Friday, April 29, 2011

Consider my Eyebrows Raised Pt. II

8) One interesting thing that some people have tried with some success and others have totally killed their query by screwing up: writing the query letter as the main character from the book. The upshot- makes the letter stand out, seem more interesting, can itself be a testament to your abilities as a writer. The downsides- makes including biographical information difficult, can be confusing.

9) On a somewhat sad note: Highly capable professionals, even writers of other sorts of material who want to write children’s fiction. This happens A LOT. Teachers and lawyers are the most common culprits. Journalists will usually look to write books for adults. But technical writers and college professors also go for the kids books. You might think it’s because it’s “easy” to write MG books, but that’s not really true. And in my experience, many of them really have a love of it. Or at least, they love the idea of it. Not so long ago I got a proposal for a 45,000 word MG (little too long) from an active anthropologist whose book (which he thought was best suited to 9 year olds) takes place during the days of the Roman Occupation of England and their bloody battles with the Scots. Uh. Oh, and he planned to include maps, charts, and references. Because being an anthropologist by training, this is die-hard realism in historical fiction. I’m pretty interested, actually. Nine year olds? Probably not so much. If you’re out there dude, consider re-writing it as a YA. And be sure your hero is a teenager. Otherwise you face

10) Bizarre ages. A book aimed at 10 year olds should generally star characters no less than 9 and no older than 12. Why? Because that’s your audience. Okay, fine. The man who turned me to writing (and taught me how to raise my eyebrow quizzically- if you can identify this author from this description alone, you deserve a prize) wrote books for that age group that I read at five. But I’m awesome. And notably, I continued to read them until I was 12 because for God’s sake, I was a child. I liked reading light, goofy things about KIDS. YA books? Same deal. It’s possible, but very, very hard to write a book aimed at the YA market with a 24 year old protagonist. Consider 18 or 19 your practical limit. You can write an adult novel starring someone in their late teens, but these will usually have the air of a bildungsroman to them. It can get complicated of course. What about YA Adult crossovers? I would say: consider your PRIMARY audience. If it’s actually a YA that might appeal to adults, you’re talking about a cast primarily consisting of teens a la Harry Potter. If you’re talking about, say, Light Fantasy which is what I used to transition to adult books (and the reason I still have a fondness for genre fiction despite the majority of it being verbose, derivative and insubstantial) go ahead and make them anywhere from late teens on.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Consider My Eyebrows Raised Part I

1) Don’t start a query with biographical information. Seriously, don’t. Every now and then someone defies this and it works. Or almost works. What is a master writer after all if not one who can bend the rules and be all the stronger for it? Thing is, you’ve got to bend and break rules before you get good at them. I was actually kind of intrigued when a query opens by telling me that The Golden Girls got them off their asses and convinced them to finish their book. It’s a whole lot better than when authors open with “Hello. I am a forty year old house wife, and as such, I have extensive knowledge of PANCAKES.” I mean, who cares? French toast is better anyway. Seriously though, the Golden Girls author’s letter fell down only because they didn’t tie this into either their novel or their actual biography. Like an experiment they forgot to follow through on. Do or do not. There is no try.

2) Bolding the “Mr.” before McVeigh. Why?

3) “You don’t know me.” Should I? And does anybody really know anyone else? Look deep and tell me you know everything about yourself much less others. Also, the Buddha is a pound of Flax and the sound of one hand clapping is not going to inspire an encore.

4) “I’m really new at this.” I can see that. “Advice plz?” No. “K’thnkx bai!” Indeed.

5) Tell me you love something when the facts don’t support such an assertion. For instance, self proclaimed myth lovers. Hercules is the ROMAN name. In Greek, he’s Heracles. Ovid is also Roman. Loki is USUALLY regarded as a god in Norse mythology and not as a Giant. He does have several children with giants however, such as Fenrir, who is kept in prison by the warrior Tyr who is NOT a woman. Those who practice Wicca are referred to as Wiccans, NOT Wiccas, and don’t start about the generations because Wicca is 50 years old. If your character claims to be from a long line of Wiccas, I swear on your various ludicrous beliefs that I will hurt you. Badly.

6) Repeatedly resubmitting your stuff. Okay, resubmitting it once I can understand. You sent lots of queries. You don’t remember us having rejected you. Fine. Whatever. But sending it every month for four and five months straight? Starting to get old, buddy.

7) On a random note, I’ve spent plenty of time refining my phrasing when I have to ask an author to resubmit including their writing sample. Been successful though. Almost no one attaches it anymore (paste!) and virtually everyone pastes it in AFTER the query letter so that it looks like it always should have, rather than having the sample sit on top of the query. Honestly, I think that’s a good thing. Reminds me what I’m looking at because I have to scroll through the letter again to get to the sample.

Monday, April 25, 2011

In Case You Missed it

It's been a while since I've served as a conduit for showing everyone what people I know are doing. And people are doing some interesting stuff.

Amy Ashley for instance obtained literary representation a while back and I probably should've congratulated her on that. Uh. Oops? But at least I can say now that I was editing her back before she was famous. I always expected this would be one of those "Oh hey, I know that woman in the wanted poster at the post office" conversations, but maybe it still will be. I am all in favor of making the wanted poster the picture on the back cover, you know?

Next up, Emily Weaver (an excellently odd writer) occasionally throws poetry enthusiasts a bone on her blog "I write 2 stay sane." While I am not at all sure that the site is filling its intended therapeutic purposes, there is some good stuff on there. You all know how much I hate poetry (partially because of particular poets I know and partially because it never seemed like a good medium for telling a story)but Emily's stuff I actually like. I think it's because there's always a feeling of tragedy emanating from her stuff. I likes me some tragedy. And it's easy to say "isn't poetry always sad?" Well, maybe. But angsty teens writing poems about how no one understands them using black eye liner is a bit different than actually tragedy. Tragedy is about sacrifice and consequences. It's about loss and learning the hard way. Read through that site. Tell me you don't see tragedy in there. And this has to be the weakest plug I've ever made.

Humorous bizarro author of horror, Jeremy Shipp, a certified Stoker nominee has produced his most entertaining and terrifying works yet- a set of promotional materials featuring beasts never before conceived by man as a thank you to his readers. So you should go out there and buy some of his books. If not for the sake of a laugh, then for the sake of your sanity. That man runs a damn commune filled to the brim with lovecraftian horrors. Follow him on twitter and you'll see what I mean. Plus, he's a pretty good example of authors promoting themselves, so he's worth a look for that reason alone.

