I can remember it like it was only yesterday... and we’re talking about something that happened around 25 years ago now. I guess it was just the culmination of a lot of personal discovery and exploration really. It was there, I was bored – it just seemed like the thing to do. I had been playing with it for months up until that time, but I never really committed to it. But on one glorious day, that all changed. In a matter of moments, it stood proud, a product of my own making.

The weeks leading up to my eye-opening feat were really tenuous for me. I can remember thinking about it at school. I would sit there wishing I could be at home, alone, tucked away in my room, no one judging me. At times I wondered if anyone else in the class was thinking the same things or if they could tell I was. I’m not going to lie to you but it was a confusing time for me. I know it’s hard on girls at about the same age as well. But some boys mature faster than others and I wondered if I was some kind of freak. I was already the shortest person in my class, including the girls, and couple that with a name (Geraint) that no one in Canada could pronounce it was tough on me already. I didn’t need another complication in my life to make life unbearable. I had George Harrison’s haircut (even though the Beatles had been disbanded for over a decade), was short, pigeon-toed and pigeon-chested, bow-legged, and I had stutter. Do you think I wanted anyone to know about what I was wondering?

My neighbor across the street, Jeanine, would always invite me over when her friends were over. She was 3 years older than I was and so were most of her friends. Naturally, we talked about everything, and I mean everything, and I learned that I wasn’t alone in what I was thinking. In fact, her friend Steve suggested I talk to my mom and dad about it, or Jeanine offered to stop by if I wanted. She even said we could use her house if I didn’t want my parents to know about it. I wasn’t ready for that. She seemed to understand, like most of her friends did as they had gone through similar experiences themselves, but I didn’t know if I could fully trust her and was way too embarrassed to let anyone in. Not even the promise of an older good-looking girl in my bedroom could change that. And having an older good-looking girl in my bedroom would have brought me quite the legendary status at school.

And it seemed like everything I watched on television would lead me to thinking about it too. There was a special on the Eiffel Tower, we had pictures of Big Ben around the house, the Washington Monument. It became unbearable at times. All I wanted to do was forget about it and hope it would pass. I knew I was fighting a losing battle though. I knew I couldn’t keep my hands off it and I knew, that one of these days, I would actually follow through with my tinkering.

That day came. I succumbed to the craving and dived head long into it. I was a man possessed. I started out slowly but then a momentary madness swept over me like Mel Gibson in front of the paparazzi. My hands were moving faster than the Road Runner outpacing the Coyote, and with each moment that passed my eyes grew wider and I was sweating like an alter boy in Ireland.

I had gone too far. I couldn’t stop now. I didn’t know where this was going to end. I mean, I had a vague idea, had heard stories, had even seen pictures, but would mine look the same? What seemed like an eternity passed. It was probably closer to a couple of minutes but who can count seconds at times like these? I leaned back, awed by what stood in front of my eyes. It was massive. Well, I thought it was massive. I had nothing to judge it against really, only books and pictures, but it wasn’t the same. The culmination of weeks of exploring, playing, guilt and anxiety stood majestically in front of me.

I wanted to take a photo. Seriously, I didn’t think I had seen anything bigger in my life. It seemed to shine, to glow in the faint rays that came through the window. I’m not a religious person but I think I found a glimmer of spirituality at that moment.

In my excitement I banged it on the way out the door. Undeterred by the setback I kept motoring downstairs. I thought I would feel dizzier than I did. I thought that the focus and fury would have an effect on me. I was wrong. I was trying to get to the fridge as fast as I could. I needed something cool. When I rounded the corner to run into the kitchen and just about knocked over my mom, I still couldn’t shake the monumental feeling of elation from me. She looked at me. Her eyes wide, her mouth opening with the same stunned expression I get now whenever I see that David Spade has made a new movie.

I didn’t even grab a glass and just grabbed a carton of orange juice and bounded back upstairs, my demented, mildly demonic look still glued to my face. Only minutes had passed, barely enough time to take a full breath, but I was still flushed and damn proud.

