In sixteen days, I'm moving from the dense population and urban sprawl of Northern Virginia to the dense population and urban sprawl of Houston. In a way, I feel like I've free-agented from the Nationals to the Astros, a lateral move in which I go live in the Heights and the greater DC area picks up a player to be named later.
He probably has a better arm than me.
Unfortunately, the multi-pronged assault of life changes has done little to allow me to write. 900 books and 1,600 CDs lack opposable thumbs and refuse to pack themselves. Movers haven't harnessed their psychic abilities to issue quotes (but I'm happy to note that based on weight estimates from two sources, I officially have a ton of crap.) And there's not enough money for dwarves to tunnel to the back of the closet and unearth the things I didn't unbox 4 years ago.
Write? That's the thing with the keys and the imagination, right?
Though a trade show trip last week gave me a few hours of Dedicated Airplane Time, an oasis in the clouds that let me put pen to paper. Result: fifteen notebook leaves of one of the novels (the most mainstream of the three). Firmly in the "I'll take it" column, given the Packing Dance.
Five, count 'em, five pieces currently in the publication queue: "Friendly Fire" in Machine of Death any day now (no, really)(hey, that's what they said); "Lorem Ipsum Donald" in Tales of the Unanticipated next year; and a trio of flashy bits in Blood Bound Books' forthcoming Seasons In The Abyss anthology, which is still being finalized and as yet has no publication date - the triplets being "Good Bait", "Erin Beiber's Wild Ride" and "To The Devil, A Goat".
Slowly, the bibliography slouches toward a second page.
Even as boxes are being filled - maybe handling the books is a sort of osmosis of creative juice - various ideas are working in my head or in random index-card length flashes of "write this down!" lobbed like bricks by my muse. The process of creating never really stops. It's the dedicated finger-pounds per keystroke that are being put on hold while I decide if I really need four copies of Harlan Ellison's Angry Candy (don't ask). Soon, I'll be back to it.
Once the packing is done. And then the unpacking. And the refiling. And the new filing. And the laptop reconciliation (an aside: the piles of longhand-scrawled notebooks are one thing; working on files on two different machines is another entirely. I need one of those Filemaker Elves - like the dudes that make shoes, but more digital - to sort through what I've done where and give me proper unified drafts. S'okay - I have a new strategy for the new set-up that will keep it all straight.)
And THEN... then the fingers of mayhem go back to full-tilt keyboard boogie.
In Spring. Of 2012.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Machining Death
Way back in 2007, I answered a call for anthology submissions for a little concept called Machine of Death. The premise was pretty simple: there's a machine that, with just a drop of your blood, can tell you how you're going to die. Not when, or where - just how. And the machine is never, ever wrong.
With the rules in mind, I set about writing a contribution titled "Friendly Fire". Submitted. And from a pool of 681 submissions, I was among the thirty three (or so) selected for the anthology. It was my second sale, the one that validated in my mind that "Mister Eddie" in Tales of the Unanticipated (TOTU) #27 (available here) wasn't a fluke.
And then the project went dormant while the editors sought a publisher. And it slept. And slept.
In the meantime, I placed "Tacklesmooches" in TOTU #30 (available here), and had a couple of short-shorts at the wonderful Pure Francis, and sold "Lorem Ipsum Donald" to TOTU for next year's issue #31, and hammered out a bunch of other bits that got rejected, and started on a novel, and pretty much figured that Machine of Death had died on the vine. And while I got paid, it's only a little about the money - this was about my sophomore sale being on pages, within covers, holdable and readable.
But you can't keep a good machine down - the editor's reported in August that after a long journey, the book is finally due next month from Bearstache Books.
You can check out the cover here (and also read in six minutes or less the posts that chronicle the mileposts marking the book's progress over three years.
Of course, it's not on the Bearstache website yet... Hmm...
With the rules in mind, I set about writing a contribution titled "Friendly Fire". Submitted. And from a pool of 681 submissions, I was among the thirty three (or so) selected for the anthology. It was my second sale, the one that validated in my mind that "Mister Eddie" in Tales of the Unanticipated (TOTU) #27 (available here) wasn't a fluke.
And then the project went dormant while the editors sought a publisher. And it slept. And slept.
In the meantime, I placed "Tacklesmooches" in TOTU #30 (available here), and had a couple of short-shorts at the wonderful Pure Francis, and sold "Lorem Ipsum Donald" to TOTU for next year's issue #31, and hammered out a bunch of other bits that got rejected, and started on a novel, and pretty much figured that Machine of Death had died on the vine. And while I got paid, it's only a little about the money - this was about my sophomore sale being on pages, within covers, holdable and readable.
But you can't keep a good machine down - the editor's reported in August that after a long journey, the book is finally due next month from Bearstache Books.
You can check out the cover here (and also read in six minutes or less the posts that chronicle the mileposts marking the book's progress over three years.
Of course, it's not on the Bearstache website yet... Hmm...
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Highly Strung
Review:
Symphonicities – Sting
Universal Music Classical/Deutsch Grammophon
A while ago, when Sting was the peak of his creative prowess and the rumors of his tantric feats of derring-do in the bedroom were running rampant, the former Policeman was making very jazzy sounds with Brandford Marsalis and Kenny Kirkland and Omar Hakim (among others) while decrying he was doing any such thing. Would that he had continued exploring the intricacies of jazz time signatures and real musicians (as opposed to programmable synthesizers) that made Dream of the Blue Turtles and Nothing Like The Sun so interesting.
Instead, Sting's road has lead through the aforementioned synthesizer rock experiments, an exploration of the lute, a non-traditional Christmas album, and a reunion tour with The Police that sold well as nostalgia but showed some of the rust of time. And now Sting returns with Symphonicities, a twelve-track exploration of his music realized by band with orchestra on Universal's classical label.
The re-imagining kicks off with "Next To You", the first song from The Police's 1978 debut album, Outlandos d'Amour. The placement is hardly coincidental – if one is going to do some reinterpretation, why not start at the beginning? But opening with Sting's first cut, made when he was 1/3 of a scrappy punk outfit, introduces an uncomfortable question that pervades the entire exercise once the novelty of the first thirty seconds wears off: just how old has Sting gotten?
