"Okay, fruits this time! One for every letter of the alphabet."
"Apples!"
"Bananas."
"Clementines."
"Durian."
"Eww, the stinky fruit? Etrog."
"Etrog? What's that?"
"It's from Judaism. Figs."
"Grapes."
"Honeydew."
"Indian figs?"
"Sure. Jackfruit."
"Kumquats."
"Ooh, it works this time! Lemons."
"Melon."
"Nectarines."
"Oranges."
"Pears."
"And we're back to Q. Any ideas?"
"Quince?"
"I thought that was a veggie."
"Look, let's just move on. Raspberries."
"Strawberries."
"Tangelos."
"Ugli fruit!"
"Gross. Vanilla."
"Watermelon."
"No clue on X."
"Yellow plums, though!"
"And finally, Z. Um. I'm stumped."
"Hey, we got the majority of them!"
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Vegetables
"So, can you come up with a vegetable for each letter of the alphabet?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, can you name a vegetable that starts with each letter?"
"Um, maybe?"
"Try!"
"Avocado."
"Bok choy."
"Carrots."
"Dandelions? Do those count as vegetables?"
"Sure, why not. Eggplant."
"Fennel."
"That's not an herb?"
"Herbs aren't vegetables?"
"Point taken. Garlic."
"Habanero peppers!"
"Nice one! Iceberg lettuce."
"Jicama."
"Kumquat."
"That's a fruit."
"Oh, damn. Kale."
"Lettuce."
"Mushrooms."
"Napa cabbage."
"Onions."
"Peppers."
"Q? Does any vegetable start with Q?"
"Quince!"
"Well done. Radish."
"Sweet peas."
"Turnips."
"U? I've got nothing."
"Me neither. SKIP!"
"Vidalia onions."
"Watercress."
"X? Again, the toughest thing in the world."
"I don't think there is one. Yams, though!"
"And finally, Zucchini!"
"We did it!"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, can you name a vegetable that starts with each letter?"
"Um, maybe?"
"Try!"
"Avocado."
"Bok choy."
"Carrots."
"Dandelions? Do those count as vegetables?"
"Sure, why not. Eggplant."
"Fennel."
"That's not an herb?"
"Herbs aren't vegetables?"
"Point taken. Garlic."
"Habanero peppers!"
"Nice one! Iceberg lettuce."
"Jicama."
"Kumquat."
"That's a fruit."
"Oh, damn. Kale."
"Lettuce."
"Mushrooms."
"Napa cabbage."
"Onions."
"Peppers."
"Q? Does any vegetable start with Q?"
"Quince!"
"Well done. Radish."
"Sweet peas."
"Turnips."
"U? I've got nothing."
"Me neither. SKIP!"
"Vidalia onions."
"Watercress."
"X? Again, the toughest thing in the world."
"I don't think there is one. Yams, though!"
"And finally, Zucchini!"
"We did it!"
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Motivation
The man stared down at us from the podium, his eyes glittering as he gazed out at the sea of upturned faces. "Motivation," he thundered. "Motivation is the guiding force, the one driving energy that I hope you all have."
His voice was resounding, drowning out the rustle of four hundred graduates in ill-fitting plastic robes. I could hear someone talking behind me, holding a whispered conversation with their neighbor. I tried to block out the noise, focusing on our speaker.
"Motivation," the man repeated. "Sadly, I can tell you right now, from right here, that most of you will fail this simple test.
"All it takes in life to survive is motivation. And I say that, so simply, it sounds so easy! All you need to do is know what you want, work for it, and all your dreams will come true. It sounds like the kind of advice we tell to naive young kids, the kind of sugary crap that is bottled up and sold by every half-hour animated kids show on television. 'Work for what you want, and you will succeed!' And we all know, inside of us, that it will never be that easy. We have all learned to see the more cynical side.
"And yet, there's a reason why we continue to bottle up and sell this garbage. At its heart, when you dig past the layers of bullshit and overly sweet goo, there is truth there. Motivation, hard work, really is the key to success. The problem is that nobody truly understands just what hard work truly is."
Around me, I could hear more fidgeting. People were getting antsy. We had been cooped up in this hot auditorium for hours, waiting in a gigantic, single-file line to receive our high school diplomas. Now, people wanted to leave, to head off to the parties, the celebrations, the drunken bonfires and pointless cheering that would mark our leaving of this level of education.
"See, here's the issue," the speaker in front of us continued. "When we hear of hard work, we think of a long day's effort. We think of hard work as the dedication to show up at a job every day, for eight hours each day, five days a week, for forty years. We imagine doing that, and we think to ourselves, 'that is hard work. That is the motivation that will get me to where I want to be in life.'
"And when we imagine that, we're wrong.
"The problem is that working eight hours a day, forty hours a week, two thousand hours a year, is not the maximum. That's the minimum.
"Working a job, putting in the hours, merely establishes a baseline. It's not just holding a job, because everyone does that! No, for true motivation, you must rise, head and shoulders, above the rest of the world. If you're at the top of your class, you need to find a smarter class. And if you're not at the top of your class, you had better fight to get to the top of it.
"To succeed, you need to take on all the work you can handle, to set your sights on the highest peak and never waver in your constant fight to get there. And yes," he continued, pounding on the podium, "it will be a fight. It will be a fight that will take years, a fight that will be fought in a thousand battles every day. You will question the path many times, be constantly tempted to abandon your course. And most of you, at some point, will give in to temptation."
By now, whispered conversations had sprung up all around me. The man was gazing out into the crowd; he had to have noticed. But I almost felt as though his eyes were resting directly on me.
"Motivation," he said firmly. "Motivation is key. Do you have it?"
His voice was resounding, drowning out the rustle of four hundred graduates in ill-fitting plastic robes. I could hear someone talking behind me, holding a whispered conversation with their neighbor. I tried to block out the noise, focusing on our speaker.
"Motivation," the man repeated. "Sadly, I can tell you right now, from right here, that most of you will fail this simple test.
"All it takes in life to survive is motivation. And I say that, so simply, it sounds so easy! All you need to do is know what you want, work for it, and all your dreams will come true. It sounds like the kind of advice we tell to naive young kids, the kind of sugary crap that is bottled up and sold by every half-hour animated kids show on television. 'Work for what you want, and you will succeed!' And we all know, inside of us, that it will never be that easy. We have all learned to see the more cynical side.
"And yet, there's a reason why we continue to bottle up and sell this garbage. At its heart, when you dig past the layers of bullshit and overly sweet goo, there is truth there. Motivation, hard work, really is the key to success. The problem is that nobody truly understands just what hard work truly is."
Around me, I could hear more fidgeting. People were getting antsy. We had been cooped up in this hot auditorium for hours, waiting in a gigantic, single-file line to receive our high school diplomas. Now, people wanted to leave, to head off to the parties, the celebrations, the drunken bonfires and pointless cheering that would mark our leaving of this level of education.
"See, here's the issue," the speaker in front of us continued. "When we hear of hard work, we think of a long day's effort. We think of hard work as the dedication to show up at a job every day, for eight hours each day, five days a week, for forty years. We imagine doing that, and we think to ourselves, 'that is hard work. That is the motivation that will get me to where I want to be in life.'
"And when we imagine that, we're wrong.
"The problem is that working eight hours a day, forty hours a week, two thousand hours a year, is not the maximum. That's the minimum.
"Working a job, putting in the hours, merely establishes a baseline. It's not just holding a job, because everyone does that! No, for true motivation, you must rise, head and shoulders, above the rest of the world. If you're at the top of your class, you need to find a smarter class. And if you're not at the top of your class, you had better fight to get to the top of it.
"To succeed, you need to take on all the work you can handle, to set your sights on the highest peak and never waver in your constant fight to get there. And yes," he continued, pounding on the podium, "it will be a fight. It will be a fight that will take years, a fight that will be fought in a thousand battles every day. You will question the path many times, be constantly tempted to abandon your course. And most of you, at some point, will give in to temptation."
By now, whispered conversations had sprung up all around me. The man was gazing out into the crowd; he had to have noticed. But I almost felt as though his eyes were resting directly on me.
"Motivation," he said firmly. "Motivation is key. Do you have it?"
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Moving Forward
I stared at the pile of mementos sitting before me. How untidily they were piled there, in that heap.
At the bottom, pulled down by its weight, I could see the medallion. I had barely managed to graduate with honors. When I had been presented with that medallion, it had validated all of my hopes. For a moment, I had known that I could overcome challenge, and I had naively marched forward, certain that, bearing this talisman, all problems would fall before me.
The thick stack of papers, there, those were my stories written for a critical writing class. The professor had praised both their composition and execution, telling me how I was a "natural born storyteller." I had returned home that day after class with a beaming smile that just wouldn't seem to vanish. Of course, then I had filed the stories all away without making any attempt to publish them, but that warm glow stayed with me for weeks.
Two small matchbox cars. Those had been given to me by the kids I babysat one summer, small tokens that represented so much more. Every day, I had been forced to pry them away from me to leave, as they hugged me, telling me how much they loved me and wanted me to stay. They had picked out these cars, their favorites, to bestow upon me.
The bookmark, sitting near the top of the pile, had come from my girlfriend at the time. We had dated for years, and she knew that I was constantly losing bookmarks. It had been a great present, and I had made sure that, of all the bookmarks, this was one that I never lost, never misplaced.
So many more items, each a memento of my past. The blurry pictures from my Bar Mitzvah. My first paper that had received an A in college. A copy of the school paper with my article on the third page, my name in ink for all to see. Bottle caps from the first drinks I had ever consumed. A roster from my fraternity. So many belongings, tiny treasures that represented an integral part of my past.
