Sandy's RobBlog Connection

 

Sandy’s in the news. No, not the girl from “Grease.” Sandy the Hurricane. Have you met her?  If you’re on the east coast, I’m sure you’re very familiar with her antics.  Some say she’s “perfect” others call her the “wrath of God.” I dunno. I’ve seen her. She doesn’t have much of a personality and she opens up the waterworks like you won’t believe: everything is a drama. 

That’s just how the news likes it. Me? I’m not in the news.  I’m just a little Robblogger reporting his little world.  Here in D-town we haven’t seen Sandy yet, but she has sent us a friendly welcome.  The Pirate Queen was greeted this morning by sleet and darkness, all thanks to Sandy.

Today’s weather: cold, wet and from the east.  That’s the D-town Sandy connection. That’s also a girl I dated in college. Her name wasn’t Sandy though. Oddly enough it was Danny. She wasn’t from D-town either, but she drove a car that came from Detroit. She raced it for pinks. Sang a lot of 50’s style showtunes too.

“Sandy, can’t you see…”

She flew off in her flying car at a carnival, and I never saw her again.  So why do I bring up Danny?  Cuz she’s my Sandy connection.  Other than some sleet and power surges, I’ve got nothing exiting to report from here.

I’m thankful.  There are a lot of wet people further east with a lot of damage to their properties. I don’t know any of them.  Still I watched.

And I prayed. I mean sure, there’s a part of me that wanted to see wrath of God devastation, but that’s not what I prayed. I prayed for people I didn’t know. I prayed that they’d be ok. That maybe the worst thing they’d lose is some material possessions that they can buy when the stores open up again.

It does explain how he could fly...

I’ve heard some prayers believe that Sandy is God’s punishment the East because of their evil nature.  I hope not. That’s a lot of weight to put on one Sandy.  That’s like asking Sandy Duncan to play the whole Peter Pan cast. God’s punishment, really?

“You will be My punishment!”

That sounds like a job better held by a man-boy named Beiber.

But that’s the least of my worries. My biggest worry is that if Sandy is God’s punishing hand, what hope does that leave for me? I live in the murder capitol of the Western World. I really hate to see what wrath that garners for us. 

Then again, wherever I live, I’m assured there’s a litany of sin that follows me like clingy toilet paper. I’m screwed.

Maybe that’s why I take a more hopeful approach. I watch and I hope everybody will be ok because for every sinning Sodomite there is at least one good Lot. I believe that God has saved us from ourselves this long, to give us a chance, It’s counter productive to go reaping where the most change can be accomplished.

I believe Sandy is more about hope for a better day. It’s like something a girl I used to date once told me. Her name was Annie. She had the deepest white eyes. One day, sitting on the couch she held my hands in hers and stared at me with her big blank white marbles of hope.

 “The sun will come out tomorrow,” she said.

And I believed her. She was so full of hope. She had the cutest dog too. For the life of me, I can’t remember the dog’s name. I just remember it sounded like something out of yesterday’s news.

Blogger Difficulties

Ok.  So I've been diligent.  I've tried working back into a daily blogging exercise, and despite the hurdles blogger throws in my way, I've been mostly successful.

The problem is this.  The more time I spend on a blog, the less time I spend on writing other pieces.  Now I like blogging, it's kinda like a computer sketch pad, and allows me not only to flex my muscles, but it also allows me to write things I couldn't fit anywhere else.

Today I created a blog. It took maybe an hour to write. I even created a nifty little jpg to go with it to make me look all cool and topical.  Normally Jpgs are the kiss of death due to Photoshop.  Not because Photoshop is a bad program, but because edits take time. Today I created a nifty little pic in maybe 15 minutes.  Now don't get me wrong, I think it looks like it took 15 minutes, but the idea is to balance time and effort to create the best product. Yeah, my blog was really only good enough for a 15 minute pic.

But maybe time constraints vs. finished product are the most vital lessons I'm learning from blogging.
Anyway.  I've now spent an extra hour trying to get blogger to upload my picture. It's small. maybe 150kb, and blogger won't do it. It won't even try.  I get the "Select your image" window. I get them "browse" menu. I get the word "downloading." Beyond that, I get nothing. The word "Download" is just like the cake: it's a lie. It's not downloading.

So now I've wasted most of my day, and I'm grumbly and I'm expected to work on my other stuff. Remember what I said about bad days at work?  Yeah.  I think this is one of them.

Thanks Blogger.

As for the other post, well, I'll post it when I can upload the image.  So if you don't see anything from me for a while, it's because Blogger and I are still fighting without communicating.

Wow, sounds like marriage..

Hooray For Learning

Every day you learn something.  Yesterday I learned three things. Today I’m ahead of the curve, at least when it comes to learning. In other areas I’m a little behind, areas like writing.

But hooray for learning.