On a sadder note, and one which doesn't involve one of our agency's authors, a couple months ago Crazy Writer Girl just sort of vanished. You know, she was one of my first readers. I did a couple of guest posts on her blog, did a critique here of one of her WIPs, and when she landed herself an internship with an agent, I thought "This is my chance to just quit all this bullshit. I'll leave up a sign and direct any viewers to her blog and then run off into the night." Afterall, the contents were similar enough with the exception of her being nice. And she liked blogging more than I do and tweeted regularly. Her disappearance is a great loss for the literary world. But, I suspect, a great gain for for the world of INTERNATIONAL ESPIONAGE. That's why her blog itself went down. It's the secret government agency she undoubtedly works for now that had to erase all evidence of her existence to maintain her cover, you know? Well, if you're still reading this (or maybe these days you call it "monitoring" for "suspicious activity") I just wanted to tell you one thing, Crazy Writer Girl. The porpoise has landed. Um. In the crisco on 22nd. Do you copy? God I hate these codes. They never make any fucking sense. What's the code for "speak English"?

Friday, April 22, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part X

"Goddamnit." Justice muttered as she watched Duane depart from the same deli that gouged her so often in the past. From the rooftop of a near building, Justice had been listening to the proceedings and trying to keep her hair out of her face. She could only imagine the disgusting happiness and elation on the slimy bastard's face.

"You owe me fifty bucks." Her canine companion chided her, brushing up beside her silently.

"The hell I do. Double or nothing."

"Hey look, I don't want to leave you in the poor house." The Wolf-Dog said defensively. "Maybe you should…"

"Double or nothing." Justice repeated in a low, slow tone.

"Alright,." The Wolf-Dog said slowly. "It's your money, sister. Next week, Duane Vs. Roy Baumann Junior. Does that sound good?"

"You're on, mutt. Prepare to lose." With that, Justice slowly began inching her way towards the edge of the rooftop. As she put her leg over the side it disappeared into thin air as she slid back into their own world.

"Would it be okay if I prepared to win instead?" The Wolf-Dog asked the empty air before following his master back home.
*****************************************
So that's it. Night of the Living Debt is finally over. If you've been biting your tonge but have things to say, positive or negative, I'd appreciate your feedback.

I also apologize for how long some of those posts ran. The story was longer than I remembered it and if I stuck to a page per post it would've been three weeks instead of two.

And for those interested, this is the story behind Living Debt. I guess it must've been around 1998 when I first thought of this story, because I was in 8th grade when I first started listening to They Might Be Giants. Some time in college I thought to myself that it would be pretty neat to write an entire collection of short stories based on their songs, one per album moving through it chronologically. The first 2/3rds of the story was written in 2007 before I decided that it sucks and therefore I must be a sucky person and it wasn't going to work. The last few pages were made in 2008. I went to an entire series of TMBG concerts and intended to toss it up at them as a sample but I wussed out ostensibly because the story wasn't "ready" yet. The sad part is that given TMBG's history of very strange but very effective self promotion, if I were half as good at writing as editing, I bet that they would not only give approval for the project but help promote it. If any of you thieves out there make this work, I want in on the project. Capiche?

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part IX

Eventually, for his hard work and refusal to surrender in the face of absurdity, Duane was rewarded by being privileged to buy a couple of tuna salad sandwiches, a Hawaiian Fruit Punch, a Cream Soda, some coleslaw, moon cookies and a pack of grape flavored gum all of which left him staring mournfully at the hole in his wallet where his money used to be.

Munching thoughtfully on his second sandwich and smiling cheerfully, Ambrose said "So what I was saying before is that I want you to know that when I kill you, it won't be personal. Just doing my job, right?"

"If your job is to kill me, then yes." Duane informed his nemesis, who continued to smile back stupidly. "If I may ask, how did you come back to life?"

"Oh, nothing special. Just resurrected by an ancient and powerful goddess to wreak her vengeance on the immoral." Ambrose said conversationally.

"Ah. And how much is this goddess of yours paying you for this work?"

Ambrose frowned deeply at his empty bottle of Hawaiian Punch. At first Duane wasn't sure what Ambrose was thinking, and assumed it was probably completely unrelated to the conversation anyway. Possibly imagining a conversation with the mascot on the bottle or wondering if everyone all over Manhattan and down Doheny way had gone surfing, surfing USA. After a moment's silence, Duane came to the sad realization that spending time with Ambrose was giving him disturbing insight into the inner workings of his nemesis' mind. Grunting, Duane rose, pulled a new bottle of Hawaiian Punch from the fridge, waved it at the man behind the counter and plunked it down in front of Ambrose.

"She doesn't pay me anything. It's all for the honor and the glory of my name."

"Sure, honor and glory of her name, you mean. It's always 'Justice, Justice, Justice.' Where's your recognition? Besides, that's hard work. Did she think of your feet?"

"Well no…"

"Then isn't she just like that woman in the Suburban? At least I paid you for your discomfort."

"The hell you did. You owe me fifty bucks." Ambrose and Duane stared at each other long and hard, until Ambrose turned his attention to his Hawaiian Punch and downed it in one shot. Apparently Justice is fueled by artificial fruit flavoring.

"You're right." Duane paused. "You're right. I should've given you the other fifty I just didn't think…"

"You're damn right you didn't think!" Ambrose shouted, slamming the plastic bottle into the small deli table and crushing it.

Duane slowly pulled out his wallet. "I'll tell you what. I'll give you that fifty- no, seventy five in addition to this meal if that'll make you feel better."

"A hundred!" Ambrose shouted. "Not a penny less!"

"I'll do you one better." Duane smiled slowly. "I wouldn't do this for most people, but I'll give you the extra hundred and another fruit punch." Reaching into the deli's drink refrigerator, he pulled out yet another Hawaiian Punch and handed it to his undead and unintelligible nemesis, who quickly twisted the top off and drank half of it in one shot. "Do we have a deal?" Duane asked sweetly, sticking out his right hand.

Ambrose clutched it in his own hand and burbled something through his drink. Before he could even finish the bottle, his body began to fade from existence. The bottle clattered to the floor but fortunately the sugary drink bounced the other way on impact and left the Gucci clothing Ambrose left behind in perfect condition other than the tire marks.