I struck the match.
At first, the flame didn't want to take, and it flickered on the edge of life. After a moment, however, it recovered against the soft breeze and flared up, leaping into angry red life. I held out my hand, the match suspended above the pile.
For a moment I was paralyzed. I took a deep breath, willing my trembling hand to still. Then, with a sigh, I released the match.
I had soaked the pile in plenty of lighter fluid to ensure that it would all go up evenly. The match ignited the fumes, and the fire roared into life. I watched my things burn, so many remembrances that were gone in a matter of seconds.
As the flames died down, I turned and walked away. The sun was shining down, and the soft breeze ruffled my hair. The world stretched out before me, filled with promise.
At the bottom, pulled down by its weight, I could see the medallion. I had barely managed to graduate with honors. When I had been presented with that medallion, it had validated all of my hopes. For a moment, I had known that I could overcome challenge, and I had naively marched forward, certain that, bearing this talisman, all problems would fall before me.
The thick stack of papers, there, those were my stories written for a critical writing class. The professor had praised both their composition and execution, telling me how I was a "natural born storyteller." I had returned home that day after class with a beaming smile that just wouldn't seem to vanish. Of course, then I had filed the stories all away without making any attempt to publish them, but that warm glow stayed with me for weeks.
Two small matchbox cars. Those had been given to me by the kids I babysat one summer, small tokens that represented so much more. Every day, I had been forced to pry them away from me to leave, as they hugged me, telling me how much they loved me and wanted me to stay. They had picked out these cars, their favorites, to bestow upon me.
The bookmark, sitting near the top of the pile, had come from my girlfriend at the time. We had dated for years, and she knew that I was constantly losing bookmarks. It had been a great present, and I had made sure that, of all the bookmarks, this was one that I never lost, never misplaced.
So many more items, each a memento of my past. The blurry pictures from my Bar Mitzvah. My first paper that had received an A in college. A copy of the school paper with my article on the third page, my name in ink for all to see. Bottle caps from the first drinks I had ever consumed. A roster from my fraternity. So many belongings, tiny treasures that represented an integral part of my past.
I struck the match.
At first, the flame didn't want to take, and it flickered on the edge of life. After a moment, however, it recovered against the soft breeze and flared up, leaping into angry red life. I held out my hand, the match suspended above the pile.
For a moment I was paralyzed. I took a deep breath, willing my trembling hand to still. Then, with a sigh, I released the match.
I had soaked the pile in plenty of lighter fluid to ensure that it would all go up evenly. The match ignited the fumes, and the fire roared into life. I watched my things burn, so many remembrances that were gone in a matter of seconds.
As the flames died down, I turned and walked away. The sun was shining down, and the soft breeze ruffled my hair. The world stretched out before me, filled with promise.
Friday, August 23, 2013
On the practical hilarity of poop jokes
Today, I'm going to tackle a treasured trope of many low-budget films and television shows - the poop joke.
This joke has existed since time immemorial, probably even to the point of being scrawled on the walls of caves, down below the actual important artwork that all the museums prefer to focus on. While there is at least one poop joke present in just about every single comedy in existence, and I can guarantee that there isn't a human alive who hasn't laughed at at least one poop joke, they are still considered to be at the ass end of comedy (see what I did there?).
The question is, why?
Why do we consider poop jokes to be such shit? I think that the first and foremost reason is that they are clinically overdone. One of the best ways to ruin any joke, no matter how hilarious, is to overuse it. The first time a monkey hits a man in the genitalia with a softball, it's hilarious. It will leave people literally rolling on the floor laughing (or ROTFL, for short). However, after they've seen this on a commercial fifty times in the last three days while they want to just keep on watching Castle without such interruptions blocking Nathan Fillion's sexy face, such antics aren't nearly as funny.
So, overuse. But that can't be the only reason that film critics bite their pencils in half when confronted by a toilet joke. Which is ironic, because those pencils are a great source of fiber. But why else are poop jokes considered to be the lowest common denominator of humor?
Perhaps it is exactly because these jokes are so easy to relate to. From the top-paid CEO to the janitorial worker in his employ, everyone laughed at a poop joke at some point in their life. To a thirteen year old, the latest Adam Sandler comedy is hilarious. But to the rest of us, these jokes are a symbol of how low we once sat, how we once considered such jokes to be the pinnacle of humor.
We may have moved on. We may have evolved. Over the course of our lives, we may have dragged ourselves up into the peaks of high society, raised ourselves out of the coffee and into the cream. We have no inclination to look back, and don't want to see our roots. When such a simple joke is able to pull at our strings, to remind us of how we once started off among the shit, we groan, forcing it out of our consciousness to avoid such frustrating realizations.
Finally, perhaps because of how we dislike poop jokes, we have imposed a stigma upon them. No matter how many times you attend the White House Correspondents' dinner, you aren't likely to hear a lot of comments on the brown stuff. Why is that? Because we have decreed that such jokes are the products of low class, and should not be associated with the upper class. They have risen above such vulgar and derisive forms of humor!
Allow me to draw a parallel to horse meat. Recently, there was a scandal over the discovery of horse meat in beef sold in Europe. Horse meat, by the way, happens to be healthier in just about every way versus beef. It's lower in calories, less fat, more lean, cheaper to produce, less cholesterol, and is overall assumed to taste better. However, because we have imposed such stigma on the act of eating horse, horse meat is considered to be vulgar and not worth consuming.
So not to beat a dead horse, but I have a reason for trying to avoid poop jokes. Despite the fact that just about every human being, alive or dead, will get a poop joke, they tend to signal to the reader that the subject matter is low-grade, inferior, not valuable. Much like poop.
And that's too bad, because such jokes are literally dropping out of me on a daily basis!
This joke has existed since time immemorial, probably even to the point of being scrawled on the walls of caves, down below the actual important artwork that all the museums prefer to focus on. While there is at least one poop joke present in just about every single comedy in existence, and I can guarantee that there isn't a human alive who hasn't laughed at at least one poop joke, they are still considered to be at the ass end of comedy (see what I did there?).
The question is, why?
Why do we consider poop jokes to be such shit? I think that the first and foremost reason is that they are clinically overdone. One of the best ways to ruin any joke, no matter how hilarious, is to overuse it. The first time a monkey hits a man in the genitalia with a softball, it's hilarious. It will leave people literally rolling on the floor laughing (or ROTFL, for short). However, after they've seen this on a commercial fifty times in the last three days while they want to just keep on watching Castle without such interruptions blocking Nathan Fillion's sexy face, such antics aren't nearly as funny.
So, overuse. But that can't be the only reason that film critics bite their pencils in half when confronted by a toilet joke. Which is ironic, because those pencils are a great source of fiber. But why else are poop jokes considered to be the lowest common denominator of humor?
Perhaps it is exactly because these jokes are so easy to relate to. From the top-paid CEO to the janitorial worker in his employ, everyone laughed at a poop joke at some point in their life. To a thirteen year old, the latest Adam Sandler comedy is hilarious. But to the rest of us, these jokes are a symbol of how low we once sat, how we once considered such jokes to be the pinnacle of humor.
We may have moved on. We may have evolved. Over the course of our lives, we may have dragged ourselves up into the peaks of high society, raised ourselves out of the coffee and into the cream. We have no inclination to look back, and don't want to see our roots. When such a simple joke is able to pull at our strings, to remind us of how we once started off among the shit, we groan, forcing it out of our consciousness to avoid such frustrating realizations.
Finally, perhaps because of how we dislike poop jokes, we have imposed a stigma upon them. No matter how many times you attend the White House Correspondents' dinner, you aren't likely to hear a lot of comments on the brown stuff. Why is that? Because we have decreed that such jokes are the products of low class, and should not be associated with the upper class. They have risen above such vulgar and derisive forms of humor!
Allow me to draw a parallel to horse meat. Recently, there was a scandal over the discovery of horse meat in beef sold in Europe. Horse meat, by the way, happens to be healthier in just about every way versus beef. It's lower in calories, less fat, more lean, cheaper to produce, less cholesterol, and is overall assumed to taste better. However, because we have imposed such stigma on the act of eating horse, horse meat is considered to be vulgar and not worth consuming.
So not to beat a dead horse, but I have a reason for trying to avoid poop jokes. Despite the fact that just about every human being, alive or dead, will get a poop joke, they tend to signal to the reader that the subject matter is low-grade, inferior, not valuable. Much like poop.
And that's too bad, because such jokes are literally dropping out of me on a daily basis!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
This is only an update in the merest sense of the word
Sorry, folks, no fun story for you today. I am currently moving, packing everything that I own somehow into my car so I can make it in one trip. Because real men don't go back for a second trip. Plus it isn't feasible. So yeah, that.
Because of this, this day's update is (temporarily) postponed. I will now make empty promises that I will come back and fill it in, but in all honesty, there's only about a 50/50 chance that it will happen.
More stories to come soon, promise, once I have my life reassembled.
Because of this, this day's update is (temporarily) postponed. I will now make empty promises that I will come back and fill it in, but in all honesty, there's only about a 50/50 chance that it will happen.
More stories to come soon, promise, once I have my life reassembled.
Monday, August 19, 2013
First World Problems
One of the most bothersome issues I find in my writing is a lack of internal motivation.
Now, I feel that I need to clarify this statement. I have plenty of ideas, and I certainly have a powerful drive to succeed. My parents raised me with the core idea that I could succeed at whatever I put my mind to, as long as I was willing to devote the time and energy into improving my ability and making the necessary investments.
