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Seriously?

Yes, seriously.

Check out the article here.

The new odor eating undies are being launched into space (on an astronaut, mind you) to test their effectiveness. They are supposed to - hypothesized to? - control odor for seven days. But who is testing this on our astronaut? Why are we sending very expensive, highly trained people into space for months on end to say: “Sniff my butt.” “No, you sniff my butt.” “You have to, it’s in your job description.”

Are there men and women up in the International Space Station thinking to themselves, ‘I would not have become an astronaut had I known this was going to happen’? And I will add, it’s one thing to have someone sniff your ass to see if it smells, but it’s another thing entirely to do it on the fourth day . . . or the seventh.

If the undies fail by day three are they allowed to terminate the process? Or do they have to keep going until the full seven days? Is there a slaughter rule - like ‘if the sniffer passes out you can quit’?

They do a lot of other experimenting up there in the ISS, too. A while ago, I read about astronauts growing hydroponic beans is space. Am I the first to say that this combination of experiments seems particularly bad? Evil, even.

The article about the odor-eating undies shows a picture of a man floating in space as he supposedly wears the experimental undies. He is smiling. He is also all alone. Hmmmmm. Day five, maybe?

This may be a good time to take a look at the American economy and ask some tough questions . . . Now, I’m not saying we should nix the whole space program or anything like that. But it looks like a lot of money being is spent in the Department of Does-My-Butt-Stink? Also, the emissions reducing garments are touted by NASA (an American program) and being worn by a Japanese astronaut. This is a prime example of an ongoing discrepancy between they way the US-based and Soviet-based space programs spend their money.

Back in the early days of trips to the moon, it was realized that pens would fail to write in a zero gravity environment. NASA anticipated this problem and deftly solved it before it caused issues in space. (And no one needs issues in space - we all know Tom Hanks had enough trouble landing that Apollo thing even with working pens.) Developing a pen that works in zero G only cost several million dollars of R&D. But the NASA boys had something nice to write with. The Russians, on the other hand, showed up with pencils (and a few extra mil in their pockets).

So I’m going to guess the Soviets in the ISS aren’t looking like idiots with PhDs, going around with their noses up each other’s butts for the sake of science. I’m guessing those guys brought Old Spice with them and, just maybe?, some water!

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I’m going to state flat out that I think authors should use different pen names when they write in different genres. I understand the desire to show one author can do it all, but let that happen when everyone gets excited at the “Joe Schmoe is really John Doe?” stage of the game. No one should force a different genre on their readers.

Stephen King once did the Nom de Plume thing, and he didn’t even switch genres. Hell, he didn’t even switch writing styles or word usage. I’m sure it wasn’t just me thinking, ‘hey, this Richard Bachman guy has totally ripped off ole Steve King.’ I grew more curious as Steve failed to sue Rick for blatantly stealing a style. But then I found out why. And I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure why Stephen King decided he needed a pen name to do what he’d always been doing.

Yet so many authors go out on a limb and write something totally different under the same name. Grisham quasi-pulled it off with his humorous Christmas story. King wrote fantasy under his own name (why? when he’s clearly not averse to pen names??) And a good handful of female suspense writers have gone back and forth between thrillers and romances (and covered all the ground in between). Unfortunately, I think they’ve shot their own gender in the foot.

Here’s the issue - readers want what they want. That’s probably not news. But it’s really disconcerting to pick up horror novel and find a comedy, or vice versa. And it may be something you would love, IF you’d known what it was when you picked it up.

This is what I have referred to as the ‘Home Fries Problem’ for a while now. Do you remember the movie “Home Fries”? Yeah, I didn’t think so. It came and went fast enough that if you blinked you’d miss it. Despite its big name cast (Drew Barrymore, Luke Wilson, etc.) this one zipped through theaters and disappeared before you could tell the ticket girl you wanted two for that, please. The issue is that this film was marketed as a romantic comedy. And it wasn’t. At all. Yes, two characters (kind of) get together, but it was dark. Pretty damn dark. I loved it. But only because that particular day I was really open to a dark movie. Or I just wasn’t into romantic comedies and got my butt dragged there - but that’s a discussion for another day. No one liked this film because it was mislabeled. Even though it was well acted, directed and written, who could enjoy it?

