...you're the type of person that has decided (for one reason or another) to come by and check out this seemingly neglected journal, I thought I'd give you a heads-up.

I'm planning on resurrecting my attempts at a blog over at www.shutupandwrite.net  both Dave and I have a blog over there, and one we share (for saga related writing news).

Perhaps you'd be interested in checking it out?

I just want to state for the record that the only reason I'm actually writing something today is because three (3) people have complained to me about it.  I don't usually cave to peer pressure, but oh well.  I folded like a cheap lawnchair this time.

I woke up, the first time, at 8am this morning.  Then I woke up again at 10:30am.  This led me to a revelation of sorts.  No matter what time I go to bed, I can't fully function until 10:30am.  For example, I normally go to be around 2am or so (at least during the Summer when I can get away with such shenanigans) -- I wake up at 10:30am.

Last night I went to bed at 11:30pm.  I was tired and had nothing else to do.  I set the alarm for 8am.  That's enough sleep, right?  Well, as I already told Jenny, it wasn't.  My alarm went off and I was dead tired.  Went back to sleep and woke up at at 10:30am, unassisted.  I need to go professional with my writing soon so that I can wake up at 10:30am every morning.  I fear going back to school in the Fall, with all the alarm clocks that entails.

Anyway, that was a total aside.  I think I'm going to briefly continue my bootcamp experience.  The first two entries were written on location, so to speak, with just a few modifications right before I posted them.  This one I'm pulling directly from my memory.

Day 2

This morning, I woke up early.  I had been screwed out of breakfast yesterday and was not going to let such a sin occur again.  I spotted Dave and Grant (also bootcampers) on my way out, and we walk to the main hall together.  I haven't mentioned this before, but the cafeteria we eat at takes the reputation of a school cafeteria very seriously.  Bad food, watered down drinks to boot.  I grab a bowl of cereal and a banana, along with some shockingly grape powerade.  It was blue and tasted like raspberry.

The whole group met in Durham again, and OSC continued his talks.  We discuss, we laugh, we learn, then we break up into small groups to discuss our homework assignments.  The bootcampers group together -- we're going to be working together soon, anyway, so we might as well.  We first read aloud our POV pieces and tell each other if there were any violations that we noticed.  Then, we workshop our favorite card.  Remember how we were supposed to have come up with five seperate story ideas on five seperate notecards -- based on an interview, etc.  Well, I only had the one -- and so that was my favorite.  I really enjoy some of the story ideas that some of the others have, and give what I'd like to call good suggestions and advice for vamping them up a bit.

The talks today were largely on POV and on the mechanics of publishing -- the business side of the craft.  I've already read extensively about this, and so the willy-nilly advice that OSC has gives me pause.  It makes me wonder if, since he hasn't been a first-time writer since the mid 70's, he really knows what it takes for a first-time writer today.  After all, when he writes a book, it has already been sold somewhere before he's finished.  We unlucky, unpublished bastards don't typically have such a luxury.  But his advice is good, and the true key to publishing is just writing so well that a publisher can't NOT buy your work.  If you do that, you can't go wrong.

This is the last day with the full conference.  He said thank you to everyone and goodbye.  Then he talked to the bootcampers.  Told us to prepare for tomorrow when we'd be writing our brains out and our fingers off.  The bootcampers retired to our dorms, and we sat around and chatted in one person's room or another until it was time for bed.

Day 1

 

I didn't wake up especially early.  I needed to be in Durham Hall by 9 am to start the conference, but that didn't mean I had to be up until 8:30 am.  I assumed that I'd be missing breakfast, but food seemed almost laughable when measured against the importance of all-mighty sleep. 

And boy did I sleep hard.  I woke up with my contacts so glued to my eyes, that it took a couple yawns (with the consequential eye-watering) before I could even see decently.  My throat felt like I had gargled with a cheese grater.  I made a note to apologize profusely for my neighbors who had to listen to me all night.