And you know what, random strangers of the internet? Things have worked out fairly well. I got into college on my first shot, plus a very nice package of perks. I'm soon headed off to graduate school (admitted on the first round of applications). I score at the top percentiles for most exams. I am financially stable and secure. I have a wonderful social life, companionship, and pretty much every basic need is filled. I can manage my money, have a medley of hobbies to pursue, am a decent cook, and am doing fairly well in just about every aspect of my life.
Please note, before taking too much offense at this preceding paragraph, that I am not bragging. No, quite the opposite - this is my issue! I have no trauma in my past, no tragic flaw, no corruption or demons within that I must battle, no haunted face staring back at me from my mirror. I am, to summarize, doing very well.
This really shouldn't irk me. Success, which is truly what I have achieved, shouldn't be a drawback. It should be something to celebrate, something to rejoice in and enjoy!
And yet, I occasionally find myself wishing that I did have some flaw, some character defect that I must strive every day to overcome. And my motivation for such a flaw is nearly farce. Curious yet? Think you've guessed the reason? Here it is:
I see other writers, other people in all different areas and fields, who can draw strength and inner focus from the challenges they have overcome. Through their conquering of their inner demons, they find motivation, courage, and remarkable insight into the human condition that allows them to insert depth and emotion into whatever they pursue.
For me, on the other hand, a spoiled upper-middle-class white kid, born an American citizen, raised in a loving two-parent family, gifted with a good education, and with plenty of career opportunities in my field - what insight do I have? I have not had any experiences with the rougher side of life. The closest I have come to tragedy is on the cinema screen. Knowing this, how can I hope to convey such depth and strength of feeling in my work?
I hope that, by now, you are actively cursing me. Much like a spoiled, petulant teenage girl, I am complaining because my life is "too good." What arrogance! How dare I mock my success, spit in the face of the great sacrifices that others have made to raise me to this position? And I know, deep inside, that I am happy to not be fighting demons. I am happy that I have not had to endure tragedy, that my life is a cakewalk.
Yet still, sometimes before I drift off to sleep (in my own apartment, paid for in full, without debt, what a stuck-up ass), I wonder whether I have not yet truly lived.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Barista To The Angels, Part II
Link to Part I!
Gabriel didn't even spare a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe, but as an archangel, I outrank him.”
This didn't quite sit right with me, but who was I to question Heavenly politics? A tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that I would have to draw up some rules for the shop. I caught the scent of burned fabric as I made the archangel's drink. Rule number one: any arsonist must pay for all damages caused by his flaming sword.
Unlike Gabriel, the rest of the angels ordered their usual drink, a large regular coffee with seven creams and sugars. A small part of my soul felt soiled by making these drinks – the sweet liquid in the cups I passed across the counter appeared nearly white. Each angel politely accepted his steaming drink from my hand, dropping another gold coin on the counter. Gabriel leaned casually against the counter and sipped his espresso as I worked, kindly keeping his wings angled away from my workspace.
I made it through the angelic rush without trouble, although I was already beginning to run low on cream. As the last angel strolled out through the locked door, I sank backwards onto my stool behind the counter, staring at the pile of gold coins on my countertop.
Gabriel set down his cup with a clink. “One angelic quirk – while they understand the concept of money, they really haven't managed to master inflation, or commodities exchange,” he said, a small smile playing about his lips. “It took them a couple thousand years to figure out that gold could be traded for things. I haven't even tried explaining fiat currency to them.”
I raised my head to stare at him. “Angels are real,” I said, trying to convince myself that these words were true. “They wear halos, carry harps and flaming swords, they can walk through locked doors, and they drink really sweet coffee.” I wondered if the shop's wallpaper contained some sort of hallucinogenic adhesive.
Gabriel shrugged one shoulder as he brushed a bit of lint from his lapels. “Try not to dwell on it too much,” he replied. “Just keep plenty of cream and sugar on hand for the morning and lunch rushes, and you'll do fine.”
The archangel strolled towards the door. He paused briefly at a large scorch mark on my carpet, caused by an errant flaming sword. With a wave of his hand, the carpet miraculously restored itself. “One other thing,” he added with his hand on the doorknob. “In order to keep our existence secret, perhaps this door should simply remain locked. It might be better, all around.” With that advice, he slipped out of my shop.
After that first day, I spent a long time sitting in my unopened coffee shop, pondering what had happened. The angels kept on returning, two large rushes per day, six days a week. It turns out that angels take the whole Day of Rest thing very seriously, and refuse even their weak coffee on Saturdays. Sunday through Friday, however, I woke up before the sunrise, standing in the locked room of my coffee shop, certain that this would be the day the angels didn't come, that the glamour would finally fade. I'd end each day with another pile of gold coins, feeling even more lost than when I believed it was nothing but a dream.
At first, the gold was a big help. I sat down one day with a pair of scales and worked out that the angels paid me roughly $700 for each cup of coffee. All in all, I earned about fifteen thousand dollars a day. I very quickly paid off my loans and bought out the shop, and hired an assistant.
Finding an assistant who wouldn't be bothered by having his entire worldview turned upside down was a significant challenge, I had to admit. After sifting through an endless pile of theology and psychology majors, I ended up picking a college student majoring in computer science. I don't think his gaze ever rose to meet my eyes, much less high enough to spot a halo.
Despite the ease of the job and the huge amount of money made each day, I always left the shop feeling dissatisfied. Eventually, I ended up heading down to local homeless shelters and other donation centers at the close of each week, giving away the bulk of the week's income.
However, I did take some of the funds and use them for a new sign. Call me pretentious, call me self-centered, but even though no customer ever saw the outside of my permanently shuttered shop, I felt a new sign was necessary. I had to hire a custom designer to build it for me, but the name is perfect. "Heavenly Grounds" just has the right sound to it, don't you think?
Gabriel didn't even spare a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe, but as an archangel, I outrank him.”
This didn't quite sit right with me, but who was I to question Heavenly politics? A tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that I would have to draw up some rules for the shop. I caught the scent of burned fabric as I made the archangel's drink. Rule number one: any arsonist must pay for all damages caused by his flaming sword.
Unlike Gabriel, the rest of the angels ordered their usual drink, a large regular coffee with seven creams and sugars. A small part of my soul felt soiled by making these drinks – the sweet liquid in the cups I passed across the counter appeared nearly white. Each angel politely accepted his steaming drink from my hand, dropping another gold coin on the counter. Gabriel leaned casually against the counter and sipped his espresso as I worked, kindly keeping his wings angled away from my workspace.
I made it through the angelic rush without trouble, although I was already beginning to run low on cream. As the last angel strolled out through the locked door, I sank backwards onto my stool behind the counter, staring at the pile of gold coins on my countertop.
Gabriel set down his cup with a clink. “One angelic quirk – while they understand the concept of money, they really haven't managed to master inflation, or commodities exchange,” he said, a small smile playing about his lips. “It took them a couple thousand years to figure out that gold could be traded for things. I haven't even tried explaining fiat currency to them.”
I raised my head to stare at him. “Angels are real,” I said, trying to convince myself that these words were true. “They wear halos, carry harps and flaming swords, they can walk through locked doors, and they drink really sweet coffee.” I wondered if the shop's wallpaper contained some sort of hallucinogenic adhesive.
Gabriel shrugged one shoulder as he brushed a bit of lint from his lapels. “Try not to dwell on it too much,” he replied. “Just keep plenty of cream and sugar on hand for the morning and lunch rushes, and you'll do fine.”
The archangel strolled towards the door. He paused briefly at a large scorch mark on my carpet, caused by an errant flaming sword. With a wave of his hand, the carpet miraculously restored itself. “One other thing,” he added with his hand on the doorknob. “In order to keep our existence secret, perhaps this door should simply remain locked. It might be better, all around.” With that advice, he slipped out of my shop.
After that first day, I spent a long time sitting in my unopened coffee shop, pondering what had happened. The angels kept on returning, two large rushes per day, six days a week. It turns out that angels take the whole Day of Rest thing very seriously, and refuse even their weak coffee on Saturdays. Sunday through Friday, however, I woke up before the sunrise, standing in the locked room of my coffee shop, certain that this would be the day the angels didn't come, that the glamour would finally fade. I'd end each day with another pile of gold coins, feeling even more lost than when I believed it was nothing but a dream.
At first, the gold was a big help. I sat down one day with a pair of scales and worked out that the angels paid me roughly $700 for each cup of coffee. All in all, I earned about fifteen thousand dollars a day. I very quickly paid off my loans and bought out the shop, and hired an assistant.
Finding an assistant who wouldn't be bothered by having his entire worldview turned upside down was a significant challenge, I had to admit. After sifting through an endless pile of theology and psychology majors, I ended up picking a college student majoring in computer science. I don't think his gaze ever rose to meet my eyes, much less high enough to spot a halo.
Despite the ease of the job and the huge amount of money made each day, I always left the shop feeling dissatisfied. Eventually, I ended up heading down to local homeless shelters and other donation centers at the close of each week, giving away the bulk of the week's income.
However, I did take some of the funds and use them for a new sign. Call me pretentious, call me self-centered, but even though no customer ever saw the outside of my permanently shuttered shop, I felt a new sign was necessary. I had to hire a custom designer to build it for me, but the name is perfect. "Heavenly Grounds" just has the right sound to it, don't you think?
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Barista To The Angels, Part I
I can tell you, nothing changes your world view like an angel wandering into your coffee shop.