This isn't the first time Sting's material has been backed by an orchestra. In 1987, Gil Evans and his jazz orchestra cut two tracks with Sting for Nothing Like The Sun, and Sting joined them live at the Perugia Jazz Festival that same year. But there's a vitality there that's missing here, an irony given the liner notes by Anthony DeCurtis that speak in glowing terms of how Symphonicities transcends the tendency of classical/pop meldings to be “uninteresting” or “uninspired.” In their way, the liner notes are more pretentious than the product they serve.
“Next To You” is, sadly, the most adventurous attempt on the album, vibrant guitar replaced by equally vibrant (if less jangly) strings. But if the song builds any momentum or listener interest, it's almost immediately tamped down by “Englishman In New York”, a bland and not-so-very different take on the 1987 song that misses Branford Marsalis' saxophone, but retains (of all things) the drum breakdown after the song's bridge, which feels like it was edited in here as an afterthought.
The rest of the disc descends into a hodgepodge of songs that weren't so far from classical in the first place (“When We Dance”, “You Will Be My Ain True Love”, the b-side “The Pirate's Bride”) or songs that aren't particularly more interesting in their newly arranged form (“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic”, “She's Too Good for Me”, “I Burn For You” and especially a listless take on “Roxanne”.)
If anything stands out, “I Hung My Head” benefits from a more natural vocal by Sting than it received on Mercury Falling and “We Work The Black Seam” receives a horn-heavy treatment that lends it a sorrowful nobility befitting a lyric about poisoned coal miners. If you have to download one track for a listen, this last may be worth a buck. Otherwise, the album is a quickly forgettable artifact that may attract the curious and sell concert tickets this summer, but adds little to Sting's overall musical legacy.
Symphonicities – Sting
Universal Music Classical/Deutsch Grammophon
A while ago, when Sting was the peak of his creative prowess and the rumors of his tantric feats of derring-do in the bedroom were running rampant, the former Policeman was making very jazzy sounds with Brandford Marsalis and Kenny Kirkland and Omar Hakim (among others) while decrying he was doing any such thing. Would that he had continued exploring the intricacies of jazz time signatures and real musicians (as opposed to programmable synthesizers) that made Dream of the Blue Turtles and Nothing Like The Sun so interesting.
Instead, Sting's road has lead through the aforementioned synthesizer rock experiments, an exploration of the lute, a non-traditional Christmas album, and a reunion tour with The Police that sold well as nostalgia but showed some of the rust of time. And now Sting returns with Symphonicities, a twelve-track exploration of his music realized by band with orchestra on Universal's classical label.
The re-imagining kicks off with "Next To You", the first song from The Police's 1978 debut album, Outlandos d'Amour. The placement is hardly coincidental – if one is going to do some reinterpretation, why not start at the beginning? But opening with Sting's first cut, made when he was 1/3 of a scrappy punk outfit, introduces an uncomfortable question that pervades the entire exercise once the novelty of the first thirty seconds wears off: just how old has Sting gotten?
This isn't the first time Sting's material has been backed by an orchestra. In 1987, Gil Evans and his jazz orchestra cut two tracks with Sting for Nothing Like The Sun, and Sting joined them live at the Perugia Jazz Festival that same year. But there's a vitality there that's missing here, an irony given the liner notes by Anthony DeCurtis that speak in glowing terms of how Symphonicities transcends the tendency of classical/pop meldings to be “uninteresting” or “uninspired.” In their way, the liner notes are more pretentious than the product they serve.
“Next To You” is, sadly, the most adventurous attempt on the album, vibrant guitar replaced by equally vibrant (if less jangly) strings. But if the song builds any momentum or listener interest, it's almost immediately tamped down by “Englishman In New York”, a bland and not-so-very different take on the 1987 song that misses Branford Marsalis' saxophone, but retains (of all things) the drum breakdown after the song's bridge, which feels like it was edited in here as an afterthought.
The rest of the disc descends into a hodgepodge of songs that weren't so far from classical in the first place (“When We Dance”, “You Will Be My Ain True Love”, the b-side “The Pirate's Bride”) or songs that aren't particularly more interesting in their newly arranged form (“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic”, “She's Too Good for Me”, “I Burn For You” and especially a listless take on “Roxanne”.)
If anything stands out, “I Hung My Head” benefits from a more natural vocal by Sting than it received on Mercury Falling and “We Work The Black Seam” receives a horn-heavy treatment that lends it a sorrowful nobility befitting a lyric about poisoned coal miners. If you have to download one track for a listen, this last may be worth a buck. Otherwise, the album is a quickly forgettable artifact that may attract the curious and sell concert tickets this summer, but adds little to Sting's overall musical legacy.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Item the First: In Which We Make Our Introductions and Cast an Wary Eye Both Up and In
If you’ve found your way here, you may be following me in some fashion on-line, or you may have been a reader of previous other-named blogs or columns (The Everlasting Walkabout, The 40 Yr. Old Hoya, The Two O’Clock Feeding). Reinvention is the soul of creation. Just ask Madonna or David Bowie.
Or, more truthfully, I just get bored, and fields wait, fallow, weed-festooned, and I need to start again.
Thus begins Schrödinger's Doug. The name of this new foray into the blogosphere is courtesy of my friend Keith, who recently admitted two days before my drive to Houston that he didn’t know what state I was in - Virginia, Texas or New York – unless he opened the internet and looked. Keither's descriptor: Schrödinger's Doug. And here I extend that theoretical quantum state to you, the reader – for when you aren’t in the blog, I might be writing, drinking, traveling, bitching – and much like the quantum state of Professor Schrödinger's theoretical cat, you can guess all you want, but you won’t know for sure how it’s going unless you open the box – er, blog.
I make no promise you’ll know afterward, though. Quantum physics is a bitch.
* * *
It's a funny thing when lightning makes the national news twice in one day without killing anyone, as it did on Tuesday. No fatalities. Not even a park ranger blown out of his shoes. But it did start a couple of fires: the first on-board the Discoverer Enterprise, BP's recovery vessel in the Gulf of Mexico, perhaps in answer to someone's errant question of “what else could go wrong”; and the other outside the Solid Rock Church in Monroe, Ohio, where the church's famous six-story tall King of Kings statue – affectionately dubbed Touchdown Jesus for the way he called a play – was turned into icon flambe'.
Vengeful God? Angry Earth? Just some really great can't-make-this-up timing? Alanis Morissette having her way with the universe? I don't think Ironic Lightning is a sign of the end times.