"Idiot." Duane muttered before squatting down and reclaiming his cash. Rifling further he decided to take Ambrose's tie, watch, and shoes which happened to be a half size too big, but nothing that a good tight knot or possibly some inserts wouldn’t fix. Looking up, he made a mental comparison of the horrified clerk to his twice damned nemesis. Straightening, he took the suit to the clerk. "This is for those last two drinks and your silence. Mum's the word, yeah?" Without waiting for agreement, Duane walked out of the deli with several hundred dollars worth of expensive accessories.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part VIII

"Turn around, Mr. Richardson. I'm calling you out." Ambrose D'Agosto's voice came over the phone.

"Yes, I see that." Duane told his nemesis.

"You can see me?" the newly immortal and well dressed agent of Justice asked. "That's incredible. How?"

Duane dumped out his bottle of Advil and began counting his remaining pills. He briefly wondered what the effect of overdosing on Ibuprofen was, and when it caused him to lose count he sighed and explained "It's an expression."

"Oh. I am right outside your building, though. I can see you." Ambrose told his adversary.

Duane spun his chair around and looked out the window. "I can see you out there, but you're looking at the wrong building." He saw his nemesis on the street scratching his head and looking both ways before turning around. "No, no. You were looking the right way, I'm just in the building to your left." Ambrose began to cross an intersection and was immediately run down by a taxi in a hurry. The noise on the other end from the clattering cell phone made Duane look longingly back at the Advil on his desk and wish for a glass of water. Ambrose slowly rose in front of the taxi, casually dusted off his new Gucci suit, muttered something to the driver, then crawled lengthwise from the front of the car under the cab to retrieve his cellphone.

"Sorry about that," he told Duane. "I'm back now."

"Ambrose, it's the other left. I was talking about your left, not mine."

"Oh." Ambrose responded, standing up again in the middle of the street as a frightened taxi driver speed off walked back across the intersection, eventually stopping in front of Duane's building. "I can see you now." Duane's nemesis informed him, pointing at the window he thought might belong to the appropriate office.

"Higher." Ambrose's adversary told him. "More to the right. Warmer. Warmer. Keep going. Keep…no, that's too far, go back. There, that's it right there." Duane waved enthusiastically from his office window down at his nemesis, who seemed delighted to have spotted his adversary at last and was repeatedly jabbing the air with his outthrust pointer finger like a TV Evangelical soliciting money in exchange for holy water.

"I'm calling you out." Ambrose told his adversary again, jabbing one final time in mid air. A taxi pulled up in front of him, offering a ride.

"Dear lord." Duane muttered. "What is it with you and taxis? Look, just wait there. I'll be down in a minute." He slammed down the phone, grumbling. He picked up a couple of the Advil on his desk and swallowed them dry even though he'd had a dose just two hours earlier. He stood up and pushed in his chair, pulling his coat from off its back. Brushing a luminescent bit of fur off of it, he thought of the Wolf-Dog's words to him.

Now that you've struck him down, Ambrose D'Agosto has become more powerful than you can possibly imagine. Fortunately, he's still an idiot. All you have to do is convince him that everything is 'cool beans' and he'll never bother you again. The vengeance that fuels him will burn down and he'll return to worm food.

Cool beans. That's what the wolf said. Bloody fucking cool beans. The thought of playing nice with an inferior creature like Ambrose revolted Duane, but above all else, he was a pragmatist and did what he had to do. He took a last look around the darkened office before mashing the elevator button and riding it down from the job he was paid for so he could go to the job he wasn't. Idiot exterminator.
*

"I just want you to know that this isn't personal." Ambrose explained.

"You're right, it's just crazy. Look, can we maybe discuss this somewhere that isn't the middle of the fucking street?" Ambrose looked as his adversary quizzically. "I know a good deli a few blocks down, let's talk about it there." Ambrose tilted his head to the side as a curious dog might. He stared blankly at Duane for a moment. Blinked, then tilted his head the other way.

A very large man in a very small car, balding and sweaty leaned on his horn and shouted obscenities at them out his window. "Yeah, fuck you too, jerkwad." Duane shouted back.

"This city is so full of hatred." Ambrose sighed, rubbing his now clean shaven and surprisingly squared jaw. "I can see I've got a lot of work to do. So I'd really like to make this whole avenging myself thing quick."

"It…" Duane wasn't even sure how to explain it. "It's a deli, Ambrose. It'll take fifteen minutes to walk there and eat our food. No one interrupting us, right? It'll be nice. My treat." Duane began leading Ambrose by the shoulders back towards the sidewalk, angling him in the general direction of his favorite lunchtime deli. A Chevy Suburban stopped dead, inches from slamming into Ambrose , its horn also blaring almost immediately after they had begun moving. Without a moment's hesitation Ambrose popped its hood open and ripped out several important looking components. "Holy shit!" Duane shouted. "You can't do that. Come on, let's get out of here, huh?"

As Duane slowly pushed him off the road, inch by inch Ambrose plaintively made his case. "She had it coming." Ambrose said, waving dismissively at the frumpy middle aged mother crying over her engine. "First, those things are gas guzzlers, and she's riding it by herself. What does she need such a big car for? Secondly, they're huge. How about a little consideration for everyone else on the road? Third…"

"Shutup. Just shut up!" Duane hissed, pushing harder and moving Ambrose less. Duane was starting to feel like he was engaged in conversation with a wall.

"Plus, my feet hurt because I've been standing here waiting for you all day and they should really be a little bit more appreciative of my pain and my problems."

"It's New York. Nobody gives a shit about your feet, okay? Let's walk and talk, huh? Walk and talk." Amazingly, Ambrose began walking. Unfortunately, it was back into traffic.

"Did you even stop to think about how I feel?" he shouted at the woman gathering engine parts out of the road. "Did you?" The endless honks were driving Duane mad and he was sure a hundred people were on their cell phones calling the police right now, possibly with helpful pictures. Sighing, he thought back to a simpler time when men were men, hobos were dead, and phones were unable to produce incriminating visual evidence against you.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part VII

Duane's hand rolled restlessly over the scroll button. CNN and the Times informed him that one politician was offending the working class and the other was making an ass of himself with absurd claims. They told him that income discrepancies were up, taxes were up, cost of living was up, the world population was up, and oil reserves were low. They told him about a Japanese physicist who may have found sustainable cold Fusion, the CEO of an Indian company worth more than Bill Gates, and it even told him what to think of movies that weren't worth his time to see and judge for himself. However, they told him very little about how to deal with zombie hobos. He hadn't really expected them to. Why, he thought, don't they ever report on the news pertinent to me?

