Flight 93

If you’ve never been to the Flight 93 temporary memorial, go. Do it today, do it tomorrow, do it next week, but get there.
The memorial is in Somerset County, near Shanksville, not too far from Pittsburgh, over a small rise on a dusty gravel road, near a long low wide field with a single American flag flying in the middle.
The memorial itself is not physically big, not grand, not fancy, artistic, or sweeping … but emotionally, it is all these things.
Even after 8 years, it still evokes a sacred hushness and respect. You talk in whispers and move about in measured slow paces through the gravel, which holds a few headstone-style marble pieces with bronze plaques. A wall stands across from a large wooden cross next to rows of homemade wooden angels – one painted with the name of each passenger and crew member. In, around and on the plaques, the cross, and the wall are thousands of personal pieces left by visitors: toy cars, buttons, flag pins, cards, guitar picks, rosaries, crosses, keys, peace symbols, necklaces, stuffed animals, flags of every size, fire fighter helmets and jackets, coins, hats, t-shirts, sweatshirts, flowers, dog tags, prayers, angels, statues and license plates, each left in a fit of emotion creating a memorial, not commissioned, but sculpted by thousands of everyman-artists in honest remembrance.
In the midst of this, from one moment to the next, I was proud, I was angry, I was sad, uplifted, furious, humbled, amazed, sickened, awed, inspired and afraid; I wanted to sit down and cry, and I wanted to stand up and cheer, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to shout, I wanted to hug, and I wanted to fight; and standing in that tiny gravel makeshift memorial looking out over the long, low field at that single American flag planted on the spot where a plane crashed, I felt, for the first time in my life, the price of freedom.
You should go.

What? You What?

Well, dear faithful reader (that's you Mike) I got my first request for a partial today. That’s right. Someone, albeit a junior agent, wants to see the first 50 pages of my novel. Sweet! And double sweet, he's from Writer’s House, which represents: Neil Gaiman, James Morrow, Nora Roberts, Ken Follet, and Erica Jong, among others. I know this is still far from a sale, and light years from my being like the previous authors, but it’s one step closer to publishing a novel.
I guess that rewrite of the query worked.
When I saw the response in my inbox, I assumed it was another rejection. Then I started reading, and still thought that, because the first line was EXACTLY the same as all the rejections. “Dear Mr. Phillis, thank you for thinking of us for your query regarding BOB’S TWO HOUR DAY.” I was waiting to read the rejection next, but instead I got “I would like to consider your project.”
I’ll be sending that first 50 pages tonight for sure.
Writer’s House.
Sweet.

The rewritten query

That first batch of rejections, even though they were expected, prompted me to rewrite my query letter. I'm glad I did, not because it worked - I got my first rejection from that letter today - but because I think it's a better letter. It gets across the humor more and seems more conversational.
Still waiting for more replies, though.
Here's hoping it works. We'll see.

2 More

Nothing stings quite like opening the mailbox and seeing an envelope written by me, addressed to me. The good old SASE. Rarely do agents or publishers send book contracts with my own envelope. Rarely.
Which brings me to:
I got my second and third rejections. They were both form letters, but so much nicer, almost like the agent felt bad for having to reject me, although, they may have gone through the exact same process as the one that sounded crass and mean.
I'm really thinking about redoing the letter now.
Perhaps a better lead.

No news ...

... is good news
... is bad news
... is frustrating
... because it's been preempted by Michael Jackson
... like show biz-news
... leaves me wondering when I can catch Letterman
... is ever really new, is it?
... no olds, no middle-aged, extinction!
... know news, know gnus?
... Ws none
... means the beat goes on, perhaps a little a-fib, but still going.
... 'til Brooklyn!

The Book List

Earlier this year, I read that Stephen King reads about 80 books a year. Christopher Moore reads 60 books a year. I read a lot of books, but I doubted I read that much. Perhaps I should. My goal was to read 50 books this year - one a week, although I am woefully behind already.

Here's the list so far:
Only Begotten Daughter: James Morrow
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues: Tom Robbins
Fool: Christopher Moore
Et Tu, Babe?: Mark Leyner
The Year of Biblical Living: AJ Jacobs
Dies the Fire: SM Stirling
So This is How the World Ends: James Morrow
I Love You Beth Cooper: Larry Shayne
American Gods: Neil Gaiman
Good Omens: Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Thing My Girlfriend and I have Agrued About: Mil Millington

I might have read others, but I didn't start keeping track until early April. I remember other books, like Cryptomicon (which should count as three books), and The Road, but that might have been last November or December, so I can't count them.