This happens with books. A lot. And it seems to be happening with female authors more (sorry ladies). I’ve met more than one author who was excited to have her book picked up by a big publisher only to find out that it got repackaged with a cute name and a woman who can’t quite keep her blouse from falling off plastered across the cover. This is regardless of the genre. I know a few female authors who have been told by agents to make a minor change: get two characters together so we can market it as chick-lit.

I know male authors have the same problems: the cover isn’t in keeping with the story, maybe it’s offensive to your core audience, maybe it’s even got some flat out error on it. (One version of the preliminary cover for my book ‘Vengeance’ had the girl with the sword pointed toward herself !?!?!?) But most men don’t get their genre changed on them.

To a certain extent, writers need to be flexible if they ever want to see their work in print. No one is going to buy ‘your baby’. And no one will work with you if you refuse to edit your book they way they want. But while you have to be willing to edit, you also have to draw that line - don’t let anyone change the genre. That will just kill you. Future publishers will want to know what you sold and if it’s a true crime book that’s actually a self-help, well . . . it’s all downhill from there.

If you truly do write in more than one genre, just give yourself a different name. We all know what happens when you pick up your coke and find out it’s root beer. It just tastes wrong. Even if you really like root beer. Or what if your coke turns out to be DIET? That’s just rank. And a lot of people like diet, too. There’s a big market for your diet coke, if only it had been labeled correctly. This way no one will pick up a Joe Schmoe book expecting his usual acerbic outlook on life in the burbs and get a political mystery.

Let’s face it. No author is going to get red carpet treatment anywhere just because he whipped out his credit card and it said John Doe. “Oh, are you THAT John Doe, the writer?” The paparazzi aren’t going to wait to catch you taking out your trash, either. So who cares what name you published your other book under? Just be sure we know what we are getting when we pick up a book to read. That’s what makes us happy!

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She was becoming.

She was no longer Cyndy and never would be again. What, or who, she was becoming, she wasn’t sure. But she was changing. Even as she walked through the woods, cheap sneakers crunching leaves, she felt things sharpening inside.

There were twinges and tugs where injuries pulled at her. She’d picked a fight at school just for the purpose of getting bruises. That way no one would notice any new ones after tonight. The damage was both an asset and a liability. But she wouldn’t let it hurt.

In the dark, her vision had changed to the grayscale world that the night allowed. But even in the depth of night she could see the house was painted a sunny yellow. A big Victorian with white trim, it loomed over her.

The backyard stretched before her, beckoning her out, calling to her where she stood at the edge of the trees. Sliding back into the cover of the woods, she slipped what she needed out of her pockets. A black hat had been jammed into one, and she now forced her ponytail up under it. Several attempts were required to make it stay and all the while she was fighting with it she was cataloguing better options - a haircut, braids, hairspray - because this would not be the last time she had to do this.

Gloves came out next. Black leather, bought at a discount store, they were the singular most expensive item she owned. And even as cheap as she had gotten them, she’d had to save up. As painful as that had been - the waiting, the saving was of no concern to someone so single minded - it had probably been a good thing. She had accused Robert Listle of things, and had she done this a while ago, it might have gotten traced back to her. A little distance gave her an advantage.

Her body covered as much as possible, she slunk across the back yard. If any of the foster children living in the home saw her they didn’t sound any alarms. Someone slinking in to rob them was no worse than other nights, at best it was a diversion they wouldn’t have to pay for later.

Surprisingly, she wasn’t breathing heavily by the time she reached the house. She was calm enough to take a moment for silence, just in case someone did see her, or get worried about a shadow, or hear a noise. She pushed into the bushes and waited until she counted to twenty. She leaned back against the wall, startled by the soft crackle. The wood was weak here. Clean and sparkling up where it showed, no one had forced the new coat of paint down here behind the bushes. Though the house had worn yellow for several layers, here it was chipping away, showing a dull coat of gray that had once been the house’s main color.

She knew this house. She’d been inside as a guest. And at the small memorial service that vile man had thrown for her sister, she’d checked the layout. She now crouched under the window to his bedroom.

Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and let it out, focusing on her goal. One . . . Two . . .

