Even My Hindsight Has an Astigmatism

As I was running around like a nut while trying to get some things done during my lunch break today, I had a realization about myself as a writer.

As I've posted on this blog before, I have considered myself a writer ever since a powerful--dare I say it?--metaphysical experience I had when I was 14. From that point on, writing was my foremost concern outside of keeping myself clothed and fed. It did not come naturally to me; I had to work and learn in order to attain even the moderate amount of skill I currently possess.

However, I don't think I truly became a writer until I started work on the scripts for this series.

I did some decent things before this, and the first few scripts I wrote (all revisions of leftovers from another time) are not quite up-to-snuff, but something happened, something changed as my work on the series progressed. It started with the second Jerry & George script, The Tale of the Weekend Upcoming, and really blossomed in the third Jerry & George script, The Road to Hell.

In these scripts, I started moving away from my sketch-comedy and sitcom roots and started delineating believable stories about believable people. The writing of those two scripts and Phil's Deli and the Xmas episode, Looking for Christmas, was more like writing short stories than writing radio scripts.

Of course, I have a several versions of extended fragments of some TV scripts I wrote some years back called Such Is Life that share these same qualities. Maybe I'm just rediscovering a path once trod.

Whatever it is, it's good.

None of any of these scripts appears on the demo. That may have been a mistake, in hindsight.

TiVo for a Better Politics

It occurred to me this morning while reading a story in The New York Times about the current Republican strategy to hold their majorities in the House and Senate that the whole way modern politics is approached could be changed if more people had TiVo. You see, with Tivo, the viewer can easily fast-forward past commercials, and I know that in our house the political commercials are sped through the quickest.

Politicians advertising on TV--a commercial activity--run ads that have degenerated to the lowest possible level:

Announcer: Bill Johnson is a stinkyhead who let his grass grow too long. We're not outright saying that he's a drug-abusing, mother-violating Sodomite, but you get the drift. Wink, wink.

And they always end just as The Firesign Theatre had it 36 years ago: "And you can believe me because I'm always right and I never lie."

That nonsense isn't worth having your brain washed over. And if everyone got XM Satellite Radio, they wouldn't be able to run local ads over the radio either. I'm sure they'd still find a way, but it just might make somebody somewhere talk about something of substance rather than merely slandering whoever is representing "the other side."

So, friends, do your part in the struggle to regain democracy here in the good, old US of A: Get TiVo.

This Is What I Get for Hitting the "Translate This Page" Link

A selection from a page that was originally in German:

First the caption under the photo:

“The number of applications for the theory to the Kauffrau or to the buyer decreased last strongly”: Daniel Alig, apprentice responsible person of the bank Linth with training daughter Sarah Gämperli in the branch Rapperswil.

Next, the first paragraph of the story:

Still Daniel Alig applications for a KV-training place in the coming summer receives. Alig is apprentice responsible person with the bank Linth at the head office in Uznach. Numerous training places are however already assigned for 2006. The district bank received approximately 60 applications in the past months, first in July. Those are clearly less than in the years before; a fact also the different banks determined. To occupy the bank Linth has eight training places, ever two in the four regions Linthgebiet, Zurich lake, Ausserschwyz and Sarganserland. “Past year had we approximately 60 applications alone for the region Linthgebiet”, says Alig. It can only courage-measure reasons for this salient decrease: “On the one hand resuming schools might have been made tasty for the school leaver. On the other hand I can also imagine that the attractiveness of this teachings suffered, because numerous Lehrabgänger finds no more place.” A further reason could be the 2002 imported KV-reform. It should the training enterprises revaluations. In addition, thus of them and the expenditure of the apprentices in the school teaching rose. To the defiance; with the quality of the applications Alig constituted an increase.

You can't make this up.

