The Next Great Children’s Book

Many years ago, in my earlier days of fatherhood, I developed the particular skill of telling my children bedtime stories with, um..how shall I put this?…colorful plot lines. These stories were rich with life lessons, as well as a fair amount of casual violence. Nevertheless, they were quite popular with the kids, if not their mother. Well, last night I was given the opportunity to reprise my role as the Stephen King of the bedtime story, when Kaitlin and Jon’s dear friends, Bailey and Matthew Wolfer shockingly asked me if I would do the honors for their two adorable boys, Milo and Theo. What follows is a rough summation of the story that poured forth from the muddled grey mush of my brain in the pitch black darkness of the boy’s room. The seeds of this particular classic were provided by a picture that little Theo (age 4) had drawn during dinner of an alien with six hands…

The setting was the frozen tundra of Alaska where two brothers lived in a cold and drafty igloo. Their largely absent parents had a rule that if they ever needed to go outside to pee they must do so quickly and return to the relative safety of the igloo asap. But on this particular morning, the boys were feeling adventurous. Before long they found themselves on the cusp of disaster when they notice that a (herd? Pack?) of polar bears had risen out of the icy waters and was about to charge the two helpless waifs with murderous intent.

Just when things looked hopeless they noticed a bright light above, red, blue and green rotating lights hovering in the sky directly above the scene of potential slaughter. Suddenly, three legs shot out from the bottom of the craft as it prepared to touch down on the snowy ground. Then a giant set of stairs extended down from the spacecraft and the Alien warrior of poor Theo’s earlier imaginings arrived on the scene. At first, the boys were convinced that they had been saved from becoming the polar bear’s dinner only to be abducted by this giant extraterrestrial warrior with six hands—each fitted with a different and unique weapon of mass destruction. But instead, the warrior alien turned towards the six flummoxed polar bears and began their wholesale and systematic elimination. The first polar bear fell victim to a shot between the eyes from the handgun of arm number one. The second polar bear’s fate was sealed when the Samurai sword attached to hand number two decapitated the helpless beast. At this point in the narrative I thought it necessary to point out that the deluge of blood spewing out from this unhappy result clashed terribly with the pristine clean and white surface of the heretofore innocent tundra landscape…(teaching the boys about imagery and the irony of perception in the process). When the third polar bear noticed that the only weapon attached to arm number three was a simple whip, he snorted contemptuously (yet more irony, illustrating the time honored truth that pride indeed cometh before the fall). Before bear number three could get the smirk of overconfidence off his furry face, he too found his severed head flying through the frigid air!

Now there were three polar bears left, and suddenly the boys were worried. The warrior alien’s fourth arm was equipped with a howitzer weapon which had only one shell in it and his remaining arms were normal hands with no weapons at all. But then they noticed the warrior alien alter his strategy towards the polar bears. Suddenly the warrior alien turned from menacing to charming, asking the polar bears if they fancied playing a card game. Clearly, the warrior alien had done his homework, knowing that since ancient days, the polar bears were famous throughout the universe for their skills at poker and gin rummy. In fact the very reason that polar bears lived in the arctic was because thousand of years earlier they had fled the jungles of Africa for Alaska because of how difficult it had become to find an honest game in the jungle what with all the cheetahs. In a shocking surprise, the three surviving polar bears agreed to sit down for a quick game with this creature who had just dispatched three of their brethren so spectacularly. As soon as they sat down of course, in a development that surprised literally no one, The warrior alien let loose with the howitzer, killing all three in a spectacular explosion.

Once the dust settled, the two boys found themselves face to face with the warrior alien. Tension filled the air as they all wondered what would be their fate. Suddenly the warrior alien bent down on four arms to get to their eye-level. Then he spoke in a thunderous voice…

“Now, what will I do with these two disobedient boys? Did not your parents specifically tell you to go outside and pee but then return to the igloo at once? And yet, here you both are where you shouldn’t be, witnessing things that very well may scar you for life.”

At this point the older brother spoke up and pointed out the obvious—“Well, I notice that your two remaining arms are only fitted with hands like ours. You have no more weapons. What can you possibly do to us?”