The rooms, by the way, are pretty decent.  Well, that's a lie.  They're actually quite crappy.  But I was expecting to have a roommate, and so when I discovered that we all had our own rooms (the bootcamp people, anyway) I was so damned giddy.  That had meant no awkward greetings, no uncomfortable fumbling around in the dark – hoping to not wake the roommate.  They're made almost entirely out of wood.  Walking in, one immediately smells the scent of an old house.  Virginia is hot and muggy, and the wood seems all too aware of it.

Each room has it's own air conditioner, which is nice.  I would HATE having to enter into negotiations over what temperature to set it at.  My only complaint?  My mom's laptop doesn't have a network connection for me to plug in with.  Then again, I'd probably be very much less productive anyway.  It is already taking all of my strength to ignore Spider Solitare, which is calling my name.

The first day of bootcamp itself was pretty cool.  Largely, what I've noticed, is that Card (remember him?  He's the one who is running this shindig) basically covers his book, Characters and Viewpoint, with a few added bonuses.  I'm not going to bore you with all of those details, since I'm sure if you're at all interested, you've already read the book.  I will include some of the things that I thought were interesting, that I hadn't thought of before.  But, I'll do that later.

One of the truly dreadful (and thrilling) things that he did was examine some of the bootcamp application entries.  Basically in order to get into bootcamp, one had to submit an application along with the first page of a short story.  Thus, he'd be able to see if there was potential in what someone was writing – or if they were a hopeless goober.  Well, he handed them all out (anonymous, of course) had us read them all, and then opened them for discussion.  Mine was among the six discussed.  I have never had a piece of mine workshopped before, and it was a terrifying experience.  Several obvious and helpful things were pointed out to me, along with some very encouraging comments.  Most gleefully, however, was when Card said, "So far, I'd keep going with this one.  The writer made a promise I'd like to see fulfilled."  Needless to say, I peed a little bit.  Now granted, since I know how the rest of the story goes, I know that it doesn't fulfill anything and that he'd actually think me quite a hack if he were to see it – but he didn't, and that's all that matters.

We have several sessions, interrupted with a break and refreshments or a meal.  I meet several interesting people.  I find that several of the bootcampers are already published and some with work I've even read and admired.  That was quite thrilling. 

At the end, Card hands out the homework.  He gives us five notecards, a partner, and tells us to go out into the world, with our new found techniques, and come up with five stories.  Write their bare-bone sinews on the notecards for presentation tomorrow.  The idea was to do an interview, get two ideas from books, and two ideas from everyday life.  My partner and I, Jackie from Dallas, drove to Lexington (an adjacent town) only to discover that life in hicktown Virginia closes up at about 5:30pm.  Nothing is open.  Nothing.  I'm surprised they didn't padlock the streets.

It wouldn't have helped anyway, I suspect.  I've never been good with coming up with stories on the fly.  So, I did my best.  I wrung my brain with both hands, and the distilled drops of a single story fell out onto a notecard.  At that point, I figured one story was better than nothing.

There was another, and final, assignment.  Write 250 words, in 3^rd person, of an hour in the recent life of myself.  I picked an hour while I was driving.  It isn't even all that interesting, but I'll post it just because I can:

 

Oliver flipped on his turn signal and made for the exit.  He had been driving for nearly eight hours and needed to refuel, and not just the car.  He pulled into Chico's gas station (nearly two cents cheaper than the SA on the corner), a small store with just two pumps.

            The gas pumped, and he washed his bug-smattered windshield, dreading having to get back into the car.  The gas handle clicked, and a quick glance at the price meter confirmed that he now owed two first-born sons for his purchase.  He muttered something unsavory.

            Inside, Oliver meandered to a pizza stand with a sign that read "Pizza Express" over it.  There was a lamp-warmed tray with pre-made boxed pizza sitting on it, a cash register, and no one standing behind it.  He stood quietly, eyeing the last remaining box labeled "cheese".  The attendant standing behind the gas station counter watched him with apparent disinterest.  After a moment, Oliver spoke.

            "Excuse me.  Where do I pay for the pizza?" He picked up the box.  A little neon-orange sticker said it was $3.69.  A steal compared to the molten gold he had just pumped into his car.

            "They're closed," the attendant said.