There was a rap on my door and my dad peeked his head in. He told me mom was a little worried about me. I told him he had nothing to worry about. I was just excited by what I had done. He said they both had noticed I was acting strange. He said he had an idea what I was going through and it was okay with him. Then, he asked if he could see it, unless it was too embarrassing for me.

Reluctantly I let him in the door afraid that he might object, or even worse, laugh. He does have a strange sense of humor.

“Is that it?” He smiled as he said it.

“Yeah. Massive isn’t it?” I beamed. This was easier than I thought.

He looked at me. His look wasn’t one of disappointment or disgust. It was a look that was two shades of confused and one shade of stifling a big laugh.

“What is it?”

“Well, it started out as a crane but after I realized I didn’t have wheels I just turned it into a tower with a plank instead. I don’t have any pieces left over either. Pretty cool huh?”

“Not bad.”

And thus, I erected my first building with the Meccano set my dad bought me. Three years earlier (and pretty much every day since), I erected something else. But no one wants to hear embarrassing stories like that.

 

Well, I've gone and done it. I caved in and did it. Now, it's time to see if I've got the muscles to pull it off. I've been working myself up for this for a while now. It's been about 2 and a half years of regular exercise, wrestling with inner demons, stretching exercises, and a whole lot of ego blowing when no one is looking.

I have moved my blog offsite. I will be keeping this one going for a while as I try and succeed away from the friendly shores provided by writing.com. It's a massive step for me but one I feel I'm ready to try.

The link is. http://open.salon.com/blog/gji_penguin

I guess all that is left is to "break a flipper".

Cheers,
Geraint

 

I happened to have Thursday off this week as well so Kirsty decided to spend the weekend again. And this time, she brought Mafi and Mushkala with her; her new kittens. The kittens have been weaned and are only days away from being 9 weeks old so they're pretty confident, friendly, and aggressive when they want something.

We weren't sure how long it would take them to adapt to the new surroundings of my apartment. I can't go and visit them at Kirsty's apartment because men aren't allowed in her building so the kittens had never seen me before. And I had only seen them when we went to view them at 5 days old. And all I can say is Kirsty picked out two of the coolest little animals I have ever met.

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I had a litter box set up for them and when we opened up their carrier they immediately jamp out and looked around. We put some food and cold water down and they didn't take long to wander over to the matching blue dishes and make themselves comfortable.

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My apartment is considerably smaller than Kirsty's but there is more than enough room for two young and adventurous kittens to find fun and trouble. Mushkala disappeared under the bed only once, but he came bounding around the corner and over to the couch as soon as he was called. And for most of the rest of the weekend that's where the two of them could be found.

Whether they were using mom as a jungle gym:

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Fighting as only kittens can will lots of mewing, purring, and stopping to make sure that everyone was watching; or

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Curled up next to their new found "papa" who is somehow furrier than they are.

I was sad to see them all leave on Friday night and now that I know they feel just as comfortable here as they do at Kirsty's she'll be bringing them over just about every weekend that she can.

Man, I forgot just how wonderful pets can be.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

This is going to be a very short blog entry today because I'm too tired to write anything remotely Penguinesque, and what I am about to do is long overdue anyway.

Just to prove, once and for all, that Kirsty does exist and does in fact like me, here is a photo of the two of us together.

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Enjoy the rest of your day my friends. More Penguin tomorrow.

Cheers,
Geraint
 

How long does someone have to be dead before it isn’t tacky to tell jokes about them? Seriously. I’m really curious about this. We know in the literary and artistic world that a property enters the “public domain” 50 years after the death of the artist/writer/performer. But this is an entirely different scenario we’re dealing with.

I didn’t want to jump on the Michael Jackson bandwagon but every thing I attempt to write today seems to end up going that way so why fight it. I’m not going to profess to knowing him, or that he left an indelible mark on my psyche growing up because none of that is true. I have read and heard too many people these past 2 days citing Michael as their first love, the reason they found hope, or some other bestowed upon accolade. He was none of that to me. Just like every other celebrity.