It does make one wonder if there's something more spinning in the atoms around us, something with a perverse sense of humor, when two bolts initiate such high-profile mayhem. But we're also people who go out of their way to look for patterns. Dark Side of The Moon links up with The Wizard of Oz. The assassinations of Lincoln and Kennedy are like weird mirror-twins. We seek order in our chaos, turn the universe around as if it's an enormous puzzle box, and sometimes we get the human genome, discover a lost city or species, figure out some far-flung mystery that has eluded us as a race since we were aware of mystery.
And sometimes, we get Mayan predictions of the end of the earth (and John Cusack's “what was I thinking?” career decisions therein), or the Bible Code, or the men who wear tinfoil hats to block CIA thought experiments – who perhaps themselves are looking for a bolt of knowledge from the blue.
We're curious, wanting to control everything put before us. We tame the land, then the seas, then the skies. We want to dominate the natural world. We want to understand weather in order to shape it. And when something we simply can't control or put reason to or wrap our logic around and find ways to deal with comes along, we seek patterns and reason inside of it like trying to pry wisdom form a fortune cookie. Surely, this must mean something. Mashed potato Devil's Towers and all that.
The universe may just be a random set of circumstances. Or it may be a magical and lunatic thing that burps and scratches and has its way with us and our conventions for its own amusement over how we respond to stimuli. Hard to say.
But you might ask the roasted stick figure standing outside the church in Ohio.
Or, more truthfully, I just get bored, and fields wait, fallow, weed-festooned, and I need to start again.
Thus begins Schrödinger's Doug. The name of this new foray into the blogosphere is courtesy of my friend Keith, who recently admitted two days before my drive to Houston that he didn’t know what state I was in - Virginia, Texas or New York – unless he opened the internet and looked. Keither's descriptor: Schrödinger's Doug. And here I extend that theoretical quantum state to you, the reader – for when you aren’t in the blog, I might be writing, drinking, traveling, bitching – and much like the quantum state of Professor Schrödinger's theoretical cat, you can guess all you want, but you won’t know for sure how it’s going unless you open the box – er, blog.
I make no promise you’ll know afterward, though. Quantum physics is a bitch.
* * *
It's a funny thing when lightning makes the national news twice in one day without killing anyone, as it did on Tuesday. No fatalities. Not even a park ranger blown out of his shoes. But it did start a couple of fires: the first on-board the Discoverer Enterprise, BP's recovery vessel in the Gulf of Mexico, perhaps in answer to someone's errant question of “what else could go wrong”; and the other outside the Solid Rock Church in Monroe, Ohio, where the church's famous six-story tall King of Kings statue – affectionately dubbed Touchdown Jesus for the way he called a play – was turned into icon flambe'.
Vengeful God? Angry Earth? Just some really great can't-make-this-up timing? Alanis Morissette having her way with the universe? I don't think Ironic Lightning is a sign of the end times.
It does make one wonder if there's something more spinning in the atoms around us, something with a perverse sense of humor, when two bolts initiate such high-profile mayhem. But we're also people who go out of their way to look for patterns. Dark Side of The Moon links up with The Wizard of Oz. The assassinations of Lincoln and Kennedy are like weird mirror-twins. We seek order in our chaos, turn the universe around as if it's an enormous puzzle box, and sometimes we get the human genome, discover a lost city or species, figure out some far-flung mystery that has eluded us as a race since we were aware of mystery.
And sometimes, we get Mayan predictions of the end of the earth (and John Cusack's “what was I thinking?” career decisions therein), or the Bible Code, or the men who wear tinfoil hats to block CIA thought experiments – who perhaps themselves are looking for a bolt of knowledge from the blue.
We're curious, wanting to control everything put before us. We tame the land, then the seas, then the skies. We want to dominate the natural world. We want to understand weather in order to shape it. And when something we simply can't control or put reason to or wrap our logic around and find ways to deal with comes along, we seek patterns and reason inside of it like trying to pry wisdom form a fortune cookie. Surely, this must mean something. Mashed potato Devil's Towers and all that.
The universe may just be a random set of circumstances. Or it may be a magical and lunatic thing that burps and scratches and has its way with us and our conventions for its own amusement over how we respond to stimuli. Hard to say.
But you might ask the roasted stick figure standing outside the church in Ohio.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Home -Part 2
Returning home after an absence is a little like wandering around the museum of your life. I'm reminded of elderly Rose in James Cameron's boat soap opera [i]Titanic[/i], looking at what are mere artifacts for the salvage team with the wonder of someone who's just found a thick book of old and forgotten photographs.
While drying breakfast dishes, I spy a wicker basket hanging on the wall. In the weave of that basket are a hundred interconnected memories related to my mother's garlic bread. She probably hasn't made it in years, but the sight of the basket fires a charge into whatever brain cell holds those little pieces of memory - the bread itself (an Italian loaf, quartered lengthways, buttered, oreganoed, a little garlic salt, broiled until the top browned and bubbled), the use of a clean linen towel in the basket instead of foil (no idea why - that's just how it was done); and this branches into the minutae of the kitchen itself, from the cooking utensils used on the ground beef for spaghetti sauce to the pattern of the silverware I set on the table.
Remembering all of those strange little bits of detail feels like stretching after sitting in an airplane seat from DC to LA.
It happens often. The narrow yellow cabinet in the garage that used to stand in my grandmother's garage in Jefferson Heights, with the concrete slab and the twitchy garage door opener; the old umbrella stand; the cast iron doorstop shaped like a flower bouquet (now in my sister's house) - on and on, each one a different rabbit hole and a different wonderland.
I haven't thought of many of these things in decades, and in a way it's interesting to find them locked away inside. The writer in me I glad for the detail and texture, but the kid in me marvels at the clarity of these things. It is very much like home isn't so much a place to go, but a thing we carry around, ready to return to us upon summons when we need the warm glow of familiarity, that brief burst of where we came from.
Maybe Dr. Emilio Lizardo was right. "Home is where you hang your hat."
---
A note on process: I'm composing and post solely via iPhone this weekend, which makes typo spotting doubly hard. Frankly, I'm amazed I can make this little keyboard dance as well as I am. But I own any weird substitutions the program makes (it wanted to change something to Tobias earlier) and will strive to improve my mobile game. Now, could someone at Apple put the backspace key somewhere beside next to the 'M'?