News Item

I wasn't planning on publishing anything here today--all my blogging energy will be directed at Shooting Off My Fat Trap, my political blog, which might be pretty busy in coming days--but I heard something on XM this morning that I just had to share. The easiest way to explain it is to quote from this version of the story as it appears on contactmusic.com:

LATEST: Songwriter PAUL VANCE has blasted reports he's dead, insisting it was an imposter who passed away earlier this month (06SEP06). Vance, best known for co-writing the 1960 novelty song ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE YELLOW POLKA DOT BIKINI, has been inundated with concerned calls after news broke yesterday (27SEP06) that he'd died of lung cancer. However, the irate musician insists the victim, 68-year-old PAUL VAN VALKENBURGH of Ormond Beach, Florida, was an imposter who claimed to have written the hit himself under the name of Paul Vance. The real Vance admits he was astonished to read his obituary in newspapers, and see two of his horses dropped from races yesterday (27SEP06) because people believed he had died. He says, "Do you know what it's like to have grandchildren calling you and say, 'Grandpa, you're still alive?' "This is not a game. I am who I am and I'm proud of who I am. But these phones don't stop with people calling thinking I'm dead." Van Valkenburgh's widow ROSE LEROUX, who claims never to have known her late husband was lying about the song, says, "To have it come out now, I'm kind of devastated. "If this other man says he did it then my husband's a liar, or he's a liar."

There's great story in here somewhere about a lady who finds out that her now-dead husband of 40 years had done nothing but lie to her the entire time. I'm claiming it, although there's nothing to do about it if somebody else beats me to it. I'd just have to write my own version anyway. Changing the names and facts, of course.

Yesterday's Why I Like XM Moment

So, I'm driving along yesterday, going to get the boy from school, when what should come on the XM Satellite Radio but Alice's Restaurant. Now there's something you won't hear on Oldies 97.

UPDATE: Alice's Restaurant on XM on Thanksgiving! Check out the post.

Up from Under

My time in the mailroom has ended, as a suitable alternative was found and hired. Such is the lot of the temp: Today's necessity is tomorrow's dross.

But, fear not, I'm doing some bookkeeping for one guy and some research for another, so we should be able to get by for the time being.

On the plus side, I've got more time available for writing. At tleast I hope that's a plus.

In fact, I've posted a piece on Shooting Off My Fat Trap that I'm considering sending to a newspaper in the distant northeast. (Not the Times.--ed.) If anyone wants to, they're welcome to peruse said piece and comment on its suitablility for publication. Don't worry; it's okay to advise that it should be buried out back. Silence, however, will be construed as consent. That's what you call a legal warning.

In other news, I'm preparing to send a proposal for Next in the Series to somebody at the company I just temped at. First, I just have to confirm that I've got the right somebody.

And, finally, wouldn't you just love to see me have a column in some paper or something? I know I would. And not an obituary. Wise guy.

The Demo CD

I've been meaning to post about this for the last couple of weeks, but have been too busy being a man-about-town to remember to. The CD is basically finished and the early reviews are encouraging. I did make a small mistake, though. I forgot to record a small bit of song near the end in which the love interests plight their troth. I'll record that in the next few days to make it complete. It will be my first bonus track. Ahh, they grow up so fast.

However, that being said, I'd like to announce that the demo CD for Plant Your Wagon is now available to interested parties. If you'd like one, just let me know, and I'll get one in the mail to you.

Also, I have finished putting the radio script into play format, so if you know any producers who would like to perhaps inflict a world premier on an unsuspecting public just let me know. To the unimaginative, it would be kind of heavy on sets, but, as an admirer of Thornton Wilder, I would actually prefer as simpler production.

Anyway, this is just some proof that there's more to my life than just the mailroom.

Still Underground

The assignment underground continues to hang on, and dwelling in the belly of the beast has had a profound effect on me. When discussing alcoholics and other drug addicts, it has become a commonplace to mention that the person in question has to have bottomed out before redemption can become possible. Well, apparently, the mailroom was a low as I could go without disintegrating, because I am now ready to say the following: "Hi. My name is Len, and I'm addicted to grandiose schemes."

It has been my habit since youth to shoot--however fitfully--for the stars. I have done this because of a combination of self confidence, delusion, and fear of success.

I pledge, henceforth, to renounce this approach and to adopt a new, more practical one.

This does not mean that I am giving up on the radio show. They are going to have to reject me to get rid of me. It just means that, while that pipedream is playing itself out, I am going to concentrate on writing and submitting prose pieces. And not to The New Yorker, either. Not yet. I'll start with smaller, more reasonable outlets. In fact, if anybody knows of a publication that they think would just swoon over my kind of writing, feel free to let me know. Places that pay are preferred, but publishing credits count for something at this point as well.

