Sometimes bed doesn't quite cut it.

But a drawer will.

...and for some reason a fork.

Book 4 of 12: When You Are Engulfed in Flames

For book 4 I somewhat cheated. Those of you with a disgustingly good memory may recall that I wanted to read 12 books this year that I already own but have never read. Well, my spare time being what it is, (fictional) I found time to listen to a book on CD. Since I don't own any books on CD, I listened to this from the library.

I first heard of David Sedaris (the author) in my Creative Writing class. He wrote what became my favorite reading assignment of the semester, the short story "What I Learned," a surreal retelling of his college experience, and quite possibly one of the best and funniest short stories I've read.

While at the library I hunted for some books on CD that I wouldn't hate listening to, such as the last book in the Belgariad that I could finally finish and stop lying about having read them all. Another was a set of short stories/tales written and told by the incomparable Garrison Keillor, someone I grew fond of after serving a 2 year (mostly) honorable mission in Minnesota. In the vicinity of Garrison Keillor I noticed quite a few comedy CDs being passed off as books, as well as other books on CD being passed off as comedy. Among this collection was a familiar name, David Sedaris. Hey, I thought. He's that guy that wrote that story I read that one time, that was funny. I should check it out. So I did and on my way to and from work and school for the last 2 or so weeks I've been among David's captive audience. His writing (and reading, Sedaris reads his own stories) is at once dry and witty and bawdy toilet humor. Self-deprecating to a fault, he manages to be dislikable and lovable, distant and relatable all at once. Now that I sound sufficiently like the back of a book jacket, let me try to sound like myself. David Sedaris is one of the best storytellers I've had the pleasure of listening to. When You Are Engulfed in Flames is a collection of 22 short stories mostly regarding one aspect or another of the author's life. He tells stories about (I won't list all 22, just the 13 or so I found particularly entertaining): a family member who once had a parasitic worm, trying to catch up with his taller walking companion, memories of a hilariously bad babysitter, talking about Princeton (my favorite), a rude neighbor who became a friend, buying a skeleton for his significant other, accidentally being stuck in a waiting room without clothes because he doesn't speak French (it makes (more) sense in context,) accidentally coughing a cough drop into the lap of a sleeping airplane seatmate, his parent's art collection, using album LPs as shields from kamikaze French birds, having a boil lanced from his backside (the title is "Old Faithful,") and moving to Japan on Jon Stewart's recommendation in order to quit smoking.

I would recommend them all except maybe 2, (neither of those are listed above), one story I wouldn't recommend because of it's graphic nature (though I wouldn't necessarily blame the author as it's about his encounter with disgusting people and why I would never hitchhike) and the other I wouldn't recommend just because I tried listening to it about 4 times and couldn't stay focused on it enough to know whether or not it was any good.

But, for what it is, namely recollections and short stories told from a selfish but self-deprecatingly lovable narrator, I can't think of a better read. It doesn't have many hilarious quotes, just because that's not his writing style. His jokes are subtler and more drawn out than a string of quotable one liners, but it makes for a richer reading (or in my case, listening) experience. 4 out of 4 stars. 5 out of 5, whatever my rating system is.

Funniest Cartoon I've seen in awhile

Courtesy of Chuck & Beans from shoeboxblog.com

A Statement: An Artistic Statement

For my Creative Writing class, we had to write an essay on things we learned this semester, what we liked about writing our novella, etc. Because I love my writing almost as much as I love myself, I wanted to treat you to reading it even before my teacher does. Enjoy.


All my life I've been a story teller. Throughout my formative years, teachers, parents and other adults would call me a liar on occasion, but I never used my gift of gab for selfish gain. Well, practically never. I used to invent stories about wicked dragons and good monsters for friends. I told tales that those creatures were the original residents of our neighborhood and mysterious shapes in rocks and esoteric carvings in trees were remnants of their primordial battles, or records left by storytellers of times past. (This was in Southern California's foothills north of Los Angeles). I came to find out that my friends/ storytelling audience took these tales as fact, and I never corrected them. This was around the time when I was in Kindergarten, and I hope they figured out the tales were fictional by now, although a part of me enjoys indulging in ruminations that I was such a skilled story weaver that they all still somewhat believe. Writing just grew as an extension of my storytelling, a way to remember 'facts' or at least things I said, and a way to cultivate my budding creativity. "We owe it to ourselves to tell stories," said Neil Gaiman. I continued story telling throughout growing up, sometimes reading another wordsmith's writings to a sibling or other child, other times reading my own, or making stories up on the fly, whether about dragons, pirates, giants, the color indigo, popcorn, shoes, Australia or spacemen.


