Some blog or other

An award, or something.

2011-12-08T15:45:00.001-06:00

My imaginary internet friend Damien Black mentioned my blog in a recent post, so I shall return the favor. As this is a chain-letter type mention, it comes with instructions:

1. Tell who gave you the award and link this back to his/her blog.
2. Write seven random facts about yourself.
3. Give this award to fifteen bloggers/blogs you like.

And off we go. Random Fact the First:
My car is named Ziptitudinous Bandit. Before that, I had Sparky the Wondertruck That Goes. The day I got Sparky I took him to be blessed by a Pagan priestess. She gave me a pouch with oak for strength and elderberries for invisibility, plus a few other things. The pouch is in Bandit's glovebox now.

Random Fact the Second:
Sometimes, like most people, I'll have a song stuck in my head. When I don't, I have a phrase (related to recent internal musings) repeating like a broken record. When my brain tires of that phrase, it will begin to spell out the phrase, over and over, until I notice I'm doing it. My fingers may even twitch as though I'm typing it. I didn't know this was unusual until a few years ago.

Random Fact the Third:
My elbows and knees hyperextend. That is, I can bend them the wrong way. Not in any useful way, other than to freak people out, or give my arm a nasty string-burn back when I used to play at archery, which isn't actually useful at all. On a related note, I can open my jaw wider than any decent human should need to.

Random Fact the Fourth:
I worked for two seasons as a gypsy fortune-teller at the local renfaire, and for five years on the Psychic Friends' Network. I only do readings now for friends, if they ask.

Random Fact the Fifth:
I can solve a Rubik's Cube in about three and a half minutes. That's not unusually fast, but better than nothing.

Random Fact the Sixth:
Since moving across the US four times in as many years, I've become kind of a minimalist. The less stuff I have, the less baggage I have. I would love for everything I own to fit in my car.

Random Fact the Seventh:
I can smell something burning before you can.

Blogs you should check out:

Damien Black, goldsmith and snrang chick extraordinaire

Cara Zozula, who is absolutely aces (she's also here)

Steak & Unicorns, who is a fairy princess

If We Don't, Remember Me, a gallery of living movie stills

Maureen Johnson, who I recently discovered is both wise and hilarious

Theresa Bayer, creator of whimsical and brain-bending art

You Are Not So Smart, because he's right

Fifteen blogs, you say? Well, there's Maru and FARK, and you can find some others on your own.

Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and Jesus.

2011-12-01T15:53:00.003-06:00

I was raised in a Catholic household. Which is not to say we talked about our religion, or even said grace on occasions other than big holiday dinners. But we went to Mass weekly, at least until I went off to college. And then we all stopped going.

I'm told that I figured out pretty quickly that Milady Mother was the Tooth Fairy, although I had questions about how she managed to get into the other kids' houses. And the Easter Bunny's cover was blown when I spied my Nana leaving my Easter basket next to my bed when I was six.

But my skepticism started with Santa.

My godfather was the mayor of our little burg in New Jersey. He'd ride in front of the Fourth of July parade as Uncle Sam on the back of a police motorcycle, but his favorite thing was his yearly gig as Santa Claus.

Uncle Eddie would don his velvet and ermine suit (made by Milady Mother during my naptimes) and visit the kids whose fathers were in Vietnam. The parents would leave a wrapped toy outside for Santa, and he'd spend some time with the kids. My father would drive him to these gigs, as the sleigh was in the shop. And every year, kids would line up at church to sit on Santa's lap and tell him their hearts' desires.

I guess it was the Christmas after my father passed away that Mom took me to sit on Santa's lap. I was five years old. I don't remember the actual visit, but one of my earliest memories is the phone call that came after.

Eddie called to ask me if I enjoyed my visit with Santa. (Did I mention how much he loved his work?) Now, I couldn't help but notice that Santa's beard had elastic along the edge, but I was willing to let that go. The phone call was the clincher.

"Why does Uncle Eddie sound like Santa Claus?"

Mom was stumped. She did a little verbal tapdancing, and the next day Eddie came by to clear a few things up.

"Santa can't be everywhere at once, you know. He has helpers."

I had already caught on, and didn't need to be patronized. My little world wasn't shattered, but I let the adults do all the talking, and they seemed satisfied that I wasn't going to melt down in disillusionment.

By this time I had figured out there were things we didn't discuss at length, such as my father's illness and death. And Santa. None of us rocked those boats. (Rather than making me stoic, this had the opposite effect on me, and I kept my contemplation of life's important issues to myself, at least at home.)

In fact, the Santa issue was completely forgotten by the adults. Next year Uncle Eddie came around in the suit and the beard and the ho-ho-ho, asking my older brother, "Does she b-e-l-i-e-v-e?" My brother shrugged, and I just stood there stumped as to what they expected of me. (I could already s-p-e-l-l.)

But among other kids I was more of a brazen know-it-all. While subjected to the company of some distant relative kids at holiday-time, I shared my wisdom with them. "Santa isn't real." Within half an hour their mother had me by the arm. "What are you thinking? Are you trying to ruin their Christmas?!?"

I was a good kid and rarely got scolded, so this was a shock. I had no idea I had that kind of power. I could ruin Christmas? Like, not believing in Santa Claus would cause Christmas to evaporate? I knew from experience that wasn't so – there were presents for kids who didn't believe in Santa.

Even in my churchgoing Catholic family, the emphasis was not on the True Meaning of Christmas. But I'm okay with that.