Still Waiting

I'm still waiting to hear back from agents.
I'm not sure if the longer wait is a good thing, like they're considering it, or if it's a bad thing, like they just don't care about it. My realistic guess is they just haven't read it yet. Agents are especially with reading submissions, contracts, keeping track of sales, and selling books, and they probably don't read queries everyday - which is why they say responds in weeks. Perhaps every few weeks they have an office wide query reading meeting, where they read each of them before rejecting them. That's what I'd do if I were an agent. And perhaps I just hit the right day with my first submission. Although it feels weird, I’d say sad, but it seems a little harsh comparing query rejection to the real life events that make me sad.
And, so far, I've only gotten the one rejection. My rational mind says it's only one. No big deal. Some people go through hundreds of them.
But another part of my mind is panicked, wondering if I should rewrite the query. I mean, Bob's Two Hour Day is a publishable book, and if I didn't get that across, then perhaps my query is faulty. Or perhaps, I am wrong about the publishiblity. More fodder for the irrational mind.
While writing this book, I read a lot about writers going through the processes of writing and submitting. They all seemed so overly dramatic, like 'pieces of them were dying' and how much doubt and self-loathing and questions about talent arose as they received rejections slips. And how the callous unfeeling 'form' rejections made them feel. I thought, get over yourselves. Now, I'm doubting my talent, doubting my story, wondering if the world hates me, feeling like a little part of me is dying and all because of one rejection. This is why writer’s start blogs bashing agents. Luckily my rational mind is winning out and ... telling myself to get over myself.

Rejection

Just got that first rejection. A very polite, form sentence from an assistant. I knew I was starting at the "top," the best case scenario agents, but there's still a part of me that hoped/dreamed/wanted everyone to see how awesome my book is. Alas, alas, the trite biting words 'we're afraid your project does not seem right for our list' stings to the heart, the soul and the dreams of this writer. (that sounded so corny).
But I should remember, there's more out there, and like love, I only need to find one. The rest simply aren't right for my list.

The First Query

I sent out my first round of query letters today. I'm guessing my easily distracted mind will make it impossible to write tomorrow morning without checking my email for responses every 3-5 seconds.
I have enough trouble staying away from the internet when I'm not waiting for something like this.

The Agent Search ... First Steps

Where I’m at: Done writing, read by several critiquers, and rewritten several times. I’d like to think it’s done.
Next step: An agent

For the past few weeks, I’ve been researching agents. I have a copy of Guide to Literary Agents and for several hours over several days, I read through each listing, making notations next to ones that seemed to fit my needs. I’m still not sure what genre Bob’s Two Hour Day is, which as far as I can tell is bad (that’s a whole ‘nother blog), so on my first pass through the Guide I marked any agent listing who represents comedy, because I know for sure Bob’s is supposed to be funny. In fact, I hope that all my books will be funny, so an agent that accepts comedy is paramount. That narrowed it down to 50 or so.
On my second pass I noted which of these accepted sci-fi/fantasy, because the book clearly has these elements, and also which took mainstream, because that’s where Christopher Moore books land. (I read a suggestion somewhere to find the author or authors closest to my style and perhaps that’s my genre.)
And you have to start somewhere.
I divided my list into three: first, all the listings that represented all three categories, then two and then one. It seemed to make sense.
I took that first list and looked up each on the internet, checking philosophy, sales, experience, and news. I put most of my stock in recent sales and how comfortable I felt reading the websites. Were these people I could have a relationship with? Do they seem to have a sense of humor mixed with their professionalism? Do they sell and are they accepting manuscripts? But I added a couple personal lesser qualities to my research in order to weed out ties.
I took my second list and did the same. I eliminated several agencies and other’s moved to the top.
I listed my top 5, second 5 and next 10.
That was my process.
Now, I am in the process of crafting letters to the first 10, checking to see if they accept email queries (because why waste paper?) and which want a synopsis or sample chapters or only accept submissions through online forms.
It’s a process, but one I don’t want to rush through, even though I am getting anxious to put my book out there and see what kind of reaction it gets. I want to make sure I am as professional as possible. Go about the process the right way. I’ve read extensively on line, in magazines and books about the query process, and I’m trying to follow that process as best I can.
The hardest thing? Explaining why I chose this particular agency and sounding sincere in saying I think we’d be a great fit, you, me and my book, but knowing they know I’m sending that same message to 10 other people.