I've got a number of essays I've culled from this blog that I'm refining and elongating with an eye to publication. The Drayton short story is coming along pretty well, and I figure Ellery Queen magazine isn't too mighty a publication for the likes of me.

Notaries from Underground

Zombie notaries rise from the undead in N. Noon Mismailian's $150 billion epic. Beware of Notaries from Underground. This time your fate is sealed.

Actually, I wanted to write a little bit about the advantages of being underground, advantages, at least, if you are a writer.

While mailroom workers get little if any respect from those whose lives they make easier, they also have--as a result of that lack of respect--access to offices and areas that other employees don't get. When you work in the mailroom, pushing your cart from floor to floor, you get exposed to all the backstairs gossip and petty rivalries and machinations, the triumphs and disappointments. It's akin to being a domestic in a Victorian household. You get to see everyone unclothed because they don't completely recognize your humanity.

And so, I''ve been gathering material.

Also, the class war gets thrown in your face several times a day, and so ideas for essays percolate and develop.

Finally, working underground has helped me add an element to a story I've been trying to write for the last 20 years or so. The story is called "Timon," and it is a loose updating of Shakespeare's retelling of the legend of Timon of Athens. I've tried writing it as a play and as a short story, but it hasn't turned out quite right yet. But working underground has had its effect.

In shakespeare's telling, Timon flees his financial woes by taking refuge in a cave. It took me all this time to realize that working in a mailroom could be the analogue to that. Yes. I think I'll have my modern, corporate Timon wind up in a mailroom plotting revenge.

And that has been the most salutary effect that the mailroom has had on me: The daemon has returned and I long to write. Fate is currently engineering another turn of events for me, one that might allow me to add to the family treasure while giving me time in which to write. At least, that is the hope. It means emerging from underground, but still going undercover.

One step at a time.

Further Underground

It isn't all fun and games underground. There is also a lot of hard work that gets done. For example, I have written almost 3000 words of a Drayton short story while waiting out my sentence. Yesterday, after having written myself out, I returned to one of my earliest loves, cartooning.

This kind of started the other day when my seven-year-old son was telling me about the superhero project he is working on. (It's actually almost freakishly good.) And I was telling him about how I used draw cartoons all the time, particularly when I was in junior high school. And I told him how I stopped doing it because I didn't think I drew well enough, and I explained to him how stupid I had been in stopping.

That led me to reminisce about a time in my life about 20 years ago when I had a job with a group that was part of a much larger project. About 95% of the work my group had to do was finished within two weeks of my coming aboard, but instead of the group being dibanded, we were kept on. It developed quickly into an entertainment/social group, and we spent our days jawing amongst ourselves and generally entertaining the troops. (There were about another hundred employees working on the same project in one huge room.) As part of my effort to get through each day without completely losing my mind, I started doddling on the blotter that lay on my desk.

When I finally left to enter indentured servitude as a legal assistant, my bosses boss, a guy named Wayne, asked me for those blotter sheets. I've always taken that as a compliment.

And speaking of compliments, here's the first cartoon I drew yesterday:



Having muddled my way through that, I tried another:



That went well enough where I thought I'd see if I could still draw one of the great characters from the blotter days, The Loch Ness Monster:



Finally, I couldn't resist another of Nessie, a character who seems to dwell somewhere in the world of celebrity and is probably more likely to be found in Hollywood than Scotland.



So, Wayne, wherever you are, enjoy.

More Notes from Underground

The mailroom job threatens to continue for another three or four weeks, but that's not so bad. In some ways it's good. It's good to do physical work and this job, on occasion, gives me an opportunity to put the belly fat to good use. There's also a modicum of downtime, and I have been using the odd spare moment to draft a Drayton short story longhand. It's coming along pretty well for a first, very rough draft. I like it. Eventually, it might be worth sending out somewhere.

I've been keeping active creatively in other ways as well. I've decided to turn both "The Quality of Marcy" and "Plant Your Wagon" into stage plays, which I am accomplishing by changing them from radio script format to playscript format. Other than that, changes have been minimal. It's easy work, for the most part, something I can do a bit of before bed at night. "Marcy" is now done, and the two episodes of radio script have been combined into one short, intermission-free play.

