…that’s what I want to see.

I’m sick and tired of no talent freaks like Jessica Simpson and useless pseudo-celebrities like Paris Hilton (and countless others just like them) trying to convince my daughter that she needs to be a vapid, brainless, pencil thin sex object in order to succeed. And I am damn sick and tired of the entertainment industry shining the spotlight on them. But what I am REALLY sick and tired of is the fact that the American public is falling for it.

STOP IT!

Stop buying their music, stop paying to see their movies, stop reading the trashy magazines that hold them up as some sort of role models, and for God’s sake find your daughters some REAL women to look up to.

Thank you, Pink, for writing this song.

Stupid Girl

You may, or possibly may not, remember my bout with the March Baseball Blues. In particular I was still mourning the loss of Mr. Doug Mirabelli, Esq. But now we’ve got him back.

A certain man I know who writes a sports column was last week urging Red Sox Nation to give up on my beloved pitcher man, Tim Wakefield. Now with the return of Mr. Mirabelli I predict great things for Mr. Wakefield. So much so that said sports columnist Rob Poindexter, under the influence of my 15 minute rant (believe me, you’d do anything to shut me up too after only half that time) has agreed to retract the vicious statements made in last week’s column if Timmy Boy wins 12 games this season. (Originally he said 15, but I reasoned with him that at least three of his losses don’t count due to Josh Bard’s 1948483284949372 passed balls.)

Bring on the Yankees!!!

If you are as stuck in the 80’s as me then Click here <—-to read “Revisiting Live Aid” by Julie Wiskirchen. It’s a 1985 vs. 2005 reaction to Live Aid following last year’s release of the concert onto DVD. I only today became aware of this article (thanks Uncle James–who isn’t really my uncle) which is a hilarious yet sentimental review of the 80’s biggest concert phenomenon. And mullets.

A Thompson Twin (who isn’t really a twin):

A friend of mine gave me a beatiful hard cover journal about two years ago, just perfect for poetry and random thoughts and other such schtuff. The only problem is this: I haven’t written anything in it yet. Nothing. Two years. Why? Because it’s so dang pretty. My regular journals are just dollar store notebooks, perfect for scribbling crap in. But this one is so nice I feel like I should be writing something monumentous and earth shattering between it’s hallowed covers. I’m not sure what this reveals about me, but I’m pretty sure it’s a character flaw.

I got to 50,000 words (50,018 to be exact) and I’m not even close to halfway done yet.
But right now I’m going to go to sleep for about three months. Then I’ll finish it.

You may (or possibly may not) have noticed that a few entries back I announced that am working on next year’s kindling–I mean I’m writing a book. (38551 words–ahead of schedule. Yeay!) You may also have noticed that my favorite Virtuous Midwestern Lawyer, Yankswon*, offered any and all needed assistance regarding plot twists of a legal nature. Well, this week I added a legal plot twist and was in need of his assistance. Having been made aware, however, of the fact that he is now deeply immersed in some real life legal drama, as lawyers (virtuous or not; Midwestern or not) everywhere have the tendency to be, I decided to wait until he became unimmersed before exploring the plot twist any further, opting to write something like this: “Blah blah blah…arraignment…blah blah blah…trial,” and promising myself to fill in the blahs at a later date. Except that I added several more “blahs” to my manuscript than I am showing you here, since they’re all valid words and count towards my 50,000 words. Not cheating, in my opinion, since I’ll be filling in more words than blahs later on.

Anyway, yesterday, while driving my younglings to school, I passed by the local police station as I do every morning. That’s when it hit me. “Aha!” I said to myself quietly, so as not to disturb my still comatose kids, “The fuzz! They’ll know the answers to all my questions!” Instead of barging in on them, I waited until I got home, called ’em up, and made an appointment to go talk to one of Maine’s Finest. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for my Yankee ingenuity, and happy that I could leave poor Yankswon* alone to battle the forces of darkness that plague the Midwest.

So I get to the station and begin the beguine. Without giving too much of my plot away (since I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, in case this doesn’t turn into kindling) I needed some information regarding domestic abuse. For example: hypothetically speaking, if the brother of a domestic abuse victim beat the offender within an inch of his life, how long would he be locked up before being eligible for bail? How much would that bail be? Etc…you get the point. So, I’m asking away and suddenly it occured to me that this copper was getting the wrong idea completely. Far from believing that I was a mere wannabe novelist in the midst of research, somewhere along the way she got it into her head that I was a crazed psycho planning some hideous plot to avenge the wrongs done to a friend or family member. I beat a hasty retreat while I still had my freedom, vowing ne’er to step foot over that particular threshold again.