I love JRR Tolkien and after reading The Lord of the Rings knew I wanted to be a writer, but I wouldn’t credit him for changing my life. I would have found this path eventually I’m afraid. My stutter kept me from making friends and opening many books. Tolkien just gave me a push. But I don’t go on his website and proclaim to all those who will listen that the man is my reason for living.

Maybe I’m a skeptic. Maybe I don’t see the point in false idols when I don’t even recognize the real ones? I’m agnostic by choice, not guided by faith, so why should I have faith in a celebrity to cheer me up? But I think it’s more than that though. Truth be told, and maybe this is the most insight into my character that you’ll ever get, I was more relieved when I found out about Michael Jackson than I was saddened. That’s not to say I am glad he passed away, because I wouldn’t wish that on anyone and their family; it’s just that I stopped caring a long time ago my friends.

I also don’t know if I’m in the minority or the majority about how I’ll remember Michael Jackson either. I would love to remember him as the artist who revolutionized the music video, the artist who almost single-handedly created the monster that is MTV. I would love to remember him as the little frontman for the Jackson 5. I would love to remember him for the shiny socks, the single glove, and the glowing sidewalk tiles in the Billie Jean video. He was an artist that captivated audiences. The first time he did his signature moonwalk on stage at the 25th Anniversary of Motown show was legendary. He is a man who should be regarded as a legend – a performer, humanitarian.

But I won’t. No matter who many times I marvel at the dance moves in his Smooth Criminal video, his public persona will always trump his musical feats. He sold 750 million records worldwide. 750 MILLION. And sadly, the man was bankrupt. His excessive spending sprees, plastic surgeries, and misguided visions crippled him long before his heart failure ever did.

I will forever remember Michael Jackson as the punch line. Again, maybe that is just my inner most demons having their way, but I can’t help it. I’ll remember the man that slept with a chimpanzee named Bubbles. I will remember a man that used to dress like an Arab woman, at first for privacy, but then for fun. I will remember a man that destroyed his face with too many surgeries and too many excuses. I have his records, I sing his songs, I can even do the moonwalk. This is not a man I hate. And again, I was not wishing for his death. I am just not saddened by it.

Maybe this is the best thing for Michael and his family. He’ll finally be allowed to keep silent and maybe all the questions will stop. Or they probably won’t go away at all. Some of you may hate me for my honesty; some of you will admire me for it. This is just how I feel about the subject.

Michael Jackson should be remembered for his fantastic stage shows. He’ll probably be remembered for being a freak show. Perhaps that is the saddest thing of all about his death.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

While I was writing yesterday’s blog I was reminded of an incident in a writing forum I stopped in that really annoyed me. Okay, maybe it didn’t annoy me. Maybe I just thought the idea was total codswallop. Or maybe I just thought the comment was said by someone who really just needed to grow up. Actually, that is precisely what I thought. This person, regardless of her so-called maturity, was lacking a whole bunch of it. Of course, I could be over reacting in typical Penguin style when somebody says something that I think is worse than belly flopping from the high diving board into a steaming pile of dog shit. Yes, the pile has to be steaming.

My professor directed to me this site; I forget which one it was though (I think it was a yahoo group or something). Anyway, after chatting on this site for a few days – tossing ideas around, reviewing story plots, etc., one of the members decides to tell us she is writing her memoirs. I enquire to what these memoirs are about and what her ultimate plan is. She tells me they’re about her life growing up and she plans on selling them and hopefully the movie rights. Then she tells me she’s 20.

I repeat the number in my head. At first I’m stunned because I can’t imagine having a life at 20 that would require memoirs. I’m in awe of this girl, at this moment. The only thing I could write about at 20 pertaining to my life was how to be an arrogant prick on a soccer field and how to not talk to girls. But here was a girl, a full decade younger than I was who had lived enough to have memoirs.