I had just signed a lease on the location a few months ago, wedged between an organic food market and an overly modern art boutique. I expected an interesting crowd. My first customer, however, managed to raise the bar to a whole new level.
The man wandered in a day or two before the store was scheduled to open. I was standing behind the counter making sure that the cash register was working. “I'm sorry,” I spoke up. “We haven't opened yet...”
My words trailed away as I took in the man standing before me. The man wore an oversized fedora and was dressed in what appeared to be three trench coats, each of a different color and cut, layered on top of each other. Many more examples have since confirmed to me that angels are comically bad at disguising themselves.
The man ignored my comment and politely requested a large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars. Not quite sure how to respond to such single-minded politeness, I made him the coffee. “That will be three dollars,” I told him.
Beneath the brim of his fedora, the fellow's eyes looked unusually blank. He reached into the pocket of one of his coats and withdrew a large gold coin, which he set on my counter with a solid thud. Apparently considering payment complete, he took a long drag of the coffee. “Ooh, this is excellent!” he said in delight. “Wonderful! Expect more of us tomorrow!”
Clutching his drink, the man turned and exited via the door before I could say a word. After he had left, I slowly moved out from around the counter. I checked three times, just to be certain. Yes, the door was still tightly locked. I turned back to the counter, toying with the heavy golden coin as I tried to make sense of what had happened. A man had just walked in through a locked door, obviously in some sort of disguise, to order a cup of very watered-down coffee! What was happening?
The next morning, waiting with trepidation behind the counter, I watched in amazement as nearly two dozen angels poured inside through the locked door. This time, there was no second-guessing their origin. The beings wore white robes, vaguely reminiscent of togas, and halos bobbed above their heads. Some of them carried harps or lyres under an arm. A few even bore swords strapped to their waists, the blades of which appeared to be on fire.
The angels clamored forward to the counter. Despite their halos, I caught a few subtle elbows jammed into sides as they jockeyed into a rough line. The first angel in line smiled beatifically at me. “Large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars,” he said, already laying another one of the gold coins on the counter.
My brain was returning nothing but static and fuzz. Busy signal, please try again later. “What's going on?” I asked. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
The angel looked confused. “Seven creams, seven sugars,” he repeated, sounding less certain. Behind him, I could hear discordant notes as one of the angels struggled to tune his lyre.
We could have remained at that impasse all day, staring at each other in mutual confusion. Fortunately, A slim, dapper-looking gentleman in a gray suit broke the stalemate, squirming irritably past the angel. “Hello there,” the man said, extending a hand across the counter. “Name's Gabriel. Sorry about this.”
Acting on autopilot, I accepted the proffered hand. “This?” I repeated. Large white wings extended out from Gabriel's shoulders, mesmerizing me as they waved back and forth.
Gabriel waved one hand vaguely at the assembled angels. “Listen, don't worry about this. Your shop just happens to be at a nexus of intersecting loci, with real termini at nearly nine of the fourteen dimensions. Basically, it's really easy for us to access, so it's very convenient for grabbing a morning fix.”
None of the words that had just come out of this angel's mouth made the slightest bit of sense. “Angels are real?” I asked. I felt rather dumb for asking the question when the evidence to the contrary currently stood in front of my eyes, waiting for coffee.
The angel in the suit across the counter rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Now, I'll take an espresso machiato.”
“I think that angel back there was first,” I said tentatively, nodding at the angel Gabriel had shrugged aside...
Link to Part II!
I had just signed a lease on the location a few months ago, wedged between an organic food market and an overly modern art boutique. I expected an interesting crowd. My first customer, however, managed to raise the bar to a whole new level.
The man wandered in a day or two before the store was scheduled to open. I was standing behind the counter making sure that the cash register was working. “I'm sorry,” I spoke up. “We haven't opened yet...”
My words trailed away as I took in the man standing before me. The man wore an oversized fedora and was dressed in what appeared to be three trench coats, each of a different color and cut, layered on top of each other. Many more examples have since confirmed to me that angels are comically bad at disguising themselves.
The man ignored my comment and politely requested a large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars. Not quite sure how to respond to such single-minded politeness, I made him the coffee. “That will be three dollars,” I told him.
Beneath the brim of his fedora, the fellow's eyes looked unusually blank. He reached into the pocket of one of his coats and withdrew a large gold coin, which he set on my counter with a solid thud. Apparently considering payment complete, he took a long drag of the coffee. “Ooh, this is excellent!” he said in delight. “Wonderful! Expect more of us tomorrow!”
Clutching his drink, the man turned and exited via the door before I could say a word. After he had left, I slowly moved out from around the counter. I checked three times, just to be certain. Yes, the door was still tightly locked. I turned back to the counter, toying with the heavy golden coin as I tried to make sense of what had happened. A man had just walked in through a locked door, obviously in some sort of disguise, to order a cup of very watered-down coffee! What was happening?
The next morning, waiting with trepidation behind the counter, I watched in amazement as nearly two dozen angels poured inside through the locked door. This time, there was no second-guessing their origin. The beings wore white robes, vaguely reminiscent of togas, and halos bobbed above their heads. Some of them carried harps or lyres under an arm. A few even bore swords strapped to their waists, the blades of which appeared to be on fire.
The angels clamored forward to the counter. Despite their halos, I caught a few subtle elbows jammed into sides as they jockeyed into a rough line. The first angel in line smiled beatifically at me. “Large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars,” he said, already laying another one of the gold coins on the counter.
My brain was returning nothing but static and fuzz. Busy signal, please try again later. “What's going on?” I asked. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
The angel looked confused. “Seven creams, seven sugars,” he repeated, sounding less certain. Behind him, I could hear discordant notes as one of the angels struggled to tune his lyre.
We could have remained at that impasse all day, staring at each other in mutual confusion. Fortunately, A slim, dapper-looking gentleman in a gray suit broke the stalemate, squirming irritably past the angel. “Hello there,” the man said, extending a hand across the counter. “Name's Gabriel. Sorry about this.”
Acting on autopilot, I accepted the proffered hand. “This?” I repeated. Large white wings extended out from Gabriel's shoulders, mesmerizing me as they waved back and forth.
Gabriel waved one hand vaguely at the assembled angels. “Listen, don't worry about this. Your shop just happens to be at a nexus of intersecting loci, with real termini at nearly nine of the fourteen dimensions. Basically, it's really easy for us to access, so it's very convenient for grabbing a morning fix.”
None of the words that had just come out of this angel's mouth made the slightest bit of sense. “Angels are real?” I asked. I felt rather dumb for asking the question when the evidence to the contrary currently stood in front of my eyes, waiting for coffee.
The angel in the suit across the counter rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Now, I'll take an espresso machiato.”
“I think that angel back there was first,” I said tentatively, nodding at the angel Gabriel had shrugged aside...
Link to Part II!
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The Mad Three Buy A Bar: Corkscrew's Night
Introduction to the Mad Three
The first part of this story: The Aftermath
This night was wild – just how I liked it!
As soon as Franco had come in, demanding that we open up a bar, I had seen a golden opportunity to practice my mixology. Most of my friends now refused to taste the drinks I made, even though I had worked out nearly all of the errors! The MSG and soy sauce debacle was far behind me.
Unfortunately, as the night progressed, there was disappointingly little interest in my specially designed and printed cocktail menu. I had spent hours laboring over the names and mixtures, but nobody was ordering! For the first half of the night, I was stuck doing nothing but popping the tops off of beer bottles and making basic martinis for Franco and all the girls he tried to hit on. How dull.
I was thankful, then, when I went back to grab more vodka and encountered Jack, worrying away as usual. He may be constantly in a state of despair, but I do have to admit that he's good at noticing potential problems. Fortunately, I'm a born problem solver! As soon as I heard that there was a thief, I knew that a booby trap was the answer.
Okay, maybe I got a little excited. My order of self-defense equipment had just come in the mail earlier that day, and I was just raring to try out the pepper spray. The stuff was super fun to spray, too – that might have been why I didn't quite want to let go of the trigger. Oops. Sorry, Jack. Didn't mean to splash you with that.
Hey, keep on working through it! Ignoring Jack's slightly pathetic cries of pain, I headed back out, booby-trapped bottle tucked ever so innocently under my arm. Behind the bar, I tucked it in among the other bottles below the bar, making sure that it was on top where it would definitely catch the thief's eye.
I meant to mention the decoy bottle to the other bartender. I had opened my mouth to inform him, but I didn't remember his name, and it was far too awkward to just grab him by the shoulder. So maybe I'd just not let him know. The thief would probably swipe the bottle before the other bartender noticed anyway.
A little later, the bottle had almost completely slipped my mind when Franco came up to the bar, grabbing me very rudely. “Hey, give me three more martinis,” he demanded.
I was first going to make a rejoiner about having some patience, but my eye fell on the decoy vodka bottle, and a much better plan came into my head. “Sure,” I replied, reaching for the bottle. Being careful not to inhale the fumes, I poured out the three martinis for him, barely repressing my giggles.
Being sure to stay nearby, I watched Franco's antics closely. Sadly, he didn't drink any of the tainted martinis himself, but my hopes were lifted a moment later, when he took the mixture of capsaisin and alcohol to the face. Hah! I laughed openly as he went stumbling off to the back room.
Unfortunately, I had been distracted by watching Franco's fall from grace. Behind my back, the other bartender had continued using the bottle of vodka that I had taken out. The booby-trapped vodka bottle! Now, there were at least a dozen martinis behing handed out, all of which had been poisoned with an unhealthy dose of pepper spray.