She stood abruptly, bringing her elbow up and behind her head to smash the window. In a fluid movement, she turned and grabbed the ledge above her using the brute strength she had developed in her arms to haul herself up.

The leather gloves protected her hands from the glass edges. Mostly.

Even as she swung her leg over and into the room, she saw him coming awake. A simple looking monster, all the more lethal for his likeability, Robert Listle sat upright in bed.

He opened his mouth, a possibility she had not really accounted for. She had simply thought she’d be faster than him. Luckily, he’d been asleep and wasn’t really processing the fact that a person was coming through his window. Instinctively, he pulled the covers up, but he asked a gentle “What?”

She didn’t answer, just came all the way into the room as he was standing, a man naked but for his underwear. His eyes shifted at her, suddenly looking mean, and she got a glimpse of the way her sister had described him forcing his way into her room after dislodging the chair she had attempted to shove under the door. Wendy hadn’t been the only foster kid he’d gone after. And she hadn’t been the last.

The narrowed eyes pushed her into action.

Though he was much taller she reached out for him. Grabbing his arm and tipping him off balance hadn’t really been the plan. She wasn’t as fluid as she’d always imagined she would be when she got here. The fist fight yesterday had all been calculated moves and factored hits. This was a mess. Her adrenaline had kicked in.

He probably hadn’t expected her to grab him. He faltered toward her and as she stepped out of the way he teetered toward the broken window in the tiny room. His arm hit the glass where she had come through and he twisted away from her.

She wasted no time. She knew what she had come for. There would be no fighting, sweating, punching. Just one arm tight around his neck, the other bracing it to be sure the flat of her forearm went across his windpipe, crushing it rather than just locking his head in place.

He thrashed but she was behind him. His legs were hampered by the fact that she was shorter and he couldn’t stand to get any proper aim or force. Several blows landed, but none were strong enough to break the grip held steady by the lingering memory of her sister’s death.

When he ceased to fight and her arm began to ache, she forced herself to remember his baby. The one her sister had surely killed when she slit her wrists. It was hard to find much sympathy for the tiny offspring of this monster. It was hard to find sympathy for anything. Or much of any feeling at all.

So she counted to one hundred after he stopped flailing and she listened for sounds in the house, not hearing anything of importance. When at last she released him and let him slide, leaden, to the floor, she felt satisfaction.

Her brain then snapped back into place.

She had a job to do here. Listle was dead, that had been most important. But if she was going to get to Jansen and Leopld she had to make certain that none of this pointed back to her.

She pulled drawers and looked under socks, shifted the mattress as though looking for something. Twice she found small wads of cash which she pocketed.

Then cautiously, she went to the bedroom door. Slowly she opened it, venturing into the hall, trying to keep her face hidden lest one of the household kids see her and get the idea to call the cops - even though she’d just stopped the horrors they all knew were happening.

Quickly, she messed up the living room and kitchen only at the last minute tipping lamps and breaking the glass in the back door as she went out it. She stuck to the stepping stones not wanting to leave shoe imprints then dove straight for the woods, never looking back to check if she’d been seen.

Peeling the hat and gloves, she used her precious pocket space for the small folds of bills leaving her gear clutched in her hand. It wouldn’t do to drop them back here and have them found. She walked off the adrenaline, through the woods and around in circles, and still she didn’t hear sirens. Good.

Later, she changed into the clothes she’d left behind a rock on the other side of the trees. Bagging the ones she’d worn in to Listle’s house, she hauled them for a while, eventually pushing them under other bags in a dumpster she passed on the way home.

No one seemed to be out at this hour. For that she was grateful.

Her feet were tired. The twinges in her arms had advanced to actual pain. But the money in her pockets was a badge, a prize. The one thing she had taken from Listle’s house besides her self.

Just beyond the foster home where she stayed, she stopped. She breathed in deep against the weight of satisfaction and the knowledge of what she had done. Of what she would do again. But better next time.

She had become.

Read more about Sin in my novel, Vengeance.

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It’s just art, really

Just like most high-schoolers, I was not immune to the joys of toilet-papering someone’s house. There really is something satisfying about a round, white roll flying high up into the air and arcing through tall branches. The trail of white it leaves like a jet plume is poetry in motion. And there’s a solid sense of satisfaction when looking at a yard that’s been coated in white tails blowing softly in the dark. But I digress . . .