"Plant Your Wagon" is about halfway done, each episode falling conveniently into a corresponding act. I'm also almost done with a demo of the songs in it featuring me croaking out the lyrics to the accompaniment of my equally wretched guitar playing. Copies will be available on request, but not on compunction.

Underground

I'm sorry about the radio silence as of late, but my blog time has been infringed upon by other duties as of late, most specifically by a job.

Yes, that is right. You're humble servant has had to rejoin the laboring classes just so that his family can keep its collective head above the waves for the time being.

As a writer, I am thinking of it as being something of a spy mission. I go out into the world masking my true vocation behind a facade of craven sophistication and collect impressions for projects yet to be thought of. Over the last several weeks I have temped as a glorified file clerk (one day), a glorified data entry maven (one day), and my current position, about which more later.

The first assignment was supposed to last for three months but came to a screeching halt after the lady in charge realized that I was a middle-aged white guy and not a 20-something girl suitable for bullying. The official reason given for my dismissal was that I wasn't outgoing enough, although, in my defense, there really aren't many chances for extended conversation with a filing cabinet. And, to make matters worse, I had been told by the rep at the temp agency to wear a suit, which turned out to be overkill. I think between the suit, the grey in my hair, and the overwhelming presence of my personality, my days were numbered as soon as I shook hands with the insecure bat who runs the place. Life's like that sometimes.

My next venture into the life of a double agent came a couple of mornings afterward when I got a desperate call at 8:30 in the morning asking me to fill in for someone who had called in sick, which is temp code for "I've got an interview for a real job today." The company involved researches jury behavior so that trial lawyers can better manipulate 12 citizens, loyal and true. I spent most of the day transcribing questionnaires completed by people who participated in a study for a pretty good fee. A decent experience, nice people and all, but this is a company that does something that is an abomination to our legal system. Nothing erodes our liberties quite as efficiently as the cynical pursuit of a dollar.

For my current assignment, I have had to go deep underground. Literally. I am working in a mailroom. I hand-deliver parcels and pick up outgoing mail. I may be called upon, at any time, to move furniture or help the founder's son park his boat. The air is dank and the light fluorescent in this man-made cave, and there are times when I could swear that I am developing moss on my northern side. Still it is honest work and my supervisor couldn't be nicer, and I get to spy on the cube moles and the blowfish in the offices and even get to glance at the executives on the top floor. Yes, even a cat can look at a king.

Meanwhile, especially since mailroom workers are not deemed responsible enough to have Internet access, there is little time for blogging. I have been working on a short story featuring Michael Drayton called "Something to Remember Her By" in my spare moments with pen and paper. Wednesday was a good day for it, but the others not so much. Who knows what the coming week will bring?

And in the meantime, it's all research. Sometimes it's good to go underground.

Proof

The Boyo one Xmas morning.

Spaghettios

I had originally intended to write something on my political blog about the American Democratic experiment, which seems to be in its death throes as we speak, but a far more interesting subject came to mind while preparing my son's lunch. Spaghettios.

The boy could eat this stuff seven-days-a-week, and I can't blame him. I well remember being a big Spaghettios fan when I was his age. I think most kids, given the opportunity, feel the same. He actually got them for breakfast once, courtesy of his grandmother, and such an experience can forge a real bond between boy and G'maw. And, after all, she's the one who started it by asking him what it was he wanted for breakfast, anyway.

For those who equate nutrition with morality, I will gladly lie and say that these are a special kind of Spaghettios whose pasta is made from organic whole grains. The sauce has an organic tomato base that has been spiced with only the freshest, most natural spices, and the meatballs are made either from hard tofu curdled from only organic soybeans or carefully contrived from the remains of free range cattle. I am a specialist at keeping a straight face and can tell you this as calmly as I can discuss the weather.

That is not what fascinates me about Spaghettios, though. There are certain thermal qualities about them that I find enthralling. For example, they never take more than three minutes to heat, regardless of how they are heated. In the microwave, they can be served piping hot in one-and-one-half to two minutes. However--and this is the enthralling part--they can be heated on the stove in less than three minutes at almost any heat. No matter where I set the dial, the heat proves sufficient to have the Spaghettios bubbling in three minutes.