Even though the warrior alien’s face was hidden in a dome of metal, it did seem to crack a shiny smile right before he said the fateful words…

“Apparently you two earthlings have never heard of the Great Tickle Monster!!!

At this point, the warrior alien grabbed the two boys began tickling them unmercifully with his human like hands, so much so that the boys were eventually reduced to giggling, hysterical piles of arms and legs. The warrior alien then said, “Have you learned your lesson, human boys?? Always obey your parents!!”

The warrior alien walked back up the stairs of his ship, the three legs withdrew from sight and the rotating red, blue and green lights disappeared into the starry expanse.

The End.

Since the boy’s father is a graphic artist by trade, I see a best seller coming in the children’s fiction genre once his illustrations bring this story to life.

Move over, “Goodnight Moon”

My Ridiculous Wife

Ok, so on Valentine’s Day I decided to get Pam one of her favorite Frappuccinos from Starbucks. To make it just a bit better I bought her a special Valentine’s Day coozie with red and pink hearts all over it. I took it over to her school and asked the front desk people to deliver it to her since I can no longer take it to her myself on account of the fact that we live in a country where maniacs with guns sometimes decide to shoot up random elementary schools. (Grrrr). Anyhow, maybe ten minutes later she sent me this picture…

I have had the pleasure of her company for over 40 years and sometimes I still can’t believe it. She is beautiful inside and out, the loveliest woman I know. I mean…just look at her. While she took this picture she was surrounded by 5 unruly kindergarteners and still managed to look this good. Ridiculous.

Just Personally Interacting Over Here

Over the past couple of months I have read more than a few articles about what is described as an epidemic of loneliness in America. The basic idea is that with the revolutionary arrival of the internet and the various social media platforms that have come to dominate our culture, we have slowly replaced personal interaction time with screen time—something that you are doing this very minute by reading this blog! While it might be easy to go overboard with this sort of analysis, it has caused me to question my own record when it comes to personal interaction with others. How much of it do I do in a given day, week or month?

So I’ve conducted a little experiment this past week. I’ve actually attempted to count the number of people per day that I have had at least a casual encounter with during each day. For purposes of this experiment, I have chosen not to count people like the woman at the checkout counter at Publix or my waiter at lunch at El Paso the other day. I’m talking about real encounters with people I know and see on at least a semi-regular basis. Here’s what I found.

Twelve people at my office. These are people who I know quite well and interact with almost every day—Doug, Rob, Scott, Lynwood, Kristin, Herb, Blaire, Allison, Penny, Lindsey, Brenda and Austin.

My neighbor and her three kids who I see frequently because they live next door—Jamie, Cash, Kennedy, and Sully.

A friend I have lunch with usually once a week—Tom.

Various clients I meet with face to face in my office—4-5 each week.

During my shift at my church’s Cafe, I hang with my boss and several regulars—Jennifer

At church each Sunday I touch base with friends and fellow volunteers at Hope Thrift—Chip, Lynn, Tera, Isaac, Bernadette, Leslie, Robyn, Doug

Most Sunday’s I go to lunch after church with the same group—Paula, Ron, Gordon, Leigh Ann

Ok, so it looks like in a normal week I have encounters with roughly 35 other human beings. I have no idea whether of not this number is high or low compared to others, but it seems like a reasonable number of people. Now, how about the number of people I encounter every week via social media in some form? How many friends do I make contact with by either text or messaging services in an average week?

A quick glance through my phone tells me that I have ongoing back and forth chats with a lot of the same people I mingle with, with the exception of five or six people I know quite well who live out of state or somewhere besides Short Pump—Kaitlin, Patrick, Tif, Pam, Rusty

So, apparently I am the exception to the rule in this fragmented world of ours. I actually meet and mingle with far more people face to face than I do online. What about you?

It’s Getting Real

Yesterday I received the finished manuscript of my book from the Publisher. At this point in the process no more changes can be made. It has been edited and proofed to within an inch of its life. For better or for worse it is done. If there is a misspelled word or misplaced punctuation mark it has managed to avoid detection by what seems like a million eyes. So be it. The cover art has been chosen. The back cover teaser has been written. We have a finished product. What comes next are consultations with marketing and promotion people who will school me on the best ways to get the thing in front of the book buying public. They will instruct me in the ways of social media and digital presence. I will be given promotion flyers for local bookstores along with suggestions of how to schedule readings etc.. It is all a bit terrifying.