Most people don’t see TPing a yard as the art form that it is. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am to see a lone tree with a roll or two dangling pitifully off the branches. Maybe this is because the vandals were chased away mid-work, but that’s really their own fault. That smacks of poor planning.

I got my start after listening to a group of friends say they had been shot at while trying to TP one fellow high-schooler’s house. My best friend and I decided these guys were being wimps and we would hit this house. Not only did we TP the shooters place, but we did it Halloween night.

First, most people who suspect they are going to get TPed wait up for the TP to start flying. This is a mistake. A TPer worth his salt will go to bed on time like an angel and set the alarm for 3am. A 3:30 start is ideal for this kind of work. Anyone waiting up will have decided the coast is clear and go to bed. Some people get up really early for work, but almost no one at that hour. This should give you two clear hours to work.

We coated the entire front yard - seven trees in all - without a mishap. We crunched through fallen leaves, shouted stupid things like ‘throw me another roll!’ and made a pinch trip to Kroger when we ran out of paper. (I don’t recommend this - we were wearing all black and trailed grass through the store at 4:30 in the morning. All we bought was two twelve packs of Charmin. I still can’t believe no one just picked up the phone and told the cops to follow us.) Still, we got away scott-free and were never shot at. (Years later we found out that the shotgun had been real and after our coup there were a good number who tried to repeat our victory only to get a roll or two up then take a BB in the butt.)

Heady on our victory, we worked hard to keep our mouths shut. We reminded ourselves that the victory was in the doing, not the bragging. But we found ourselves in conversation with the guys who had provoked our first TP attack. One bragged that his house would never get hit, because he was on a fairly busy corner and had a street light in his yard. Well, there’s nothing like a good dare. . . and this is when we crossed the line into art.

Sure we did stupid things (see ‘Kroger’ above) but we weren’t stupid. This needed to be a good hit. We waited until all the guys were over at his place one night, and while they watched Hellraiser II on VHS we made our move.

We struck at 2am this time - so the guys would still be up. (This made it much sweeter when we were able name the movie they had been watching while we laid waste to the yard.) We did TP the one tall tree, but mostly we used the TP to circle the house, wrapping it like a present. There was even a big bow on the front door. Crystal Saran-wrap (the colored stuff) had just come out and we had a roll of each nasty hue. We used it to wrap the trunks and branches of the various smaller trees around the yard.

We had a plan in place in case the cops came by, but when they did we were too far from our designated bushes to duck for cover in time. Knowing there was nothing to be done, both of us stood there amidst the wreckage (evidence in hand) and waved at them as they passed. This earned us a few belly laughs and only a mild slowing of the car. They waved back.

I don’t know if the cops just found this incredibly funny or what. Maybe they knew the guy we were TPing and thought it was deserved. Maybe they knew us (it was a small town) and knew we were basically good kids - straight As, didn’t skip school (much), were nice to old ladies, etc. Whatever the reason, nothing happened. So, after a few minutes, we got back to work.

This time, we’d come fully armed. No more not-so-clandestine trips to Kroger. We were becoming pros and we were prepared. We used those paper cupcake cups everywhere. They look like flowers when pushed onto the ends of branches and stick nicely to the dew that gathers on cars. (We’d heard of doing this with Oreos, but we weren’t about to actually destroy anything (even the chipping paint on an old blue Pinto) and who knows what they make Oreos out of.) And, lastly, we took about 700 plastic forks and stuck them into the ground in a grid pattern over the small patch of front lawn.

It was 3:30 by the time we finished, and the entire house had gone to sleep while we did our work. The sun was coming up as we dragged our tired butts off to bed. But we slept the sleep of those well satisfied with their work. It was a sleep we slept about seven more times before graduating high-school. We never saw the police again and liked to think this was because our stealth skills had improved. We also liked to think that each yard was a work of art. We didn’t hit teachers’ houses or anyone elderly. Usually we just nailed the kids who bragged about TPing someone else’s house. And mostly we kept our mouths shut.