            "Oh," said Oliver.  He put the box back and took a step away from the stand, slightly nonplussed and largely annoyed.

            "I can ring that up over here, though.  If you want."

            Oliver took a deep breath.  No sense insulting the man's questionable parentage.  Not until after the pizza is eaten, anyway.  He was hungry, after all, and one did remarkable things when necessary.

            Money exchanged hands, and Oliver left the store.

 

There you have it.  It isn't that pretty, but it got the job done and convinced everyone that I did indeed know how to write in POV.  Writing this took all of about 3 minutes.  The writing I have no difficulty with.  What I find hard is coming up with a story that I don't instantly hate and despise myself for having thought up.

Oh well.  Perhaps I shall improve!

Sorry it's been so long, but I've had some stuff going on -- primarily OSC's Literary Bootcamp.  Due to popular demand, I'm going to semi-seriously chronicle what I did.  So... here we go:

Day 0

I had gotten home from my dad's the night before at about 11:30 pm.  Up until this point, I hadn't actually done anything to prepare for my trip to Virginia.  So I packed, and I gathered, and I cross-referenced some lists I had made and been given, and got my things together.  It was now about 1:30 am.  I consulted Mapquest online and saw that the total trip time was supposed to be about 16 hours of driving.  They're usually a bit off, but still – to be in Virginia by the 10 pm check-in time, I set my alarm for 4 am.  Obviously, I didn't get much sleep.

I left the house around 6 am, just a couple hours later than I expected.  Last things came up that I had to handle (for example, I had forgotten that I needed to bring my own sheets, etc. for my room… oops).  I drove that day.  Sweet Mary, did I drive.

It wasn't entirely awful.  I had some good tunes. (I long since had given up on trying to listen to the radio in favor of CDs I brought with.  I hate nothing more than having a great radio station only for it to start blurring and being lost in static a few minutes later.)  I drank the cappuccinos at an alarming rate; I'm pretty sure my liver is still reeling from it all. 

The majority of the drive was pretty boring.  Iowa: nothing.  Illinois: nothing.  Kentucky: a few hills with some nothing.  It wasn't until I got further East that the scenery actually started to be impressive.  Right about then, it got dark.  There is nothing quite like driving through mountain-ish roads in West Virginia, at 75 mph, in the dark, whipping around corners just slow enough that your wheels don't scream and just fast enough to make you not feel like a grandpa.  At least I have the drive home to look forward to.  I should be able to see the mountainous area and have Iowa mercifully shrouded in darkness.

Driving through the mountains, though, not being able to see very far ahead of you, I realized how very trusting we as drivers are.  If a sign says you turn left, you turn left.  If you don't, you go sailing off the road Thelma and Louise style.  At one point, there was a sign that said "Left Lane Closed" which is no biggie because I had seen my fair share of construction driving cross-country, but then – there was no construction.  For ten miles, I saw signs that said "Merge Right" or big, flashing arrows pointing me over to the right lane.  Construction never came.  As far as I could tell, that left lane was just taking a breather.  But you know what?  I stayed in the right lane anyway.

That night, I collapsed onto my dorm bed (I'll talk more about the dorms later) and was so tired, I could feel the relief coming off my bones.  Yet, I couldn't sleep.  I sat there wondering why.  Then it hit me.  You know how when you're in the car, driving somewhere, and you start talking to yourself?  Not really talking, but you start thinking about something or another.  What am I going to do tomorrow?  Did I remember everything?  What will life be like in five years?  Then, before you even notice it, you look down and fifty miles have gone by.  In long car trips, this is a blessing.  In even longer ones, it is a curse.

You see, I realized that I actually do the same damned thing when I try to fall asleep.  I think of something or another, talk to myself, until I – usually without noticing – slip off into nothingness.  Well, I had already used up all of my conversations in the car.  As a matter of fact, somewhere around Kentucky, I had tried desperately to think of something to think about – to distract myself from looking at the odometer every 30^th of a second – and I had nothing to think about.  I had run out of topics. 