The clock on the bottom bar of his screen told him it was 5:04. Almost quitting time. Normally, the thought of putting great distance between himself and Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons put a smile on his face. Today, not so much. He closed his Internet Explorer browsers and pulled up a game of Minesweeper. He lost three consecutive games on the first click. Duane Richardson doesn't enjoy losing. Clicking the game closed, he snatched up a pen and began twirling it between his fingers the way he used to do with coins. He'd made a pretty penny back in the day as a card sharp and coin trickster, and the memory of conning gullible fools usually cheered him up. Looking past his fingers, watching their motions, but refusing to concentrate on them so he wouldn't mess up, he saw the glowing clock on his desk. Looking more like a calculator screen than a proper clock, it informed him that it was 5:08. He checked it against his computer. 5:07. His cell phone. 5:09. His watch. 5:08. The clock again. Now it was 5:09. Grunting, he put the problem of disagreeing clocks out of his mind. Finally throwing his pen down, he began shuffling papers from one place to another, making his desk look slightly neater, but, he had to admit, drastically less functional. Shuffling papers was always a good way to both feel and appear as if work is being done when it isn't. Slowing down, he swiveled in his chair to stare out the window again. "Justice must be upheld." He muttered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Yes, it must."

Duane spun back around in his chair looking for the speaker. There was no one there. He rubbed the sides of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger and looked back to his computer's clock. 5:12. The first time in months he'd stop to relax at his job and the day was dragging on mercilessly. He wondered how all his free loading underlings ever managed it. "Justice must be upheld, Mr. Richardson and you are the man to do it."

Duane looked nervously around his office again. Hobos were bad. Disembodied voices were worse. They probably belonged to invisible people. And invisible people are probably voyeurs. "What the hell?" Duane nearly shouted.

"Down here, stupid." The voice said again, followed by a whistling sound that seemed to come from under his desk. So Duane bent down. And lying under his desk was a dog, curled up. The dog lifted its head, looked straight into Duane's eyes and said "Howdy."

"Howdy." Duane said weakly.

"Are you ready to serve Justice?" The dog asked him in its raspy voice. Duane was a tad concerned that he was having a conversation with a dog, on hands and knees under his desk, but he figured, in for a penny, in for a pound. As long as it didn't shed on his expensive oriental rug or mark its territory on his hardwood antique desk.

"Who are you exactly?"

"You know the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf?" The dog asked smugly.

"I've lived my life based on what I learned from that story. And one thing I learned is that you're a dog, not a wolf." Duane pointed out.

"One of many reasons no one ever believed the boy." The dog responded before wheezing out a sound that Duane thought was a laugh.

"You sly son of a bitch!" Duane tried to straighten up but hit his head on the bottom of his desk. It also dislodged an old custom made pen with Baumann, Baumann and Sons printed on it which they gave to clients. All it takes to fix the world's problems, from a stuck drawer to hobo zombies, is to use your head.

The dog laughed his wheezing smoker laugh again. "There is more than one kind of justice in the world. D'Agosto serves one who feels that all should be given the benefit of the doubt and treated equally."

Duane frowned. "That's idiotic. People aren't all equal. Brown Vs. the board of education- separate is not equal. Separate bodies, separate minds. Different strengths. Different weaknesses. The very concept of equality is bullshit."

The dog seemed to smile at this. "Very good, Mr. Richardson. Equality and justice are not the necessarily the same thing. For instance, there's a lot to be said for the justice of natural selection."

Duane smiled "Ambrose D'Agosto is too stupid to live."

"Yes." The dog replied simply. "But he is now a magically fueled moron. If want to survive the night, I suggest you listen very closely, Mr. Richardson."

Duane Richardson was never so happy to listen to someone other than himself speak.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part VI

A jolt of fear shot through Duane like an electric shock. He hopped from his seat with an energy that none of them expected.

"My God! Ambrose, old man it's good to see you. Davies, this is my old friend Ambrose. Remember all those stories, I told you?" Miss Davies couldn't even shake her head no before Duane continued. "Well Jesus H. Christ, old man. I hadn't heard from you in so long I was starting to think you must've died. How the hell have you been?" Duane wasn't sure if his mind was racing, or totally blank. If he was thinking, it was too fast for him even to follow. He was acting on instinct. "Well, don't just stand there you two. Miss Davies, get us some tea. And you," he turned back to Ambrose and smiled his most winning bowl-the-old-ladies-over smile and said "have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. We have so much to catch up on."

Blinking in confusion, Miss Davies left the small corner office and shut the door. Making tea was not in her job description but the terror of seeing Mr. Richardson apparently happy had shaken her understanding of the world. She simply wasn't sure what to believe anymore. Making some tea was a comparatively minor issue compared to such questions as the nature of good and evil, the subjectivity of reality, and who the hell does God think he is to pull the rug out from under her this way?

Ambrose's mind was much quieter. He sat without a word in the seat Duane offered him, and stared straight ahead until Duane plopped down opposite him, across the desk. "So how can I help you today, Ambrose?" Duane asked pleasantly. He'd be damned if he was going to let a duded up hobo haunt him.

“So you’d like to help me, Mr. Richardson?” Ambrose removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that were literally burning with rage. Duane was impressed. Not that he was going to show it. He also hoped that fire eyes wouldn’t set off any smoke detectors. He’d hate for his silk tie to get wet. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’d be so congenial. Last time we met, you murdered me.”

Duane waved one hand dismissively in the air. “And yet here you are. All cleaned up and looking better than new. Seems like the deal worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?” Ambrose was about to respond when Miss Davies returned with the tea. Still in a bit of a daze, she handed each man a mug. “Ah, thank you Miss Davies, most appreciated.” Miss Davies felt like the world was cracking, splintering, raining down around her. Duane’s sudden bout of feeling personable was simply unprecedented. Thanks to this disorientation, she failed to notice Ambrose’s brimstone eyes. Reeling, Miss Davies staggered out again. Ambrose silently watched her go, and as the door closed quietly behind her, he tossed the tea down his throat immediately and slammed the mug down on Duane’s desk.

“Justice must be upheld, Mr. Richardson.” Ambrose said, turning back to his murderer.

“Justice?”

