2BsxdoGRr7b4zauw4LaONfp7G3mYO8tpLWfuWEw_myB4xn_SprP9GDr6iW6vvLIvxi-Nt13SGsXKGqLlxtMoMHp525vZCDgIs5ResBy4zYCHzzws-WTmJ5Iu0P6vo/s400/Goat+on+trampoline.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141893026477231634" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />Email of the day</span><br /><br />Dear Dr. Missy,<br /><br />I have been invited to attend a book signing in a woman's home. Isn't this unusual? I thought book signings were always in public places.<br /><br />Linda (my real name is Sharon)<br /><br /><br />Dear Linda,<br /><br />I was once invited to a booksigning in an alley in a bad section of town. I arrived at midnight as requested, a handful of books under my arm, only to find myself under attack by a quartet of ninjas. Dressed all in black, with only their hate-filled eyes showing from their hoods, they sprang from their perches along the alley walls, shrieking their ninja battle cry. I knew at once this could only be the work of my next door neighbor, Mr. Bushida, in retaliation for those unfortunate incidents that have occurred since I moved into the neighborhood.<br /><br />It's not like I don't apologize. I said I was sorry for bringing home a panther from the zoo, and even sorrier that it got into Mr. Bushida's house and did those awful things to his aunt and uncle and his poodle or whatever it was. I'm sorry about blowing up his bird bath, and I'm sorry about the spear gun accident. What else can I say?<br /><br />None of that mattered in the alley. Luckily, ninjas are nothing new to me. I dispatched the first one with a garbage can lid to the face. The second got a shot of mace up his nose. The third whizzed a throwing star past my ear; I responded with a cellphone to the temple. That left the fourth, brandishing a knife in each hand as we circled each other slowly in the blackness of that alley. He lunged, but I dodged the attack. He didn't know it, not yet, but he was mine.<br /><br />As he danced around me, I grabbed one of my books. What the poor ninja didn't know was that I am a master of Bookku Hai, the art of books as weapons. I held the book in a certain way only a few people have mastered and flicked my wrist, sending the book on its mission of doom. The poor ninja could only watch as the pages made hundreds of paper cuts on his body. Bleeding badly, he dropped to his knees and screamed in agony.<br /><br />I walked away whistling the theme from the Patty Duke Show, but I knew Mr. Bushida lurked nearby, anguishing over the failure of his plan. I also knew that we would meet again, and he would unleash something much more deadly than ninjas on me.<br /><br />Since then, I don't go to book signings in alleys. I hope you'll do the same. Or not do the same, however that works out.<br /><br />Your friend,<br />Dr. MissyDr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-53901851893754851532007-10-21T20:58:00.000-06:002008-12-14T06:53:28.336-06:00The Search for Meaning In an Existential Context<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Hunter S. Thompson book signing (of sorts)<br /></span><br />Okay, in 1993 this college professor loads his students in two buses and they go on a literary tour of America. They read Walt Whitman's <span style="font-style: italic;">Leaves of Grass</span> and visited Whitman's grave in Camden, New Jersey. They read John Steinbeck and toured his museum in Salinas, Kansas. Then they made it to Colorado while reading Hunter S. Thompson's <span style="font-style: italic;">Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas.</span><br /><br />The professor decided to contact Thompson to see if he would meet with his students. Thompson agreed, and arrived at a bar in Woody Creek, where he drank and played pool with the students. Then Thompson took some of the students to his home, Owl Farm. There, he made the students line up, each clutching a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Fear and Loathing. </span>Instead of autographing their books, Thompson pulled out a gun and shot a hole in each one.<br /><br />Is that cool or what? I would love to have a Thompson book personally shot by the author. Alas, he is gone. Thompson's remains were loaded into fireworks canisters and exploded over Owl Farm. He is now probably working on <span style="font-style: italic;">Fear and Loathing In Heaven</span>.<br /></span><br /><br />Murder</span><br /><br />From Billboard Magazine: The rapper sometimes known as C-Murder will be tried a second time on a second-degree murder charge.<br /><br />Here's my thinking. If you're going to be a rapper/murderer, you should probably pick a better name than C-Murder. It's a dead giveaway (pun intended). Makes things easier for the police, too.<br /><br />Cop #1: Looks like we've got a rapper murder here. You think it was a DJ PuppyKisses?<br />Cop #2: Nah. What about MC FloralScent?