Before I could grab back the martinis, patrons were grabbing for their drinks, and the angry cries were mounting. I could hear other people passing on the girl's cry of “roofies.” The other bartender was backing away helplessly, his eyes wide. There was nothing to it. I would have to step up and be a hero.
I shot the other man a look, trying to communicate, “don't worry, I've got this.” Putting down the glass I was holding, I put a hand on the bar, hoisting myself up so I was standing on the wood. I raised my hands, making sure that I had the attention of everyone in the bar.
“Calm down!” I shouted. This did not seem to appease the angrily muttering crowd, so I pressed on. “Don't worry! You haven't been roofied! It's just pepper spray!”
Strangely enough, this still didn't seem to be making anyone any calmer...
The first part of this story: The Aftermath
This night was wild – just how I liked it!
As soon as Franco had come in, demanding that we open up a bar, I had seen a golden opportunity to practice my mixology. Most of my friends now refused to taste the drinks I made, even though I had worked out nearly all of the errors! The MSG and soy sauce debacle was far behind me.
Unfortunately, as the night progressed, there was disappointingly little interest in my specially designed and printed cocktail menu. I had spent hours laboring over the names and mixtures, but nobody was ordering! For the first half of the night, I was stuck doing nothing but popping the tops off of beer bottles and making basic martinis for Franco and all the girls he tried to hit on. How dull.
I was thankful, then, when I went back to grab more vodka and encountered Jack, worrying away as usual. He may be constantly in a state of despair, but I do have to admit that he's good at noticing potential problems. Fortunately, I'm a born problem solver! As soon as I heard that there was a thief, I knew that a booby trap was the answer.
Okay, maybe I got a little excited. My order of self-defense equipment had just come in the mail earlier that day, and I was just raring to try out the pepper spray. The stuff was super fun to spray, too – that might have been why I didn't quite want to let go of the trigger. Oops. Sorry, Jack. Didn't mean to splash you with that.
Hey, keep on working through it! Ignoring Jack's slightly pathetic cries of pain, I headed back out, booby-trapped bottle tucked ever so innocently under my arm. Behind the bar, I tucked it in among the other bottles below the bar, making sure that it was on top where it would definitely catch the thief's eye.
I meant to mention the decoy bottle to the other bartender. I had opened my mouth to inform him, but I didn't remember his name, and it was far too awkward to just grab him by the shoulder. So maybe I'd just not let him know. The thief would probably swipe the bottle before the other bartender noticed anyway.
A little later, the bottle had almost completely slipped my mind when Franco came up to the bar, grabbing me very rudely. “Hey, give me three more martinis,” he demanded.
I was first going to make a rejoiner about having some patience, but my eye fell on the decoy vodka bottle, and a much better plan came into my head. “Sure,” I replied, reaching for the bottle. Being careful not to inhale the fumes, I poured out the three martinis for him, barely repressing my giggles.
Being sure to stay nearby, I watched Franco's antics closely. Sadly, he didn't drink any of the tainted martinis himself, but my hopes were lifted a moment later, when he took the mixture of capsaisin and alcohol to the face. Hah! I laughed openly as he went stumbling off to the back room.
Unfortunately, I had been distracted by watching Franco's fall from grace. Behind my back, the other bartender had continued using the bottle of vodka that I had taken out. The booby-trapped vodka bottle! Now, there were at least a dozen martinis behing handed out, all of which had been poisoned with an unhealthy dose of pepper spray.
Before I could grab back the martinis, patrons were grabbing for their drinks, and the angry cries were mounting. I could hear other people passing on the girl's cry of “roofies.” The other bartender was backing away helplessly, his eyes wide. There was nothing to it. I would have to step up and be a hero.
I shot the other man a look, trying to communicate, “don't worry, I've got this.” Putting down the glass I was holding, I put a hand on the bar, hoisting myself up so I was standing on the wood. I raised my hands, making sure that I had the attention of everyone in the bar.
“Calm down!” I shouted. This did not seem to appease the angrily muttering crowd, so I pressed on. “Don't worry! You haven't been roofied! It's just pepper spray!”
Strangely enough, this still didn't seem to be making anyone any calmer...
Sunday, August 11, 2013
The Mad Three Buy A Bar: Franco's Night
Introduction to the Mad Three
The first part of this story: The Aftermath
I couldn't believe how well my luck was going.
When I had first suggested the idea of opening up a bar, I hadn't bothered putting in much thought about the process. Both liquor and pretty girls were intimately involved in my life, and a bar seemed like the perfect place to bring those two items together. And trust me, I've been to a lot of bars. I've met the employees, and they don't seem to have any more clue than I do. How hard could it be?
Of course, I had a couple buddies who were all too willing to help out. Manny, a regular at most of my favorite hangouts, is built like an ogre, and was more than happy to hang around the bar and lean on anyone who gave us trouble. He also knew a guy who was just itching to make use of his bartending certification. That was especially nice, because I wouldn't drink anything Corkscrew hands me.
Speaking of the crazy roommate, Corkscrew managed to be useful for one time in his off-kilter life! I don't know how he knew about that empty building, furnished and everything, just waiting for us to make use of it. He probably overheard about it from another person in the psych ward. Regardless, it all was coming together! Even more than usual, I couldn't wait for the weekend.
Once we divvied up positions, I knew that I had to be the front man. And despite what you think, it wasn't just about the girls. The first employee that the patrons meet needs to charm them, needs to keep the party atmosphere rolling (and the juices flowing). Jack would bore our customers to sleep, and Corkscrew would burn the bar down before midnight. The girls were really just a side perk.
As the bar opened, I was excelling at my role. Bobbing from group to group, learning all the names I could, and being charming and welcoming to everyone. Of course, the easiest way to be charming is to arrive with free drinks. When we had gone shopping earlier that day, we had picked up a lot of vodka, so I made sure to greet new groups with martinis in hand. As an added bonus, the martinis went over very well with the groups of girls coming in!
I walk up to each group of girls, drinks in hand, and announce that they're fortunate enough to have arrived on martini night! Seriously, I'm a marketing genius.
About halfway through the night, as I'm walking towards the back of the bar to check on the other groups of patrons, and I run into Corkscrew. Literally. Fortunately, the vodka bottle he's holding doesn't break or spill on my nice clothes.
“Hey, you might not want to go in the back room,” Corkscrew told me. “Jack's feeling a little hot under the collar.” He giggled. “And above the collar, too.”
What? I have no idea what he's talking about. My face must have showed this confusion.
“There's a thief in the bar,” Corkscrew elaborates. “We don't know who, but I've got a plan to handle it!” He went running off towards the bar.
A thief wasn't really for me to deal with, but the night was going amazingly and I didn't want any big disruptions. I made my way back to the front of the bar, and tapped Manny on the shoulder. “Yo, Manny, I've heard that there's a thief in here somewhere,” I said discreetly into his ear. “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious, okay?” He nodded back at me.
I turned away, but then a sudden thought popped into my mind. “Hey, take this,” I told Manny, pulling a small tube from my pocket and passing it over to him. I didn't know why Corkscrew was carrying a can of pepper spray in his jacket, but I was glad I had liberated it from his pocket.
Now, back to the fun part! Indeed, a group of ridiculously hot girls was just entering, looking around expectantly. I hurried over to the bar, catching the eye of Manny's bartender friend. I held up 3 fingers, and he nodded, grabbing for martini glasses. Drinks in hand, I spread a wide smile across my face and approached the girls.
“Hello, ladies!” I said jovially. “Welcome to martini night! Your first drink is on the house!” I passed over the glasses.
Two of the girls returned my winning smile, but the third immediately took a drink and started coughing and choking. The other girls' smiles disappeared as they turned to their companion.
“Oh my god!” one of the girls exclaimed. “Are these roofies? Are you trying to roofie us?”
“Of course not! I'm not sure what happened to your friend, but we just want to make sure you have a wonderful time at our bar tonight!” I said. Or at least, that's what I was intending to say. I was interrupted at the third word by the choking girl hurling her drink into my face.
This time, I was the one choking out, “Oh my god!” I don't know what was in that drink, but my entire face was on fire. I could barely see and I felt like someone had just seared me with a flamethrower. Abandoning the girls, I stumbled to the back room, where I vaguely remembered seeing a sink.
I made it to the back room, only knocking a couple people out of the way, and forced as much of my face under the faucet as possible. After a minute or two, the pain had subsided slightly, and I stepped out into the back room. As I moaned, I saw something move out of the corner of my tear-stained eyes. Someone was laying on the couch.
Through a veil of tears, I could make out Jack, also clutching his eyes. “What happened to you?” I asked.
“Corkscrew,” he replied simply. “And you?”
“Not sure,” I said, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Corkscrew was also to blame. Somehow.
Dropping into a chair, I sat with my roommate in shared companionable pain. As we waited for the burning to decrease, however, we could hear the sound level from the front room rising. And the voices didn't sound happy...
What's going on? Maybe Corkscrew's perspective will illuminate the situation...
The first part of this story: The Aftermath
I couldn't believe how well my luck was going.
When I had first suggested the idea of opening up a bar, I hadn't bothered putting in much thought about the process. Both liquor and pretty girls were intimately involved in my life, and a bar seemed like the perfect place to bring those two items together. And trust me, I've been to a lot of bars. I've met the employees, and they don't seem to have any more clue than I do. How hard could it be?