Now, sometimes, I get distracted and come back to the stove to find them scorching and burning in the pan. No problem. Just scrape what you can into the nearest bowl for serving and put the pan in the sink with a modicum of water. And, c'est voila, the scorched Spaghettios wipe away from the the bottom of the pan quicker than you can say "chemical additive." I don't know whether they're made from Teflon or what, but if they are, it is Teflon fortified with calcium and Vitamin D.

Strong bones and clean pans. What more could a parent ask for?

And now you'll have to excuse me. I need to prepare my lunch, the special Kraft Macaroni and Cheese made from organic whole-grain pasta and farm-fresh Wenslydale.

Bargain Hunt

Everybody has a favorite show, and mine is a confection from England called "Bargain Hunt."

In case you've never seen it, I'll explain the rules. They're dead simple. The host (here in the US still David Dickenson, aka "The Duke," pictured above) gives £200 to two two-person teams. The teams are given one hour at a fair (what we might better term a flea market) in which to buy up to three items. These items are then sold at auction, and the teams can keep any profits, if any. Each team is provided an expert, usually either an auctioneer or an antiques dealer, for consultation.

The first part of the program (or programme if you want to get all British on me) shows the contestants going around and picking various items to buy. Typically, the contestants will find something they like, and then the expert examines it, describes it, and points out both flaws and wonders. The price is then revealed, and, usually, it turns out to be a bit high. The contestants (or sometimes the experts) are sent for a good haggle to try to gain a price that will guarantee a profit at auction.

The second segment is my favorite. In this, David Dickenson confabs with an auctioneer at the establishment that is selling the items, and they dissect the values and opine as to the chances for the various pieces to show a profit in that particular auction house the next day. David usually ends up pronouncing a particular item either "cheap as chips" or "all its money." "Cheap as chips" is a good thing.

The final segment is the actual auction. Each team is brought out in turn and the items sold. Most teams take a loss (but it's the BBC's money--what the hell!), but some teams make mild profits and they typically announce that they plan to donate them to the local pub. Occasionally teams make pretty good profits--over £200 in one case--but they are the rare exceptions.

David Dickenson is an extraordinary character, always tanned and wearing Italian suits. He has his own personal battery of cliches that he trots out ceaselessly--cheap as chips; a bunch of old tat; seems a bit strong for my money; the rules are dead simple; this is a bit of a licorice; this is what we call a Liz Taylor, many marriages, not all of them good--and part of the great joy of the show comes from listening to him talk.

I like this show, which comes on BBC America twice each day, and recommend it highly. It has a silly, carefree air about it and gives me a small shot of a wide variety of British dialects. With a time commitment of only 30 minutes, I find this show to be cheap as chips and think the viewer stands a good chance with it on the day.

Happy Birthday, Hermann

Back when I was about 14 or 15, I decided to try reading a small, jacketless hardcover book my brother Rick had brought home called Demian. It was written by a German-Swiss writer named Hermann Hesse, and I think I started reading it because I was under the impression that it might have some racy parts in it. I ended up devouring it over the course of a weekend trip my parents and I made to visit my uncle, aunt, and cousins. At one level, it is a coming-of-age story, and I identified quite a bit with the protagonist, Emil Sinclair. There were also other themes and ideas, some of which I got, but most of which went sailing right over my head. Still, I loved it and had made a new friend in a German-language writer who had died when I was not quite three.

In the years since, I have read several more of his works, including four more novels and two long essays, "The Spa Visitor" and "Journey to Nuremburg." Each has impressed me and changed me, helped me to see the world slightly differently, with more compassion, I hope.

Herr Hesse would have been 129 today, had he lived. Happy birthday, Hermann, wherever you are.

Where Things Stand

Well, last Thursday, I sent a proposal to my contact at XM. It should have arrived there yesterday. Now the waiting game begins.

Les Is Not More

At the end of his song, "A Boy Named Sue," Johnny Cash exhorts his listeners to name any impending children "Bill, George, anything but Sue." If I may be so bold, I'd like to add that anyone considering naming their kid Len should give the idea a second thought or three before doing so.

Now, I like my name. I feel comfortable wearing it. I've never wanted to change it or to adopt a stage or pen name. It was my name, it was unique (when coupled with my last name, I'm one-of-a-kind), and I was proud of it.