<br />Cop #1: No way. Hey, what about that other guy, C-Murder?<br />Cop #2: That's our man. I'll get the warrant. You get the Taser.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Arcola<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">There's an author, Will Leitch, who wrote a pretty good YA book, <span style="font-style: italic;">Catch,</span> about his hometown, Mattoon, Illinois. I enjoyed it, though I don't often read slice of life books. (I like stuff to blow up, you know?) Thing is, it was weird reading about Mattoon, since I grew up there too. Leitch put in all the streets I know, the local landmarks, even a couple of people I remember. There was something odd about reading a story about a place I know so well.<br /><br />On the other hand, I can't think of anything interesting to say about Mattoon. U.S. Grant took command of his first troops there. Many sociology textbooks mention the Mad Gasser of Mattoon, who likely didn't exist but managed to cause mass hysteria during World War II anyway. And, um, dang. Not much else to talk about.<br /><br />On the other, other hand, if you get on I-57 and drive 15 miles north, you run into Arcola, with a population around 2,700. It's a weird place. The locals call it "Amazing Arcola."<br /><br />First, Arcola was, until fairly recently, home to the French Embassy, the only four-star French restaurant and bowling alley in the world. When I say four-star, I'm not kidding. Gourmands from everywhere came to eat at the French Embassy. Fantastic food, but <span style="font-style: italic;">très cher, </span>as them French folk would say. Still, after eating a gourmet meal, what better way to burn a few calories by strolling across the hall and bowling a few lines?<br /><br />Arcola also claims to be the "Broom Corn Capital of the World." This would appear to be a Good Thing, except I don't know what broom corn is for. Apparently they make brooms with it, but wouldn't any sort of corn do the job? Besides, I always thought brooms were made of straw. It looks like straw.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiO4MVcHugzba4FtuY04ilZE1w-usUVRBoROd4G9CC7-X3qjm8OQ6qYeranL9FswIvDg6xCtIPcF2cfMWi_IA5my84khJnex1FUp6Ng0sgklkAdFSMhWMFXYj3qOeKdKpv_hrEn2Xo_AI/s1600-h/broomcorn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiO4MVcHugzba4FtuY04ilZE1w-usUVRBoROd4G9CC7-X3qjm8OQ6qYeranL9FswIvDg6xCtIPcF2cfMWi_IA5my84khJnex1FUp6Ng0sgklkAdFSMhWMFXYj3qOeKdKpv_hrEn2Xo_AI/s400/broomcorn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132488085283343282" border="0" /></a><br />In addition to the broom corn thing, Arcola also has an Amish Interpretive Center. There are a lot of Amish near Arcola. You can tell because there's horse doody on the streets and sometimes on the sidewalk, so watch where you step!<br /><br />I've talked to Amish people plenty of times and I don't need an interpreter. "Get thee off my land, spawn of satan," they tell me. I wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard <span style="font-style: italic;">that!<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cXWAjUy6Pfkpt8afSSCwaLo5hJ1ur2VlEtCWVWhvokK91KWkWgIki54Z7BE6o6d3d4SDUja8x_1TPtxZ418zOJNRwAQzuRQd2EUehrKD9ygF9NVxp3P648-y582wp146SDU2jYevI6g/s1600-h/amish_people.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cXWAjUy6Pfkpt8afSSCwaLo5hJ1ur2VlEtCWVWhvokK91KWkWgIki54Z7BE6o6d3d4SDUja8x_1TPtxZ418zOJNRwAQzuRQd2EUehrKD9ygF9NVxp3P648-y582wp146SDU2jYevI6g/s400/amish_people.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132490069558234050" border="0" /></a><br />Hey, we're not done yet! Arcola is also the home of Johnny Gruelle. He's the guy who invented Raggedy Ann and Andy. Matter of fact, Raggedy Andy was installed in the Toy Hall of Fame last month. I don't know why he didn't go in with Raggedy Ann a few years ago. It's the same doll! Okay, they wore different clothes but that's about it. It's not like they are anatomically correct or anything.<br /><br />I wonder if they had a pet dog, Raggedy Spot, or Raggedy Creepy Stepdad, or Raggedy Weird Uncle Lou. Nah. Too edgy. Anyway, there's a Raggedy Ann museum in Arcola, probably full of Raggedy stuff.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMRtl9HFT83pRw6BlT54uR5gKKtS40j3lKgeF5nYexj62WSBFtSde7Rpo9kJrvRRCJb2CwJAmzRqqt7A78qnRuGpNOwnx8ScsMhz806XSdxW1aIiy1wOzQt4JMMh3OmfTPTC0lo2FyBc/s1600-h/rag1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMRtl9HFT83pRw6BlT54uR5gKKtS40j3lKgeF5nYexj62WSBFtSde7Rpo9kJrvRRCJb2CwJAmzRqqt7A78qnRuGpNOwnx8ScsMhz806XSdxW1aIiy1wOzQt4JMMh3OmfTPTC0lo2FyBc/s400/rag1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132491620041427922" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">There can't possibly be any more going on in Arcola, you say. Hah! Arcola is home to the Lawn Rangers, the world's only precision lawn mower drill team, as far as they know. It's a bunch guys wearing cowboy hats and carrying brooms while pushing decrepit and oddly painted lawn mowers, and yet they've marched in the Holiday Bowl parade, the Fiesta Bowl parade, the Indianapolis 500 parade, and the NFL Hall of Fame Game parade. Author/columnist Dave Barry was so enthralled with the Lawn Rangers that he came up to march with them, and he's written several columns about them.