The first thing I learned yesterday was more of a repeat course. Yesterday I learned an extension course in application for something I’m constantly learning called “patience.” Yesterday’s patience training was in computer system updates. They are both necessary and vital evils.  They aren’t necessarily necessary or vital to the system itself, but they are vitally necessary for getting things done. See, an un-updated computer is a belligerent computer: every hour you don’t complete that all-important update, is an hour your computer will remind you incessantly that the said all-important update is all-important and that means it must be installed soon lest your computer fall into a void of incomprehensible data.

Void of incomprehensible data you say?  See Fire Swamps say I, same thing.

My laptop has been screaming “Fire Swamps” all week. This weekend I decided to take a little time to get things done. I took an extra hour to update my files.  When  that was done, the computer told me it needed to reboot to make everything okie dokie. 

I agreed.  I had some story files open so I shut them down to do the reboot.  Microsoft Word asked me if I wanted to save my files. I, of course, said “yes.” And this is where lesson two comes into play.  See, I’m a bit meticulous when it comes to story files.  I try to save my files daily, and I change the title to reflect the date, that way if I delete something one day, but I realize I want it the next day, a copy still exists. 

I remember this when Word asks if I want to save my story as the file name that it’s already saved under.  I say “No.”  So Microsoft obeys my command. It doesn’t save the file under the old title. It closes Word and doesn’t save the file at all.

Deleting a week’s worth of work is an amazing thing. It takes only moments to realize the horror you’ve unleashed and at least two hours of attempted retrieval before comprehension settles that it’s gone forever. 

When Word didn’t save the file and the window disappeared, the Pirate Queen was in the bathtub floating her boat. No really.  She’s got a really nice plastic pirate ship complete with wooden plank walkers and everything….

 She’d already been in there for a while.  As realization moved from my brain to my mouth in a flow of really classic pirate words, I heard the bathroom door creak and tap close as the latch clicked into place.  Either my salty language or my foreboding tempest threaded her pleasure cruise. Either way, she made the choice to sail around quietly.

I continued stringing together words that you won’t read in my young adult novel like they were Christmas lights; blinking off and on intermittently with every frantic keystroke. Until an hour later, I finally accepted that the hope of salvaging my week’s work was as real as Santa Clause. That’s when the weeping began.

With that flood came my third revelation.  Working at home as a writer isn’t any different than working in an office for a boss. Not only am I accountable for my work, but some days there are gonna be bad days in the workplace.

I wanna tell you that there’s a happy ending to this story, but the only way to tell happy, is if the next time this happens I press “save as” on everything before rebooting the system. 

Oh, and happy would also be if everything I recreate this week is better than what I created last week.  That would be happy too, but because I deleted it already, I will never know.

The Story So Far...

Two guys walk onto a bus.  Sounds like the beginning for a joke, huh? It is, but this joke’s on me, and it’s not really funny.  Not yet.

It’s not anything just yet.  It’s just two guys a bus and a parking lot. They’re all part of this chapter in my latest book.  You know, that YA thing I’ve been talking about? The thing with the stuff in it?

Yeah, that one.

So I’m working on the set-up chapters.  For me they’re always the most difficult, because I’m, well, setting everything up.  I’m establishing a voice, introducing characters, and giving those characters a place to be.

My characters, if you haven’t guessed, are on a bus. Or, more accurately, they’re getting on a bus. The writer’s trick is to make that bus-getting an enticing process.  Oh, I could use lexiconical magic to elevate, walk or throw the two guys onto the bus, but that’s only part of the trick.  In the boarding I need to reveal a little bit of who they are and how they interact with their world to make them real.

It's the detail that creates the story.

And that is my bus-sized problem. I’ve got two guys boarding a bus, who need to do it in a manner that blows the doors off the bus, or nobody will read it. That’s a lot of pressure to hang on two guys, let alone their creator, who hasn’t gotten past the fact that they are in fact two guys, and they will indeed attempt boarding a bus.

Don’t get me wrong.  This bus isn’t insurmountable. This bus isn’t even an important location. It’s just a vehicle to get my characters from point-A to point-B. And I’ve taken this bus around the block a few times. This is what I do—and what I have been doing for the past two weeks is driving to get this bus boarded. 

It shouldn’t take two weeks to board a bus, no matter which charter service you use. And yet if you’re chartering “RobBook Travel,” it’ll take you that long, and even longer if you want to see that bus go somewhere. I’m thinking that might not happen until chapter three.

In the mean time, the pressure mounts on my two guys.

“Got any Pringles?”

“Ya, no. I thought I had a backpack, but it hasn’t been in written in yet.”

“I’ve got a towel.”

“That only helps if you were written by Douglas Adams. Unfortunately, we’re not.”

Two guys lean against the bus waiting to board.

What am I doing, in the meantime? 

Blogging.

Yeah, these two guys really appreciate that. 

Two guys give in to despair, waiting to board a bus.

Luckily I didn’t give them any weapons. This is a kid’s book.  Their weapons are their minds.  For that, they rely on my mind.

Two guys give up in despair, waiting to board a bus.