The story I am currently writing which had laid dormant for months has suddenly sprung back to life in my head. I have been writing every night for over a week in that little universe. Meanwhile I am in the midst of my busiest season at work, meetings on top of meetings with client after client, an avalanche of numbers with dollar signs. My brain is tired. What I need is a proper distraction. I need a road trip to see my kids. So Pam, Lucy and I will be heading down to Columbia for a visit with my first born this weekend. We had hoped to arrange a triangle tour and hit up Nashville to visit with Patrick after leaving Kaitlin’s but weren’t able to get that arranged because of schedules. But we will head down there later in March. By the time April gets here A Life of Dreams will have dropped and will hopefully be flying off the shelves. Maybe that’s a bit optimistic, more like selling briskly. Who am I kidding? I am a rookie novelist. Sales will be spotty. However the thing sells, I will have accomplished a life long goal of becoming a semi-professional writer—at age 65. 

Better late than never.

Of Course I’m watching the Super Bowl!

Pam and I will be watching the Super Bowl this evening. Football is not my sport, especially the professional version. I will forever be a baseball guy. But I wouldn’t miss the Super Bowl. Its not just the game, its the extravaganza. First there’s the anxiety that builds leading up to the singing of the national anthem. Will they butcher the thing or create something beautiful? Then there’s the commercials, many of which are quite clever, a few of which are hilarious, and many where you shake your head and ask aloud, *WTHWT??? Of course there’s the halftime show. Often the performer is designed to appeal to Boomers, some guy who’s best years were several decades ago. Other times its some dazzling new star who most Boomers have never heard of. This year I believe its Usher, which seems a nice tweener choice.

Of course this year the ratings are predicted to be through the roof, some saying that it will be the most watched TV show in the history of  television. Why? The answer is…Taylor Swift. The wildly popular pop star is dating the second best player on the Chiefs, Travis Kelce. For reasons that escape my powers of comprehension, there are millions of people who despise this woman, even more millions who actually believe she is part of a vast conspiracy to help Joe Biden win the 2024 election…or something. There are many fans of football who have loudly complained about the fact that during the 3 plus hours it takes to broadcast an NFL game, the cameras point to Taylor Swift whenever her boyfriend makes an outstanding play on the field, for approximately 45 seconds of those 3 hours. These irate fans say that this 45 second inclusion of a pop star hopping up and down with glee in a luxury box aside Mr. Kelce’s family and friends are somehow cheapening the game…a sentence that literally made me laugh just typing it. Since I am largely agnostic on the subject of the sanctity of professional football, I have no opinion on this issue. I do wonder why Miss Swift is hated so vociferously by so many people. I wouldn’t consider myself a fan. I can only name two or three of her songs. But what little I know of her are mostly admirable things. First of all she writes her own music, no small feat. Second, she is a savvy businesswoman who has been quiet adept at sticking it to one of the most self-dealing industries in America—the music business. Third, you are free to like or dislike her music, but she is an honest to God musician, not the product of computer generated algorithms masquerading as music. She plays the guitar and piano and writes songs. What a concept.

As far as the actual game goes, this one might be good. One team is led by the best player in the game, quarterback Patrick Mahomes. The other team’s quarterback still lives at home with his parents and his entire salary amounts to pocket change on Mahomes’ balance sheet…yet his team comes into the game as a slight favorite. Although this David v Goliath thing makes for a nice story I don’t buy it for a minute. I expect Patrick Mahomes and his team to dominate.

The real reason Pam and I will be watching tonight is because it gives us an excuse to eat delicious and unhealthy food. Pam will make some amazing snacks which I will post pictures of later. She will also provide Super Bowl Bingo cards for us to fill in—many with Taylor Swift themed items—which should be great fun.

While we’re watching we will both be keeping a sharp eye out for any possible examples of Taylor Swift Psy-ops.