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfh7iMcUe9YH97D8UETqM9gY0ue6VDfiHHhGyMpzXqRtwwgJ0LGD7M9WNHgTB62R9-xJ_Q_c7BcmCfxaBJbIVRkM9BNNO3xgcdkuDwF6_s9Mbs-X_L7oSEbQ5loiX9uprcbYhOsQNGVEM/s1600-h/lawn+rangers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfh7iMcUe9YH97D8UETqM9gY0ue6VDfiHHhGyMpzXqRtwwgJ0LGD7M9WNHgTB62R9-xJ_Q_c7BcmCfxaBJbIVRkM9BNNO3xgcdkuDwF6_s9Mbs-X_L7oSEbQ5loiX9uprcbYhOsQNGVEM/s400/lawn+rangers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132493642971024354" border="0" /></a><br />You think we're done, don't you? Arcola has only 2700 people. How could there be more? And yet, there is.<br /><br />How about the world's only Hippie Memorial? Right in the middle of Arcola it sits. It was created by the Bob Moomaw, who was "Arcola's town crank" according to Roadside America. Bob walked a different path than most, and he created a monument sixty-two feet long to remember hippies and others who cherish freedom. Now Bob is gone but the Hippie Memorial remains.<br /><br />Maybe Bob was a crank. After all, he decorated a building he owned with such messages as: "America you're turning into a nation of minimum-wage hamburger flippers. Rebel. Think for yourself. It works!" Crank or not, Bob was all about freedom, and that's a message too important to forget.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIeB-hrPlH6IXMQf4VxfsA5CvaOCu5-RvvUS7andKMLz5zGVl_3n1SKN3WwrXjnGvWkcuVRPbqsu4zwo6JKrZQI33JVyxFoNIZnwT_NHEZS4098NxzKF0Qx-TKeQBxqVn9R9APLede0g/s1600-h/ArcolaHippie1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIeB-hrPlH6IXMQf4VxfsA5CvaOCu5-RvvUS7andKMLz5zGVl_3n1SKN3WwrXjnGvWkcuVRPbqsu4zwo6JKrZQI33JVyxFoNIZnwT_NHEZS4098NxzKF0Qx-TKeQBxqVn9R9APLede0g/s400/ArcolaHippie1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132496988750547954" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Remember, when you plan your next vacation, think Amazing Arcola!<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-30437554034093167902007-10-18T19:37:00.000-06:002008-12-14T06:53:28.528-06:00Assorted fruits and nuts<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Well, I haven't been around for a while. Sometimes life gets in the way of writing, even if it's just scribbling stuff in a blog. Here's some bits and pieces of thoughts rattling around in my head.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />Thing 2<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> have two sons, otherwise known as Thing 1 and Thing 2. </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I found the caricature of myself and Thing 2 whilst cleaning out a closet. Lord knows how old it is. I'm pretty sure neither of us actually look like that. No one yells and faints when we go out in public. Not often, anyway.<br /><br />The closet also produced a small mountain of board games, a half ton of sports equipment, a complete collection of Hogan's Heroes action figures, several RC vehicles, an ancient VHS camcorder, a huge reel of 2-inch quadruplex videotape that probably holds an old Mike Douglas Show, dozens of fast food toys still sealed in their bags, and a production cel from a 1942 Bugs Bunny cartoon, amongst millions of other items. I don't know how I got it all shoved back in there but I did. You never know when you'll need video of Mike Douglas or a Hello Kitty mini-hairbrush set.<br /></span><br /></span><br />S. King sells books</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">During one of the Red Sox playoff games a reporter found Stephen King sitting in a seat close to the field. The reporter pointed at a book King held on his lap, and King allowed as to how he reads a couple of pages between innings. Then the reporter asked one of the dumbest questions I've ever heard: "So, are you reading one of your own books?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">"Are you freakin' moron?" King yelled. He smashed the reporter in the face with the book and poured a cup of beer over the reporter's unconscious body. Then he tore off his shirt and launched into a jerky victory dance while the crowd roared in approval and showered the reporter with batteries, ice cubes, and a dead octopus thrown by a confused Philadelphia Flyers fan.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Okay, that didn't happen. Instead, King forced a grin at the stupid question and said it wouldn't be any fun to read one of his own books because he already knew how they ended. He then revealed that the book was The Ghost by Robert Harris.