Unfortunately, it is also a name fraught with complications. First there are soundalikes: Lynn, Lem, Lon, and Glen. Then there are the near-misses: Lee, Leon, and Leo. I have a three letter first name (all right, it's really Leonard, but that one's no picnic, either), and I have to spell it for people all the time. "No," I'll say, "L-E-N," putting a little extra spin on the E. And still they get it wrong half the time.

Just earlier today, I got an email from a professional acquaintance in response to an email of mine. And even though I had signed my email "Len," he began his with "Les." And this is someone I have known for at least three years and with whom I worked in the same small office for several months. In fact, I saw him at a party the other night, and he called me Les at least once then, too. As did someone else.

The funny thing is that back when I was born, my parents named me Leonard out of respect for my mother's father, Len. He was dying of cancer, and they thought the gesture would please him. When they came to him after I was born and told him the name, he replied, "Why didn't you name him Patrick?" Which not only goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished, but also that he may have been warning them off the pitfalls of the name.

The other funny thing is that they could have made a hundred bucks just by naming me Henry after my father's father. In fact, they could have picked up a hundred bones just for naming me Yvonne, after my grandmother. Maybe not the perfect boy's name, but at least it's not Sue.

Nowhere Man

Have you ever felt invisible? I seem to go through phases of joining the ranks of the Unseen (which is somewhat better than joining the ranks of the Unclean, I suppose), some more profoundly so than others.

The main syptoms include things such as sending emails that seem to go off into oblivion and never get a response. I wait and wait, but, despite the candle left burning in the window, I know that I shall never get the reply. This can also happen with phone calls.

Sometimes, given the way that people shove past me in stores or cut me off on the roadways, I start to believe that I am functioning in some kind of stealth mode that leaves me visible only to my nearest and dearest. And my loved ones have to acknowledge my existence, even if it is only as a sharp pain in their sides or further back.

A few weeks ago, I even became convinced that I had misplaced my soul somewhere. It started with the odd behavior of squirrels who darted in front of my car with a sudden maddening regularity. Perhaps a tidal wave of despair had swept through the local squirrel community and a rash of suicidal tendencies had corrupted the population, but I'm not sure. They all looked happy enough to me as I applied the driving skills of a stunt man in order to keep them firmly tethered to this mortal coil. No. It seems far more likely that they were unable to sense my being, and let me tell you, being beneath the contempt of a squirrel is a pretty low place in life.

The real kicker came one day while I was taking a walk. Already, in the course of the first half-mile or so, several squirrels had zipped across my path, perhaps hoping that I would crush them manually or perhaps taunting me with their lack of fear.

As I crossed into the driveway of a set of low-slung office buildings nearby, I saw a young guy walking what seemed to be a wolf. If it was a dog, it was the Frankenstein's Monster of dogs, made up of outsized parts for ease of reanimation. I'm pretty sure it was a wolf, though. (I've seen it several times since.)

Anyway, as I crossed the street to enter the driveway, the guy and his wolf approached from the opposite direction. And here's the thing: As soon as the wolf saw me, he started growling and baring his teeth, and the guy said, "I don't know why he's doing this. He never does stuff like this." And in my mind, I flashed on a scene from The Simpson's, the one in which Bart sells his soul to Milhouse for five dollars, and I thought of the scene in which Bart, while traversing Springfield in search of his soul, is confronted by a dog who acts toward him exactly as the wolf was acting toward me. And that's when it hit me: I had somehow misplaced my soul!

Now, I hadn't remembered misplacing my soul, but I wouldn't, would I? I hadn't washed it or lent it to a friend. As I continued on my stroll, I tried to figure out just what I had done with it.

And I still don't know. It seemed to be back the next day. I got some long-awaited emails. No animals excessively feared or flouted my existence. Maybe it just went on vacation, but I'd hate to think that my soul went to the beach or Branson, MO, and forgot to take me with it. It's all a mystery.

And that's the problem with souls. It's all a mystery.

Yet Another Blog

Since I've turned back to writing my novel, I have created a brand new blog devoted to its history, composition, and progress: Michael Drayton, Detective Guy. I've added a link to the sidebar for ease of navigation.

If you're interested in the progress of a novel (five chapters done, more to come) or know someone who might be, go ahead and check out or refer them to Michael Drayton, Detective Guy.