What I read at my brother's funeral today

I am the youngest of four, so this unenviable task fell to me. It fell through the lawyer who regularly argues in front of judges and juries, right through the most outgoing of all the brothers and landed with me; the comedian, I guess.
So I took up the task.
I’d already written my brother’s obituary. It was hard.
Not just because he died, but because I wanted the world to know who he really was, which is tough to do in the conventional, services informative newspaper style.
It’s practically impossible without using worn-out, flowery adjectives or writing six pages worth of text. So I left some stuff out.
Here’s the obituary I wish I could have written:

My brother Andy died yesterday. Sunday, April 26, 2009. It sucks.
When you grow up with three brothers, you’re really not supposed to have favorites, but Andy made that tough, because he was funnier, smarter, wiser, harder working, more intelligent and more experienced than the rest of us. Naturally, we all liked him best.
Andy was only 48 years old.
Much too young to die. That’s less than half a decade; cars older than him still rumble through the streets on sunny days, but … you know, Pancreatic cancer. It sucks.
As the disease progressed, I knew there was nothing I could do. I wished and I hoped, and I didn’t believe it would come to this, because I didn’t want it to come to this. But it came to this.
Helen, who was absolutely amazing throughout this whole ordeal, made him as pain free and comfortable as any human being could have, but all I could do was sit next to him and hold his hand, whisper words of encouragement and love, hoping somehow, some way, that would ease some of his pain.
Sometimes I’d rub his arm, maybe because touching him made me feel better, because in my family, that’s what we do, and I hoped it made him feel better. Although, in retrospect, I could have just been annoying. Sometimes little brothers are.
Sometimes his thumb would squeeze me back, and I knew he was in there, stubbornly hanging on, refusing to quit, never wanting to give up, because that’s how my big brother was. Tenacious, or stubborn, depending on where you were standing at the time.
He stubbornly hung on even when we’d all resigned ourselves that the time was near; he hung on for another day, like he just didn’t want to let go.
Or perhaps: because Andy had done so many great things in his life, had so many monumental occasions, it just took two days for his life to ‘flash before his eyes.’
He packed a lot of life into 48 years.
30 years ago, if you would have asked any of the four brothers which one we thought was going to travel to Poland, Italy and Japan; I’m willing to bet we wouldn’t have said him. But he did it.
For a while he raised horses, not to mention three great kids. He played hockey, once in a tournament in Lake Placid on the same ice where a year earlier the US won a gold medal.
He built models when he was younger, and he built decks for his friends when he was he was older.
A few months ago, right after the devastating news that the chemo treatments didn’t work, when Andy had lost a lot of weight, and a lot of his positive attitude, he said, “People can come visit, but I’m not the Andy that I used to be.”
And to that I say, “No.”
He may not have had the same strength, or the same body, and perhaps his demeanor was a little depressed, but he was still the same guy.
He was still the same guy who used to wear that crocheted hat my grandmother made him. He’s still the same guy who taught me how to play hockey, and how to swing a hammer and drive a nail like I meant it; and the same guy who used to drive me around in his Trans Am.
Cancer may have taken his body away little by little over the past year, and I won’t forget that, but that’s not what I choose to remember.
That sucked. He didn’t.
And I’ve got a thousand stories to prove it.
Ask me about the time the passenger window fell out of that Trans Am and onto my lap and he thought someone was shooting at us, so he floored it and proceeded to do 80 down Dutch Ridge Road. Andy was that good.
Ask me about the time we were catching football in the house and knocked over a lamp, and he rightly reasoned if we blamed the dog, mom wouldn’t get mad, because she liked the dog and the dog didn’t know better. Andy was that smart.
Ask me how he used to hit stones from our driveway into the woods across the street, using a 16 pound sledge hammer for a bat. He was that strong.
Let me tell you about the time I helped him build a barn, and stayed on his couch for almost a month. We’d work all day, then come back to his house, where I just wanted to relax, but he would end up in tiny soccer games with his kids, because he was never too tired for them. He was that dedicated.
And of course, I felt bad he was outnumbered 3-1, so I’d join in too. I was that much in need of wisdom.
Ask me about the time he was feeding M&Ms to the dog, or when we built the hockey rink in the backyard, or the time I was wracked with guilt for thinking something I considered selfishly inappropriate at a time of grief, but he said to me, “You never know how you’re brain’s going deal with something. Sometimes you think things just to be able to cope. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
He was that wise.
I could tell you about the time we went canoeing and he and Tom accidentally steered themselves under a fallen tree, bounced off a log and came roaring out backwards, Dan screaming ‘get me outta this canoe’ and me in a canoe between my parents yelling, ‘let me in that one!’
I could tell you about when he played baseball and used to hit monster home runs, pay-off from all those hours swinging a sledgehammer, or how he wanted to chew tobacco like the big leaguers, but hated tobacco, so he chewed shredded coconut. But he didn’t want the other team to know, so instead of spitting the white, obviously not tobacco juice out, he swallowed it. And I’ll say this, if an opponent thinks you’re bad enough and crazy enough to swallow what they think is chewing tobacco, you have an intimidation edge.
He was that bad and that crazy.