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I immediately rushed to Amazon and found that the book ranked 3,987. Not for long, I told myself. An hour later, The Ghost had moved up 1,500 spots and stayed there for quite some time. Not bad for a brief mention during a baseball game.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Thing 1</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Thing 1 is a high school senior and seems to have inherited some of my odder genes, which he demonstrates from time to time. Last week we walked past Jimmy John's, a rapidly growing sandwich chain that started here. The food is okay, nothing I'd go out of my way to eat, but my sons can't get enough of the place. Anyway, we had this conversation:</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Me: There's your idol, Jimmy John.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Thing 1: Yes...I must kill Jimmy John and drain his essence. Then I will <span style="font-style: italic;">become</span> Jimmy John.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Me: Uh, sweetie, are you feeling okay?</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Thing 1: Bwahahahahaaaa!</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Me: Well, okay then.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I blame those Lord of the Rings movies. The kid is obsessed with them. Or maybe it's video games. He was playing one the other day and someone kept yelling "The leg has been taken!" followed by a burst of gunfire. That's what it sounded like.<br /><br />When I was his age, all I had was a Pong, and I had to walk uphill through a snowstorm in order to play it. When I tell my sons this story, they shudder in horror, and I when I go on to tell them we only had six TV channels, they turn white and start foaming at the mouth. "Who could live such a hellish existence?" they wail. If I'm in a particularly evil mood, I remind them that there were no personal computers and no iTunes either. "No! No! Stop the madness!" they scream, running in circles with their hands over their ears.<br /><br />Today Thing 1 took my advice and went out to play in the fresh air. Two hours later he was in the emergency room with a broken arm. He may have to get surgery to repair the break--we won't know until Monday. In retrospect, I should probably have kept my mouth shut about the fresh air deal.<br /></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">MLB</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I received an invitation to join the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association. It's got my name on it and everything. Trouble is, I'm pretty sure I was never a major league baseball player.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Maybe the MLBPAA heard that I have a pink bat, one of the bats used by some players on Mother's Day in support of breast cancer research. My pink bat is leaning in a corner of my office, ready to use in case a horde of thugs break into the house. You never know.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVxCor4MiCC8oDQk2NKjE31lc6X6UIX6qUwo-HMTfRprvKIcuFQ8WvWEL488YrrcFQLnbsl47VZ9BmQeZGRr3_esmhowu0R8JgtGgThIMo3xtildK2VbtW0Sp1rCyxDSQyt23-IEKCqg/s1600-h/bat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVxCor4MiCC8oDQk2NKjE31lc6X6UIX6qUwo-HMTfRprvKIcuFQ8WvWEL488YrrcFQLnbsl47VZ9BmQeZGRr3_esmhowu0R8JgtGgThIMo3xtildK2VbtW0Sp1rCyxDSQyt23-IEKCqg/s400/bat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122879289429729826" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Email of the day:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dear Dr. Missy,<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I'm writing an exciting middle-grade novel that takes place at Disneyland. (My husband read a few pages and said, "Honey, this is a thrillfest!") Well, I just finished an exciting scene that takes place in the It's a Small World ride. My main characters, a girl named Becky and a boy from some awful foreign country (my husband says I need a foreign kid to lock in good overseas sales) are being chased through It's a Small World by a group of exciting evil people and such--my heart beat a million times a minute just from writing it!<br /><br />Well, imagine my surprise the next morning when a large group of Disney attorneys and several sheriff's deputies arrived with a cease-and-desist order. They said I can't mention It's a Small World in my exciting novel! Is that horrible or what?! (My husband said it stinks. Actually, he said something I can't repeat but you get the idea.)<br /><br />What am I to do? How did the Disney people know what I had written?