That’s ok.  They can give up. I have hope. And as long as I have hope, they’ll make it onto the bus.  See, for me writing is more than finding the perfect words that get them there. It’s more about the process we take along the way.  Sure words are the tool, but any tool can put two guys on a bus. It’s a writer that puts them there and creates a story. And for me that story is all part of a very big plan, and that plan takes patience and timing.

And begins with two guys climbing onto a bus.

Weak Minds, Big Sticks, and other Wednessday Night TV

The season is almost over. The sights, the sounds, a certain crispness as cool winds blast your face. Brown flutters in the wind. Even on the TV. It’s everywhere and it’s almost over.

Thank God.  I hate election season.

Presidential years are especially bad because suddenly even Kim Kardashian is a pundit. Yeah.  I laughed a little when I said it too.  It’s ridiculous, and yet political times lead to ridiculous measures—and advertising.

I think the advertising is the worst because it plays on people’s worst fears and irrational preconceptions.

“Don’t vote for Bob. He’s a papereater.”

“Paper eating? Why that ain’t biblical.”

This of course leads to Bob’s rash of damage control ads, because his PR polls say that paper eating makes him sound old. Kids today train paper to do tricks.

“My opponent, Josephus has been spreading lies about me, just like he spread for Dog Fancy in the 70s. Oh he‘ll tell you he needed the money, but Josephus liked it.”

Gasp!

Now Americans are goaded into a pigeonhole decision: Are you a paper eater or a paper stripper?

I don’t need TV to tell me who I am.  Ok, maybe I do, but let me just say the world would be a sadder, more desperate place without Family Ties. And a little less sexy without that Justine Bateman.

Rowr, she gets my vote any day.

Ok, but enough of my political beliefs. Let’s talk about yours. Here in Michigan, they’ve added four constitutional amendments to this year’s ballot. Four? Really? The US constitution only has 27 and it took almost 200 years to complete that list. Is Michigan working for the fast amendment route? They certainly worked themselves into the fast unemployment route. That’s done us all so much good so far. Maybe we should fix the jobs before we fix the amendments.

That’s just me.

All these amendments propose to be great ideas. They will enforce everything from collective bargaining to green energy to a greedy maroon’s right stop the Governor’s bridge. They’re all important, but are they all-important enough to be included in the state’s constitution? I dunno. That’s for voters to decide.

While they’re deciding I have an amendment for the constitution: let’s include a “Pablo Sandoval must use a Wiffle Ball bat” amendment. Three home runs? Really? Freakin’ adorable panda…

But I’m only one vote and I’ve made up my mind. And that why all the political ads are so annoying: I shouldn’t have to watch another week of politicians reshaping weak minds with low budget mud catapults.  My weak mind is already made.

Perspectives

“Nobody else has it as hard as I do.”

Seems I’ve been watching a lot of reality TV lately.  I used to watch American Idol, but like my previous radio industry job, it’s becoming less and less about the music and more about the drama and the dollar.

Idol was bad enough with J-Lo and Steven Tyler.  Don’t get me wrong: J-Lo was a sweetheart, and Steven…well, he was fun to watch, but I never felt that when it came to the competitors, these two were anything more than big name fanboys.

“That was amazing!”

That was something all right. It could have been great, if you’d have said something constructive.

Now the show has new hosts. We have Hurricane Mariah, Nicki Who, and Mr. Kidman playing the role of Cousin Oliver. Yeah, I can’t wait to watch this year’s first act jump the shark. And yet so far this year’s buzz maelstrom has had nothing to do with talent. It’s about which diva started which catfight.  And no matter which witch started which, we’ve been assured there’ll be more claws and candy where that came from.

And I thought this was about music.

So now I’m tasting the Voice. I have to say, as far as talent shows go, the flavors here are authentic. The recipe is simple. Four judges whip a froth of talented vocalists until the best sets, and the rest settles to the bottom.  The winner gets sprinkles, accolades, and a cherry on top. Ok, I’m assuming the accolades, but I know there’ll be cherries and sprinkles.

The thing that works for the Voice, is that the judges are competing against each other. You’d think that might create more cattiness, but it doesn’t. See, these are trained professionals, and they know how to get what they want. To do that,  they need to show sweetness on the top so they can slide the knife in from underneath. Cuz it’s not just the contestants who want to win, so do their coach/judges.

So I watch. And so I learn. See so far every contestant bio for every person who’s mounted the stage includes these words: “Nobody else has it as hard as I do.”

Wha?  I thought this was a singing contest not a whining contest. If it’s a whining contest, then somebody get me an application. I’m gonna go show them what a whiny ass is all about.

Yeah every contestant has a “hard” background unlike any other.

“I’m a waitress.”

“I come from a small town.”

“I’m a washed up child star.”

“I’m poor.”

“I was kidnapped at gunpoint when I was five.”

It’s like the Breakfast Club review, except maybe that last one. And yes, she is a still a contestant. Not because she was kidnapped, but because that girl can sing. The girl who lost her house in Katrina? She went home. The Sympathy card doesn’t play as well on the show called the Voice.

That doesn’t stop people from using their voice to pitch it though.  And I do get it. It’s TV. But as a frustrated artist myself, this sounds less like TV and more like the voices in my head.