And these are only the stories I know. Ask other people about their stories. Ask his best friend Dave about racing stories; ask Tami to tell you the story about how she met Andy for the first time because it’s classic Andy; ask Merideth, Weston and Garrison about how wise and loving he was, and, at times, maybe a little dorky; ask Helen to tell you about his quick wit; or Sam and Jesse about his dancing skills; ask Tom about the time he drove Andy’s car for the first time, while Andy napped in the passenger seat. He woke up, glanced over at the speedometer and said calmly, “You want to slow down?” because evidently speed in that Trans Am was hard to judge; ask Dan about the time they built two bikes out of spare parts in the garage and then raced them through the woods; ask Mark or Jim about his problem solving skills; ask my parents to tell you how, once when Andy was just a child, my dad needed to correct him, so he called him over, and when Andy came, his little sad face got so close, their noses touched.
Ask anyone who knew him, and they could tell you a story about how funny, or smart, or hard working or nice he was.
But let me tell you about the time he changed a flat tire in a tuxedo, because I tell it better.
Let me tell you about the time we went through the Wendy’s drive-through backwards, so I could do the ordering because he didn’t want to. Or let me tell you about the two brothers basketball duo of Dr. A and Tragic Johnson , or how he used to tease me when I was clumsy, saying I broke everything, until one day on the CB someone said, ‘breaker, breaker’ and he said, “Larry, someone’s calling you.” He was that funny.
Let me tell you about the first time someone called me Andy’s other little brother. It was at the Beaver County Ice arena where he was a goalie, a teammate, a friend, and a hero to a lot of people. Kinda like now but with skates. Two of his teammates walked by, looked down at me and said, “That’s Andy’s other little brother.” Dan was already his little brother and now I was Andy’s other little brother. I guess I’ve been called worse.
But I’m not sure I’ve ever been called better.
And that’s what I’m going to remember.

People tell me, this will get easier over time. I don’t believe that. What I believe is this: I will get stronger over time; I will be stronger because when someone dies, I think they pass their strength on to us. We’ll all be stronger because, Andy was so incredibly strong. That strength is here now for us to take, so tell a story and take a share.
Trust me, there’s enough to go around.

A new experience

I did something today I have never done in the past 44 years of my existence. That’s right, I put myself out there, tried something new, lived on the edge, stepped outside my comfort zone so to speak, and it felt good.
Some of you who know me may not be surprised and others may be. In a game of truth, truth, lie, I could have lied this and gotten one over on people.
Here’s the big experience (which isn’t that big):
I bought a book on the very day it was released.
First time.
Every book I’ve ever read, and there’s been quite a few, including new novels released by Chuck Palahniuk, Nick Hornby and even Kurt Vonnegut, my favorite of favorites, were bought well after the release date. None have moved me to purchase on the day of release like Fool, by Christpher Moore.
Usually, I wait for books to go on sale, to drop in price, come out in paperback at least, but I so anticipated this book that I reread King Lear. Shakespeare of all things, and not for a college class, because Fool is a novel about Lear’s Fool, and his take on the story therein.
Fool is Moore’s 11th novel, nine of which I have already read, making me, in my own mind, an Author Guy expert.
Maybe a big fan.
An admirer.
Perhaps, a stalker, at least on-line.
In my opinion, there’s no better author of the twisted tale, with a bite of irony, sarcasm and laugh out loud humor. Moore doesn’t just spin a funny tale, he spins an interesting tale with humor, like a more transparent Vonnegut, a less nihilistic Palahniuk and slightly subtler Douglas Adams.
Pretty good company, no?
Moore creates realistic comic characters with true comic perspectives, sometimes going outside the realm of reality to do it, but making them come alive none-the-less.
I discovered him late, after nine of his novels had already been published, and I missed the release of A Dirty Job, but I wasn’t going to miss Fool. I didn’t dress up like the release of a Harry Potter book, or Twilight, but I made the pilgrimage on the first day, and that’s what counts.