While drying breakfast dishes, I spy a wicker basket hanging on the wall. In the weave of that basket are a hundred interconnected memories related to my mother's garlic bread. She probably hasn't made it in years, but the sight of the basket fires a charge into whatever brain cell holds those little pieces of memory - the bread itself (an Italian loaf, quartered lengthways, buttered, oreganoed, a little garlic salt, broiled until the top browned and bubbled), the use of a clean linen towel in the basket instead of foil (no idea why - that's just how it was done); and this branches into the minutae of the kitchen itself, from the cooking utensils used on the ground beef for spaghetti sauce to the pattern of the silverware I set on the table.
Remembering all of those strange little bits of detail feels like stretching after sitting in an airplane seat from DC to LA.
It happens often. The narrow yellow cabinet in the garage that used to stand in my grandmother's garage in Jefferson Heights, with the concrete slab and the twitchy garage door opener; the old umbrella stand; the cast iron doorstop shaped like a flower bouquet (now in my sister's house) - on and on, each one a different rabbit hole and a different wonderland.
I haven't thought of many of these things in decades, and in a way it's interesting to find them locked away inside. The writer in me I glad for the detail and texture, but the kid in me marvels at the clarity of these things. It is very much like home isn't so much a place to go, but a thing we carry around, ready to return to us upon summons when we need the warm glow of familiarity, that brief burst of where we came from.
Maybe Dr. Emilio Lizardo was right. "Home is where you hang your hat."
---
A note on process: I'm composing and post solely via iPhone this weekend, which makes typo spotting doubly hard. Frankly, I'm amazed I can make this little keyboard dance as well as I am. But I own any weird substitutions the program makes (it wanted to change something to Tobias earlier) and will strive to improve my mobile game. Now, could someone at Apple put the backspace key somewhere beside next to the 'M'?
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Home (part one)
The wind weaves through the trees, its sigh throaty, and I am at home with the voice of the Catskills.
This is not my home, per se. The structure and I are not intimates, not like the house on South Jefferson that my grandfather sold to my parents, where I found the panda bear that would become that one toy - you know the one, Hobbes to my Calvin - where the basement was creepy and I knew every crack in the sidewalk in the back yard.
Nor is it the house on Prospect Avenue, where I inhabited the entire third floor and spent hours hacking away on the Olympia typewriter my father supplied for term papers in those primative pre-computer days.
This is the house my mother bought after the divorce, nestled away in the trees in Palenville, overlooking the Hudson Valley. A gaze off the ledge and you understand Thomas Cole's artistic motivation. Yet I have no strong personal connection to the structure other than it's Mom's house. Home, yet not, but still.
It's been several months since my last visit, so long (he said shamefully) that I actually don't remember my last visit. Was it after Thanksgiving, or before? I know it was during my final semester of grad school, when I was researching Aunt Elaine's life for my final memoir paper - Aunt Elaine, who called this buiding on the ledge home when my mother invited her in when Elaine was low on options. Too long between visits. Life is spinning so quickly there's a hum. And May is no slower. Nor June.
But tonight, there is the quiet of Greene County wilderness, just the wind through the trees, and a calmness inside, a silence in my head. And though it isn't my room atop the old Chase manor, or the small two story across from Tony's Tavern, it's Mom's place and by definition for me, I'm home.
This is not my home, per se. The structure and I are not intimates, not like the house on South Jefferson that my grandfather sold to my parents, where I found the panda bear that would become that one toy - you know the one, Hobbes to my Calvin - where the basement was creepy and I knew every crack in the sidewalk in the back yard.
Nor is it the house on Prospect Avenue, where I inhabited the entire third floor and spent hours hacking away on the Olympia typewriter my father supplied for term papers in those primative pre-computer days.
This is the house my mother bought after the divorce, nestled away in the trees in Palenville, overlooking the Hudson Valley. A gaze off the ledge and you understand Thomas Cole's artistic motivation. Yet I have no strong personal connection to the structure other than it's Mom's house. Home, yet not, but still.
It's been several months since my last visit, so long (he said shamefully) that I actually don't remember my last visit. Was it after Thanksgiving, or before? I know it was during my final semester of grad school, when I was researching Aunt Elaine's life for my final memoir paper - Aunt Elaine, who called this buiding on the ledge home when my mother invited her in when Elaine was low on options. Too long between visits. Life is spinning so quickly there's a hum. And May is no slower. Nor June.
But tonight, there is the quiet of Greene County wilderness, just the wind through the trees, and a calmness inside, a silence in my head. And though it isn't my room atop the old Chase manor, or the small two story across from Tony's Tavern, it's Mom's place and by definition for me, I'm home.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Bitter Pills
For anyone who thinks we don’t need health care reform, an object lesson.
I have a prescription for Allegra (Fexofenadine) for my seasonal allergies. My current doctor prescribed it five years ago because when the pollen blows, so does my nose. Didn’t used to, but times change, yadda yadda. My doc is a zealot about it because it helps stave off conditions that traditionally lead me to sinus infections. But it’s seasonal. I churn with the springtime for a few weeks, and then I’m good. Last year, the doc gives me my scrip. Two refills before May 29, 2010. As usually happens, I didn’t finish the bottle last Spring, since Spring passed and the nose dried up and here we are.
So this Spring rolls around, everything blooms, the snot factory kicks it into three-shift operation, and I take as needed my remaining Allegra. As I was coming to the end of the bottle, I proactively called the pharmacist for my refill. All automated – punch in the scrip number, boom bam pow, pick up the scrip.
I did this on the 20th of April – last Tuesday. On Friday – the little automated voice said Wednesday, but I didn’t need to pick it up immediately, so why push? – I go to the pharmacy to pick it up. The doctor, they tell me, hasn’t approved it yet. This is not a happy disclosure on a Friday afternoon at 4:45. The pharmacy suggests I call the doctor to get it approved, since “the doctor is sometimes more responsive to the patient than us.” Well, not after the office is closed on Friday afternoon, they’re not. And I’m pretty sure that follow-up should be part of your job. Can’t the automated voice do that too?
I do over-the-counter over the weekend and get knocked on my ass by it – Allegra is not only effective, but very non-drowsy, so the antihistamine in the O-T-C was brutal – and call the pharmacy on Monday afternoon.
“The doctor has approved the refill,” I’m told, and within my sinuses there is much rejoicing, until the pharmacist adds, “so now all we need is the insurance company to approve it.” Apparently, this process – the Step-Step-Turn of the bureaucratic drug dance – is a daily transmission of outstanding approval items by phone to the insurance company, which then approves or denies the scrip.