By the end of the show I find myself shouting at the screen, “Really? I’ve got two unpublished novels and a read- by-family-only blog. What makes you any more deserving than I am? Talent?  OK, well you’ve got me there…”

All the while the Pirate Queen is hiding all the hurlables until she finally changes the channel to Hoarders “Honey, here. These people have it harder than you do.”

She’s right.

And yet I can still say, “Nobody else has it as hard as I do.”

Why?

Because apparently it takes at least one hour of hard-luck television to give my life perspective.

Thesaurus Claus

Halloween’s at hand, Thanksgiving’s on our bellies, and the election hurts us where we sit. What does all this mean to you? Christmas is just two months of white stubble away from becoming a full beard.

Speaking of beards I’m growing one again, but that’s another story for another day after things grow in. Today we’re talking about Christmas. Specifically Christmas and how it relates to me.

What? This is the season of giving.  And what better way to give than send a present to your 145^th favorite blogger? That’s right. And to show you my Christmas spirit, I’ll give you a list of what I want.

I know! My love is limitless! I’m one of the good ones!  Santa thinks so too, but he always gets me the wrong thing. He’s always stocking my stocking with pre-diamond coal and pre-packaged cow Pringles. This year I decided I’d be pre-emptive. I’ll express my Christmas desires pre-Christmas.

I’ll tell ya what I want, what I really really want.

And no.  In light of election season, My Queen has vetoed the spice girl fantasy. That’s ok. I saw The Spice Girls at the Olympics. Baby Spice looks a little more Old Spice these days.  I already have a cabinet of Old Spice.  I don’t need any more smells from another generation.

What I need is a thesaurus. 

That’s right.  I need to reload my word gun. 

My old thesaurus has been around since High School. It was great then but that was back when the English language consisted of five grunts, and Roget was still alive. Now language is so much more diverse.

WTF?

Yeah, we had a phrase for that when I was a kid, but it took three words and one of them I couldn’t say in front of my parents.

“What the fu—OW! Dad!“

That’s why I need a new Thesaurus, so I can talk to my parents.  I also need one to talk to you, and that’s why I think you should get one for me.  Are you taking notes, cuz my thesaurus needs are very specific.

I don’t want one of those stupid Dictionary/Thesauri/Wastes of paper things.  I can get the same results from Microsoft Word or iPhone’s spell correct. See, Dic-sauri are like redneck village wife searches: The choices are small and all related.

I need a category organized thesaurus that doesn’t transform into a dictionary. I have a dictionary already. I need list of words broken into subject tables with an index in the back.

That’s another important thing:  My thesaurus needs a good index.  See, how can I find the right words with a shoddy index? That’s like trying to Google proper tourniquet procedures using only the word “bind.” A bad index makes a good Thesaurus useless.

I do believe books should be flawless, but a Thesaurus should at least reference a "flaw's" existence.

There ya go.  See? I kept my list and my blog simple, easy, uncomplicated, effortless, minimal, basic, streamlined, uncluttered…

Dead Poets and Dragons

Somewhere in my college years I fell in love with the English language. I’ve always had a respect for it, but in my younger years it was more of a hands off style of respect, much like I respected the scorpion or girls, because both had consequence.

I mean I wrote, but words?  They were dull tools meant to thump ideas into shape. Vocabulary and grammar? Those were pretty words used by silly girls making up for poor math and science skills.

Stick that in your hypotenuse!

I know.  That makes no sense, but it’s how I proved superior math words over vocabulary drivel. That was me in High School. Yeah, I was popular with all the ladies.

Maybe that’s why I changed my perspective in college. Ladies loved dead poets. OK, no, let’s be honest: It’s not. Ladies do love dead poets, but no, that’s not why I changed teams. I want to blame some cool dead poet, but I can’t. It was a dude, and he wasn’t even a poet.

But he was dead.

 I blame Ernest Hemmingway.

Teams...? What?  You thought I was…No!  Not that team! And maybe that’s why I never was good with the ladies before college: poorly chosen words. And maybe that’s an even more important reason for loving words later: precision.  As a writer, people like to know what I mean. 

What am I saying?

I wish I knew.  That’s why I love Hemmingway. He used single words to cast multiple meaning shadows so that nobody knew what he was talking about.

Throughout school, teachers tried to get me to interpret writers’ motives. I can tell you that according to my English teachers “cuz it was a cool story” was never a motive that crossed any worthy writer’s mind.  I can also tell you “cool” never crossed Charles Dickens’ mind either. He lived in a really cool era and never wrote a cool story.

“Please sir, might I have some more.”

“Why yes, there’re 500 more grueling pages where that one came from. Here, enjoy”

Yeah, that never got me far with the ladies either.  Ladies love Dickens. They find him romantic.

Ladies didn’t find Hemmingway romantic. Reading him never got me in with ladies. But understanding him gave me a chance.  See I knew if 1,000 monkeys could hammer out Shakespeare over time, 1 halfwit college kid could create Hemmingway.