I enquire further. I’m interested in hearing her story now. She tells me everything in detail. She talks (types) for nearly an hour. When she’s done, I can barely control my laughter. It would have been harder had she been in the room, I will be honest with you. She was, my dear friends, the most normal girl I have met. She graduated high school from a small town and moved to the big city to go to University. Her first boyfriend left her after the first time they had sex. At university the boys all talk to her tits. Her mom raised her when her dad left and she spent time in 6 towns and 8 schools growing up. Altogether not too damn exciting.

I have never been known for my tact, ladies and gentlemen. My feelings of awe soon disappeared and were replaced by feelings of, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing you silly little self-righteous cow?” Seriously, memoirs? I suffered listening to the story for free; why on earth would I want the privilege of standing in a book store to pay to read that shit? I’m sure it was a tough childhood. I had two parents my whole life, I’m thankful for that, but when the basis of your “plight” is coming from a single-family household and your mom worked for the provincial government and earned a great salary, you don’t have much of a plight. So you found out that boys are assholes. Big deal. That isn’t going to change when you’re older sunshine. In fact, boys get better at it.

I asked her if there was a market for this sort of thing and she said biographies and memoirs sell all the time. In fact, she said, Bill Clinton’s book was a best seller. Well sweet Jesus, dip me in shit and color me three shades of astounded. I thought Clinton was a former President who “allegedly” had sexual relations with an intern? Of course people are going to buy that book. He’s a public figure; he held a position of power. She couldn’t even hold a part-time job as a waitress in small town Alberta. I asked her if she had sex with anyone important and she said no. Of course, my main stumbling block about this whole ordeal was her age. If she had spent the last 3 years living on the street with a crack addiction she might be on to something. She hadn’t been. Who would want to read about her?

“You do know that Anne Frank’s diary is read in schools,” she responded matter of factly.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Do you hear that sound lady? That’s the signal that the short bus is backing up to take you away to your luxury accommodation featuring padded walls and electric pokers when you think Stephen King is calling you for an autograph.

Anne Frank? Did you just compare yourself to Anne Frank? Am I texting a ghost from concentration camps past? Are you done hiding out in an attic so the Nazis can’t find you and managed to risk your life and the lives of those around you so you could instant message a skeptical writer in Alberta, Canada? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you will have memoirs worth reading after all. Maybe when all is said and done, I will stand corrected and your memoirs will sit firmly atop a great list of memoirs from years gone by.

Or, and I’m only going to say this once, “do something impressive or daring or shocking and then think about selling your memoirs.” Maybe try growing up a little as well. Sure, Anne Frank was in her teens when she died, but she had had an extraordinary life. Anne Frank was in a concentration camp; this girl hadn’t even played spin-the-bottle at summer camp.

Anne Frank. She’s got more in common with a Ballpark Frank than Anne Frank. Maybe I’ll have a movie named after me called Penguin of Arabia! Jesus. Where do some people get off? Sure, write a diary, a journal, a day-by-day account of your life. Just don’t think, and be adamant about it, that people will want to pay to read it. I wouldn’t even pay to read my own journal. And I can break mine down for you as well:

1971: Born
1971-20??: Lived
20??: Died

Put that in your pipe and smoke it Anne Frank Jr.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

On my nonsensical blog the other day about my fictitious retort to a question about what movie I would take to a deserted island with me, a friend from back in Canada commented that I should be more concerned with the fact the question has changed from what book I would take to what film. She raises a very good point. I should be more concerned with that (especially as a writer), but I’m not going to talk about that today. I will sort of talk about the subject matter though.

Back in my first year of college (the second time – wait, the third time) I was doing a group assignment for my research class and our topic of discussion was the E-Book, or electronic book. This was 7 years ago now, and the E-Book revolution is upon us in full swing. Apple has one, Amazon has one, and there are probably knock-offs as well. One of the girls who works at the hospital and partakes in the creative writing class has a Kindle, the E-Book by Amazon. She loves it. Me? Not so much.

Call me a realist, call me old fashioned, call me against modern technology but I just don’t like the E-Book. I’m the guy opposed to pre-marital sex because it isn’t traditional remember? And if you buy that can I ask you to buy 10 copies of my book when it comes out? Thank you very much. Regardless of my views on tradition and the bedroom, or lack there of, I just don’t like the E-Book.