Now I won’t [AETNA] name any names [AETNA] but on the part [AETNA] of a major insurance provider [AETNA] I can see where [AETNA] this is a critical [AETNA] process – but it’s a refill, kids. It’s already been to this dance. Multiple times in 60 months.
“How long,” I ask, “does this usually take?”
I can hear the kind pharmacist shrug on the other end of the phone. I might even have been able to see her disinterested gaze. “It could be tomorrow. It could be next week. We couldn’t really say, it’s up to them. You should call us back on Wednesday.”
An aside to those who were worried about Government Death Panels: the fox is already in that hen house. King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on big [AETNA] insurance for cherry-picking who gets what and when. In the meantime, I sniffle and blow and make unsavory sinus sounds when I walk the dog with my cousin. Spitting is also involved. It’s gross, but it’s that or drown. I choose life, no matter how disgusting.
Wednesday? No joy. Much like that poor straw-headed fellow in Emerald City, it’s suggested that I come back tomorrow.
Thursday – today – I call the pharmacist. I’m going out of town, to a place where the pollen count is currently so high (according to the Weather Channel’s pollen advisory) that I’m liable to return on Sunday looking like a bright yellow Cheeto.
“The insurance company,” I am told, “has referred it back to the doctor to verify the medical need for the prescription. We’re waiting on the doctor’s office now.”
I grew up with Pong. Remember that second knob that queered the expected linear movement of the ball? I am Jack’s jaded sense of the second knob. I can only imagine the hell that people with actual life-threatening diseases and disorders go through - the most helpful part of all of this was the cheerful automated voice that started all this nonsense.
I’ve called the doctor’s office, but I expect no additional traction there today. As the insurance company’s bounce-back sounded like a conditional thing, I expect they still need to see their way clear to nodding at my bent-knee supplication. I’ve come to know some of the pharmacists by name.
And my nose? It hasn’t run at all today. Feeling pretty good, even. I wonder if they'll get it when I tell them to send my refill back to April, when I still gave a damn.
I have a prescription for Allegra (Fexofenadine) for my seasonal allergies. My current doctor prescribed it five years ago because when the pollen blows, so does my nose. Didn’t used to, but times change, yadda yadda. My doc is a zealot about it because it helps stave off conditions that traditionally lead me to sinus infections. But it’s seasonal. I churn with the springtime for a few weeks, and then I’m good. Last year, the doc gives me my scrip. Two refills before May 29, 2010. As usually happens, I didn’t finish the bottle last Spring, since Spring passed and the nose dried up and here we are.
So this Spring rolls around, everything blooms, the snot factory kicks it into three-shift operation, and I take as needed my remaining Allegra. As I was coming to the end of the bottle, I proactively called the pharmacist for my refill. All automated – punch in the scrip number, boom bam pow, pick up the scrip.
I did this on the 20th of April – last Tuesday. On Friday – the little automated voice said Wednesday, but I didn’t need to pick it up immediately, so why push? – I go to the pharmacy to pick it up. The doctor, they tell me, hasn’t approved it yet. This is not a happy disclosure on a Friday afternoon at 4:45. The pharmacy suggests I call the doctor to get it approved, since “the doctor is sometimes more responsive to the patient than us.” Well, not after the office is closed on Friday afternoon, they’re not. And I’m pretty sure that follow-up should be part of your job. Can’t the automated voice do that too?
I do over-the-counter over the weekend and get knocked on my ass by it – Allegra is not only effective, but very non-drowsy, so the antihistamine in the O-T-C was brutal – and call the pharmacy on Monday afternoon.
“The doctor has approved the refill,” I’m told, and within my sinuses there is much rejoicing, until the pharmacist adds, “so now all we need is the insurance company to approve it.” Apparently, this process – the Step-Step-Turn of the bureaucratic drug dance – is a daily transmission of outstanding approval items by phone to the insurance company, which then approves or denies the scrip.
Now I won’t [AETNA] name any names [AETNA] but on the part [AETNA] of a major insurance provider [AETNA] I can see where [AETNA] this is a critical [AETNA] process – but it’s a refill, kids. It’s already been to this dance. Multiple times in 60 months.
“How long,” I ask, “does this usually take?”
I can hear the kind pharmacist shrug on the other end of the phone. I might even have been able to see her disinterested gaze. “It could be tomorrow. It could be next week. We couldn’t really say, it’s up to them. You should call us back on Wednesday.”
An aside to those who were worried about Government Death Panels: the fox is already in that hen house. King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on big [AETNA] insurance for cherry-picking who gets what and when. In the meantime, I sniffle and blow and make unsavory sinus sounds when I walk the dog with my cousin. Spitting is also involved. It’s gross, but it’s that or drown. I choose life, no matter how disgusting.
Wednesday? No joy. Much like that poor straw-headed fellow in Emerald City, it’s suggested that I come back tomorrow.
Thursday – today – I call the pharmacist. I’m going out of town, to a place where the pollen count is currently so high (according to the Weather Channel’s pollen advisory) that I’m liable to return on Sunday looking like a bright yellow Cheeto.
“The insurance company,” I am told, “has referred it back to the doctor to verify the medical need for the prescription. We’re waiting on the doctor’s office now.”
I grew up with Pong. Remember that second knob that queered the expected linear movement of the ball? I am Jack’s jaded sense of the second knob. I can only imagine the hell that people with actual life-threatening diseases and disorders go through - the most helpful part of all of this was the cheerful automated voice that started all this nonsense.
I’ve called the doctor’s office, but I expect no additional traction there today. As the insurance company’s bounce-back sounded like a conditional thing, I expect they still need to see their way clear to nodding at my bent-knee supplication. I’ve come to know some of the pharmacists by name.
And my nose? It hasn’t run at all today. Feeling pretty good, even. I wonder if they'll get it when I tell them to send my refill back to April, when I still gave a damn.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Et Lux Perpetua
As the school he once shepherded, Father John Murphy has passed into memory.
The former pastor of Saint Patrick's Parish in Catskill, New York – a role he served from 1971 until his retirement in 2005, a third of a century in the service of the community – died on Tuesday, the eve of the 2010 Lenten season. He was my parish priest and, outside of my grandmother Rosealma (who kept us in Saturday vigil masses at the church atop Bridge Street hill), my spiritual compass for many years. I'm not alone. Father Murphy had a profound impact on the students who passed through the doors at Saint Patrick's elementary, on his congregation, on the Catholic community not only in Catskill, but throughout the county.