“Dog-pillaged carnivals canter endless dirges into sunset.”

I found that sentence by rolling Dungeon & Dragon dice and then picking corresponding pages in a Thesaurus.  College girls thought they found somebody clever. They did, just not how they thought.

“Are you saying that American society is dying?”

“Wha—are you topless? Sure! That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Yes, that’s right, dear reader, I found a way to utilize teen years of Dungeons & Dragons that make me look cool. And for that I thank Ernest Hemmingway.

And yes, I am saying that my love for language didn’t spring from a completely altruistic well.  Those waters were tainted long ago. They were corrupted by the trickling blood of authors and poets: some living, some dead, all thirsty for more than pretty words with women.

Pretty words and D&D have a lot in common.  For one thing, we use them to fill the time we’d rather spend with women. For another, we use them to create worlds. Worlds where we embody either heroes or villains, but worlds where we’re in command. 

Words are superpowers.

So now I find myself a more mature word powered man. I’m no longer a college kid spinning yarns for games of naked twister. I’m older, and hopefully wiser. I have a wife. I have responsibilities.  I have words, I should use them appropriately.

Hemmingway taught me that words were fun. I love them. Time and experience have taught me that the things you love, you treat with respect, because like girls and scorpions, they sting.

This blog you read. I hope you enjoy it. This is where I try to find that balance. This is my refuge of words: my laboratory of love, respect, and whimsy. This is where I return the gift that has been given to me, and hopefully where I make you think, feel and smile. That’s what I’ve learned from the words that were taught to me. And where I give them back to you, out of love.

Inner Struggle

Breaking news: I’m writing again!

Ok, so I never stopped, except as far you the reader can tell.

If a writer writes alone in the woods, does he have a voice? Thoreau would argue yes, and then drown me beneath the Walden waters.  Yeah, little known Thoreau fact: He had a mean streak. No really, he was admired for his naked pond prance before running into the water for a match of splashy-splashy. Mean streaking aside, Thoreau was also rather idealistic and seemed to believe thoughtful action for having purpose. 

My thoughtful quiet writing actions have had purpose. That appeases my inner Thoreau. I’m writing a young adult novel.  It takes up most of my time.  It’s gonna take up a lot more too, I’m only on chapter 2. That means little time for naked splashy-splashy. Thoreau isn’t so happy with that.

Still, I like what I’ve written.  It just takes a lot of refinement to get where I like it. 

I once saw an interview with Nile Rogers. During the 80’s, he talked with Madonna about producing her “Like a Virgin” album. She played him a demo of the title track and told him he had to like it if he wanted to work with her. She was that convinced that the song was a hit. Nile wasn’t as convinced, but he said later that he knew that the song would be a hit when he was done with it.

So sitting in my Starbucks tapping out a day’s work, I’m a little bit Niles and a little bit Madonna. I know that I’m working on something good, and I also know that it will be really good when I’m done with it.

Unfortunately my inner Madonna doesn’t have the real Madonna’s checking account or unlimited resources. I’ve got me, and my Pirate Queen fan base. I don’t have the ear of top producers or publishers telling me, “This won’t work, try this.” I’ve got a writers’ group of people just like me: just as convinced of their unique voice to tell the tale that only they can tell.

My inner Niles isn’t as convinced. My inner Niles says that the story is solid, and it will be fantastic when I’ve shaped it into the glorious golden work he has planned. 

And then there’s my inner critic.  He’s seen two other books come and go from head to paper with nothing to show for it but black ink on white paper. “What’s the difference?” He says.  He’s seen Madonna and Niles collaborate before, and hasn’t found the results impressive—at least not in terms of sales.

Over the years, I’ve belonged to and led several writers groups.  I’ve seen proud writers bounce in with their new babies, and I’ve seen other writers tear those ugly babies to shreds.  I’ve seen blind parents leave in blind rage, never to return because they’re too proud to see, and I worry.  Not about them.  I’m far to self-centered for that. Besides, they’ll be fine. They have an ugly baby to keep them warm.

I worry about me.

Am I the proud parent of an ugly baby too?

See I can’t take everything everybody else says as law. This is a peer group. This isn’t an agent or publisher telling me what they will or won’t buy. I have to have confidence. 

I don’t know. My inner Madonna is suckerpuncking my sickened ego for even suggesting an ugly baby, right now.  I feel sorry for my ego: it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask the question.

See, I see those other proud parents and I worry because they don’t see the ugly. If I’m going to succeed, I need to see the ugly, so I can change it. 

As a parent, if your son steals, you need to know it. Not because he’s a bad kid and you need to hide your jewelry. You need to know it so you can correct his ugly actions. You need to see what’s wrong with your children so you can make them better. You also need to see what’s right with your children and embrace that.

“Last night you stole the neighbors car without setting off the alarm.  Good job.”

The important thing isn’t necessarily your child, but your vision. Can you see? Do you know the difference between good and bad?