* what the hell was that???

Pain of the Month Club

When I was a much younger man old people really got on my nerves. For purposes of this discussion I will define “old” as people at least 60 years old. My sister Paula and I used to roll our eyes at each other every time Mom and Dad invited some of their friends over for dinner. We knew what was coming. For old people dinner time conversation invariably degraded into an episode of General Hospital. It would go something like this:

Mom: I talked with Erma yesterday and the poor woman is struggling with the colitis again.

Geezer #1: That poor thing. And its not like George can take care of her what with his sugar diabetes.

Geezer #2: You know I told George to go see a specialist back when he got that hernia in his groin but he tried to tough it out and now look at him.

Dad: Well at least neither of us picked up that Whooping cough when it was going around back in the Spring.

Mom: Maybe not, but I declare honestly, I would rather have the whooping cough than have to put up with sugar diabetes.

Needless to say, this sort of dinner time conversation didn’t exactly aid in digestion. But it seemed that every single time my parents got together with their friends all they talked about was their interminable list of ailments. Fast forward roughly 50 years to the sorry state that I now find myself in.

It is a humbling experience when you recognize your parent’s behavior in yourself, especially when you become guilty of the very same things they did that bugged the daylights out of you. Unfortunately, I have discovered the reason behind their often tortured dinner time accounts. Here’s the deal…since I have been in my 60’s literally every month of my life brings some new physical irritant onto the scene. I will wake up one morning and out of the blue one of my feet feels like I spent the entire night walking across a football field full of Legos. Then, as mysteriously as it appeared it will vanish just about the time I’ve decided it might be time to go see a doctor. Then, the next month it will be an unexplained throbbing pain in my left thumb…I’m not making this up. For weeks I will go back and forth on whether or not I should go get it looked at and then BAMM…its gone, replaced by a burning sensation in my left hip which turns up out of thin air. It occurs to me that if I went to the doctor each time my body sprouts a new pain I might as well see if they will set up a cot for me in the back room.

So I was thinking that I need to do something proactively to spare my own children from having to endure the same kinds of dinner conversations I grew up with. Suppose I could start a chat room of some kind strictly for those of us over the age of 60 where we could all gather to discuss all of our most recent physical humiliations amongst ourselves—sort of like a safe space for seniors to discuss our health woes. I was thinking of calling it the Pain of the Month Club. As soon as you wake up with hair suddenly growing out of your—I don’t know—-eyeballs, you could just log in and get the conversation rolling with:

Me: Hey guys! Didn’t somebody here have hair that started growing out of their earlobes so bad they had to start braiding it? Well, top this—-this past week hair started growing out of my left eyeball!!

Then 30 minutes later when you discover that you aren’t alone, that in fact people have noticed hair growing out of every single orifice of the body since they started on Social Security, you’ve gotten it all out of your system and the horrifying subject need never be spoken of again around the children.

I’m determined people. I am not going to be like my parents at the dinner table!!!

Bio Pic Search

In preparation for the publication of my novel, I am creating an author website on the advice of my publisher. This will be a site where people can come to learn about me, the book, my blog, and also an ideal place to purchase said book. Actually, “I” am doing no such thing. Pam will be the creator of this website because when it comes to this sort of thing she is amazingly talented, as everyone in our neighborhood knows every time they receive the Wythe Trace Newsletter. 

So yesterday she sends me a text telling me that she will be scouring through our 10,000 plus digital photograph library to find an appropriate one to serve as the Bio picture for this website. This would save us the hassle and expense of having to pay a professional for headshots. After a while she sends me this one with the simple caption: Bio Picture??

Ahh yes…who could forget last summer’s Nudity Day on Quantabacook? 

But, two can play this game, I thought. So, I countered with this beauty from that time I had an allergic reaction to something which caused both of my eyes to swell…

Not to be deterred she sent me this classic…

Ultimately she decided on a more conventional shot which she sent me along with this observation: “That right there is a guy that makes my heart skip a beat.”

…To which I replied, “Great! All we need in this family is someone else with an irregular heartbeat!”

To any kids out there who might stumble across this post, here’s my advice—marry someone who makes you laugh.