I still tell stories. This semester in creative writing I was assigned to write a twenty thousand word novella (as no doubt you're aware). Rather than stick with something I'm comfortable with, namely humor, or something I'm familiar with, fantasy, I decided to dust off an idea I kept in the shelves of my mind for about three years. So for February and a half I typed up what would become a Western ghost story. My first draft emerged as bloated and unintelligible and pointless, and those are the positive things about it. But, I wrote the tale in about six weeks, an hour a day for about 3 days a week only. Not too bad. Then came the rewrite, and it felt like it took a few more hours and many additional cursings and yelling than the original. It was definitely more difficult, not least of all because I waited until three days before the assignment's due date to begin the rewrite. I knew what I needed to do, but I had never rewritten anything, let alone never written anything of such breadth as this novella. I knew I needed to eliminate one character since he was meant to be a secondary character and exposition giver instead of the one who swoops in like a God in a machine rescuing the "heroes" not once but three times. I knew I needed to make the threat of a evil ghost/vampire/zombie man more immediate and more terrifying, as well as many minor edits to make narrative threads more connected and make more sense. But knowing you need to change something and actually changing are two different things. I can say "I want to write the greatest novella ever written" for example, but that won't write the story for me, any more than saying "I need to quit drinking" can cure alcoholism. Usually, it will just make it that much more daunting. Rewriting was a new thing to me, I've never been good at it. Before rewriting I'm always unsure of where and how to begin, how to tell if what I rewrote was an improvement or just a substitution of one problem for a new one; like putting out a fire and causing a flood. But, like telling made-up stories to believing peers in childhood, once I actually tried, it was possible. Not easy and not as fun as the stories of a two headed dragon whose fiery breath formed the crescent La Crescenta, California took its name from, but I could do it. And I did.

The new draft is about ten times better than the first draft, but it's still not anywhere near where I want it to be. It's not that interesting and the dialogue hardly "pops," if anything, it "plops." As I said before, the story is different than anything I've written. Being deeply attracted to strong opinionated women, (and married to one) I often include several such characters in my stories. But in this story there's only one female character of note, and I'm sure reviewers (if I ever get any) may think I treat her unfairly if not misogynistically, (that's not a word, but you should get what I mean). The story as I mentioned before has little if any humor, whereas a common feature in practically everything I've written is some amount of comedy, whether highbrow dry wit or lowbrow jokes concerning bodily emissions. I'm talking about farts here. It's not the darkest thing I've ever written, probably second or third, and I've never been much of a fan of the Western genre. Exceptions would be the movies Maverick and Blazing Saddles, though to be fair that's more comedy with a Western setting, isn't it?

A Western, to Austin.

So why did I write a western ghost story? I think for the same reason I made up fantastical stories for kindred Kindergartners in my youth: for the challenge. To see if I could do it. Maybe the concept my subconscious conceives is that if I can create a Western story I find interesting when I don't care at all for the genre itself, then writing about things I do care about should be easier than writing a story about sparkling vampires. Similar to running at higher elevation where the air is thinner to make running at sea level a breeze, if the hardest task can be accomplished, what can't? Whether or not writing this Western story has turned out good for me or bad for me, I can only say that the best news is I'm eager already to start writing something else. Not to distance myself from this story, but to get right back and snuggle next to my Muse and keyboard and start plucking out a new tale. Writing and rewriting this story, I haven't lost my love of writing, far from it. I have gained a greater appreciation for creating a cohesive narrative and I've gained confidence that I can at last rewrite. It only took me 29 years of storytelling to go back and correct my mistakes made in the first draft.

Now that I've accomplished the writing goal I've had for several years, that is, learn how to rewrite, I must reflect on new writing goals. Publication? Certainly a nice goal, but I think my level of proficiency will never reach quite the heights I'd like in order to have my work read professionally. I tell myself that if I aim for publication then writing and storytelling will lose much of its magic, so I avoid it for now. I have no reservation having it read or printed, but I do refrain from allowing myself to imagine I'll be a world-renowned writer ever. This is both for ego protection and realism. For my next writing journey, I'd like to write something completely different. Something silly and witty and creepy and immature and philosophical with strong female characters and no attempt to be anything more than a darn good read. But, like the goal to rewrite is different than the act of writing, the desire to write "something" witty and creative is a different animal altogether than actually writing it. However, thanks to this class I am completely up to the task and ready to rewrite my next story before I even write it or know what it will be about. Maybe about a young boy who makes up stories of dragons and monsters in his neighborhood that the other children believe and start coming true. Nah.

Reason #947 Why I love where I work:

they got me a princess cake.

Morning Motivation

I can't be the only one. Now I know I'm not, thanks to nedroid.

2010: A Year

I turned 28. My wife 26. My son turned 1.

I had to drop a whole semester. Soon I'll have made up that semester finally. I got a new hip, knee, and everything in between.

In addition to my junk, TSA will see a whole bunch of metal in me.