He didn't do it with an extreme profundity or a charismatic style, but with the sheer size of his heart, his goodness, and the care with which he looked over his parishioners.
What engendered our devotion was simple: he was genuine, and embodied characteristics that you expected in a priest – approachable, personable, trustworthy. He was part Spencer Tracey in “Boys Town,” but without the epic backstory, part Bing Crosby in “The Bells of Saint Mary's,” but without the swagger – and he was absolutely Father Murphy, Father John, Murph in casual corners where the collar could sustain some familiarity – never among the kids, mind you. Pastor, mentor, friend - he was the heart and soul and spiritual vanguard to several generations.
We called him “Father” and all took him into our families. Father Murphy is there in numerous photographs in my albums – my first communion; my sisters' weddings; May processions and elementary school events and Mother's Club functions. In those frames where he isn't solemn in conducting the business of the church, he's smiling. Always. His joy was infectious, a reflection of the wealth of happiness he found in a life given over to faith. The quiet grace with which he conducted the liturgy and preached a sermon hinted at the strength he found there as well.
Even after he retired in August, 2005 and moved to Troy to be closer to family, Catskill was never too far for him to go. He returned to tend to the spiritual needs of a flock that was always his, regardless of changing guards or Diocesan appointments. That he was loved is beyond question. When he went on a Diocesan-mandated sabbatical from his duties when I was a teen – the year escapes me, but I want to say it was in the early eighties, and I'm sure someone reading this has a longer memory than I do - there was a great deal of concern that Albany wouldn't return him to his post after his break. It simply wasn't done, whether for arcane Church reasons, politics or some other explanation unfathomed. Be it the generosity of the diocese, behind the scenes machinations, or the simple will of God, Father Murphy remained pastor of Saint Pat's, and Saint Pat's was better for it.
On June 2, 2007 he returned to the parish he'd served for so long to celebrate his Golden Jubilee with a mass at Saint Patrick's. A full house turned out to celebrate the man whose ordination on June 1, 1957 had benefitted them all in some fashion, and for every person who sat in a carved wooden pew at the church that day, there were dozens more who couldn't make the trip, but cared not one ounce less. Catskill's Jim DiPerna has a few wonderful pictures of that day on his blog, and I don't think he'd object to my linking it below.
Other memories trickle to the surface - I remember shoveling snow off the rectory sidewalks on a couple of occasions, after my family moved from Jefferson Heights over to Prospect Avenue, a block from the church. Father Murphy always had an appreciative wave for that little bit of volunteerism. He'd greet you with a clap on the back or a firm handshake, and he was rock solid remembering names – or faking it with a nickname if he didn't, though for as long as I can remember, he knew I was Rosealma's grandson or Patricia's son. His intonations of the Stations of the Cross on Fridays filled the church during the Fridays in Lent when the church welcomed the elementary school students, and I dare you to not hear that voice if you were there. Then there was the way he'd do away with the sermon on especially hot summer Saturday afternoons at the vigil mass, when the open stained glass panels and tall, gray fans did nothing to lower the temperature. I can only imagine how hot he was in holy layers of cassock and vestments.
The last time I saw him was in June, 2006 outside Traver and McCurry Funeral Home in Jefferson Heights. I had just arrived with my mom for my Aunt Elaine's funeral; he was just leaving, heading to another service. With a broad smile and a solid handshake, the familiar “Brother Lane,” and kind words to us for our loss, it was as if I was ten years old and I'd just seen him after Mass, wishing people well at the door – as if it was only yesterday I'd been there, instead of heading out for the world in 1991.
It was the real-world example of what State Representative Gerald Solomon vocalized in the State House of Representatives on February 29, 1996, when Father Murphy was lauded for his devotion both to the Catskill community and the opportunity for children to receive a parochial school education. “Former students spanning his 25 years of service,” Representative Solomon said, “still know they can expect a warm greeting, sound advice and guidance, or just an open ear upon their return.”
My faith has wavered at times since I left Catskill in 1991; at times, I've set it aside to figure things out for myself. I'm in the process of returning once again, and the ongoing example of Father Murphy is a strong one to help re-light my way.
There may come a time where Saint Patrick's parish is only what we, its parishioners past and present, carry in memories and in lessons instilled. The high school, my alma mater, is long since gone – closed in 1988, and don't get me started on that fiasco, because for some things, I still must learn forgiveness. The elementary school closed forever a few years ago. The church spent 2009 in a “feasibility study” by the Albany Diocese, with its fate in limbo, in consideration of a merger with St. Patrick's in Athens. The church in Catskill remains without a pastor. There may come a time where Saint Patrick's parish is only what we, its parishioners, carry of the faith instilled while it was there.
And now Father Murphy is gone – but not forgotten, especially in this season of penance, reflection and sacrifice. Those of us lucky enough to have known him are blessed by our intersection with this fine man, this exemplary priest, this member of our family who has informed us by his warmth, his example and his care.
The reception of the body for Father Murphy will take place at Sacred Heart Church in Troy on Sunday, February 21 at 4:00 PM. The viewing will continue until 8:00 PM. The Funeral Liturgy will be celebrated at Sacred Heart, Troy on Monday at 11:00 AM.
Photographer Jim DiPerna's account and pictures of the Jubilee Mass of Father Murphy can be seen here.
The former pastor of Saint Patrick's Parish in Catskill, New York – a role he served from 1971 until his retirement in 2005, a third of a century in the service of the community – died on Tuesday, the eve of the 2010 Lenten season. He was my parish priest and, outside of my grandmother Rosealma (who kept us in Saturday vigil masses at the church atop Bridge Street hill), my spiritual compass for many years. I'm not alone. Father Murphy had a profound impact on the students who passed through the doors at Saint Patrick's elementary, on his congregation, on the Catholic community not only in Catskill, but throughout the county.
He didn't do it with an extreme profundity or a charismatic style, but with the sheer size of his heart, his goodness, and the care with which he looked over his parishioners.
What engendered our devotion was simple: he was genuine, and embodied characteristics that you expected in a priest – approachable, personable, trustworthy. He was part Spencer Tracey in “Boys Town,” but without the epic backstory, part Bing Crosby in “The Bells of Saint Mary's,” but without the swagger – and he was absolutely Father Murphy, Father John, Murph in casual corners where the collar could sustain some familiarity – never among the kids, mind you. Pastor, mentor, friend - he was the heart and soul and spiritual vanguard to several generations.