I love the smell of books. I love the feel of books. I love having arguments with pretentious 19-year olds who wouldn’t know a life experience if it dropped a load on her back and ran off with her mother about why it is okay to have dog-eared pages in a book. Seriously, it is okay to have a book that looks like you’ve read it. In my Publishing Prose class I brought in a copy of the book that my teacher had written to get him to sign it and he was delighted to see that the pages were dog-eared and it looked tattered. To him, and I’m the same way, it looked like it had been read, and read more than once. It had been. You want to keep a book in pristine condition? Buy the hardcover and lock it away like you lock away your balls when your spouse asks you to do something you don’t want to and buy the paperback to use and abuse like the girl we called the village bicycle. See, not so difficult a decision is it?

You don’t get this sense of ownership with an E-Book. You don’t get a tangible feeling when you pick one up and turn it on. And it’s not like I’m completely adverse to technology. I have a laptop, a mobile phone, an iPod. I even have a digital camera although I think that black and white 35-mm film is the only way to take a photo. I have modernized and changed with the times. I even think it’s cool for a girl to ask a guy out! And she can definitely make the first move. I just don’t like the E-Book.

I have always wanted to have the big study or writing room in my future abode complete with the built-in bookshelves housing hundreds of books. You’d find everything from reference books to the so-called classics to books of dirty limericks (are there other kinds) to the books written by all my friends and colleagues. Some of these books my overlap and interweave. Alrac Tabb could go out and write a modern-day classic and fall under two categories. My friend Anthony from school could finally put his talent at rhyming dirty words to good use and write a book of limericks.

I can’t explain it, but there is something wonderful about sitting down and holding a book in your hands. They way you have to carefully turn each page so as not to tear it out, or worse, skip a page and completely mess up the story. I’ve had hours long reading sessions where my thumb turns a delightful shade of charcoal grey as the ink seeps from the pages into my thumb. I love that. I love that when I sit down to write afterwards the remnants of the words I have read are flitting around in my head and smearing across the page as I try and write my own words. I love the fear of avoiding paper cuts. I love trying to organize my books on a bookshelf not in alphabetical order but by height, from tallest to smallest. For a more obscure look you can try thickest to thinnest. The bookshelf resembles a graph at times like this and can be quite pleasing on the eye.

Books are meant to be seen, to be held. How many times has a cover image captured your attention? Mine too. You don’t get that with the E-Book. Books are meant to be used to teach wayward girls to be lady-like by balancing them on their heads as they learn to walk proudly. Books are meant to be used by kids needing an extra bit of height to steal a cookie from the cookie jar. You don’t get that from E-Books either.

Granted, the E-Book does have some benefits. I’m educated enough and secure enough in my manhood to admit this. The E-Book is better for traveling. I could only bring a handful of books out here with me as they take up plenty of suitcase space and weigh a ton. The E-Book remedies that problem. You never have to worry about losing your page with an E-Book either (although that takes away the fun for me). Once the initial cost of buying the E-Book is out of the way I believe the titles you buy are cheaper too. As a consumer, this is pretty good I suppose. Now, I won’t say “no” to my book being available electronically but I’ll be prouder to see it sitting on your bookshelves.

Besides, how the Hell I am supposed to autograph your E-Book anyway?

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

I don’t know where this thought just came from but it popped into my head like a boner on a thirteen year old dancing the final song at a school dance with the prettiest girl in school. Sometimes thoughts just hit me like that. I’ll be working, or writing, or playing, and all of a sudden, WHAMMO, this thought sneaks up on me and gives me a reach-around. This latest thought was one just like it. It’s completely half-assed and nonsensical, maybe even moronical, but it came to me and now I feel like writing about it.