Now, those of you who know me from my pre-blogging days will naturally find some ironic justice to this, since I managed to escape with my legal record clean of the (Alleged) Brownie Poisoning Incident of 1986. Those of you unfamiliar with that story will have to go on being unfamiliar with that story, on the advice of counsel. However, the moral of the story is this: Never trust a New England Cop when you’ve got the ear of a Virtuous Midwestern Lawyer. By the way, this story, unlike most of my stories, is entirely true.

*Yankwon’s name refers to the Civil War, not to baseball. Naturally I would never befriend a Yankees fan. I still have two principles left and that is one of them.

Help me out here, sports fans. It’s the middle of March, which, as everyone knows, is synonymous with Spring Training. (I know you thought I was gonna say basketball, but I think basketball is the fourth most boring sport ever, right behind football, hockey and soccer.) And, as everyone who knows me knows, this when I usually start to come out of hibernation with visions of hits and runs dancing in my head. This year? Not so much.

It’s more than just the whole Johnny Damon thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong: he’s still a treasonous prick and I’m sure hell yawns before him for his recent defection to the-team-that-shall-not-be-named. I hate him with the smoldering fire of a thousand suns and dream of the day when slimy, dripping, month old eggs (hurled expertly by yours truly) will drip from his un-bearded face and freshly dry cleaned, loathsome pinstripes. This satisfying image is all well and good, and gets me through the long winter days, but is it enough to really get me psyched up for the coming season? I’ve examined the depths of my soul and have discovered, sadly, that it isn’t.

I’m still mourning the loss of Doug Mirabelli. A minor thing, his trip to the Padres? Perhaps. But I still miss him. He had a great attitude, always stepped up with that extra dinger when we needed it, and reminded me so much of former Dodger’s catcher Mike Scioscia that I almost felt like a kid again whenever I watched him up there with Wakefield. (What can I say? I have a thing for chubby Italian catchers.)

Our new guy, Edgar Renteria, that Virtuous Son of the Midwest, didn’t stay long enough to show us what a great player he really was. This is a huge bummer for me for two reasons: 1) I had great fun taunting my Illinoisy-an lawyer buddy, Yankswon, a rabid Cardinals fan, about how we snatched up his guy in order to corrupt him with our wild New England ways and 2) if you have, or can fake, a Maine accent then say his name. Edgah Renter-ree-er. My friends, does it get any better than that? I put it to you that it does not.

I suppose I should be happy that Manny is back. You know–the whole homerun hitting thing he’s got going. Rah rah. Whatever. At least he’s got those cool citrusy dreadlocks and has figured out how to grow a real beard, which, although diverting, is hardly the thing to print up on a t-shirt and inspire me to whoops and cheers. Let me try: “Manny, Manny! He’s got Dreads!” Nope.

I could go on and on and on (really, I could) but I’ll spare you, and myself, from any further depression. I do beseech you, one and all (I’ve noticed that I’m up to a whopping five readers now! Whoo-hoo!) to comment freely here and boost me up to that usual pre season vim and vigor to which we’ve all grown so accustomed.

P.S. 26716 words. No character has been given a stutter in the writing of this novel. Yet.

UPDATE: According to this article, the Sox may be trying to reaquire Doug Mirabelli.
Oh please, oh please, oh please…

Calpurnia tried to warn him, but did Caesar listen? Nope.
Let that be a lesson to you: When your wife tells you to stay home from work because a lionness has whelped in the streets, damn it, stay home.

Et tu, Brute?

P.S. 24656 words. Almost at the halfway point.
I’m pretty tired today, so I may not make 25,000 by the end of the day unless someone in my book develops a stutter pretty quickly.

If you see me posting here at all in the month of March scold me vehemently unless I’ve said something like “I got my 1666.6666 words done today!” That’s right, I’ve joined the cult of Chris Baty, meaning I’ve recently finished reading No Plot? No Problem!: A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days. The official National Novel Writing Month begins in November, but I can’t wait that long. Instead I will (hopefully!) spend the merry, merry month of March engaged in writing a 50,000 word novel (an average of 1666.6666 words or so per day) The result will most certainly be a novel fit for kindling, but at least it’s a starting point and, with oil prices so high, extra kindling could certainly come in handy. So, my dear 3 readers, be vigilant! If you see me posting here without the above mentioned phrase feel free to kick my ass. Metaphorically speaking.