I used to believe Madonna did, she just chose whichever course gave her what she wanted. I’ve heard Madonna’s latest CD. I’m not so sure I believe anymore. And if I can’t believe in the real Madonna, what does that say about my inner Madonna?

“Rob, that torpedo tip bra looks marvelous!”

Right now my ego is suckerpunching back.

This is where my inner Thoreau comes back out and reminds me of the focus.

And my psychiatrist offers me and my inner voices a nice quiet place to finish my book.

55 Cancri E or Bust!

I’ve been watching a lot of TV lately.  It’s amazing, the educational value of television. I used to learn from Big Bird. Now I learn about him.  Did you know that Mitt Romney hates Big Bird? It’s true! The TV told me. It’s also true that Obama hates economic recovery! TV told me that too! Don’t even get me started on Lindsey Lohan! Did you know that she’s not a virgin? I swear!  I saw it on TV. 

You know what else I saw on TV? It’s unbelievable!  I saw a Rob-piphany. That’s right! Last night, while the Pirate Queen underwent dreamland mutiny complete with real-land flailing, kicking, and punching her RobBlogger, I retreated to the couch.  That’s when I saw it, as I flipped through channels.

“…unwanted facial hair to your husband’s scalp!”

No not that.  This was real.  This was about 55 Cancri e.

The diamond planet. That’s where I’m taking my next spaceship.  It’s where my parents hid the Boyd millions. The TV didn’t tell me about the millions, but It did tell me about the planet, and I’m quite capable of reading the stars.  It’s as easy as connecting the dots.

Come along! I’ll explain everything…

Ring! Ring!

Ring! Ring!

Ring! Ring!

“mmm…yello?”

“Hi Dad!  It’s me, Rob!”

“mmm…yah…er…who?”

“Me! Rob. Your son!”

“My son doesn’t call before 4 am.”

“He does when he’s found the hidden family fortune!”

“I told you son, your grandfather said he was taking his accordion with him, and that’s where we’re leaving it.”

“Not those riches. The family diamonds.”

“The wha--? Are you talking to Dr. Phil again?”

So the phone call was off to a rocky start, but that’s how most planets are. My dad’s smart, he picks things up quickly, so I explained about the Boyd diamonds:  a whole planet of them waiting to be discovered.  See, they’re technically not Boyd diamonds, yet, but they’re in the news, and they will be Boyd diamonds. Oh yes they will be mine.

See there’s this planet, 55 Cancri e, we’ll call it Boydtropolis for now, cuz that’s what I’ll name it when I plant my flag there, so to speak. Boydtropolis, it’s a Super-Earth circling a sun in cancer. That’s the crab constellation, not the melanoma.  The planet is about 40 light years away, about 280 years in cat years so I’ve told Persephone she can’t come.

Mew-mew.

She took it well.  So did my Dad. See for him family is everything.

“So, let me get this straight. You called me at 3:30—“

“3:35.”

“Yeah. 3:35 to tell me that you’re leaving for a planet 40 light years away to claim it and collect diamonds.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you know how long that will take you?”

“40 light years.”

“I see you’ve thought through this.”

Most dads would hang up here. Not my Dad. My dad keeps going. He knows a good idea when he hears one.  See, once I travel those 40 light years, there’s a planet on the other side made of diamonds. A planet of diamonds? That’s enough to make Ernst Stavro Blofeld sit up and take notice.

“Right idea Mr. Bond.”

“But wrong pussy.”

Of course. I’ve told you. Persephone can’t make the trip. That’s why I’m going alone. I’m like a miner 49er rushing to California only to discover it amok with hippies.

“Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape.”

Wrong “folly of man” discovery, sorry. The coffee must be wearing off. Or maybe I’m soaking in all this TV rays. They say there are a lot of rays in space.

Anyway, they may have rays in space, but they don’t have apes or hippies on Boydtropolis.  First, the crust is made mostly of diamonds; diamonds are as attractive to apes and hippies as Bernie Madoff trading cards.

“Ooh, look! They form a pyramid!”

Second, Boydtropolis circles its sun a little closer than Earth circles our sun. The surface temperature is right around 3,900 degrees.  Hippies and Apes don’t do well in that kind of heat. Me? I’m not worried; it only gets that hot during the summer. And it’s a dry heat. Besides, the days are shorter, I’ll work at night, and wear a mining light.

“And you have a space ship that travels the speed of light?” Asks Dad.

“Not yet, Dad.  That’s where you come in.”

“Of course it is…Hang on” There’s a rattle on the other side of the phone.

“What’s that sound?”

“Aspirin bottle [gulp, swallow]. Continue.”

“I need to borrow some money from you—you know for the spaceship.”

“Have you tried your mom? She might be more willing to help.”

“Because Grandpa worked with NASA?”

“OK. That works.  Sure, because her father worked with NASA is a great reason. Call your mom.”

“I already did.”

“Oh.”

“She said to call you. She said that if anybody knew about coal to diamonds and the tight pressure required for that, it would be you.”

“I see...”