Of course, I had a couple buddies who were all too willing to help out. Manny, a regular at most of my favorite hangouts, is built like an ogre, and was more than happy to hang around the bar and lean on anyone who gave us trouble. He also knew a guy who was just itching to make use of his bartending certification. That was especially nice, because I wouldn't drink anything Corkscrew hands me.
Speaking of the crazy roommate, Corkscrew managed to be useful for one time in his off-kilter life! I don't know how he knew about that empty building, furnished and everything, just waiting for us to make use of it. He probably overheard about it from another person in the psych ward. Regardless, it all was coming together! Even more than usual, I couldn't wait for the weekend.
Once we divvied up positions, I knew that I had to be the front man. And despite what you think, it wasn't just about the girls. The first employee that the patrons meet needs to charm them, needs to keep the party atmosphere rolling (and the juices flowing). Jack would bore our customers to sleep, and Corkscrew would burn the bar down before midnight. The girls were really just a side perk.
As the bar opened, I was excelling at my role. Bobbing from group to group, learning all the names I could, and being charming and welcoming to everyone. Of course, the easiest way to be charming is to arrive with free drinks. When we had gone shopping earlier that day, we had picked up a lot of vodka, so I made sure to greet new groups with martinis in hand. As an added bonus, the martinis went over very well with the groups of girls coming in!
I walk up to each group of girls, drinks in hand, and announce that they're fortunate enough to have arrived on martini night! Seriously, I'm a marketing genius.
About halfway through the night, as I'm walking towards the back of the bar to check on the other groups of patrons, and I run into Corkscrew. Literally. Fortunately, the vodka bottle he's holding doesn't break or spill on my nice clothes.
“Hey, you might not want to go in the back room,” Corkscrew told me. “Jack's feeling a little hot under the collar.” He giggled. “And above the collar, too.”
What? I have no idea what he's talking about. My face must have showed this confusion.
“There's a thief in the bar,” Corkscrew elaborates. “We don't know who, but I've got a plan to handle it!” He went running off towards the bar.
A thief wasn't really for me to deal with, but the night was going amazingly and I didn't want any big disruptions. I made my way back to the front of the bar, and tapped Manny on the shoulder. “Yo, Manny, I've heard that there's a thief in here somewhere,” I said discreetly into his ear. “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious, okay?” He nodded back at me.
I turned away, but then a sudden thought popped into my mind. “Hey, take this,” I told Manny, pulling a small tube from my pocket and passing it over to him. I didn't know why Corkscrew was carrying a can of pepper spray in his jacket, but I was glad I had liberated it from his pocket.
Now, back to the fun part! Indeed, a group of ridiculously hot girls was just entering, looking around expectantly. I hurried over to the bar, catching the eye of Manny's bartender friend. I held up 3 fingers, and he nodded, grabbing for martini glasses. Drinks in hand, I spread a wide smile across my face and approached the girls.
“Hello, ladies!” I said jovially. “Welcome to martini night! Your first drink is on the house!” I passed over the glasses.
Two of the girls returned my winning smile, but the third immediately took a drink and started coughing and choking. The other girls' smiles disappeared as they turned to their companion.
“Oh my god!” one of the girls exclaimed. “Are these roofies? Are you trying to roofie us?”
“Of course not! I'm not sure what happened to your friend, but we just want to make sure you have a wonderful time at our bar tonight!” I said. Or at least, that's what I was intending to say. I was interrupted at the third word by the choking girl hurling her drink into my face.
This time, I was the one choking out, “Oh my god!” I don't know what was in that drink, but my entire face was on fire. I could barely see and I felt like someone had just seared me with a flamethrower. Abandoning the girls, I stumbled to the back room, where I vaguely remembered seeing a sink.
I made it to the back room, only knocking a couple people out of the way, and forced as much of my face under the faucet as possible. After a minute or two, the pain had subsided slightly, and I stepped out into the back room. As I moaned, I saw something move out of the corner of my tear-stained eyes. Someone was laying on the couch.
Through a veil of tears, I could make out Jack, also clutching his eyes. “What happened to you?” I asked.
“Corkscrew,” he replied simply. “And you?”
“Not sure,” I said, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Corkscrew was also to blame. Somehow.
Dropping into a chair, I sat with my roommate in shared companionable pain. As we waited for the burning to decrease, however, we could hear the sound level from the front room rising. And the voices didn't sound happy...
What's going on? Maybe Corkscrew's perspective will illuminate the situation...
Friday, August 9, 2013
The Mad Three Buy A Bar: Jack's Night
Introduction to the Mad Three
The first part of this story: The Aftermath
THREAD #1: JACK'S NIGHT
Sitting in the back, staring down at the sheets of numbers and the piles of receipts, I felt like it was all going wrong.
Although I had put up the token protest that I knew my roommates would expect, I had initially been happy to be given back room duty. Franco, of course, wanted to be out in the front, not doing any real work. Corkscrew, the mad scientist, had elected to work at the bar, mixing up drinks alongside Franco's bartender friend. Neither of them had really wanted to handle the real stuff, the finances.
Now, that meant that I was in the back room of our makeshift bar, sitting next to a huge crate of booze that would, hopefully, last us through the night, staring down at the disturbingly high piles of receipts. Every few minutes, I would be interrupted by either Corkscrew or the other bartender, whose name I hadn't learned before the chaos of the night began. The intruder would barge in, grab a bottle or two of the alcohol, and go rushing back out, into the fray of bar patrons.
At first, I had enjoyed being out of the way. To be honest, I couldn't believe that I'd gone along with Franco's madcap idea in the first place. Wasn't I supposed to be the voice of reason? Perhaps not believing that I had accepted a role in this crazy venture had led me to want to stay in back, not mingling among our drunk customers.
Of course, even though neither of my roommates wanted to deal with the finances, they had both tried to convince me to come out into the front room. Franco, of course, had obvious intentions. He had set the whole thing up as a way to meet drunk girls, and what would be a more perfect component of that plan than a private back office? I shuddered to think of the mess he would have caused, had this room been given to him.
As for Corkscrew, he had also wanted the back office as his own. Why? I honestly haven't the slightest clue. The guy's unreadable, like playing the Joker at poker. He's got plenty of expression, but such crazy thoughts that it's impossible to predict what's going on beneath that wild shock of blonde hair on his head.
Franco had landed a stinging insult on Corkscrew when he made his office request, of course. “Why in the world would you need a back office?” he had sniped. “The only company you've got any shot of entertaining tonight are the voices in your own head.” With this, Franco strode out to the front, leaving Corkscrew sputtering in impotent anger behind.
I had listened to this with a half-smile on my face, but now, three hours into our six-hour night, there was trouble, and the smile had long since disappeared. I did another count of the bottles, trying to be certain, but there was no denying it. Even as I finished my count, Corkscrew ducked into the back office to pick up another bottle of vodka.
“Corkscrew,” I shouted at him, grabbing his arm. “Dude, we have a problem.”
Corkscrew glanced over at me. He had managed to find a black apron somewhere, but his gangly frame and wild blonde hair made him seem like a teenager playing dress-up. “Yeah, no one's ordering anything interesting!” he responded. “I made up a whole custom drink menu, but no one wants to give it a shot!”
What? I forced myself to stay on topic, a surprisingly difficult task around Corkscrew. “No, we have a real problem!” I insisted. “Look, as we ring up people, the receipts show up on my laptop back here. And I've been counting the bottles of liquor as they go out to the front. But we're sending way more out to the front than we're ringing up! Somehow, some of the alcohol is disappearing without being purchased!”
Corkscrew's eyes went wide. “Someone's stealing from us?” he gasped. “No way! I didn't think we'd have to deal with this on the very first night!”
“This could be our last night!” I replied. I didn't know what to do, and felt a rising sense of helplessness. We didn't have cameras in place to look for thieves, due mainly to our inability to either afford or wire cameras.
Suddenly, Corkscrew opened his eyes wide; I had learned to recognize this as a worrying sign that an idea had entered his head. “I know how to catch the thief!” he shouted. “Watch this!”
Torn between trepidation and curiosity, I watched as Corkscrew retrieved an empty Grey Goose bottle, as well as his jacket that had been hanging over one of the chairs in the back room. Lifting up a bottle of cheap bottom-shelf vodka, he poured it into the Grey Goose bottle, filling it about two-thirds of the way. He then reached into his jacket pocket and, with a flourish, pulled out a small canister.
“Wait a minute. Is that pepper spray?” I asked, taking a step back. Corkscrew was dangerous enough by himself. Corkscrew with a weapon? Get ready to run.
“Oh, relax,” he responded. “I'm not going to use it on you, just put some in the bottle!” He aimed the nozzle into the neck of the Grey Goose bottle and pushed down, spraying the capsaicin down into the cheap vodka. He held down the plunger for several seconds, until the flow trickled to a stop.
Corkscrew tossed the can of pepper spray carelessly onto the table beside the bottle. “Huh,” he commented, patting down his pockets. “I was sure that I had a second bottle of the stuff. I guess one can will have to do.” He put the cap on the bottle of capsaicin-laced vodka, giving it several shakes to mix the pepper spray with the alcohol.
I pointed at the discarded pepper spray. “Look, I don't think this is such a good idea,” I spoke up. Yes, voice of reason has returned!
“Oh please, this will work perfectly,” said Corkscrew, his tone dismissive. “And don't worry, this canister's all empty!” He scooped it up, slamming his thumb down on the top of the can. “See?”
Unfortunately for me, the canister was not quite empty, and one last spurt of mace burst from the nozzle, hitting me directly in the face. I screamed as my vision faded into a white-hot blur, my hands flying up to my damaged eyes.