We called him “Father” and all took him into our families. Father Murphy is there in numerous photographs in my albums – my first communion; my sisters' weddings; May processions and elementary school events and Mother's Club functions. In those frames where he isn't solemn in conducting the business of the church, he's smiling. Always. His joy was infectious, a reflection of the wealth of happiness he found in a life given over to faith. The quiet grace with which he conducted the liturgy and preached a sermon hinted at the strength he found there as well.
Even after he retired in August, 2005 and moved to Troy to be closer to family, Catskill was never too far for him to go. He returned to tend to the spiritual needs of a flock that was always his, regardless of changing guards or Diocesan appointments. That he was loved is beyond question. When he went on a Diocesan-mandated sabbatical from his duties when I was a teen – the year escapes me, but I want to say it was in the early eighties, and I'm sure someone reading this has a longer memory than I do - there was a great deal of concern that Albany wouldn't return him to his post after his break. It simply wasn't done, whether for arcane Church reasons, politics or some other explanation unfathomed. Be it the generosity of the diocese, behind the scenes machinations, or the simple will of God, Father Murphy remained pastor of Saint Pat's, and Saint Pat's was better for it.
On June 2, 2007 he returned to the parish he'd served for so long to celebrate his Golden Jubilee with a mass at Saint Patrick's. A full house turned out to celebrate the man whose ordination on June 1, 1957 had benefitted them all in some fashion, and for every person who sat in a carved wooden pew at the church that day, there were dozens more who couldn't make the trip, but cared not one ounce less. Catskill's Jim DiPerna has a few wonderful pictures of that day on his blog, and I don't think he'd object to my linking it below.
Other memories trickle to the surface - I remember shoveling snow off the rectory sidewalks on a couple of occasions, after my family moved from Jefferson Heights over to Prospect Avenue, a block from the church. Father Murphy always had an appreciative wave for that little bit of volunteerism. He'd greet you with a clap on the back or a firm handshake, and he was rock solid remembering names – or faking it with a nickname if he didn't, though for as long as I can remember, he knew I was Rosealma's grandson or Patricia's son. His intonations of the Stations of the Cross on Fridays filled the church during the Fridays in Lent when the church welcomed the elementary school students, and I dare you to not hear that voice if you were there. Then there was the way he'd do away with the sermon on especially hot summer Saturday afternoons at the vigil mass, when the open stained glass panels and tall, gray fans did nothing to lower the temperature. I can only imagine how hot he was in holy layers of cassock and vestments.
The last time I saw him was in June, 2006 outside Traver and McCurry Funeral Home in Jefferson Heights. I had just arrived with my mom for my Aunt Elaine's funeral; he was just leaving, heading to another service. With a broad smile and a solid handshake, the familiar “Brother Lane,” and kind words to us for our loss, it was as if I was ten years old and I'd just seen him after Mass, wishing people well at the door – as if it was only yesterday I'd been there, instead of heading out for the world in 1991.
It was the real-world example of what State Representative Gerald Solomon vocalized in the State House of Representatives on February 29, 1996, when Father Murphy was lauded for his devotion both to the Catskill community and the opportunity for children to receive a parochial school education. “Former students spanning his 25 years of service,” Representative Solomon said, “still know they can expect a warm greeting, sound advice and guidance, or just an open ear upon their return.”
My faith has wavered at times since I left Catskill in 1991; at times, I've set it aside to figure things out for myself. I'm in the process of returning once again, and the ongoing example of Father Murphy is a strong one to help re-light my way.
There may come a time where Saint Patrick's parish is only what we, its parishioners past and present, carry in memories and in lessons instilled. The high school, my alma mater, is long since gone – closed in 1988, and don't get me started on that fiasco, because for some things, I still must learn forgiveness. The elementary school closed forever a few years ago. The church spent 2009 in a “feasibility study” by the Albany Diocese, with its fate in limbo, in consideration of a merger with St. Patrick's in Athens. The church in Catskill remains without a pastor. There may come a time where Saint Patrick's parish is only what we, its parishioners, carry of the faith instilled while it was there.
And now Father Murphy is gone – but not forgotten, especially in this season of penance, reflection and sacrifice. Those of us lucky enough to have known him are blessed by our intersection with this fine man, this exemplary priest, this member of our family who has informed us by his warmth, his example and his care.
* * *
The reception of the body for Father Murphy will take place at Sacred Heart Church in Troy on Sunday, February 21 at 4:00 PM. The viewing will continue until 8:00 PM. The Funeral Liturgy will be celebrated at Sacred Heart, Troy on Monday at 11:00 AM.
Photographer Jim DiPerna's account and pictures of the Jubilee Mass of Father Murphy can be seen here.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Chickenesque
The flywheels of creativity can be fickle – some days chicken, some days soup (as a woman I used to work with in Texas liked to say). I’ve had a chickenesque week.
I subbed “Ark Of The Revenant” to the Zombie Zoology anthology. Zombie stories aren’t my usual bag, and certainly not zombie ANIMAL stories, but the opportunity to throw zombies, mythological beasts, and Noah and the Deluge into the blender and whip up a weird confection was not to be missed. Pity the griffon, kids.
I came up with the opening scene of the next piece of the novel-in-progress, which opens the door to the next 50 pages. I’ve also begun the rewriting process on the short story “The Drop Spot” and have begun the mental teardown and reworking of the long-neglected, baseball-flavored “The Shaman In Relief” which will solve its verrrrrrry sloooooow ooooopening problem. My brain began to simmer on the layout and design for a potential broadside (for some future point) of the flash fiction “Shady Acres” (which appeared in Pure Francis), the illustration for which I can see in my head.
AND I should be just a couple weeks away from “Tacklesmooches” in Tales of the Unanticipated #30, on newsstands in February. Newsstands at comic and SF specialty shops. In Minneapolis. Who knows, Prince could be reading me.
I also mashed up the word “chickenesque”. That’s like a cherry on top.
The problem (as much as such thing can be a problem) is that I’m in a mode where all I want to do is write. I don’t want to work today. I want to be home, fingers making that clickty-clack my characters associate with breathing. I’m brimming with both enthusiasm for new ideas and the scut work of fine tuning, rewriting, transcribing, market dredging. Believe me, finding the joy in the Work part of Creative Work is a rarity for me. I don’t like to weed or clean the gutters. But a switch has been thrown, and I know the SNAP-hummmmmm of that circuit closing. It’s a joyful machine noise.