He did see.  He said a little more about how he missed Mom’s opinions and other things like that.  If this were TV there’d be a laugh track here followed by a slow fade to commercials here.

When we came back from commercial we’d wrap things up.  This is where Dad would reach through the phone, rub my head, call me a “scamp” and give me the money I need for Boydtropolis.

“Son, you can’t be a moron all your life.”

“That’s not what you told me in High School.”

“Yes, well my perspective has changed.  So you really think you can endure 4,000 degree—“

“3,900 degree, Fahrenheit.”

 “--temperatures to mine diamonds and bring them back home in ship with a---what did you call it—An FTL drive?”

“Yeah, FTL, Faster Than Light.  They have them on Stargate.”

“Of course they do.”
“And no, I know I can’t take 3,900 degree temperatures. That’s silly. I’d burn up.  I have a different plan.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“I’ll tow the planet back to Earth, that way I can mine it in safe, short intervals. I got the idea from Bugs Bunny.”

“Brilliant.  Well unfortunately I don’t have the kind of money required to tow a planet. We’re strapped, and it’s a little outside my range.  See, it requires a special laser lasso that needs to be licensed and permitted by the space towing commission.  The permit alone is far more than I can pull together on such short notice.”

“And that’s why I wanted to talk to you about digging up Grandpa. We need his accordion.”

This is where my dad hangs up.

See, there comes a point where we all have to shut out the noise. What? You’re looking for more meaning here?  Don’t you know, blogs are as trustworthy as television. We reel you in with facts about diamond planets, then wander off on our own agenda. My agenda? A little time away from the TV, a good nights sleep and the Boyd

F.B.M.

I want a fat batman.

Detroit needs one. No, the world needs one, but I’m a selfish self-indulgent Rob-blogger, bring the fat batman to me, and then maybe, for a box of bearclaws, I’ll share him with you. We’ll see.

Petoskey on Michigan's Bat Mitt

Regular batman? He’s overrated.  Multimillionaire playboy playing with toys, cuz he can.  Fat batman? He’s for real. He’s part of the city.

Well, a real part of the city of Petoskey anyway. That doesn’t make him any less real though. And like the real fake batman he fights criminals, and is treated like a criminal by the police.  Earlier this week, it was the state police.

It seems that fat batman was assisting the police in a stolen car case, only the police didn’t see his selfless dedication as “assistance.” They saw his efforts as “contaminating a crime scene.” His bat-style clue search maneuvers confused the tracking dogs. They had not been trained to differentiate between “criminal scent” and three-day-old “bat-suit scent.”

I was impressed that the state troopers have dogs who can track down car thieves. I want one of those too.

“Where’s the taco truck, Rex? Where’s the taco truck? Good boy!”

I bet fat batman wants one of those too. The dog, I’m sure he already owns a taco truck. He’s fat batman, FB to his friends.

Who is this FB man? I can’t tell you that. It’s an alter ego, those are secret.  In real life he’s not so much fat as kinda chubby. Also, according to a local news report, FB has a wife who owns a small shop in Petoskey. Bet you can’t guess where the bat cave is!

“I am the guardian of the bat cave,” said Mrs. Batman. Ok no she didn’t, but I so wanted her to. 

We’ll the bat cave has been a little empty lately. Batman spent an evening in jail, and no, this isn’t the first time Mrs. Batman has slept alone.  Like any true vigilante, fat batman has spent more than one night in jail. Last May police arrested FB for rooftop surveillance without rooftop permission from said rooftop owner.

Strike another one up for the bad guys.

Strike one for cool batman perch poses too though! Squatting on a roof watching for crime? Can’t you see that? The police did, and they arrested him.

I’m sure they’ll do it again. Me, I say, hey, this is Michigan, if a bat guy’s squatting on a rooftop doing something other than dropping bat guano, give him a medal. Let’s take a positive where we can find it.

That’s why Detroit needs a fat batman.  Right now, for every good thing that goes right in Detroit, we have Google map pages with gun toting thugs, news articles about corrupt public servants, or another Kwame Kilpatrick trial sprinkling over the good spotlight.

Let’s fight sprinkles with jelly-filled. You can’t cover fat batman’s light; fat batman’s bat-light glows like the brightest donut of all.  Don’t even try, you’ll fail.

See, I like Detroit. It’s a city with attitude, but we’ve got so much attitude that we’ve become entitled, like Los Angeles, without the sparkle. At least in LA you can roll your eyes and say “arrogant jerk.” Sure that arrogant jerk will then sue you for your soul and probably own it by the weekend, but at least he’ll keep in a trophy case next to all the other souls he’s stolen over the years. Here, they’ll just shoot you in the face. There’s no soul involved.

That’s attitude.

And that makes this a job for fat batman.

Detroit takes itself too seriously. Yes, times are tough. Yes, we have been before. Yes, we will be again.  Does that mean we should forget how to laugh at ourselves?

“I am fat batman.”

Ok, he probably doesn’t call himself “fat” but “Big Boned” batman isn’t gonna fit on the bat belt buckle either. And how can you not smile knowing that? The point is, I want some dude sitting on a roof, watching criminals in neighborhoods that aren’t zoned for police. I want to watch. I want the wonder.