“Oh,” commented Corkscrew as I stumbled towards the small bathroom branching off the back office. “I guess it wasn't quite empty yet. But don't worry!” he called after me. “I'll take this out and catch our thief with it!”
Even though I knew that Corkscrew's idea was not one of his better ones, there was no way that I could do anything to protest. I spent at least fifteen minutes standing in the bathroom, flushing my eyes with water and doing my best to take deep, calming breaths. Finally, when the pain had subsided to a deep and persistent throb, and I had regained some blurry semblance of vision, I stumbled back out to the office, half-collapsing onto the small couch against one wall.
I hadn't been sitting long, still focusing on trying to breathe through the pain, when the back door opened. I looked up, expecting to see either Corkscrew or the other bartender, returning for more liquor.
Much to my surprise, however, the intruder was none other than Franco. Even more to my surprise, he was making small pained noises and holding his face. Wait a minute. Had he been maced as well?
Find out who the intruder is from Franco's perspective!
The first part of this story: The Aftermath
THREAD #1: JACK'S NIGHT
Sitting in the back, staring down at the sheets of numbers and the piles of receipts, I felt like it was all going wrong.
Although I had put up the token protest that I knew my roommates would expect, I had initially been happy to be given back room duty. Franco, of course, wanted to be out in the front, not doing any real work. Corkscrew, the mad scientist, had elected to work at the bar, mixing up drinks alongside Franco's bartender friend. Neither of them had really wanted to handle the real stuff, the finances.
Now, that meant that I was in the back room of our makeshift bar, sitting next to a huge crate of booze that would, hopefully, last us through the night, staring down at the disturbingly high piles of receipts. Every few minutes, I would be interrupted by either Corkscrew or the other bartender, whose name I hadn't learned before the chaos of the night began. The intruder would barge in, grab a bottle or two of the alcohol, and go rushing back out, into the fray of bar patrons.
At first, I had enjoyed being out of the way. To be honest, I couldn't believe that I'd gone along with Franco's madcap idea in the first place. Wasn't I supposed to be the voice of reason? Perhaps not believing that I had accepted a role in this crazy venture had led me to want to stay in back, not mingling among our drunk customers.
Of course, even though neither of my roommates wanted to deal with the finances, they had both tried to convince me to come out into the front room. Franco, of course, had obvious intentions. He had set the whole thing up as a way to meet drunk girls, and what would be a more perfect component of that plan than a private back office? I shuddered to think of the mess he would have caused, had this room been given to him.
As for Corkscrew, he had also wanted the back office as his own. Why? I honestly haven't the slightest clue. The guy's unreadable, like playing the Joker at poker. He's got plenty of expression, but such crazy thoughts that it's impossible to predict what's going on beneath that wild shock of blonde hair on his head.
Franco had landed a stinging insult on Corkscrew when he made his office request, of course. “Why in the world would you need a back office?” he had sniped. “The only company you've got any shot of entertaining tonight are the voices in your own head.” With this, Franco strode out to the front, leaving Corkscrew sputtering in impotent anger behind.
I had listened to this with a half-smile on my face, but now, three hours into our six-hour night, there was trouble, and the smile had long since disappeared. I did another count of the bottles, trying to be certain, but there was no denying it. Even as I finished my count, Corkscrew ducked into the back office to pick up another bottle of vodka.
“Corkscrew,” I shouted at him, grabbing his arm. “Dude, we have a problem.”
Corkscrew glanced over at me. He had managed to find a black apron somewhere, but his gangly frame and wild blonde hair made him seem like a teenager playing dress-up. “Yeah, no one's ordering anything interesting!” he responded. “I made up a whole custom drink menu, but no one wants to give it a shot!”
What? I forced myself to stay on topic, a surprisingly difficult task around Corkscrew. “No, we have a real problem!” I insisted. “Look, as we ring up people, the receipts show up on my laptop back here. And I've been counting the bottles of liquor as they go out to the front. But we're sending way more out to the front than we're ringing up! Somehow, some of the alcohol is disappearing without being purchased!”
Corkscrew's eyes went wide. “Someone's stealing from us?” he gasped. “No way! I didn't think we'd have to deal with this on the very first night!”
“This could be our last night!” I replied. I didn't know what to do, and felt a rising sense of helplessness. We didn't have cameras in place to look for thieves, due mainly to our inability to either afford or wire cameras.
Suddenly, Corkscrew opened his eyes wide; I had learned to recognize this as a worrying sign that an idea had entered his head. “I know how to catch the thief!” he shouted. “Watch this!”
Torn between trepidation and curiosity, I watched as Corkscrew retrieved an empty Grey Goose bottle, as well as his jacket that had been hanging over one of the chairs in the back room. Lifting up a bottle of cheap bottom-shelf vodka, he poured it into the Grey Goose bottle, filling it about two-thirds of the way. He then reached into his jacket pocket and, with a flourish, pulled out a small canister.
“Wait a minute. Is that pepper spray?” I asked, taking a step back. Corkscrew was dangerous enough by himself. Corkscrew with a weapon? Get ready to run.
“Oh, relax,” he responded. “I'm not going to use it on you, just put some in the bottle!” He aimed the nozzle into the neck of the Grey Goose bottle and pushed down, spraying the capsaicin down into the cheap vodka. He held down the plunger for several seconds, until the flow trickled to a stop.
Corkscrew tossed the can of pepper spray carelessly onto the table beside the bottle. “Huh,” he commented, patting down his pockets. “I was sure that I had a second bottle of the stuff. I guess one can will have to do.” He put the cap on the bottle of capsaicin-laced vodka, giving it several shakes to mix the pepper spray with the alcohol.
I pointed at the discarded pepper spray. “Look, I don't think this is such a good idea,” I spoke up. Yes, voice of reason has returned!
“Oh please, this will work perfectly,” said Corkscrew, his tone dismissive. “And don't worry, this canister's all empty!” He scooped it up, slamming his thumb down on the top of the can. “See?”
Unfortunately for me, the canister was not quite empty, and one last spurt of mace burst from the nozzle, hitting me directly in the face. I screamed as my vision faded into a white-hot blur, my hands flying up to my damaged eyes.
“Oh,” commented Corkscrew as I stumbled towards the small bathroom branching off the back office. “I guess it wasn't quite empty yet. But don't worry!” he called after me. “I'll take this out and catch our thief with it!”
Even though I knew that Corkscrew's idea was not one of his better ones, there was no way that I could do anything to protest. I spent at least fifteen minutes standing in the bathroom, flushing my eyes with water and doing my best to take deep, calming breaths. Finally, when the pain had subsided to a deep and persistent throb, and I had regained some blurry semblance of vision, I stumbled back out to the office, half-collapsing onto the small couch against one wall.
I hadn't been sitting long, still focusing on trying to breathe through the pain, when the back door opened. I looked up, expecting to see either Corkscrew or the other bartender, returning for more liquor.
Much to my surprise, however, the intruder was none other than Franco. Even more to my surprise, he was making small pained noises and holding his face. Wait a minute. Had he been maced as well?
Find out who the intruder is from Franco's perspective!
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
The Mad Three Buy A Bar: The Aftermath
Don't recognize these characters? Start here!
THE AFTERMATH
Jack moaned, trying to fight the urge to rub his streaming, painful eyes. “I can't believe it hurts this much,” he choked out, his voice hoarse. “Seriously, how can any mugger even consider sticking with his career after he's been shot by one of these?”
Beside him, Franco tried to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough. “You know, it fades after a couple hours,” he said. “And at least pepper spray doesn't leave any lasting damage, unlike a gun or something.”
“Figures that you would know how it feels to be maced,” Corkscrew gasped from his seat on the other side of the small office.
“Oh, shut up, you!” Franco retorted. “Seriously, why do you have so much of this stuff, anyway? I'm sure that this is all your fault somehow.”
“It's for protection!” Corkscrew insisted back at him. “Now that we've opened up a bar, we're going to need to be safe, in case we have some unruly drunks accost us!”
Jack groaned, forcing his hands to stay on his head instead of clawing at his face as he half-listened to his two roommates argue. From the onset of this idea, when Franco had walked into the living room and declared, “We need to open a bar!”, he had known that there would be trouble.
Surprisingly, things had seemed to go incredibly smoothly at first. Franco had known a bouncer, as well as a bartender who was willing to pitch in on an untested project. Naturally, Franco had all the connections necessary to set up a semi-legal enterprise.
Perhaps the most surprising fact, however, was that Corkscrew had provided the bar's physical space. One of his friends was a realtor, and he had been sitting on a commercial rental property that he'd been trying to move for months. Ignoring jibes from Franco about actually providing something constructive for once, he had talked the realtor into letting the three roommates borrow the property for a few nights.
After that, it had been a pretty simple matter to order up some alcohol, pick up some signs, and get the bar set for opening night. But somehow, somewhere during the night, things had taken a nasty left turn. Now, all three of them were in the back room of the bar, in pain, incapable of going out, and worst of all, Jack had no idea quite how things went wrong.
First, let's find out how Jack's night went!
THE AFTERMATH
Jack moaned, trying to fight the urge to rub his streaming, painful eyes. “I can't believe it hurts this much,” he choked out, his voice hoarse. “Seriously, how can any mugger even consider sticking with his career after he's been shot by one of these?”
Beside him, Franco tried to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough. “You know, it fades after a couple hours,” he said. “And at least pepper spray doesn't leave any lasting damage, unlike a gun or something.”
“Figures that you would know how it feels to be maced,” Corkscrew gasped from his seat on the other side of the small office.