But then, I realized that while I was laying in bed thinking about not having anything to think about because I already had in the car, that in and of itself was thinking about something and I graciously passed out a few minutes later.

 

You see, I'm very devious.  By regulating the regularity of my posting to this journal, I'm actually making myself more of a commodity.  It's a supply and demand issue.  If I post everyday, my words become less valuable.  Therefore, by refraining from posting I'm actually increasing the "stock value" of these entries.

And consequently increasing the amount of bull----.

Alright.  I admit it.  I'm a bit of a slacker.  Not just a slacker, though.  I am in Iowa right now.  There isn't a whole lot going on in Iowa but a few cows and some corn -- and the corn hasn't even come up yet. 

Even now, after my half-hearted apologies, I don't have very much to talk about.  Instead, I'm going to briefly rebut the comments from last time.

Before I get started, I actually would like to publicly state how annoyed with myself I am for not seeing the finale to American Idol.  Congrats to Fantasia (since I know she Loves to read my journal).  I always knew it would be her.

Anyway, in response to my little rant about the non-necessity of meaning in everyday life, Sara wrote the following:

"I would have to say that people say things happen for a reason in order to explain why what is happening to them is happening to them. good or bad. I mean think back to 9/11. There were many people that were supposed to be at work but were otherwise hung up because of things out of their control...it is hard for them not to believe that someone or something was watching out for them. How many times have I sat at a red light and have quickly accelrated through an intersection when the light turns green and those few times I have hesitated for any reason, someone has gone barrelling through a red light...It is hard not to believe that things happen for a reason...of course then you could just say that life is just a serious of coincidences, you win some you lose some It all depends on your beliefs...and there is no right or wrong about it....
Some people just need those unanswered questions, answered...it is the control freak in humans...the need and want to be right and feel the need to have an answer for everything."

She, of course, is talking about exactly what I wrote about.  The fact that people feel the need to have a reason is the only 'reason' (you like that?) that they actually find one.  It's an apparition, a spectre, a ghost, una fantasma.

One of the most valuabel lessons I've ever learned was the Wizard's First Rule (gingerly stolen from Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth novels): People are stupid.  They will believe anything if they want to enough, or are too afraid not to.

That doesn't really make it right though, does it?  Let's examine her 9/11 example.  There were many people who decided not to get on those planes, and lots who decided not to go into work at the WTC that day.  For them, it was simply meant to be.  What about all those people who decided to go in on their day off -- to catch up on work?  What about all those people who had been waiting standby to get on the plane?  Had fate abandoned them?  Perhaps reason had eluded them. 

There are coincidences that happen and sometimes they're crappy.  That's the name of the game.  And there definitely IS a right or wrong.  We may not be able to discover that particular answer, but it is out there.

I mean, just because we're control freaks and want to control everything or even be privy to the strings of some cosmic harp -- that doesn't mean we actually are.  It just simply means that if you think you are, you're delusional. 

Jenny, my other responder, professed her lack in spirituality but confessed to still seeing reason in things.  So, I'll leave you with some questions then -- perhaps you can clarify.

Who or what, precisely, is providing a basis for these reasons?  I mean, if you feel they exist -- what is the scale upon which the universal equilibrium is measured?

How was that for an impressive title?

Actually, I'm sitting here with the lamp on -- a warm glow in the room -- sipping on honey lemon tea.  I've got my PJs on, the TV is off, and all I can hear is the laptop fan humming away.  I find that drinking tea in your pajamas is a pretty good way to be pensive about something or another.  It helps if all of your friends have finally signed off, and you've already looked at all the websites you look at ad nauseum.

What am I so busy thinking about, you ask?  Even if you didn't, I'm going to answer.  This is my blog, after all.

Just a comment made earlier today.  Life gets rough sometimes.  For somepeople, life kicks you in the pants with a little extra vigor.  It straps on a particularly pointy pair of stilettos.  When this occurs, one often grasps at the great unknown for answers, or at the very least a decent consolation prize.  Not the crap you get at Chucky Cheese for five tickets, but the really good stuff they keep on the shelves behind them.  They come up with "everything is for a reason."  Whoa.  That's potent stuff.  But a 10,000-ticket item it is not.