“Yes. Justice.” Ambrose put his dark sunglasses back on, stood and rebuttoned his suit jacket. Standing up, he walked casually to the door and opened it again. He turned back one last time and said “I’ll see you later. Have a great day.” And he grinned from ear to ear, showing off his now perfectly white teeth as if he were baring fangs. Ambrose closed the door and slowly walked out of the office.

Duane spun away from his desk and looked out the window, to the horizon. He looked down again and watched, waited until he saw Ambrose leave the building. Spinning back to his computer, Duane Richardson found he had a rather severe headache, which was making it difficult for him to formulate a plan. Angrily he grabbed his own mug of tea and took a gulp, burning his mouth and throat badly. Stifling a guttural shriek, he put the mug back down and stared at it. The term “flame retardant” came to his mind.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part V

It was going to be a very long day. It was only Duane's second day back from vacation and already his job seemed worse than we he left it. His right ear was literally burning from the heat of the telephone pressed against it. Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons was regaling him with the tale of how he found his third wife, Sandra, cheating on him with his second wife, Cindy, and how he felt a slight suspicion at the time, totally unfounded, he was sure, but still he felt the slight suspicion that the two women were in league and just after his money.

"So, when Wife number four rolls around, she could have legs up to her eyeballs but we still get a pre-nup." Roy blathered over the phone. Duane hadn't thought that a whiny baritone voice could exist before he met Roy Baumann Jr. He then realized it was simply wishful thinking.

"You've been saying that since Wife number one, sir." Duane informed his boss. Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons proceeded to explain himself, laying it on thick and making excuses and acting for all the world like he was some great teacher and father figure for Duane Richards. Duane heard none of it. His mind wandered back to the hobo from Reno. A man almost as inept and out of touch with reality as Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons. A man Duane easily talked into being murdered for money. His silent revenge. Duane wanted to smile at the memory of it. He didn't. He couldn’t. It felt empty. A pointless victory. There would always be more idiots in his way.

Duane used his free hand to hit refresh on his personal e-mail account. Nothing. He checked the company e-mail. Nothing interesting. Personal e-mail again. Afterall, one could never be to sure. And his faith certainly paid off when Ticketmaster informed him that there was a special on tickets to see the Wiggles perform live. It was about that point when Duane began considering whether or not his letter opener was sharp enough to slit his wrists. He was saved from this line of thought when Miss Davies, the receptionist walked into his small office.

"Hold that thought, Roy." Duane said, mashing the hold button as fast as he could. "To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your presence, Miss Davies?" Even to himself, Duane had sounded unusually abrupt with Roy and disgustingly sweet in addressing the slightly dumpy, middle aged woman before him. She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Duane liked that in functionaries. Intelligent enough to understand what goes on, and intelligent enough to keep their noses out of it.

"There's a man outside demanding to see you."

"And does he have an appointment, Miss Davies?" Duane asked, his sweet tone quickly approaching the level of inducing diabetes.

"No." Miss Davies said simply. Duane almost shivered as the secretary spoke. Not a single useless word. Marvelous. The contrast between Miss Davies and Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons was enormous.

"I see. Well, send him in anyway." Duane missed it when Miss Davies' mouth fell slightly. He was back on the phone explaining to Roy that he had a meeting to attend to. He was very sorry, really, but this is a pretty big deal. Yes, a new retailer interested in their wares. Just a couple shops in the city, but hey. Every little bit counts.

Duane Richardson never met anybody without any appointment. Any time not spent sweet talking clients, and struggling to hide his contempt for them, was spent staying in the good graces of the company’s CEO by babysitting his first born. Miss Davies didn't let it bother her for long and promptly showed the visitor into Duane's office.

He was a tall, clean shaven man with a mop of hair that went almost down to his shoulders in the back, but was narrow like a pony tail. The man wore an expensive pinstriped Gucci suit and shoes and sunglasses so dark they seemed to suck the light out of the room. "Mr. Richards, this is Mister Ambrose D'Agosto." This time it was Duane's mouth which fell open.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part IV

"That is why I've come to you, Ambrose D'Agosto. The world is too big for me to handle alone. But you," she raised her walking stick and jabbed into the air, catching Ambrose in the gut "You've always dreamed of changing the world. Saving it. Yet a common criminal from New York stole that opportunity from you. You were short changed by a simple con man."

"So I should have asked for more?" Ambrose gasped the question through his teeth and his pain.

"So much more, Ambrose. You are a child of destiny." Justice raised her walking stick above her head and swirled it in the air for effect. On its way back down, it cracked Ambrose dead center on the top of his skull. Justice didn't seem to notice, but Ambrose was convinced that her seeing eye dog was laughing at him.

"I knew I should have asked for a hundred and fifty." Ambrose straightened back up, rubbing his temples. The shame of his poorly thought out deal with Duane Richards caused him physical pain. The way the dog's eyes flashed at him, lit only by the creature's internal luminescence and cutting through the nothingness hurt him all the more. Ambrose wasn't quite sure whether to classify the dog's expression as contempt, pity, malice or humor. He took the only logical route in response. He stuck his tongue out at the mutt when he thought Justice might not be watching.

"Yeah, whatever. Let's stay on topic, Ambrose." Justice swept out her stick again, smashing Ambrose in the shin. "The world needs a hero, Ambrose. The world needs you. It needs you to be my angel of vengeance keeping peace in the most important city in the world." Ambrose was positive now that the breathy sounds the dog had started making were the closest the canine could manage to a chuckle.

“I see.” said Ambrose, who didn’t see at all.

“First things first, Ambrose. You must find justice for yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Right.”

“Haven’t I found you?” Ambrose rubbed his shin with one hand and his chin with the other. Justice seemed displeased. “Or does it not count because you found me?” Justice sighed when she heard that. “Is seeking justice like Hide ‘n Seek? Or tag? I was pretty good at those.” Worse and worse. Justice groaned to herself.

“Look, In order to free you from your worldly connections and to train you for the great destiny that waits for you, you must find the man who murdered you, and visit justice upon him.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.” Ambrose whined. Justice shook her head slowly, as if in disbelief.

“Obviously talking to you will do no good. I’ll simply have to push you out of the nest. Good luck, Mr. D’Agosto.” Then Justice turned and walked as quickly as she could in the opposite direction, quickly fading into the nothingness, leaving Ambrose unhappy, tired, confused, a little thirsty, itchy, and lonely on top of it all.
*

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part III

Are you guys enjoying this? Hating it? How's the tone? Dialogue? Critique me. Critique meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

*******************************************************************
Ambrose was not happy. He was also tired, confused, a little thirsty, and felt an overwhelming need to scratch his genitals. This made him more unhappy still because he couldn't seem to move at all. Not intentionally anyway. He felt as if he were floating in sludge. He was breathing, the thick nothingness filling his lungs. He felt as if he were moving slowly, but constantly; Spinning in place like a planet revolving in orbit. He tried to look around, but all he could see was pure darkness. Everything was black.