Just how dumb of a question is “what movie would you take with you to watch on a deserted island?” I’m not joking. This is the dumbest of fucking dumb questions. I don’t care how good the movie is you plan on taking with you either. This is just a dumb question and deserves an answer something similar to a kick in the marbles. If you can’t kick a guy in the marbles physically, or the question asker is a girl and you are against hitting women (and you should be), you can always retort with a few well-placed colorful adjectives or something that even Shakespeare would be proud of. The next time someone asks you this, see if you can remember this:

“Why, pray tell, would I want to take a movie with me to a deserted island? Just how, my insanely ingenious friend, am supposed to watch this movie? Shall I stick it in the sand and close my eyes and hope that in my delirious state of starvation, scurvy, and possibly crotch rot I will see the images exactly the same way I saw them when your little sister and I went to a movie and she fell for the old penis in the popcorn bag trick and couldn’t get enough of the man mustard?

“Better yet, maybe I should stick that DVD into the ass of an iguana and pinch the poor things nutsack forcing his mouth open and he’ll project the image magically, like some creature from Harry Potter, and I’ll be able to watch the film in giant screen comfort from my hammock on the beach. Yes, that does sound fun. Or, we could all just let reality take over for a minute and contemplate what you have just asked me.

“Bringing a DVD with me is pointless. Don’t ask me pointless questions. I don’t ask you if I can take your wife up the poop hole because it’s pointless. If she wants me to do we won’t ask you about it. Unless I am allowed to take a television, a DVD player, and an endless supply of power the film is just another item to drive me closer to depths of insanity, a place you must reside for living the life that you do. Wait. I can have the television set, a DVD player, and the power supply? Can I also have a fridge, cold beer, my own personal plunge pool, and a couple of Swedish twins? I can’t? Then keep your fucking movie.

“Until the day comes I can make a DVD player and a television set out of coconut shells and palm fronds I don’t need the DVD. Do I look like the professor from Gilligan’s Island? Am I walking around making transistor radios and flashlights out of stuff I found on the island? Pretty talented guy was that professor. Or was he? If he was so smart why couldn’t he find a way for Ginger and Maryann to finally succumb to the Skipper’s fancy and engage on some girl on girl mud pit wrestling? Also, and this is the biggie. He could build a radio, a satellite to try and call for help, and numerous other inventions, yet he couldn’t fix a hole in a boat to get them off the island? Seriously, how fucking smart is that? It’s not like he was getting any out there. I could understand if it was just he and the girls and they found a brain the biggest aphrodisiac in the world but they didn’t. And he wasn’t getting any. Except from Gilligan; but they never showed that on television back then.

“So, no. I won’t be taking a movie with me to a deserted island thank you very much. I’d much rather take a satellite phone, a GPS system, or maybe a book of matches. Keep the DVD and hang it from your rear-view mirror so your car gets that disco ball effect when the sun hits it. I hope it blinds you and you crash over a bridge rail and fall to your death. As long as no one else is hurt.

“What movie would I take? I’d take your sister instead because I’d at least have a pig to put on the spit when I get the fire going.

“Don’t ask me such a dumb question next time. Thank you for your time now why don’t you go and eat yellow snow.”

That ought to do it you know. Either that or choose Castaway with Tom Hanks for the irony factor. That should fuck them up sufficiently.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

The editor I have been assigned by the publishers is going to call me on Monday night. On Tuesday night I opened my email to see that they had sent me the evaluation of Aaric. After a couple of hours I actually decided to open it (while I was at work on Wednesday), had Kirsty on the phone as I read over what they said, and actually managed to not think about it too much over the past couple of days (my weekend in Saudi).

I’ll be honest with you all – I didn’t know what to expect from them. The thought of me having to do major re-writes did cross my mind, and although Kirsty called me an idiot (among other things) for thinking that way, I couldn’t help but succumb to my negative thought process that strickens me as a writer. And I didn’t expect it to be perfect either. Surely, that would mean I would be happy with a manuscript that is somewhere in the middle? I believe I have something closer to perfect than needing entire re-writes but it still caught me off guard when I got it back and read their comments.