It's always been like that, though.  When humans were confined to caves, nothing but a fire and a spear to sustain life, something like a flash of lightning or the crack of thunder or the dancing aurorae or shooting stars must have seemed unexplainable -- mystical.  To answer their questions, they too reached into that great unknown.  What they pulled out was a whole pantheon of answers.  Vengeful gods and lust-driven deities.  What science could not answer, mysticism did.

But humans couldn't dwell in such darkness for long.  Over the years, the progress of science squelched the role of these gods and they were replaced by the new gods of technology: the internet, the television, modern medicine, Jerry Springer.  But no one truly believes in them.  We all know them to exist (Except for Springer.  I've never actually seen him myself.), but no one needs them to fill the chasm of uncertainty in their minds.

We've got new questions now.  Why are the amounts of matter and antimatter in the obervable universe asymmetric?  What is the key to quantum gravity?  How unique is life, and can it be recreated?

We've got some of the old questions, too.  What happens after death?  How has the universe come to be as we now see it?  What is the nature of life, and what is its purpose?

Do we see a difference between these two groups?  Science has eliminated the need for magic in the natural world.  It seems to suggest that even these new questions that we've created will be or can be answered, given time and the proper tools.  It also suggests that the others can't and will never be.

Why, then, would someone assume that events that transpire in the waking world should be the matter of some grand puppet-master above us all.  Why must all things have a purpose, a reason for occuring?  Why can't bad things simply be bad, and good things good without having to be connected to a cosmic road map of some kind.

Is it a throwback to our cave-dwelling days?  Is it a refusal to acknowledge that God (should he exist or not is your own decision) is not present in everyday occurrences?  I admit that God may very well exist, but can't you admit that you also might not?

Or is the thought too scary?  Maybe the concept of free-will is too frightening.  After all, we'd be out here all by ourselves, trying to feel our way through the darkness.  No reason, no purpose, no master plan.  But can't that also be a liberating feeling?  Life is not just a series of events, one leading to the next, a to b to c -- each a required and meaningful step for the next.  Instead we are all scrambling to do what we can in an arbitrarily small time.  The caveman could not stay in the cave forever; progress and enlightenment would never allow it. 

Call me an existentialist, or a fatalist, or a realist.  Whatever.  But it all comes down to this: Sometimes crap happens, but sometimes truly wonderful things happen. Isn't it even more beautiful to think that such grace could come without strings?

 

My apologies for being absent recently.  Life got busy pretty suddenly.  I promise to do better in the future, honestly.

Keeping with my tradition of doing nothing but seeing movies, I went (with Mother Dearest) to Shrek 2 last night.  We had just driven home from Grandma's (by 'we' I of course mean 'me').  Mom suggested seeing the movie earlier today on a whim.  She's capricious like that.

After purchasing the obligatory tub-o-popcorn, we sit down in our theatre.  There is a hand-drawn picture of Shrek greeting us as we walk in.  Some ads flash on the screen along with some celeb trivia.  They asked the same questions they did during Troy so naturally I got them all right.

The lights dim, popcorn is munched, noisy children are hushed.

The previews come on.  And they are glorious.

The Terminal looks good.  I'll see anything directed by Spielberg and starring Hanks.  Anything.

Most glorious, though, was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.  I thought the first two movies were great, and despite how much people wanted to crucify Columbus (the director of said movies), I thought he did a good job.  But this trailer looked so amazing.  Gave me shivers.  Much more sophisticated.  I can tell that, were I a bit younger, I could really jump on the Potter bandwagon in a big way.  Actually, these movies may be the only examples of a movie actually being much better than the books.

The previews are over, and for a second I'm sad that they are -- until I remember that I actually get to see a movie now.  Shrek 2 comes on, and I don't stop laughing the whole danged time. 

It isn't quite as universal as the first one, but it's just as funny.  They used tons of little gags that didn't make it seem cheap as they often can.  My favorite was Fairy Godmother, voiced by Jennifer Saunders -- a British actress of "Absolutely Fabulous" fame.  The most memorable was the great music.  Anyone know who provided the singing voice for Godmother?