He was about to give up straining his eyes against the all encompassing nothingness he lay in when a speck of color appeared off in the distance. Straining anew, he managed to force a stop to his unintentional revolutions in the air and focused his eyes on the speck, concentrating on it harder than he could remember concentrating on anything since his fascination with Jillian Earl's ass in 9th grade. The main difference here, he thought to himself, was that the speck was coming rapidly closer, instead of making every effort to get as far away as possible.

Itchy genitals forgotten, Ambrose concentrated still harder. He pushed his feet down hard, willing them to find something vaguely solid to support him. After a moment of kicking and stumbling through the unsupportive thickness of the void, he steadied himself and began walking, one step at a time towards the speck. He felt that it was like learning to walk all over again, with each and every movement carefully considered and specifically ordered by his conscious mind. Left. Right. Left. Right. The next left caught itself in the darkness. He imagined it was like an old horror movie and some hideous sea creature was yanking on his ankle. Quickly forgetting the thought- more a result of his attention span than any intentional effort to calm his nerves, Ambrose stuck his arms straight out to the sides like a tight rope walker and continued plodding slowly towards the speck.

And Ambrose walked. And he walked. Then he ran. Then he paused to catch his breath. Then he walked some more. And after the almost unendurable two and a half minutes during which he trekked towards the speck, he stopped again and suddenly he knew that the incredible torture he'd been put through for such a great length of time meant that he must be home free, his debts paid in full, paradise awaiting him, as represented by the speck. The speck, he realized, while catching his breath, wasn't so much a speck as it was an unearthly beautiful woman, dressed only in a flowing silken robe that shone in almost the same manner she did, and consequently gave her an appearance of near nakedness despite the fact that she was carefully covered with two layers. In one hand, the woman held a stick, which she kept stuck out low to the darkness in front of her. In the other hand, she held a leash. A leash for the glowing, heavenly dog Ambrose could now see with her.

Ambrose didn't realize how close to him she was until she stopped short. "Ambrose D'Agosto?" She asked him, giving the distinct impression she knew the answer would be affirmative. "Justice. Charmed, I'm sure." Ambrose wasn't sure if she was charmed to meet him, or if she was simply stating that she was sure he was charmed by her. He felt the latter more likely. His suspicions on the subject were certainly confirmed when she added "Please don't come any closer. I may be blind, but I can smell perfectly well and my lunch is happy where it is.” Ambrose had to admit that he preferred his anthropomorphic personifications of ephemeral ideals feisty. “I’ve come to deliver the message you deserve to hear."

Ambrose stared at her hungrily looking her up and down, but being an instinctive creature that he was focused on something he could more reasonably obtain than a Goddess. "What did you eat?"

"What?" Justice's lips quivered, as if trying to remember how to frown after an eternity of never seeing it done.

"For lunch? What did you eat? Personally, I'm starving."

"If you must know, I had a Rueben, Sour Cream and Onion potato chips and an iced green tea. Thirteen dollars. Can you believe it? Let me tell you, there's no justice in Manhattan. It's such bullshit."

"Life is." Ambrose agreed, nodding sagely. Mostly he was just looking for an excuse to examine the woman before him from as many angles as possible.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part II

“So how was your vacation?” Roy Baumann Jr. asked.

“Eh.” Duane knew that Roy traveled constantly. Two semesters abroad, 4 honey moons with three different women, each to a different place. Travel for work. Two vacations a year. And he still acted like a little kid. Roy never stopped talking about any of it. Where he went last time. Where he’d go next. Why everyone else was wrong to go to the Cape, the Grand Canyon, Hawaii, the Parthenon, the Great Wall or anywhere else they chose to go because he’d undoubtedly been there (twice) and realized it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Life would be nice, thought Duane, if I were the CEO’s son. But Duane had worked hard for everything he’d ever had. He slowly crawled his way up the ladder. When elbow grease and connections weren’t enough, cheating, lying, and blackmailing had pushed the odds in his favor. However, if he was ever going to have the luxury that Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons, the city’s largest importer of fancy European cigars and foodstuffs had, he couldn’t waste time on idle chatter. Any indication that he’d tolerate a conversation with Roy could set him back on his current project by a week.

“So why Reno? I went there once. No, twice. Once with Julia and once…twice with Cindy. So three times, I guess. Anyway, Cindy. My little Cinderella. My princess. What a woman. What a whore. She was right about Reno, though. I only took her the second time to annoy her. You know what she said to me? She said ‘What can you possibly do in Reno you can’t do better in Vegas?’” It was classic Roy. His fat cheeks practically blotted out his eyes as he smiled at his companion, causing Duane to feel a little nauseous. Duane was not pleased with that. He didn’t care to risk losing his expensive lunch. Duane had always been a quick learner, though. As a kid, his family was very fond of telling him about the Boy that Cried Wolf. He wasn’t sure why they’d been so fond of that particular tale, but the story had taught him that being honest at select moments was just as crucial, enjoyable, and underhanded as lying at others. When it’s unbelievable, honesty is the best weapon one can have.

“I shot a man just to watch him die.” Duane told his boss in a level voice, staring deeply into the celery of his tuna salad, contemplating the great mysteries of overpriced Manhattan delis.

“Oh.” Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons responded. “Sounds fun.” Duane tossed him his salesman smile and turned his attention back to his lunch, tearing a large bite out almost immediately and smiling, satisfied in the knowledge that he’d be able to enjoy his customary twelve dollar tuna sandwich without interruption for once. He even felt a small, almost orgasmic shiver when he looked back at Roy Baumann Jr. and estimated from the look on the other man’s face that Roy wouldn’t bother him at least until they were halfway back to the office. A small victory, perhaps. But he won, as he always did. That was the important thing.
*

Monday, April 11, 2011

Night of the Living Debt Part I

The thick night air was as calm as it was suffocating. The distant lights from the city meant next to nothing so far out in the desert. The two men arguing in the dark could hardly see each other. Ambrose was a tall Nevada native. He looked half cowboy, half hobo and all drunk in his long beige coat, crumpled hat, and shaggy throat beard. Duane was built like a linebacker a foot too short, with his greasy dark hair slicked back. He’d had it that way since he was a child and found, now that he was suddenly over the hill that it worked for him as well as any other comb over.