If you want to jump into Moore mayhem, here’ s the novels:
Practical Demonkeeping: Road trip with a demon. Nice. You got to love a story where a good well developed character is eaten on page 3.
Coyote Blue: A fantastic blend of modern city life, modern Indian life and ancient Indian lore. And a chase scene across the west.
Bloodsucking Fiends: New kid in town finds a hot new girlfriend, who happens to be newly vampired. She needs help adjusting and surviving, and he fits the bill – he works nights.
Island of the Sequined Love Nun: Playboy flyboy crashes the company jet while initiating a young lady into the mile high club. This starts a series of events that land him in the South Pacific, working for some shady folks, but what’s a suspended pilot to do?
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove: A therapist stops the drug therapy she’s gotten the town hooked on, and when an ancient lizard arrives, hormones turn the town upside down.
Lamb: The Gospel according to Biff, Christ’s childhood pal: By far, his best book, telling the tale of Jesus and his friends during the years the Bible doesn’t cover. Laugh out loud adventures and not a lick of blaspheme.
Fluke: or I know why the winged whale sings: When a marine biologist sees a whale with the words You Suck painted on his tale, he becomes suspicious, and learns about some things he might not want to know about.
The Stupidest Angel: Raziel is sent to Earth to grant one Christmas wish to one lucky child. But the child just witness the death of a “lodge” Santa, which he mistakes for real, and wishes the dead man back to life. Zombies. (this tale incorporates characters from several other Moore novels. Not a good starter book.)
A Dirty Job: Being Death is a dirty job, but someone has to do it, even if that someone is a Beta Male, the kind who is reluctant to take the lead.

You Suck: A Love Story: the sequel to Bloodsucking Fiends, which I actually started reading before I knew it was a sequel. A few chapters in and I couldn’t figure out why things seemed weird, and then I discovered my mistake.

I encourage you to dip your funny bone into Mr. Moore, and coat it with genius.
Peace
Larry

My Pockets are Too Deep

So, I've discovered that my body type and new jeans don't mix. The 'sag' style pants, or the 'relaxed fit' jeans with their looseness and comfort have deep pockets. Unfortunetly I have short arms as compared to my torso. An average person who stretches their arms straight out to the sides should measure almost exactly their own height from finger tip to finger tip.
I don't.
So when I reach down into my pocket, for my keys or change or whatever, my hand sometimes doesn't touch bottom, forcing me to raise my leg, bringing the pocket higher.
It's weird.
And slightly embarrassing to admit.
And inconvenient when I'm walking.
So, I can't wait for the tight and short look from the 70s and early 80s to return.
Or for my arms to finish growing.

‘Tis the season: for mean, stupid, and selfish people

Something happens to customers during the holiday shopping season; the bright lights, holiday music and dollar signs dancing in their heads magnify their inert jerkness, selfishness, and their perception that the whole retail world somehow owes them something; like their special circumstances of being alive and having a child who wants Bakugan, gives them the right to get one, even if we don’t have them; Or their shear desire gives them the inalienable right to the Jillian Michaels Wii game.
Scene: earlier today in the video game section of the world’s largest toy store
Customer: Do you have the Jillian Michaels disk?
Me: No, we’re sold out.
Customer: They always do that!
Me: (looking puzzled)
Customer: How many did you have? Like 2?
Me: I’m not sure, but we usually don’t get less than 12 of a game when it first comes out.
Customer: This always happens. (clearly annoyed that I am responsible for this dastardly tactic.) They advertise it, and then only have 1 or 2 in the store. They get you in here and you buy other stuff.
2nd customer-nearby: (sympathetically) Is it in the ad?
Customer: It was in Sunday’s ad.
Me: (voice over in my head) It’s Tuesday afternoon, that’s like two and a half days.

And so the official start of the Christmas season begins.
Associates hunker down like cold war 1950s, stockpiling a nuclear arsenal headed by Wii consoles, and sniffing out communist sympathizers (Bakugan, who clearly purposefully didn’t produce enough toys to satisfy demands, thus upsetting the American consumer and derailing the retail wage slaves who take the brunt of the blame that some poor child will wake up on Christmas morning and not have the little plastic ball that opens into a monster.)

My first attack came later that same day from a friendly face I’d seen just a few days prior. I remembered her and her friend.
Customer: I’m here for a Wii Guitar Hero World Tour Bundle.
Me: (looking at the large stack of them she just passed by) Okay.
A short standoff ensues before I retreat around the edge of my register counter over to the stacks of games, grab the top one and carry it back around and set it on the counter.
Me: (after attending to the numerous details of starting a transaction) That’ll be 189.99.
Customer: What? You said it was $99. (She meant the other day. I remembered the conversation)
Me: Actually, what I said was, I’m not sure what the price will be, but I heard $99. Which is the price of the bundle with the guitar and game.
Customer: You told me it was $99.
Me: What I said was, I’m not sure the price, but I heard $99. Which is the price of the bundle with the guitar and game.
Customer: You walked over here and checked the price, brought this card back and told me it was $99.
Me: I remember you. I remember that day. And I couldn’t find a price, which annoyed me, because I should have that information, so what I said was, I’m not sure the price, but I heard $99. Which is the price of the bundle with the guitar and game.
Customer: We were standing next to the drums and you said this was $99.
Me: It’s $189.00, the one with the guitar is …
Customer: You told me $99.
Me: Would you like to speak with a manager.