I don't really feel like saying much more because it's pretty unbecoming to gush.  Just see it.  You'll like it.

On Pweb, there is a budding writer's club.  Actually, they/we lack direction.  In an attempt to get things going, I decided to put myself out there and assign a simple task.  To be fair, it seemed like I should have to do it as well.  Who knows if anyone else will bite.

Anyway.  What I said was, "Taking into consideration the different needs in a short story and in a novel, come up with three different "first lines" for each. Make them interesting enough to cause someone to keep reading, and remember -- you've got less time to hook your audience in a short story."

They're actually two very different media.  I've heard that with a novel, you've got two or three pages of a grace period with your audience.  If you haven't hooked them by then, they'll likely put it back on the bookshelf at Barnes and Noble.  With short stories, that shrinks to something like two paragraphs. 

Obviously, the honeymoon for a short story is miniscule.  Thus, the first lines must impactful in a large way.

The following is my meager attempt.  Please note that it is well past my bedtime and so if they suck -- lie to me.  Oh, and if one strikes a chord with you, let me know.  I just may write the whole danged story and let you read it someday.  Wouldn't you be so lucky?

Novels:

1) Angel touched the flower and it cried, the color slowly melting from its petals like hot wax from a candle.

2) Darin tightened his tie in front of the mirror, making sure that the Windsor knot was perfect and shapely, wondering how long it would take someone to find him if he tied the other end to a ceiling beam and swan dove off the second floor balcony.

3) The motel parking lot glowed under the neon vacancy sign and the air stunk of sewer, but the Sisters could think of nothing but room 113 and what was being born inside.

Short Stories:

1) He watched Nora from the shadows, holding his breath, waiting for her to unlock her car and get in.

2) I would have gotten the tattoo across my face just for the chance at seeing her tits, but I decided in the end that awkward family Christmas parties weren't worth it.

3) "Open your eyes child," Rana said.  "Open them and breathe again."

Hmm.  I feel like I may have learned something already.  Perhaps there isn't as big of a difference in first lines of novels and short stories as I thought.  True -- the pacing needs to be appropriate, but the line itself should still be gripping, interesting, and get the plot rolling.

 

I saw "Troy" this evening.  I thought I'd share a few comments.

This movie was easily one of the most truthful and honest portrayals of humanity I have ever seen.  How many movies about war have there been?  20? 50? More?  There is a simple reason why.  People will always see movies about war because they have the singular power to evoke such a variegatied set of emotions from the audience.  Rarely, though, do I get to see a movie that is centered around a war -- but not about it.

This movie was about pain.  The pain a father feels when he sees his son stumble.  The pain a brother feels watching his sibling falter.  The pain a lover feels when he must say goodbye.  The pain a human being must endure to remain human.

It smacked of such reality, that I was taken back by the sheer ardor of life on screen.  There were no caricatures in this movie; no stock characters to move the story, stringing along the audience in a predictable way.  So stunning was this movie, that I didn't even think about the cinematics of it until I had left the theatre.  And what a shame, too. 

The acting was some of the best I've seen.  Brad Pitt did wonderfully well with his (patented) tormented soul routine.  Bloom really nailed this character like none other.  Eric Bana, playing Hector, did -- I think, the most amazing job.  Hector's character will be forever emblazoned in my memory as nothing less than a paragon of all that is noble and courageous, in such a way that I never got from reading Homer.  My favorite performance in this film, though, was Peter O'Toole's as Priam, king of Troy.  I will never forget the moment he looked over the balcany at a burning Troy with tear-soaked eyes.  I felt such an incredible loss -- not for Troy the way Priam felt -- but for Priam himself.  I can't imagine what it must be like to love something so completely and to watch it burn, like a wildfire, before your eyes. 

Wolfgang Peterson has completely renewed my faith in the possibility of the Ender's Game movie being fantastic.  If he can revive Homer's world in such a vivid and moving way, what will he accomplish with Orson Scott Card's already poignant and haunting text?