I hope I still feel that way at 3:31 today when the weekend begins. I’d like to kick some serious butt moving the novel-in-progress forward. Muse vs. Inertia to the death…
I subbed “Ark Of The Revenant” to the Zombie Zoology anthology. Zombie stories aren’t my usual bag, and certainly not zombie ANIMAL stories, but the opportunity to throw zombies, mythological beasts, and Noah and the Deluge into the blender and whip up a weird confection was not to be missed. Pity the griffon, kids.
I came up with the opening scene of the next piece of the novel-in-progress, which opens the door to the next 50 pages. I’ve also begun the rewriting process on the short story “The Drop Spot” and have begun the mental teardown and reworking of the long-neglected, baseball-flavored “The Shaman In Relief” which will solve its verrrrrrry sloooooow ooooopening problem. My brain began to simmer on the layout and design for a potential broadside (for some future point) of the flash fiction “Shady Acres” (which appeared in Pure Francis), the illustration for which I can see in my head.
AND I should be just a couple weeks away from “Tacklesmooches” in Tales of the Unanticipated #30, on newsstands in February. Newsstands at comic and SF specialty shops. In Minneapolis. Who knows, Prince could be reading me.
I also mashed up the word “chickenesque”. That’s like a cherry on top.
The problem (as much as such thing can be a problem) is that I’m in a mode where all I want to do is write. I don’t want to work today. I want to be home, fingers making that clickty-clack my characters associate with breathing. I’m brimming with both enthusiasm for new ideas and the scut work of fine tuning, rewriting, transcribing, market dredging. Believe me, finding the joy in the Work part of Creative Work is a rarity for me. I don’t like to weed or clean the gutters. But a switch has been thrown, and I know the SNAP-hummmmmm of that circuit closing. It’s a joyful machine noise.
I hope I still feel that way at 3:31 today when the weekend begins. I’d like to kick some serious butt moving the novel-in-progress forward. Muse vs. Inertia to the death…
Song of the Moment: “Heroes and Villains” – Brian Wilson – Smile
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Chuck Barris Conundrum*
I will not watch “Hoarders” on A&E for fear of finding myself in someone else's clutter.
In my young adulthood, the stuff of choice became books. Walls of paperbacks. The greats of science fiction and fantasy. Star Trek. Doc Savage. The occasional mystery, quiz books, trivia books, making-of books for TV series and movies, weird but true stories, on and on. I fed my habit on weekly spins through the used book stores of Catskill and, once I could drive, Hudson and Saugerties and Albany and Kingston and everywhere in between.
Let's not even get into music. My couple hundred albums were easily and quickly surpassed in the digital age. I stopped counting at 1,500 CDs a couple of years ago.
If my room was an Oreo, it'd be a Triple Stuff.
None of this is intrinsically bad. But I've also rarely culled any of the herd. The Matchbox cars are still here. Boxes of baseball cards. The Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em robots. The Star Wars figures. Three boxes of knickknacks, baubles, interesting little bits that serve no purpose save for having been a neat pickup, an oddity – cool stuff. The Etch-a-sketch key chain is trumped only by the Lincoln Logs key chain that resides in the same shoebox I haven't opened in the last year.
The memory of moving 43 boxes of books four years ago is still very fresh. Carrying them one by one up three flights of stairs will do that. And herein lies the quandary I have with my stuff: smart money says that before the end of the year, I will need to box and ready all of this stuff to move again. There's no guarantee of space for it on the other end of a move. The question becomes, why? Aside from nostalgia, is there any reason to hold on to five cases of Matchbox cars? A milk crate full of laserdiscs? (Think DVD, but the size of an LP record; and if you don’t know what an LP record is, ask your mom.) The remaining records and 45 singles?
Some of these things surely have a value to someone, somewhere. I have a heap of college loans and other debt I could be paying down. I could severely reduce the level of stuff spilling across the shelves, from the closet, from under the bed. Ebay and Craigslist are crammed with people looking for bargains – why not give them some in that big yard sale circle of life?
I know any move is going to require a truck - writing makes its own hernia with files and what not - but I dream of traveling light, a few boxes of the best books, my music taking up a small space on my desk as opposed to seventeen shelves and three small crates, a closet I can stand in.
And still, I feel handcuffed when I think of liquidating touchstones from my life and times. One simple, overriding cry echos from the depths of my Indiana Jones-style government warehouse, the headspace that comes from growing up in a family of collectors, a declaration that keeps me from a purge that would make a neighborhood tag sale quake with envy:
But it’s my STUFF.
---
* Chuck Barris used to go to commercial on "The Gong Show" promising to be back with "more STUFF" after the break. Apparently there's a lot of Stuff in my mental attic too...
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Interim Memo: The 40 Year Old Hoya
A quick update for all concerned - all three of you. I successfully completed my grad school program at Georgetown - the 39 year old Hoya, turned 40, turned 41, 10 classes and out. I walk in May. I've really spared all of us the gory details - it was busy, and crazy, and busy, and educational, and busy, and by the way, have I mentioned it was frickin' busy? But I'm done, and to riff on The Untouchables, thus endeth the lesson. No Doctor DJ in the future. But I managed a 4.0 for the course. Cleared the bar, landed on my feet.
The 40 Year Old Hoya blog is being closed, it's spirit reincorporated into my everlasting walkabout. Still searching for me. I know I'm out there somewhere.
And now, the focus turns back on life itself... a long-distance relationship that looks to be less long this year - lots of change there... the business of writing and submitting and hopefully selling... and a whole parcel of other things. Every day is Christmas, and every night is New Year's Eve.
But yeah, that's the old business. And apparently a manifestation of lyrical Tourette's on the side. Onto the new business...
The 40 Year Old Hoya blog is being closed, it's spirit reincorporated into my everlasting walkabout. Still searching for me. I know I'm out there somewhere.
And now, the focus turns back on life itself... a long-distance relationship that looks to be less long this year - lots of change there... the business of writing and submitting and hopefully selling... and a whole parcel of other things. Every day is Christmas, and every night is New Year's Eve.
But yeah, that's the old business. And apparently a manifestation of lyrical Tourette's on the side. Onto the new business...
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