That’s my own personal duck and cover drill. Call the manager. I don’t get paid enough to deal with that.
What gets into people who yell and scream and insist that the store make things right, when in fact it was a misunderstanding, which really wasn’t my fault?
This person was bad, but not the worst.
I’ve had worse experiences, like this one:
Scene: me walking around straightening the store looking for customers to help. Two preteen boys are goofing off, pealing clearance stickers from PS One games and pasting them onto PS2 display boxes.
Me: Guys!
Guys: Sorry. (They laugh sheepishly, and skedaddle. I follow them at least to the end of the row, and watch them leave. Another customer has found the boxes and brought one to the register.)
Customer: This says $7.99
Me: Those kids I just chased out were peeling stickers from the PS one games.
Customer: I want this.
Me: They’re $129.99
Customer: It says right on here $7.99
Me: We didn’t do that, those kids were goofing off.
Customer: I want it for this price.
Me: Excuse me?
Customer: The box says $7.99 and I want it for that price.
Me: I can’t sell that to you.
Customer: You have to. The box says this price. You have to honor that.
Me: Fine. I’ll sell you that display box for $7.99. It’s empty though. I think you’ll be disappointed.

In the end, I called my manager, who calmly explained how we are not legally bound to sell a product at a price, even if the price is marked on the box, so even if this were a mistake by one of our employees, we wouldn’t sell the Playstation for that price.
I should have sold her the box.

Cheater Max ... or Food Court Folly.

I’ve recently realized I eat an inordinate amount at the Mall food court.
The realization came at Wal-Mart (of all places I think about spending too much time somewhere)
On Sunday evening in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, I saw the workers from China Max. They recognized me.
At the time I thought it was both cool and a little weird that workers from a food court restaurant would recognize me. How much time do I spend there? Am I unforgettable? How many times do I eat there? Do I have a life?
They probably think I work at the mall, even though I always enter through the outside doors before I being asked if I’d like to try a free sample.
But this isn’t about that weirdness. It’s about another weirdness.
And another Chinese restaurant; Koki’s Grill.
Koki’s, the new Chinese place in the food court, just opened and being an equal opportunity eater, I tried it, even after entering and having my friends offer me a free sample, presumably of orange chicken, which I declined as usual.
I liked it. And by it, I mean the food at Koki’s not the declining of the chicken.
But after eating at Koki’s, I had to pass by China Max, and be asked again to try a free sample, which made me uncomfortable; made me feel like I was doing something wrong. Something forbidden in the realms of fairness in relationships, and make no mistake, seeing the folks from China Max outside of China Max, made me feel like I knew them as more than restaurant workers serving me Bourbon Chicken and fried rice.
We have a relationship now.
I ate at Koki’s again today, and even though I’ve eaten at China Max in between the times I’ve eaten at Koki’s, I can’t help but feel like they know. And are judging me.
And I can’t help but feel bad when I walk past with my unfinished Coke dangling in my hands, China Max workers smiling hello or offering me a free sample, presumably of orange chicken, still friendly but in a stilted way.
I feel like I betrayed a friend.
Like I cheated.
Like I’ve done something wrong eating at a different restaurant.
This could all just be in my mind, but the guilt is real.
It won’t stop me from doing it again, because I really like the Black Pepper Chicken at Koki’s Grill. And China Max just doesn’t have Black Pepper Chicken. They have the Bourbon Chicken, which I like, too, but sometimes you just need a change. A little more spice.
That’s going to be my excuse the day they finally confront me.
“I’ll take the bourbon chicken.”
“No bourbon chicken.”
“Umm, I can see it right there.”
“No bourbon chicken for someone who’s been eating at the other end of the foodcourt.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“We see you walking by with your half full cup of Coke with no ice, still smiling at your fortune. What? Our fortunes not good enough for you?”
“No, you’re fortune’s are great, it’s not that, it’s just I wanted the Black Pepper Chicken.”
“We can make Black Pepper Chicken.”
“It’s not on your menu.”
“So you just run to someone else How do you think that makes us feel? We saw you at Wal-Mart!”
“This is crazy.”
“It is crazy, We thought we knew you, and your two item combo, with rice. But you’re a two item timer!”
“It’s just chicken.”
“You’re a jerk.”
And they’re right.
Why else would I feel guilty when I walk past?
Why else would I hide my half full dangling cup?
Why else would I be blogging about it?