I don't usually recount personal stories on this here journal, but today was such a scintillating tidbit that I don't think I can let it pass.

My mom moved to a small town. Atleast, it's pretty danged small when compared with the suburbs of Minneapolis from which we came. She didn't want to deal with the everyday, outdoor hub-bub of owning a house, so she bought a townhouse within an association.

I've come to realize that it's less like an association and more like a retirement village.

It's a nice place, though. Or rather, the extremely old lady who lived her before my mom moved in thought so. Don't worry; she didn't die. Well, not at that time anyway. Who knows about now.

Anyhoo. So, my mom has been living here for a few months (try 9) now. She still doesn't know anyone. Not even who her neighbors are.

She gets this flier in the mail. It seems that every such-and-such time, the association hosts a little gathering where the residents (that's what we always called the old people when I worked in the home, anyway) can get together and chat. I didn't know they were ALL old people. I suggested we go. After some hesitation, she bended to my decision.

We take a walk down to the club house and as we open the door and step in, the scent of fresh lilac drifts into our nasal passages. So far, it isn't awful. It doesn't smell anything like the nursing home. I take that as a good sign.

At the top of a short flight of stairs (it can't be too long; I'm not sure all those titanium hips could take it), three avuncular looking gentlemen greeted us: Lyle, Stan, and Dick. I could see Stan was the dry-humor one of the crowd. Dick was the most able-bodied, or atleast the most active, and was very personable. He turned out to be a close neighbor (we share a wall), and Lyle was a nice guy whose hearing aid didn't work the best.

We then made our way to a long table with various desserts displayed. There was a rhubarb, pecan, apple, and lemon pie. There were brownies and little pastries. At the end one had the option of lemonade or coffee. I don't know; maybe Ruth would have let you take both.

Then we sat down at our table with the Three Amigos. It was right about then that I started feeling like I had checked in. We made small talk with FAR too many awkward silences in which my mind was very busy churning away about Abraham Lincoln (if you don't know, don't ask).

The theme of the night was hobbies and collections. Everyone took turns standing up (well, not EVERYone) and showing what they collected or hobbeyed (that's a verb now): different kinds of eggs (all decorative), quilting, hand carvings, knitting. My mom showed an angel that she had cross-stitched. The blue-hairds all ooohed and ahhhed. I didn't bring anything. They gratefully passed right over me.

Next is when an already, ummm, less-than-stellar evening turned ugly. In walks Tachih. He's an elderly (surprised?) Japanese-American. He's bringing a large three-ring-binder under his arm. His manuscript, he tells everyone. Everyone seems to already know. There had been some talk about Tachih before he got there. Something about soy beans and perhaps limiting Tachih to only speaking for 15 minutes. I was a bit confused, but started to develop a picture. Any confusion was immediately lifted, though, once it was Tachih's turn to share. He proceeded to talk for a minute shy of 20 minutes about his life story -- the alleged content of his manuscript.

He used to be a professor at the local college, so I gave him a little slack. He was used to lecturing to a room full of bored people, after all. Maybe he just didn't notice.

Then he came over to the table where my mother and I, along with Betty (a newcomer) and the Three Wisemen sat. He and my mother briefly about my mom's picture (briefly because it didn't seem Tachih was interested in much else other than his life story). He asked me if I was an artist. It slipped out that I like to write.

Like a sanguinary shark to a bleeding wound, he got me -- and he got me good. He told me there were many stories in his book, many he'd like others to write. Would I like to write one? I should come over to his house sometime and he'd show me some. They're not all blockbusters, but they're marketable. Here, take my email. Could you write down your name? And your phone number?

I didn't have the heart to fake-number him. I'm thankful for caller id.

In retrospect, though, Tachih could be interesting story fodder. I know the whole evening was actually quite an experience -- one I will no doubt draw on later. Of course, when I do -- I'll probably reject it as cliched. Because the whole experience seemed that way.

I swear, every few minutes, Lyle would chime in with a "What did he say?" to which Dick would whisper, usually two or three times, exactly what had transpired that Lyle's belltones didn't pick up.