We considered ourselves high school ‘Christo’s - wrapping trees and houses (instead of whole islands) in plastic. But then again, maybe we were just petty vandals at play. Good times, man, good times.

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We all know GPS stands for ‘Global Positioning System’ but did you know it also means ‘Getting Peacefully Stupid’. Because, let’s face it - that’s what you do when you get a GPS.

I used to know how to find my way around. I used to laugh at that guy who drove his car into the lake because his GPS told him to. But these days mostly I keep my mouth shut.

Once you own a GPS you might as well climb into your car, stare into the middle distance and say ‘yeessss masssterr’ every time it speaks. Because on the one hand the GPS is awesome: you don’t have to pay attention to any turns - the little voice on your dash just tells you where to go. You obey, and voila! you arrive. Couldn’t be easier.

Argue with your GPS and you need to be prepared to suffer the consequences. We’ve all looked at the map on the screen and said “Well, that’s just stupid.’ We make the logical (reasonable) turn only to find out that we shouldn’t have taken that left back in Albuquerque. I’m surprised the voice doesn’t have a ‘chide’ option. “I told you to stay on this road for two more miles, why didn’t you listen?” Or a good “Now look what you’ve gotten us into!” But it seems you won’t get scolded and you won’t even get a good long-suffering sigh out of the thing, just the admonition to make a legal U-turn as soon as possible.

Another good option with the GPS is to get a sexy voice programmed into it. I mean you already listen to whatever it tells you, it might as well be a voice you want in charge. Mmmm, baby. There are a lot of options here, too. I have one friend who put his GPS on British English, just for the breathy voice and that accent. Even if she calls the freeway a ‘motorway’ he gets where he’s going. And maybe he gets there just a little happier, too? There are language options as well. If none of the English voices suit you, you can try French or Italian. Those are just sexy languages. And you don’t have to be fluent, just know your basic left and right and you’ll get it. Besides, in another six months you’ll be able to give bang-up directions in another language - handy if hot French tourists are stranded in your hometown. (Trust me, it’s a huge problem here in middle Tennessee!)

All this may be good clean fun while you tool about, but on the other hand you will become a driving moron. I once went to the same place four nights in a row, on the fifth night cloud cover blocked the signal and I was lost. Hopelessly, stupidly lost. Before I had the GPS, I would never have been able to drive the same route four days in a row then not be able to find my way there the fifth night. Also, when you are familiar with an area and decide to argue the route with the machine, you will lose even if you are right. (tip: it’s always a bad idea to argue with talking machinery) Because, while you may know the street you want to take, you won’t know the name of it, or won’t know which direction to head to get to it, or won’t know the exit number that you need. So, even if you’re smarter than your GPS, you are screwed.

To top it off, I am now convinced that mine in messing with me. There are a handful of times I have found myself taking the long way around. Why? Because I was halfway there before I came to and realized my GPS had led me astray. Somewhere, there is a computer hacker laughing hysterically that I can be so easily controlled. In response I can only say this: I’m too easy and too stupid of a target, so surely the game will lose its luster shortly. Right?

There’s one more option here, and this is one I don’t like to contemplate too much, because I really like my GPS. I like handing control over to a small mindless automaton that tells me where to go and even to get ready for the turn. But the part that scares me is this - I’m not the only one. I know there are hundreds, thousands of you out there just like me. All your navigational skills have been stripped away and you listen to the voices like a happy schizophrenic. What happens when someone hacks the whole system? Will we all drive blindly to New York city? Or to a corn field in Iowa? Will we be lucky and the hacker will be human? Or will the aliens get to us this way?

This really frightens me. I’m just as much a GPS idiot as the next guy. And while I don’t like the idea of being controlled I really don’t like the idea of being lost either. And maps . . . well, they’re so archaic! So, I guess I’ve made my choice. I’m going to continue to follow blindly, and if the aliens get me, at least I will have gotten everywhere else on time in the meanwhile.

See you at the mother-ship!

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A family Tradition

Now, it’s really important that you understand the following account is fictional. In no way am I responsible for any of the mishaps or misdemeanors mentioned here. Also, we are way past the statute of limitations on a good number of these . . .