<br /><br />Linda (not my real name)<br /><br /><br />Dear Linda,<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I wouldn't fight Disney. Not unless you can unleash a strong artillery barrage to soften up the Disney forces and then send in a squadron of well-trained rangers to make the initial thrust into the enemy's right flank, making sure you keep an additional squadron in reserve in case the Disney troops prove to be resilient. You will also want to arrange for close air support, and if you have the resources, secure a battalion of paratroopers who will jump behind the Disney front lines and attack from the rear in a pincer movement with mortars and automatic weapons.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Hmm. Maybe I've been reading too many WWII books lately. You know, you don't have to use the It's a Small World ride in your story. How about:</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />It's a World of Vaguely Indefinable Yet Irritating Smells</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It's a Slightly Smaller Than Normal World</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It's an Eternally Long and Boring Ride World</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It's a World with Disgusting Things Floating In the Water that Might Give Us Dysentary World</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">As far as how Disney knew about your story, I take it you haven't seen Tron yet. You know, the movie with the tiny people running around in computers? Get a copy now and study it thoroughly!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dr. Missy</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3135990094399376568.post-71543630325933398322007-05-22T19:43:00.000-06:002007-05-22T21:21:50.246-06:00The Search for Guests Is On!<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Harsh review</span><br /><br />I ran across this on Amazon. It's a review of the John Steinbeck novel The Pearl by a student forced to read it for class. Says she: "Dumb. Short. Kills off people. Retarded ending."<br /><br />Well, at least it's short. Here's what the same student had to say about To Kill a Mockingbird: "Long. Boring. Kills off whole reason for book."<br /><br />To sum up, if you want to be a successful author, don't write books that are long, short, boring, retarded, or kill off anything.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />A Challenge</span><br /><br />I know a fair number of children's authors and I thought it would be fun to have one or more of them make a guest appearance on this blog. Trouble is, I'm horribly sensitive. What if I asked an author and she said something like, "Stick it in your piehole, loser!"<br /><br />That would make me feel very bad.<br /><br />So, I'm going to be tricky. I'll guilt an author into appearing here. My first victim is Ruth Barshaw, author of the newly-released middle-grade novel, Ellie McDoodle, published by the fine folks at Bloomsbury. I ordered up a copy as soon as it came out and I have to say that it's terrific. Did I mention that Ruth is an artist? Okay, she is, so Ellie McDoodle not only contains a fair number of words, it contains many pictures, all of them drawn by Ruth herself. You knew that the book is an illustrated diary kept by Ellie, right? Okay, it is, so now you know.<br /><br />In fact, if you happen to have spawn of both genders, you could buy Ellie McDoodle and Diary of a Wimpy Kid (mentioned here last week), and then you've got an illustrated diary from a boy perspective and one from a girl perspective. I'll let you figure out which is which because I don't want to take all the mystery out of your life or anything.<br /><br />My spawn are both boys. My mother once gave them Barbies for some strange reason. An hour later, both Barbies had been decapitated and the heads buried somewhere on a golf course. The bodies were given to the family dog, which chewed them for a while and then threw up on the carpet.<br /><br />Back to Ruth's book. Ellie McDoodle (played by the late David Janssen) is a pediatrician who gets in a horrible fight with her wife (played by Zsa Zsa Gabor or somebody) and storms out of the house. When Ellie returns, she sees a one-armed man (played by a guy whose name I can't remember) running out of her home. When Ellie goes inside, she finds that her wife is dead.<br /><br />"Why, that rotten one-armed man killed my wife!" Ellie says. "Nuh uh," says Lt. Gerard (played by that one guy with wavy hair). "You did it. I'm taking you in."<br /><br />"Nuts to that," Ellie says, but she is put on trial, found guilty, and sentenced to death. Then she's on a train on her way to get executed and the train crashes and Ellie gets away. All of the episodes that follow are about Ellie trying to find the one-armed man while staying out of the clutches of Lt. Gerard. At the end, Ellie finds the one-armed man on a roller coaster or Ferris wheel and is finally cleared of the murder charges.