I was out of commission over a month, rarely leaving the living room. (hip surgery apparently does that to you.)

We got a bunch of new furniture like couches and desk and a TV.

My graphic design ability and knowledge grew exponentially. (According to me of course). My technical knowledge went from "This is a computer." to "This is a monitor. That's the computer." and beyond.

There was some oil spill on my birthday that was kind of a big deal.

It snowed in May.

I got published in Touchstones.

I'm one more year closer to finally graduating.

Leslie Nielsen died.

Some of our best friends moved away. Some others came to visit.

I didn't see my family (the Texas ones) nearly enough, but I did get to see them.

I managed to keep my job over a year. Usually I'd have been fired or quit by now, but I love it.

I lost weight. I gained weight. I lost hair. I didn't get any back.

Our tv broke.

I didn't read as much as I'd have wanted or written as much as I'd like, but I drew an Olympian amount. (There's no Olympian God of Art. Techne maybe, but that's more of a personification of a concept than a god.)

In other news, Morgan claimed the title of cutest baby ever. (He was in the top 5 since he was born, but this year he won it.)

I was going to have a picture of a "ripped calendar" but after googling that I think I have to wash my eyes.

Other than the few ouchies and surgeries, it's been a good year, hope yours has been too, and hope 2011 just blows 2010 out of the water.

UVU Parking Services

So recently I was ticketed at UVU for parking in a handicapped spot. Some of you may know that I am in fact handicapped, and I do in fact have a handicapped placard. That was hanging on my rearview mirror.

So I sent an appeal to have it removed, as I didn't think I needed to pay a fee to be handicapped. UVU Parking Services responded that it would be dropped and marked as a warning. I thought "Ok, whatever. Don't admit your guilt or apologize, fine." But I wasn't paying the 20 bucks.

Later, I received an email stating that I had to pay the fine or they would drop my classes, punch me right in the testicles, and confiscate my first born son if I didn't transfer ownership of my favorite Andrew Jackson portrait.

Not wanting to escalate the issue further by sending a strongly worded email to them, nor writing the local newspaper a scathing editorial about how UVU is now charging me for being disabled, I decided to go to UVU parking services and clear up the matter once and for all.

So, taking up my luxurious lunch break, I went to UVU parking services. As it turns out, UVU parking services is a tiny shack far enough removed from campus that I wondered if it was in actuality just some random annoying weirdos playing a trick on me. Like on Punk'd. But, not being the celebrity I deserve to be, that wasn't the case. Sigh. Because of the genius of their design, I walked nearly 360° around the place to get to the front door, bringing my cane for both sympathy and guilt. And, if action movies have any real application in life, for backup. Trudging through slippery snow with a cane and evidence of my handicap improving my mood so much, I opened the screen door and saw two rather flustered looking individuals there, I hobbled in as much visible pain I could without moaning and asked "who wants to talk to an angry person?"

I realized then as I realize now that working at UVU parking services most likely all you ever talk to is angry people, but I also knew that I was being inconvenienced and penalized for being handicapped. I was not happy.

I explained that I am handicapped and am not paying a premium for that wonderful yet miraculous opportunity being disabled provides me. No, no, the constant pain is reward enough. They explained that I needed a UVU parking pass anyway, never mind that I've been assured by both UVU parking patrollers and Utah POLICE officers that such is not the case.

After arguing/whining the point a bit, I conceded to pay the fee for the privilege of parking in handicapped, faced with the lame excuse of "blame the people who use their grandparent's handicapped passes and abuse the system." Thanks, Chuck. But I'll blame you if that's all right. Not being privy to the screening process taken to determine whether I'm handicapped or not, but I'm so grateful I passed your test of what constitutes a handicapped person. Yay, me. So I went to parking services to not pay $20 and I ended up paying $80. Yeah, win for me. Moral victory or something.

Pretending I didn't hear them laughing as the door hit me on the way out (which I don't think was possible, it was an inward opening door) is counted as a victory in my book. I don't get to say "UVU hates disabled people," or "UVU is charging me for having cancer," or anything accusatory and fun like that. I don't even get to say "UVU parking services is filled with jerks and morons," which I'm sure would have been very satisfying to say. But I won't say any of those things. Instead I get to have another handicapped pass to keep track of, one that says "I'm disabled, and UVU apparently has the right to decide that."

Picdump 204- with comments!

The Awesomeness can hardly be contained.

check out the left hand. he killed my father!

Thank you, random person. This has been bugging me forever.
jesse eisenberg is the poor man's michael cera.

As true as it gets.

The princesses when no one's looking.
or when no one cares.

The world itself couldn't contain their combined awesome for too long.
especially when one is a bisexual and another an alleged pedophile.

Now you know.

-what the other half of the battle is.