Peace
Larry

Czech please stop it

I just heard, or more correctly, overheard, this conversation in Panera:

Old guy talking to young Panera girl, dressed in her pastel uniform. Conversation is in full gear by the time I’m earshot.
OG: Where are your parents from?
PG: Czech Republic
OG: Oh, do you know what a Czechoslovakian abortion is?
PG: No.
OG: Canceled Czech.

Now there are a few things wrong here.
First of all, it seems majorly inappropriate to tell that joke to someone you don’t know.
Secondly, for an octogenarian to tell the joke to a twenty something while she works feels awkward too.
Thirdly, the poor girl didn’t get it.

PG: I don’t get it.
OG tells it again, with no further explanation, as if that would clear it up. It doesn’t it.
OG: You know like at the bank when they cancel a check? It’s the Czech getting canceled.
PG: I understand, I just don’t know what Slovakia has to do with it.
The old guy doesn’t realize Czechoslovakia is not two separate states. Czech Republic and Slovakia. His memory bank of jokes doesn’t up date with the political climate.
I’d like to think the girl got the joke but sensibility prevented her from laughing and ‘please the customer’ attitude prevented her from expressing her outrage, so she expressed it by calling the guy on his knowledge of life outside the United States.
I’m assuming he should be updated on life in the US, too.

prologue
As I sat down to enjoy my drink and the free wi-fi that allowed me to post this so quickly, the old guy gravitated to the booth directly in front of mine. (behind mine, if you’re my bookbag.)
He greets the woman there, and before she can introduce him to her man friend, the Old Guy breaks out another joke.

OG: A man goes into a grocery store and asks the kid if he can get half a head of cabbage, the kid says he doesn’t know, he’ll have to ask someone else about that. So the kid walks into the back, and unknown to him the man follows. The kid reaches his manager and says, ‘some asshole out there wants to buy half a head of cabbage.’ The manager sees the gentle man standing behind the kid and says in a stern voice, do you mean this gentleman? The kid turns around makes eye contact with the man and says, no, this is the nice gentleman who wants to buy the other half.
After the customer leaves, the manager remarks how quick that thinking was, so quick he wants to make the kid a manager at his Detroit store. The kid says, Detroit? The only thing in Detroit is hockey players and whores. The manager says, my mother lives in Detroit, to which the kid replies, oh yeah, what team does she play on.

Now there are a few things wrong with this. It presupposed Detroit hockey players are not whores. Second, it’s an awful long joke to tell to someone who is waiting patiently to eat their soup, or who is trying to write fast enough not to forget the Czech incident that just happened. And it’s not that funny.
I bet that guy would be a pain in the ass to work with or be related to.
And lastly, I’ll be telling that at the next gathering, as a follow up to this:
You know what they call a canceled check in the Czech Republic?
An abortion.

Peace
Larry

The Reason Books Rule

I was moved to tears yesterday.
No kidding – as I am prone to do in blogs. No exaggerating – as I am also prone to do. No making up part of this or changing details so it reads better.
Just tears.
From reading.
The book: They Don’t Play Hockey In Heaven.
The story: A 250 page autobiography of a 31 year old man trying to revive his professional hockey dreams after 9 years and removal of a brain tumor. (The brain tumor is its own story chronicled in Man Made, which I will be searching for in used book stores.)
Ken Baker wasn’t just some hack former player, he was the winning goalie on the US Under 17 world championship youth hockey team. World Championship.
He was on track to be on the ‘92 Olympic team, former teammates with Mike Modano. Baker thought he just lost the desire to play, or lacked the commitment to stay in shape, but unknown to anyone, the brain tumor sapped his testosterone. Life unexpectedly stole his dreams.
In later years, the tumor was discovered, treated and a dream – an actual sleeping dream – inspired him to play gain. First in afternoon pickup games and adult league fun games, and then he tried out for AA hockey
To Ken Baker, it didn’t matter. He just wanted a shot at being paid to play hockey, so he left his successful writing career, his new marriage and his home, and moved to Bakersfield, California.
AA hockey. Two steps below the NHL. Rarely do players make the transition. Think Wheeling Nailers. Think long bus rides, long hours, #3 goalie, with practically no practice time, 32 years old by this time, without knowing if he would ever get into a game. $50 a week, as an emergency goalie.
He was determined to do it. Dedicated to the dream. It was real life. Inspirational.
And when he finally got into a game – the last two minutes with a 7-2 lead – and made a save, the crowd went wild. (they knew his story) and I broke down. Perhaps I was tired from reading for 5 straight hours for the second day in a row.
Perhaps Ken Baker is that great.
Either way, I was moved.
Later he played a whole game. He won. I was moved to tears again.
He retired after that one season, but he’d made it.
Live the dream.