<br /><br />Oh. I seem to have strayed into describing the plot of The Fugitive, which ran on TV for four seasons back in the sixties. Make no mistake, it was a great show, although I never watched it much since I was really little at the time. I liked cartoons and stuff. And Hogan's Heroes. Now that was an awesome show. Did you know that Robert Clary (who played LeBeau) was actually in a German concentration camp? I met him once and he showed me the numbers tattooed on his forearm. McHale's Navy was also great. I just bought the season one set. Can't wait to watch it!<br /><br />Dang, I've strayed again. I guess Ruth Barshaw will have to make a guest appearance on the next issue of this blog and straighten it all out. Heh.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Email of the day<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Dear Dr. Missy,</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br /><br />I want to write a Christmas story for children. Should I write it now or wait until it's really Christmastime?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br /><br />Linda (not my real name)<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Dear Linda,</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Don't wait until Christmas! Even though it's nearly June, publishers are hard at work right now preparing holiday books. As a matter of fact, I'm working on a Christmas picture book. Check it out:<br /><br />"There is time yet for you to be saved, Ebenezer Scrooge." Jacob Marley rattled the heavy chains that bound him. "You must not suffer my fate!"<br /><br />"You know," Scrooge said, "I've been giving that some thought. I am a bloody creep. I'm going to do something good for a change."<br /><br />"You will be visited by three spirits, Ebenezer--" Marley stopped and stared. "What did you just say?"<br /><br />"I said, Jacob, my old friend, that I'm going to quit being such a relentless jerk. I'm going out first thing and donate a huge sack of money to the workhouse. Good idea, huh?"<br /><br />"No. I mean, yes, The thing is, we've got these three spirits who are going to visit you this night, The ghost of Christmas Past, the ghost of Christmas Present--"<br /><br />"Ah! Christmas present! Speaking of presents, I realize you're dead, Jacob, but how about a nice pair of bolt cutters to get rid of those idiotic chains? You shall have the finest pair of bolt cutters in London, silver plated with a knob on the handle!"<br /><br />"Sounds wonderful, Ebenezer, but we've gone to a lot of trouble to have these spirits visit you. You don't know how much paperwork is involved. If they show up and you've already been redeemed, there will absolute hell to pay!"<br /><br />"No problem, dear Jacob. Have your spirit friends come on over. We'll lay on a gigantic spread-- roast ham, sweet potatoes, a turkey or two, some stuffing..."<br /><br />"It's a lovely thought, Ebenezer, really it is. But these spririts are dead as doornails. They can't eat."<br /><br />"Hmmm. That is a problem. I say, Marley, what does it mean, anyway?"<br /><br />"What does life mean?" Marley asked hopefully. "See, that's where the spirits would be very handy. They could explain--"<br /><br />"No, not that rot. 'Dead as a doornail'. It really makes no sense. Doornails are inanimate objects, old boy. If they had been alive at one point and then died, it might make sense. I think I'll buy a doornail factory and donate all the profits to the poor. Splendid idea!"<br /><br />"Um, before you do that, do you think you could go out and kick a few orphans around, just for old times sake? The spirits would like that, it would make them feel like they had a real rotter on their hands."<br /><br />"Good heavens, no! Those poor children. Well, we will soon set things right for them. While I'm at it, I've heard tell of a wonderful new doctor. I'll bet he could cure Tiny Tim. If anyone deserves to live a long, healthy life, it's that boy!"<br /><br />"It won't do! It's simply won't do!" Marley's face twisted in anger. "You bloody fool! I went to a lot of time and trouble to get those spirits here, and you decide to turn into some goody-goody before they even arrive! Where's the Ebenezer Scrooge I knew and feared? Where is that heartless old coot who was despised by all?"<br /><br />"Gone forever, Jacob. You have shown me the light, and I thank you for it. From now on, the name of Ebenezer Scrooge will be synonymous with good deeds and generosity. I'll think I'll go out and--"<br /><br />Marley brought down the fireplace poker savagely on Scrooge's head. "I'm not getting into trouble with those spirits just because you won't cooperate. I'll just tell them you died. And you just did." Dragging his chains behind him, Marley trudged to the door. "It would have been better if I'd gone straight to hell. Damned do-gooders...."<br /></span></span></span>Dr. Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14998388348705607635noreply@blogger.com2