Star Trek doesn't need J.J. to be awesome, it just needs Joss.
the first time I want to watch star trek.

I am so going to get this t-shirt.
what? i am.
I will not get this shirt.

Despite the fact that I probably needed this explained to me, it's funny, trust me.

and Big Bang Theory, not so much.

For Sad Children

My leg and me

I'm starting to get really sick about random people asking me about my crutches. It's not that I'm embarrassed, but it's annoying because it's getting so repetitive. I feel like they expect me to say some simple story like "I fell while skiing," but it's not a simple story. It's a story 12 years in the making. And it's a little disrespectful to me and my pain to just say "hip replacement."

Not that that's much better anyhow. When I say "hip replacement" they want to know why. Here's a typical conversation I've had to have with strangers since my surgery, which is just a variant of the conversation I've had for 12 years.

Stranger: Why the crutches?
Me: I had a hip and knee replacement.
Stranger: Oh, my. Why is that?
Me: I had cancer 12 years ago and they had to replace the past metal leg. The metal knee and femur broke the hip so they had to replace it too. (Not entirely accurate, but I know I'm involved in this conversation, and so are they. I don't want to spend the time explaining the shape of the prosthesis and how it broke.)
Stranger: Oh, I'm sorry. And the cancer is all gone?
Me: yes, the cancer is all gone now.
Stranger: Well that's good.
Me: Yes. Thank you. Now have a nice life, I have to get back to buying yogurt now.

I'm not sure why it bothers me so, but since you're nice enough to read my blog, here are some of my theories.

Theory the First: It bothers me because it's a bit of an invasion on my privacy and time. When out to dinner with Tracie I wanted to blurt at our waiter something like "I know you're trying to make conversation and that you're a very nice person, but I'd like to spend a day where nobody calls attention to the fact that I'm handicapped. Is that too much to ask?" But I didn't, because then I'd probably have to tip him really well, and he didn't deserve it.

Theory the Second: After over 12 years, I'm just sick of talking about it. Not to friends and family, but to people in passing and strangers. (Please don't think I'm saying to any of you that I don't want to talk about it. It doesn't bother me at all talking about it with people I know. It's the introducing it to the strangers making conversation that I'm just tired of.)

Theory the Three: I'm afraid that my story inconveniences them, that they're just looking for an anecdote and they get cancer. (The story, not the disease. If only ;) ) Then they often apologize, which is just ridiculous.

Me: I had cancer 12 years ago.
Stranger: I'm sorry.
Hypothetical Me 1: Finally! I've waited years for you to apologize, now I can finally move on with my post-cancer life! Thank you.
Hypothetical Me 2: You're sorry? Why should you be sorry? That's just silly. Did you infect me with cancer? Did you know that when asking a mostly healthy looking guy on crutches that he'd say he's a cancer survivor and has a metal hip/femur/knee? Don't apologize, it belittles me and cheapens you.
Hypothetical Me 3: I forgive you. Let's hug while the music plays. In my head it goes like this: "badda ba da ba, baaa. badda ba da, ba, ba, baaaaa."
Real Me: Hey, it could be worse.
Real Me 2: It's ok.
Real Me 3: I'm a real boy!

I feel guilty that I'm upset about it, but I wish strangers would leave me alone about it.

Of course, Hypothetical and Real me wouldn't be complete without Hypocritical Me. (which some may say IS real me, but I digress.)

I ran into an old friend from a past job at the grocery store. I was on crutches (conspicuously so) and everything, and he didn't ask about them. However, I also asked about his new job, he didn't ask about mine. True, he wasn't the most talkative person in the world when I knew him, but it still kind of upset me that he didn't ask about the crutches, or my health. I know, I'm a hypocrite. I don't expect you to understand, just to listen.

So, to sum up, I want what I've always wanted: for some people to leave me alone, and others to be concerned and want to know what and how I'm doing. As someone very wise once said, "The world would be a much better place if everyone did what I wanted."

I'm aware that these people, these strangers who ask about my crutches, my cane, my limp or whatever, are just being curious and polite.
I also know that while it's the trillionth time I've explained it to:
someone at the checkout counter or someone just walking past me,
someone holding the door or bringing me my food,
while I already explained it to someone behind me in the waiting line (it's the one behind me, because the person in front of me took advantage of the situation and cut in front of the slow moving cripple), or
someone who's a friend of a friend or random nice stranger-- it's the first time hearing about it for them. And no I'm not going to become an angry cripple or a rude cripple, I'll still answer the questions and have the conversation I memorized quite some time ago. But still, I think I have a right to feel exhausted by it, don't I?

Star Kiss

Courtesy of Geekanerdblog:
"I bet Artoo knows everything that happened in the prequels, and is really uncomfortable right now."

Robbery, By A Different Name