Peace
Larry

Pens vs Flyers: threats, fan(atic)s and accusations of tanking

Wow. People (supposedly normal people) posting on the internet while waiting for the Pens-Flyers series to start are angry. And rabid - not in a good way.
Internet discussions are pretty much focused on petty name calling and accusations about players, fans and whole cities sexuality, manhood, and general superiority compared to their fans, players and city.
Can I get an intelligent conversation about hockey?
Or do the sites only let posters on who also tip cars and burn couches after major and minor victories.
Here’s my predictions for the series:
Both teams’ fans will complain about officiating – even when they win.
All Flyers fans will say Sidney Crosby dives, and Pens fans will say the Flyers are goons.
Crosby will be booed in Philly and Hatcher will be booed in Pittsburgh.
Whoever loses will blame it on officiating first, unlucky bounces second and underachieving third. Neither will admit the other team was better.
Oh, yea, and in the midst of this complaining a great series of hockey will take place, between two teams with great skill, grit and passion.
And if I hear one more comment about how the Pens 'tanked' their season finale against the Flyers so they didn't have to play the Flyers I think I'll scream. It was bad enough that the Senators tried to use this tactic to motivate their team, but now Philly is using it?
Hello Philly fans, if you really think the Pens tanked that game, you'd better be really worried, because your team barely won. An empty netter? Against a team bent on tanking the game? One goal against a team determined to lose?
If that's all the better the Flyers play, they're not going to fair well against that same team going all out.
So to all you internet posters, Shut up, and talk hockey.
Larry (posting on the internet)

Three things overheard over the past few weeks

1) After buying some books from Half-Price Books (one of my favorite places) the sales clerk asked if I needed a bag. And because I've b(eco)me (eco)nomical I said no, and she answered: "Groovy."
I wasn't aware people still said Groovy.

2) I didn't hear this one, but my girlfriends goddaughter, told us the story. She is in kindergarten, and was riding home on the bus, wearing a new pink leopard print jacket and a boy on her bus said: "I like your jacket. If I was a girl, and sometimes I wish I was, I would like a jacket like that."
Evidently, I’m not aware of a lot of things.

3) We were sitting outside the new I-Hop in Robinson (that's right, International House of Pancakes finally in the Pittsburgh area) waiting for the pancake goodness, when a family exited the restaurant. A boy no more than 7 holding his father's hand said as he passed by: "My taste buds just shot straight to heaven."
I-Hop should pick that up as their new slogan.
It would be Groovy. And if I was a pancake, and sometimes I wish I was, I would want to send taste buds to heaven.

Keep your ears open.
Peace
Larry

Ben Ten Little Piggies (and then there were nine)

So, I broke a kid's toe today.
At work. Not a child, but a coworker, for those of you who know I work in a toy store but not how I liberally use the word ‘kid.’ This kid was in his early 20s. (presumably he still is, with the mortality rate of broken toes being what they are.)
Breaking a toe may seem like a strange result working in a toy store, especially considering it was the big toe; the hardest one to break; the one that went to market.
But I did it by accidentally lowering a one-ton palette of sand on it. And then quickly jacking the palette jack back up as his face contorted in pain and he kept repeating, “Up, up, up!”
He took it well. Better than I would have.
Better than I did.
I am now in a funk over this accident that I can’t help thinking I could have prevented. I’m not sure how. Is there anything worse than accidentally hurting someone you hardly know, wondering why this had to happen, and how this person is going to react?
Is there anything worse than watching as he limps away, unable to put weight on the toe, and knowing that’s your fault?
Did I ruin the next six weeks of his life?
Will I be in trouble with his family, with my boss, with his friends and my coworkers?
Why did this happen to me? Why?
Will he hate me? Be mad? Be angry? Be forgiving?
Is there anything worse than the unknowing? The moments before you apologize, before you know for sure the extent of the damage?
Is there anything worse than the guilt feelings that have been lingering with me all day; the guilt that hung in the air in the back of the truck almost too thick to push boxes through as I finished unloading without my partner who was on his way to the hospital?
Is there anything worse than that?
Of course there is.
Having a broken toe and being on my way to the hospital.
And the guilt grows …

(Be well, Ben Ten.)