So at this point, I know there's no Santa Claus, and my logic has extended to the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. And I've picked up the importance of keeping the charade to myself, as keeping kids ignorant is of vital importance to our adult overlords. There would be presents and food and holiday spirit, baskets of candy, quarters under our pillows. All we had to do was not ask any questions.

Still with me?

There was also Mass every Sunday. Get up early, dress up a little, go to church, and then maybe pancakes at IHOP. Say the words, sit, stand, kneel. It's what we do.

But I was a sophomore in high school before I learned that Jesus was an actual historical figure. One little paragraph in my World History textbook about a suspected revolutionary put to death.

It's not like I didn't go to Sunday School. I did. I could name the Apostles like I could name Santa's reindeer. My teachers were serious about these stories so I learned them. And I thought that was all they were. I figured anything that happened more than a few hundred years ago was anecdotal. Pics or it didn't happen. Like Robin Hood – legends based on a common source, but open to broad interpretation.

So naturally this blew my mind a bit. Jesus was a real guy, it said so right there in my history book. Huh.

I don't mean any disrespect to people of faith. Milady Mother is a woman of strong, quiet faith. I spent years trying to find something in which I could have faith, some kind of compass. As I said, I was a good kid and learned to "be good for goodness' sake".

After trying on a variety of philosophies I'm somewhere between Objectivism and Buddhism, neither of which would condone lying to children or enlisting them as co-conspirators.

I like eggnog, I like giving presents, and pumpkin pie is my favorite. But if I had kids, I don't think I'd encourage them to believe in things I didn't believe in myself. Teach them that they can believe you, no exceptions. It will save them a lot of trouble down the line.

It's either this or get a job.

2011-11-04T17:01:00.006-05:00

About five years ago I had a steady, well-paying job. I worked night shift in a cleanroom, making microchips – a job that is so boring as to require a rich fantasy life.

But five years ago the economy was a different animal, and the company was making noises about downsizing. The layoffs had begun, and I became concerned about what was next.

"You should be a writer," Milady Mother told me over the phone. "I've always said so."

"What would possess you to say such a thing? I've never turned a paper in on time in my life!"

About a week passed, and I spoke with MM again. "I've given your idea some thought, and I've decided I really appreciate how supportive you are of my creativity. So I'm going to move in with you until I can make it pay. And since drinking and smoking are apparently part of the process, I'm going to take up some new habits. Drugs, too. And I shouldn't need to spend much on laundry or hygiene...."

Of course, I proved her point. And by coincidence, that's eventually what's happened, although I don't drink (much) or smoke.

So why is it so hard to just start?

When I was about six or seven years old, I wrote. Pretend-articles for a pretend-newspaper, the name of a boy on whom I had a crush, the name of a celebrity on whom I had a crush ... everything I could think of to write. Then one day Milady Mother sent me to find something in one of her dresser drawers, and there they were – my writings. Stolen from my room. I was livid. MM said she just thought it was all very sweet, and that she thought she'd show them to me some day. She calmed me by giving them back, but I was mortified.

Once it's written down, it's not mine anymore. If it's "out there", somebody will see it, and I can't control where it goes from there. Yikes. For a secretive Scorpio kid, that's the ultimate in self-betrayal.

I still wrote sometimes. I'd go through phases when I'd keep notes, Harriet the Spy-style. Even Harriet knew the humiliation of having her journal read. It seemed I couldn't write a word without feeling someone over my shoulder.

A few years back I shared my experience with a TV writer in Hollywood. He had his own nightmare tale to tell:

He had journaled every day. He wrote all his thoughts and feelings down, never looking back over them, and had a whole wall of journals. He wrote about his marriage, his affair, his fears, his plans.

One day he came home and found his wife sitting on the floor, sobbing, surrounded by his journals. She had been feeling like something was amiss in their relationship and was desperate to understand him, so she went where she knew she shouldn't.

I honestly don't recall whether they patched it up or not, but it was a very long time before he could find his writing voice again.

So I'm guessing this isn't an unusual problem among creative people.

I did eventually find a way to keep my journal hidden, encrypted, hidden even deeper. I have some confidence that those writings will stay private, and will be lost forever when I no longer draw breath, just the way I want them.

Now if I could just get back into the compulsive-writing habit. There are some things I wouldn't mind sharing.

So I'm going to start blogging, again.

2011-09-09T06:54:00.001-05:00

I had blogged about The Hollywood Thing, and about my decision to move back to Houston (the first time), and decided I was too concerned about my "brand" to express any insecurity or lack of knowledge, especially where potential employers might see it. Which probably defeats the purpose of blogging at all.

Now I've moved back to Houston (the second time) and have spent a number of months thrashing around about Life and Purpose and What It All Means and What Should Be Next.

In the midst of this thrashing, Milady Mother decided she'd like to take a trip and she didn't want to go alone. So here we are on a river cruise with about 170 seniors from the US, Canada and Australia. Internet access is sparse and slow, and we're on Day 12 with this crowd. They're lovely folks, but we're a pair of introverts and we're nearly burned out on interacting with other humans. MM is reading novels, and I'm catching up on a backlog of blog posts by Seth Godin, Penelope Trunk, and Leo Babauta.

And so I've figured out what to blog about.

I have opinions about this stuff. I read a good many blogs, and I'll share the interesting bits with you, along with whatever's been on my mind. I don't presume it'll be interesting to very many people, but that's not a problem for me. It isn't about reaching a lot of people – it's about reaching my people.

I won't be enabling comments, but if you are moved to drop me a line I'm on Twitter. Come say hi.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Rheinstraße,Rüdesheim am Rhein,Germany