Let me start by saying that I don’t ‘tag’ things. I won’t leave a ten foot stylized version of my ‘hood’ name on the side of your business just to up my street cred. Since I am quite certain that I have no street cred anyway, it would just be pointless. Needless to say, I do find some minor vandalism quite refreshing from time to time.

Before you condemn me, let me explain. I’m not talking about throwing rolls of toilet paper up into the trees of a nearby house - that’s a separate subject. I’m talking about minor alterations that the world needs. We’ve all seen it; I just tend to do something about it.

For example, when I was in high school, United Way put these signs up around town at Christmas time. Like the old Burmashave signs, they were gathered in rows of five and made a silly rhyme about giving money to United Way. They had done it several years in a row, so the stupid poems were stuck in my head.

This particular year some idiot had scrambled the signs. As you drove past, the five signs went something like this: ‘What’s holiday cheer’, ‘gave at the office’, ‘help those who’, ‘caring’, ‘United Way!’ Of course ‘without loved ones near?’ (which belonged right after the ‘What’s holiday cheer’ sign) was on the other side of town. All four rhymes were present and accounted for, just jumbled.

So we called United Way to tell them about the error and that they might want to fix it. I swear, I was trying to be a good Samaritan! But United Way said ‘Oh, I’m sure they’re just fine. Don’t worry.’ Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell a professional that they are doing something wrong. I figure the pro is most likely to have it right. But this was nuts.

I called again. This time I was told I was an idiot. If you’re keeping up here, and you’ve read ‘Tele me more’ you know just how much I love this - and what I tend to do about it. My mother and I (yes, you read that correctly, she was in on this) bought red poster board and large markers. We then snuck out in the middle of the night and clipped our signs over theirs. The signs now read ‘Don’t give United Way’, ‘a dime’, ‘until they get’, ‘these signs to rhyme’, ‘United Way!” (We left that last one alone. It really spoke for itself.)

It lasted two days. Then United Way took down the signs and they never returned to our town. I do give them money. I think they are a good organization. But organizations need to listen when citizens speak. Sometimes, there’s an error and people are just trying to be helpful.

Later, my father and I came up with another plan. (Yes, apparently this urge comes down to me on both sides of my family.) We were sitting in traffic on the way to school, yet again, because of a bottleneck. There were a lot of people who turned left at this one light in the mornings. And that was fine, because they scooted over and made a quasi-left turn lane. But there was always one lefty who insisted on waiting out the light smack in the middle of the lane, thus blocking anyone who wanted to go straight through. You would have to wait until Miss ‘There’s not a real left turn lane’ waited out her light. At a rate of about one car per light, this gave us plenty of time to hatch a plan.

That night, my Dad and I hit Home Depot for some purchases then dressed all in black. Armed with weights and string (wouldn’t want a crooked line), three foot sheets of cardboard (clean edges!) and bright white spray paint, we parked one corner away from our chosen target. We walked (stalked) up, staying to the shadows as best we could while carrying road painting gear.

Only, when we arrived, we wound up standing there in the bright puddle of a street light, our mouths hanging wide open. It was already painted! Just that day a real road crew had come and laid down thick white paint delineating a real left turn lane, arrow and everything. I was so crushed, I had planned for that arrow to be my masterpiece. We went home dejected.

Still, the urge has never left me. Now, as an adult (?), I still find myself ready do go out and do a little vandalism. Recently, amid parking disputes about who was in whose spot in the underground garage, I volunteered to break in and just paint over all the designated names on the walls. Only the employees had the code to get in, so the in-fighting was just that - stupid and immature. Of course, I realize that what I was proposing was technically ‘vandalism’ and also stupid and immature. But, no one would be able to complain about ‘he’s in my spot!’ again, and it would be fun. Still, I held back and didn’t do it.

Also, last fall I passed a church that made me want to get out my blacks and go crawling around at night again. I know, it’s wrong to vandalize a church! But I was just going to tape up a piece of paper with the words “and grammar” on it. Nothing permanent! Come on! Their weekly sign said “God can anything, except fail”.

*Note: if your church was recently seen sporting such a sign, it wasn’t me. As I said previously, this is a fictional account. But if you leave out a verb on your sign, you should really expect someone to be helpful and fix it!

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