Will he catch the bad guy?

Will he get shot?

Will he fall through the roof?

“Holy structural integrity, batman!” The suspense is killing me!

I want somebody we can depend on for something, even if it’s just making us smile.

Please, fat batman, come save us from ourselves.

Prisoner Cell Block 3G

Today the Pirate Queen left her cell phone at home.  A forgotten cell phone at home required that we meet up over lunch so I could give it to her.  (The phone, pervs. We all know it’s a Monday. All my other giving duties are done until next week.)

When I was a kid my dad never met up with my mom to give her anything other than extra keys, if she’d locked hers inside the car.

“Hello?”

“Honey, I left the phone at home.”

“Well it is attached to the wall with a cord. I sort of expected that you would leave it at home.”

“Well yes…  Could you meet me at home so I can pick it up?”

“Well OK…”

That conversation never took place between my parents. Why? Cell phones didn’t exist when I was a kid.  If I wanted to make a call away from home, I needed a dime for the payphone.  If I wanted to play video game away from my Atari, I needed a quarter.  That was life in the Corded Age.

Quick poll:

Will everybody without a cell phone please repeat after me:  “I am a compulsive liar.”

The rest of you: How many of you have home phones anymore?

No.  Me neither.

The last one I had was 5 years ago. I offered to give it up in the divorce, but neither of us wanted it. Home phones have gone the way of the Pitfall Harry. 

Remember when cordless phones were all the rage?  You had the range of about 2 rooms before it started to sound like an AM radio…Ok, do I have to explain AM to you as well? And no, not the time of day (I have no concept of that am).  AM was a type of radio signal.  It still exists today, seriously, check your car stereo. It’s that button you never press. No, not “CASSETTE.”

Sigh...

This isn’t a nostalgic blog.  I’m not trying to relive the past. I’m merely failing to take you back to a time without cell phones. 

“…for these are more easily acquired than to get rid of..” – Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau wasn’t talking about cell phones, but if he were around in this cell tower millennia, he’d have wept Walden tears, because nothing so seemingly untethered has ever imprisoned us so willingly.

There’s nothing we can’t do with our cell phones:

Pay bills.

Deposit checks.

Play games.

Take Pictures.

Make phone calls!

Leave them at home--Oh wait, we can’t do that anymore.

So much more than a phone: Nobody phones anymore. It's all about icon driven app-itecture. How many of the apps can you name that are represented by these icons? Answer at the bottom of the post.

You know what’s funny though? Nobody makes phone calls these days. If I were to make up a statistic about that, it would look like this:

“75% of the things we do on our phones don’t include phone calls.”-Imaginary Statistics Weekly.

Even kids don’t phone anymore: they text. They send abbreviated words so they don’t have to face rejection.

See? Cell phones eliminate confrontation. We don’t talk to people. We key a few words, and send them off. Problem solved.  Need proof? How many of your Facebook friends do you really know? How many have actually heard your voice within the past six months? Ever?

We like our cell phones because they allow us isolation. Cell phones are this millenniums’ bubble wrap.  Interesting side note, had bubble wrap existed, it is the one material item that would have snared Thoreau away from Walden.

“One generation abandons the enterprises of an other like—Oooh! Bubble wrap!”

Cell phones are our way of abandoning the previous generations dreams to be free and trading them in for a two-year contract and an icon driven life of isolation.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we toss them in the bay like AT&T tea. Right now my cell phone is so close that I can pinky flick the unlock bar while typing. I’m trapped behind reception bars, just like everybody else.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  The phone is nothing more than a tool. We just need to make the effort to communicate and open up to the world around us. So let’s do that. Everybody, do me a favor right now.  Put down your smart phone that you’re reading this blog on and turn to the person to your left and say, “Hi! Your zipper’s down, and I like that about you.”

And that, my friends, shall set you free.


App answer. Left to right,  Row 1: Miami Dolphins Team app, Pandora, Solebon Solitaire, Urban Spoon, Sudoku, Remote, Twitter, Row 2: Career Builder,  Ease into 5K, Chase, Minesweeper 2, Wordfeud, Angry Birds. Row 3: Skype, Trip Advisor, Superbrothers Sword and Sworcery, Bump, Flashlight, Indeed, Twitterific. Row 4: Lil' Pirates, 8500+ Drinks and Cocktails, Checkers Free, Crowd Beacon, Nike +, Nook, Fandango. Row 5: Weather Doodle, Retro Pinball, Hulu Plus, Orbitz, Blogger, Soundtracking, Kobo. Row 6: TuneIn Radio, Go Daddy, Bejeweled, Good Reads, Ancestry, Touch Tunes, Kayak. Row 7: Vevo, Monster.com, Yellow Pages, Acrobat, Bible Gateway, Pocket Planes, Klout. Row 8: Starmap, Alarm Clock, Errands To-do list, QR Reader, TiVo, Realtor.com, Delta Airlines.