They didn’t like the title! Okay, I’m not entirely adverse to changing it as Aaric is the name of the main character and I just put that name in to save it as an original document when I first started it but it still made me pause. They say it doesn’t really explain what the book is about. I didn’t want to give it all away in the title and cover image though. Don’t we need some kind of surprise? Their suggested title would give the reader exactly what it is about. Maybe I can compromise with them on this one? Wait, it’s my book and the author has final say in this kind of publishing contract. I’ll compromise and change it eventually.

Their biggest complaint with the grammar is my use of British vernacular throughout the book. We use British spelling and conventions in Canadian schools so it is second nature to me. The publisher I am using is an American company. Again, I have no qualms in deleting a few “Us” from words to make it more American friendly. And, contrary to the advice I received from the published writers who taught me at college, I am using too many adjectives for a book aimed at children. I was always told that they like to be painted pictures. I painted pictures. Apparently, I painted them too vividly. The flow of the story is inhibited by the adjective use and some must be removed. An easy fix I think.

“The opening page of this story is a little slow, but even so, the writer creates a fine tone and setting for the story.” My opening page is a little slow! Wah. I thought it was good. I couldn’t even make it past the first page alive. Okay, maybe I’ve redeemed myself by creating a fine tone and setting for the story. I’ll need to do a quick re-think about how to liven up the first page though. Perhaps a robot sent down from the future could blow something up in the first paragraph? No, that has nothing to do with my story. Maybe a guy could roll out of bed and grab a video camera to film a girl on girl on girl montage? No, not exactly content for a children’s novel. I’m sure I’ll think of something when the mood takes me.

I’m following the advice the editorial board gave me in their evaluation and taking a few days to let their comments and remarks sink in. The only one I had a real problem with, the one that hurt like a swift kick in the tattered nutsack, was the comment that “the story is not particularly unique.” For some reason, I couldn’t let go of this comment. I haven’t read a lot of stories about Silly Putty hydras coming to life. Sure, something magical that brings an inanimate object to life is not a new concept, but the events around it seemed pretty fresh to me. I should just let it go but I can’t. Okay, I probably will one day. At least I didn’t write about vampires! They do go on to say that, “the author tells a good story, which makes it an interesting read.” That kind of brightened things up for me.

They were impressed with the point of view, the characterizations of all but one character (they thought she acted older than a woman in her mid-20s so that is an easy fix [she’s now in her late 30s]). They also found only one word of dialogue that they would change and I take that as a major result. Dialogue is hard. You want it to be believable so to only have one word that suggest changing is pretty damn good. I’ll probably change it too.

This is not the worst review I could have received. They did say it would appeal to the intended audience. When I first read it though I was really down. Kirsty could tell. But after having a few days to let it sink in and go over some of the comments again it’s not so bad. I still can’t believe my first page needs work though. The first page! This writing thing is tough.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

Every morning I wake up I am faced with an awkward decision, a decision that could have significant ramifications towards the rest of my day. And this decision is not a once in a while decision. No. This decision is a daily decision, at home, on vacation, or on my first space shuttle trip to the moon and beyond. Thankfully I have years of practice in making this decision. Years spent on trail and error methodologies, wing and a prayer mentalities, and random coin flip results. Unfortunately, the results often differ so my tedious and grueling research is often for naught, but I still must decide and live with the consequences of my actions. And then I must do it all the next day.

My morning routine is usually set in stone on work days – get out of bed, shower, shave, relieve bodily fluids (not necessarily in that order). On weekends, it can differ a bit. I might not get out of bed until noon if I so choose (especially if Kirsty is snuggled around me). But eventually, I’m left with the same dilemma. Whether it is pre-work or pre-lounging on the couch, I cannot shake it.

Do I decide to face the day free balling it, dangling covered in loose fitting boxers, or do I opt for something tighter to keep the boys tucked up nicely against the topiary bush? This may not seem like a life-altering decision to those not in the know, but I can assure you this is far from the truth. And I’m not just talking about the lives of millions of little swimmers? Speaking of which, wouldn’t it be really ironic if Michael Phelps’ swimmers had mobility problems because of his marijuana use? I wonder if Alanis would sing about that!