“I won’t settle for so little.” Ambrose said.

“And what, pray tell is it you’d like from me? A Spanish Dubloon? A pearl the size of your head? Maybe the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? It’s the easiest fifty bucks you’ll ever make. You don’t even have to do anything.” Duane rubbed his lucky Ruby ring. The presence of his birthstone made him feel immortal and unstoppable. And by keeping it on the middle finger of his right hand he knew he’d have plenty of opportunity to show it off living in New York.

“A hundred. Bare minimum.” Ambrose tugged on his wild beard in a manner that struck him as defiant and struck Duane as absurd. Never the less, the shorter man smiled, oozing false pleasure as he’d learned to do in his youth as a salesman for an electronics company.

“You drive a hard bargain, friend. I like it. It’s hardly worth a hundred, but because I respect you, I’ll give it to you anyway.” Ambrose’s eyes lit up as Duane spoke. His hand stopped moving as fast, but gripped the beard with greater ferocity. A hundred dollars would mean more to Ambrose than he’d care to admit. He knew he’d fallen a long way, but he knew he could rebuild it all; his house, his career, his life. He silently vowed that this deal would be the first step in his new life. No more booze. No more soup kitchens. No more handouts. A man lives or dies by his own ability. He’d forgotten it for a time after the fire had taken everything he had, but the old Ambrose was back, ready for his life to begin again. Ambrose smiled and was about to agree when Duane cut him off. “I can only give you half now. Half after.”

That stopped Ambrose right where he was. The emerging smile slowly curved the other way. Sucking his teeth, Ambrose closed his eyes and moved his hand from his beard to his mouth sticking his forefinger under his nose and his thumb beside it. Duane checked his watch. 9:43. Ambrose slid his finger from under his nose up into it, swirling it around and looking for prey. Duane checked his watch. 9:44. Ambrose’s finger plunged deeper into his nostril. The motion nearly mesmerized Duane. Ambrose removed his forefinger from its sheath and without any hesitation moved his hand to his ear, and stuck his pinky in. After a moment of digging for lost treasures, Ambrose removed his pinky and, making devil horns put his forefinger and pinky next to each other and stared long and hard at each, comparing one to the other. After a moment of that, Duane had the sense to check his watch again. 9:47. Ambrose continued to study his now slimy fingers. Duane considered the virtues of suicide until his watch told him it was 9:51.

“I’ve made my decision.” Ambrose informed him, moving his hand away from his face again. Duane noticed that his fingers were now clean again, and forced himself to believe that they’d been wiped on the ragged clothes the Reno hobo was wearing.

“Good news, I hope?” Duane asked the other man, grinning again.

“Absolutely. Fifty now, fifty after.” Ambrose grinned back at Duane, or more accurately, the fat wallet that the shorter man produced from his pocket. The smile on his face threatened to split his head in half as Duane pulled out an old, but remarkably well kept fifty dollar bill from the top of the clipped pile of cash he kept in his Italian leather wallet. It was the first fifty Ambrose had seen since he’d been laid off three years earlier. Then suddenly, it was the first fifty he’d touched since he’d been laid off. Ambrose could just feel the great destiny waiting him. A real life rags to riches story. Prime material for second rate motivational speakers everywhere. Someday, he’d be a legend. Someday they’d say that the greatest corporate empire ever to be would never have existed if it weren’t for the tenacity of one man who couldn’t be broken by poverty. Or perhaps he’d run for office. Now that he was back in the money, all the old rhetoric about the land of opportunities came back to him, and those bleeding hearts with their socialistic nonsense could kiss his ass. It’s not as if he owed them for three years of food or the time the volunteers spent on it. He knew now that there was no stopping it. His destiny was set. And no one could reasonably ask for a greater destiny than the one he was sure was his, whatever it happened to be. His smile grew still wider.

And that’s when Duane shot Ambrose. Once. Clean in the chest. The sound barely carried in the dense night air. Ambrose crumbled like a house of cards, clutching his hard-won fifty dollars to his heart.

“Well,” Duane said, mostly because he felt something needed to be said to fill the awkward silence. Or perhaps it was that, like a critic reviewing to a performance, he felt it necessary to voice a reaction immediately afterward to keep the experience fresh in his mind. “That was certainly underwhelming.” He squatted next to the body of the deranged hobo and examined his work, careful not to touch anything or even breathe on the dead man. He saw the fifty dollar bill soaked in blood and cursed softly. “Shit. What a waste.”
*

Friday, April 8, 2011

I am Known as Schizo Scattershot and my Power is Bullshit

The other day I was eating out at the local Chinese buffet. Why? Well, sometimes you want to be where everyone knows your name. Come to think of it, the fact that they know me is a good indication that I should stop going so often. Still, it's the only place I can go and feel thin.

Plus, it provides an excellent place to think. For instance, all the roads nearby have names like "Tomahawk" and "Little Bear." Except of course of "Mancini" street or that private residence with the enormous sign proudly proclaiming the presence of the pervasive and perfidious Lupinacci crime family. I have no choice but to assume that the town with one of my beloved buffets is the first and perhaps last refuge of the Italian Indian. Pardon me, Italian Native American. Can't you just see it?

You'd walk into a teepee and your friend would be sitting cross legged. He'd say "Buongiorno kimasabi. I was just preparing some Buffalo al forno with an antepasto of pepperencini and maize. Later I can show you how to string a bow with angel hair and we can go hunting for wild meatballs."