“Oh, shut up, you!” Franco retorted. “Seriously, why do you have so much of this stuff, anyway? I'm sure that this is all your fault somehow.”
“It's for protection!” Corkscrew insisted back at him. “Now that we've opened up a bar, we're going to need to be safe, in case we have some unruly drunks accost us!”
Jack groaned, forcing his hands to stay on his head instead of clawing at his face as he half-listened to his two roommates argue. From the onset of this idea, when Franco had walked into the living room and declared, “We need to open a bar!”, he had known that there would be trouble.
Surprisingly, things had seemed to go incredibly smoothly at first. Franco had known a bouncer, as well as a bartender who was willing to pitch in on an untested project. Naturally, Franco had all the connections necessary to set up a semi-legal enterprise.
Perhaps the most surprising fact, however, was that Corkscrew had provided the bar's physical space. One of his friends was a realtor, and he had been sitting on a commercial rental property that he'd been trying to move for months. Ignoring jibes from Franco about actually providing something constructive for once, he had talked the realtor into letting the three roommates borrow the property for a few nights.
After that, it had been a pretty simple matter to order up some alcohol, pick up some signs, and get the bar set for opening night. But somehow, somewhere during the night, things had taken a nasty left turn. Now, all three of them were in the back room of the bar, in pain, incapable of going out, and worst of all, Jack had no idea quite how things went wrong.
First, let's find out how Jack's night went!
Monday, August 5, 2013
The Mad Three: Cast of Characters
Since I don't know how to introduce these three roommates, I decided that I would simply let them introduce each other. Pay close attention, as these three will be featured in the next few updates as they go on an amazing adventure together!
Jack
on Franco: “Look,
he's a pretty decent guy at heart. But it's all buried under this
thick layer of, I guess, sleaze? Is that the right term? He's
always obsessed with schmoozing and meeting people, especially when
there are any girls around. I mean, he's like a cat in heat, all the
time. As soon as any attractive girl walks into the room, he
immediately loses all focus and can't do anything but go and hit on
her. It's like a disease. He's smart, and he'd be talented if he
applied himself, but his only focus is on his next conquest.”
Franco
on Corkscrew:
“Look, this is simple: Corkscrew is crazy. I met him when we were
assigned to be roommates, along with Jack. And he wasn't a bad
roommate. But that doesn't change the fact that he's insane. About
three-quarters of the time he'll be normal, he'll be cool, and then,
all of a sudden, he decides to do something that's totally off the
wall. He'll be holding a great conversation with some girls, and
then he suddenly decides that the conversation should shift over to
which orifices would hurt the most if a jalapeno was inserted in
them. I'm not even exaggerating here. I've given up on him as a
wingman. And I don't trust him around sharp objects.”
Corkscrew
on Jack:
“Jack's an okay guy, I suppose. Levelheaded. Calm. No, not calm.
He gets worked up about all the little stuff. I mean, he's dull,
boring, and whenever he's faced with a possibility of excitement, he
panics! Take me, for example. When things are boring, I like to
liven them up a little. Nothing out of control, just trying to make
sure we're all having fun! But Jack, he's like a mother hen,
protesting the slightest little thing, because it might have a hint
of danger. Of course there's a hint of danger! That's what makes it
fun!”
Jack
on Corkscrew: “Franco
probably said that he's crazy, right? Those two have never gotten
along. But I'll admit, Corkscrew has a tendency to not really think
his actions through. He's got a brilliant mind, but it goes in the
weirdest directions, sometimes. He'll come up with totally
off-the-wall suggestions for a problem. The oddest part is, though,
that his ideas work out about half the time! He's like a mad
scientist, cackling away and yanking out his hair, but still somehow
managing to discover things that no one else has stumbled upon
before.”
Franco
on Jack: “Jack
is way saner than Corkscrew, I'll tell you that much! And he's got
decent game. He is great at listening, and girls totally dig that
sort of stuff. And he actually remembers, which I still don't
understand. The next morning, he'll be telling me about how some
girl Marissa was a world champion dog trainer, or something like
that. But that's his flaw, too. He boxes himself into a corner,
just acts too friendly without ever going for it. He's got trigger
anxiety, that's what I think it is. He ends up with lots of friends,
but not a lot of dates. I kind of feel bad, so I try to hook him up
when I can.”
Corkscrew
on Franco: “Man,
that guy's an asshole. No, don't give me that look, I don't know
what else to call it! He only cares about girls, and the only thing
about girls he cares about is how they look naked. He'd push the
Dalai Lama under a bus if a pretty Tibetan girl was watching. Are
there even pretty Tibetan girls? Or are they all monks and seventy
years old? But yeah, he's a jerk. A smart one, though. People like
him, for some reason, so they tend to do whatever he asks. Of
course, that just feeds his ego, and he gets even more puffed-up.
Someone needs to be the person to deflate him a little every now and
then.”
Okay,
I think that's everyone! Now that we're all caught up, let's dive
into the story!
Saturday, August 3, 2013
100 Word Challenge: Teeth
100 words, all the transmission can handle. Gotta remember that.
Shit.
Initial landing successful. Perfect touchdown, base deployed. Couple broken struts, nothing major. Landed on plain between mountain ranges.
Drill started smoothly. Quarter mile down in hours. Three gas pockets, all safely vented.
Noises at night, rasping. Sensors showed nothing. Lifeless.
Over halfway gone.
Four cycles before we noticed. Ranges were moving. Mountains were miles closer.
Confirmed by measurements. Calculations gave three more cycles.
Two cycles later, pod launched. Barely escaped. Watched, above, as mountains crushed our base.
Like teeth.
Adrift now. Awaiting rescue. Hope someone hears.
Do not land.
Shit.
Initial landing successful. Perfect touchdown, base deployed. Couple broken struts, nothing major. Landed on plain between mountain ranges.
Drill started smoothly. Quarter mile down in hours. Three gas pockets, all safely vented.
Noises at night, rasping. Sensors showed nothing. Lifeless.
Over halfway gone.
Four cycles before we noticed. Ranges were moving. Mountains were miles closer.
Confirmed by measurements. Calculations gave three more cycles.
Two cycles later, pod launched. Barely escaped. Watched, above, as mountains crushed our base.
Like teeth.
Adrift now. Awaiting rescue. Hope someone hears.
Do not land.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Making It
Recently, I went home, where I saw many doctors and friends of my parents. The question that I received the most, of course, is:
"What are you doing with your life now?"
Now, if I was properly alpha and secure about myself, I probably would have responded simply with "Making it." Or "Living." Or something clever like that.
However, I'm not as clever as I wish I was (or perhaps I simply still have a few shreds of self-control and self-preservation), and so I instead regaled all these successful people with my plans to head off to graduate school, to hopefully discover something new that will convince people of importance to pay me money to continue poking at little bits of life.
Yay, science.
I do like science, I do. If I didn't like science, then why would I write so much science fiction? You see? You can't explain that. Insert face of Bill O'Reilly here.
Oh god, that was a mistake.
But on the other hand, there is a definitive reason why I keep on writing. As long as I could remember, even back when I wanted to be a space ship designer and was convinced that the proper orientation of magnets would be the answer to traveling faster than the speed of light, I still wanted to be a writer at the same time.
And I'm not just talking science papers. No, I wanted to write fiction! I wanted to see my name on a book at Barnes and Noble, at the library, sign the front covers and know that people would be struggling to pronounce my name long after I'm dead.
And that's why I keep writing. No, I don't always submit, edit, or even go back and reread what I've written, but at least I'm still writing. I do submit a piece, occasionally. And the rejection only crushes my spirit for a few weeks before I'm ready to try again.
And hopefully, hopefully, some day I will be able to call myself a writer.
I'll have made it.
P.S. I know, that's so uplifting. Ladies, try to hold back your feelings of gushing, awkward, over-the-top love.
P.P.S. Looking at this post, all I can see is Bill O'Reilly. I really need a second image, to distract from the middle-aged upper class white dude.
"What are you doing with your life now?"
Now, if I was properly alpha and secure about myself, I probably would have responded simply with "Making it." Or "Living." Or something clever like that.
However, I'm not as clever as I wish I was (or perhaps I simply still have a few shreds of self-control and self-preservation), and so I instead regaled all these successful people with my plans to head off to graduate school, to hopefully discover something new that will convince people of importance to pay me money to continue poking at little bits of life.
Yay, science.
I do like science, I do. If I didn't like science, then why would I write so much science fiction? You see? You can't explain that. Insert face of Bill O'Reilly here.
But on the other hand, there is a definitive reason why I keep on writing. As long as I could remember, even back when I wanted to be a space ship designer and was convinced that the proper orientation of magnets would be the answer to traveling faster than the speed of light, I still wanted to be a writer at the same time.
And I'm not just talking science papers. No, I wanted to write fiction! I wanted to see my name on a book at Barnes and Noble, at the library, sign the front covers and know that people would be struggling to pronounce my name long after I'm dead.
And that's why I keep writing. No, I don't always submit, edit, or even go back and reread what I've written, but at least I'm still writing. I do submit a piece, occasionally. And the rejection only crushes my spirit for a few weeks before I'm ready to try again.
And hopefully, hopefully, some day I will be able to call myself a writer.
I'll have made it.
P.S. I know, that's so uplifting. Ladies, try to hold back your feelings of gushing, awkward, over-the-top love.
P.P.S. Looking at this post, all I can see is Bill O'Reilly. I really need a second image, to distract from the middle-aged upper class white dude.
Oh god, I made it so much worse.
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