Just suppose I decide to go free balling it, commando, the meat and two veg on display in the showcase. The odds that you’ll get your frank and beans caught in a zipper is much more likely this way for starters. And do you know how much that hurts? Thankfully I can’t tell you but I’m betting it hurts like a bitch. A total BITCH. Free balling it does give you the added advantage of porn movie quickness when you need to get down to business. Just drop the trousers and you’re ready to pounce. Some ladies might see this as a sign that you’re a total badass. Some might see it as a sign that you’re a pig or that you can’t do laundry, and that makes you a pig. Plus in the summer months when it gets hot you run the risk of excessive ass sweat creeping down your anal cleft and coming to a stop on your jeans. Not good my friends. Seriously not good. You’ll be dragging that smell around with you everywhere you go. At least with underwear on you’ve got a buffer.

A nice pair of loose fitting boxers used to be my automatic choice. It gave the boy downstairs some freedom to roam and still looked a grown-up decision when the trousers came off and there was a bit of mystery as to what was behind door number one. Plus, the old briefs were something that your dad and grandfather wore and you had to wear when your mom bought them for you. You’re buying your own underwear now, and probably underwear for a woman too. Shouldn’t you have the choice on how best to wrap and package your best friend in the whole world?

The main perk of this method is your nutsack gets to hang lower from your body enabling it to remain a few degrees cooler than your internal temperature. The cooler temperature is better for your man pudding production and it shouldn’t surprise us. Aren’t men often referred to as snakes? And aren’t snakes reptiles? And aren’t reptiles cold blooded? See, it all makes perfect sense when you invite science to the orgy! Especially if science looked like Kelly LeBrock did in Weird Science. I had a poster of her on my wall for many years and she’s in a pair of blue knickers and a white crop top vest with big poofy 80s hair. How Steven Seagal ever married her I have no idea. She used to do the Pantene shampoo commercials where she’d state, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” I didn’t hate her for that. I hated her for leading me to blindness.

The disadvantage though is that when out and about like this you can become too complacent that the boys are snug and safe and let your guard down. You might not think your mangina has enough room to swing with such a wide circumference and before you know it you’ve whapped your he-pussy against a bike pole and the vibrations throughout your body are sending bats into a feeding frenzy. Complacency is death my friends. I’m trying to guard you against death. Don’t thank me if you don’t want to. I just feel it’s my duty.

The final option is the boxer brief. You could say briefs as well but to me that isn’t an option. When I start looking like Homer Simpson it might be an option. Until that time though I’m wearing something a little longer, stronger, and keeps the twig and berries snug as a bug in a rug. These are perfect for aerobic exercise if you think a man should never wear spandex! Feel free to jump around knowing your belly button won’t be taking a beating from the old trouser trout. Sure, the proximity to the rest of your body will heat up the testes like a bag of Jiffy pop popcorn but it’s a small price to pay for sex appeal my friends. Seriously. A very small price to pay. In fact, if you’re concerned all you youngsters out there, stock up your good swimmers now. Donate them to your favorite plastic cup and have them frozen. Nothing says, “baby, let’s make a baby together” like a turkey baster and a jar of tadpoles.

I don’t want to boast, but I’m going to, but I’ve got a great ass. The boxer brief accentuates my best feature so that on the rare occasion that Kirsty gets to see me in my underwear she usually mutters a sigh, and something like, “I’m the luckiest girl alive.” Alright, I might be stretching it a bit there but you get the point. We all like our ego stroked, and my ego happens to be in my pants (I couldn’t resist), and when you notice your partner looking at you when you’re in your pants your ego is being stroked. I can live with some under active baby batter for a little bit of ego stroking and feeling good about myself.

Who knew that choosing the right pants was just as important for guys as it is girls? All you have to worry about is looking sexy rather than looking like your grandma. We have to worry about death, castration, probably world peace and hunger.

Cheers,
The Penguin