I dunno. I was amused. If it strikes you as racist...oh wells. I suppose it is, but then again, prejudice preys upon the thin skin of cry babies. It's like how you can't blackmail me by threatening to expose that I'm an asshole. That's totally obvious. And it's not like there is some evil master plan to it. Almost the other way around even. Then again, maybe my solution interpersonal conflict is skewed on account of being a serious nerd. Afterall, if there's anything that defines the modern nerd more than unusual hobbies, social inteptitude, obsession over trivial nonsense, and an iconoclastic image (as if we had a choice after all that) it would have to be our tendency towards bizarre and frequently sophmoric humor that considers nothing sacred- least of all ourselves, friends and shared nerd culture. As an example (NSFW for Language):



Starting next week, I'll be posting pages from a story I wrote a couple years ago called Night of the Living Debt. Originally, I wrote it as a sample to toss at two dudes named John as they performed on stage to convince them to give me the thumbs up to write a short story collection tentatively titled "Gigantism: The Impossible Dream" but I pussed out. And so my awesome idea has been left thoroughly unexploited.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Los Autores Locos con Sombreros Grande

So I was telling a friend not too long ago about how I wanted to form a comedy troupe of authors. I believe my exact words were “I can’t believe that no one’s done this yet. So I assume they have and I’m just too stupid to have noticed.” She liked it though. Although I may be the only person enamored with calling each member by their signature Large Hat. She’s in a similar job and place in her life, but with actual acting experience. So here comes the crazy question: Do any of you live in or near NY and actually want to do this? Seriously. Does anyone want to try and make this happen?

On an unrelated note: Don’t send a query to my agency addressing a different agency and then demand absolute secrecy because you’re afraid other people at the agency will steal your idea and give it to another author. It really doesn’t help your case.

So, something else that might interest all of you: http://editminion.com/. It's sort of an auto-copy editor. Someone posted that on Twitter a couple weeks ago. Problem with twitter is that even following a relatively small number of people, stuff gets lost in a crazy jumble. I more or less say “Okay. Which two tweet links will I follow today?” This happened to be one of them. And it ingratiated itself to me by giving me the all-green, with the possible exception of ending sentences with prepositions on a few samples I pasted in. It’s not perfect, but heck. It’s worth giving it a whirl. Instant addition to my favorites list.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Excuses, Excuses

So, I should probably start by apologizing for being so moody the other day. I am sorry about that, really. It’s just that, well. It gets complicated. See, thanks to Tier 1 Pensioners draining the state, which we can ill afford being that we have to carry half the damn union on our backs, New York instituted yet another emergency luxury tax. Oh, before it was always just on soda and stuff and they could pretend that they were doing us a favor, like when they did it to cigarettes. Didn’t really make sense. You ever get a second hand cavity? But recently, they enacted a luxury tax on “humor, happiness and goodwill.” So I can scarcely afford to be a decent, much less pleasant human being. Two things make this fun, but don’t tell my state government. First is that it only reinforces the image of New Yorkers as being mean, self interested jerks. We probably wouldn’t be if our ludicrously high taxes weren’t used to fund welfare that supports red states who turn around and vilify New York for, of all things “pork barrel spending.” Secondly, and you probably should have seen this coming, but Goodwill is taxed non-stop under this new law and they’ve begun a law suit. Shame they ran out of money roughly 36 seconds after signing their pricey law team, so they’ve decided to withdraw from the state permanently, in a spectacular “screw you!” to people who don’t make 90 million dollars a year. And let me tell you, that magic number of 250,000 bucks that people assume constitutes rich? Not in New York it doesn’t. Meanwhile, I’m applying for jobs with $30,000 starting salaries. And not hearing back because half the time the companies decide to hold off because they can’t afford it right now. Boo hoo, Kentucky. Your starting salary would be 27,500. But our rent is 1200 a month on a closet in a crime riddled neighborhood. So screw you. You don’t want pork barrel? Great, me either. Carry your own damn weight. Do I look like I can carry you? A fragile little slip of a thing like me?

Also, most of that was a lie. Not the stuff about tax redirection or tier 1 pensions though. That, unfortunately is all too real. But after bitching and moaning last time, I remembered that April is good for at least one thing. Fake news. I know this cheered me up enormously. Why, I used to do such things myself.

So, I got some good suggestions for reading material last week. So I might as well ask more questions. For instance: Would you guys be interested in seeing more of my writing, like I did with 2nd: The First Ever Serialized Adventures of YOU! Or am I getting too self indulgent again?

Friday, April 1, 2011

April Makes Fools of Us All. Or Possibly Just Me.

It really does. For one thing, it's snowing right now. Pretty hard, too. Why is it doing that? It's freaking APRIL. What's that saying about March? In like a lion and out like a lamb? Why is my bloody lamb roaring at me?

Here's another way it makes a fool of us...or at least me and everyone I know my age in publishing: we're all poor. I have now been looking for full time work for three months and can't so much as get an INTERVIEW despite the fact that the average entry level requires only a college education, where I have several years work experience IN PUBLISHING and a master's degree. Pretty much all my friends are in the same boat except for one. Who has ten years experience in a middle positon and who'll be deported if he can't get a company willing to sponsor him to sign his checks. There are three things that make the situation intolerable- firstly, that companies jump at the chance to have me for free, but even networking all I ever get is "yeah, you seem pretty good. There's an internship spot you can have OR you can try talking to Whoever, Director of Whatever at Wherever Inc." Director Whoever, however, will only say the same. Secondly, there's my family's insistance that this makes me a huge failure and that obviously I'm not trying hard enough, which is bullshit, but it's what I've come to expect from my family. The third problem is similar to the second but from the other way around. It's sympathy. Usually more like mutual wound licking. I don't want to hear that, either. For one thing, it makes me feel even worse. The more people in my position talk about how we're going to starve in the streets one day very soon despite being dedicated and massively overqualified, all it does is remind me how many people are screwed. And what happens when I finally get a gig? Assuming that ever happens (which it won't from the looks of it)? Then I'll be thinking about how many people I know who would want that job and aren't getting it. I don't like guilt. I'm too good for guilt. So don't tell me your problems because then I have to feel for you. And I can barely feel for myself. I don't exactly have an excess of concern right now.

On a completely unrelated April Annoyance issue, check this out. I have eleven first cousins, including once removed. There are 365 days in a year. What are the odds that any share birthdays? Short answer: such an occurance would be very unlikely. But they do. And not only is this the case, but on THE SAME EXACT DAY I have a friend(specifically, starving, overqualified classmate) who is having an apartment warming party to celebrate finally moving in with her long time boyfriend. Which obviously I can't go to because I'm going to be in Massachusets, celebrating one birthday (ignoring another) and preparing for Faux Passover. Well, fuck. Maybe a few people can get married and I can die from the stress and then everyone will have something to remember April 16th for. Every year. Forever. What is so goddamn special about April 16th, huh? All I can say is "AAAAAARGH."

Come on, me. Look at the bright side. The Goldberg children are very naive. Now that I've sucessfully convinced them that Charlie Brown has Leukemia, I can bullshit about something else and giggle like a little girl when they fall for it. That oughta cheer me up.