30

Nov

The Taint Upon “Ain’t”

You’ll find “ain’t” in Jane Austen and also Dickens.
And not just in the mouths of knaves and fools;
But the gentry, and characters who’ve been to school.

When you point this out gramatofascists squeal “What the frickin’?”
Need I remind you of Louis Jordan’s “There Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens”?

Among Presidents, both Slick Willie and Dubya used it
just slipped it in for emphasis, like droppin’ a “g.”
Upon further review, seems all right with me.

Their opponents attacked them for it, but they didn’t abuse it,
As for Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson, maybe
You recall “Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby?”

No “ain’t” is okay, except among snobs
Who make language policing their full-time job.
It has a long and honorable history
How it became déclassé is a mystery.

My guess is a schoolmarm somewhere along the line
Decided the sound of it wasn’t too fine
Or maybe the lady of the manor heard the help’s twang
And decided her child to henceforth harangue
Until all trace of an accent associated with the South
Was banished; no butter would melt in her kid’s mouth.

59 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

/////

30

Nov

Clubbing of Poet Laureate Gives Arts Groups Crowd Control Ideas

BOSTON.  When Robert Hass was clubbed by Berkeley, California, police during a recent Occupy Wall Street demonstration, the incident received wide notoriety after the former poet laureate penned an oped about it for The New York Times.  “That sent shock waves through your entire non-profit and cultural crowd control industry there,” says Jim Hampy, a former Boston police officer who now works security for the New England Philharmonic.  “If you can beat down a major poet like that guy, anybody’s fair game.”

 
Hass:  “Was it something I wrote?”

And so Hampy and some of his peers at other classical music organizations around the country are re-thinking their approach to the scourge of the symphony; the musically illiterate concert-goer who insists on clapping between movements.

“I’ve been given carte blanche to go after these scofflaws,” Hampy says, “but previously my hands was tied so to speak.  Now the guys in classical music security have a level playing field again.”

The origin of the taboo against clapping between movements at classical music performances is shrouded in the mists of history, with some tracing it back to 19th century German composer Richard Wagner and others saying it is of more recent vintage.  “It was Leopold Stokowski who really set the practice in stone,” says music historian Leonard Plenth-Feister of the former Philadelphia Orchester conductor.  “He was at a Flyers game one night and noticed how the audience went quiet while the Zamboni was on the ice.  He thought that would be a good thing for the classical crowd, which can get kinda rough.” 


Stokowski:  “It’s quiet when the Zamboni’s on the ice.  I can finally hear myself drink my beer.”

Whatever its roots, the prohibition against clapping between movements is, like jaywalking, a rule more frequently broken than observed, to Hampy’s dismay.  “Either you know da classical repuhtwah or ya don’t,” he says with disgust, as he reviews a tape of last weekend’s performance of Mozart’s Symphony no. 31 in D major, the “Paris” symphony.  “Look at this mook over here,” he says as he directs a laser pointer to the image of an elderly man seated in the balcony who claps after the Andante movement.  “What a freakin’ knucklehead!”

Hampy is working a matinee today featuring violin concerti by Mozart and Haydn, and he says he feels safer now that he has the tools needed to patrol his beat.  “Some people get all huffy with me,” he says.  “I sez to them I sez, the concerto ain’t over ’til the fat lady playin’ second cello puts down her bow.”


“I’m gonna need some pepper spray in the loge boxes.”

Along with two colleagues, Hampy takes his position in an aisle as the music plays, “just itching” he says to let patrons know he’s “no longer second fiddle to some guy just ’cause he gives five grand a year.”  The orchestra makes its way through the Allegro moderato movement of Haydn’s violin concerto no. 1, and as the music fades out, Hampy is ready to rumble.  “I got one in row M,” he says into his wrist walkie-talkie.  “I’m goin’ in and may need reinforcements.”


“Whadda you think this is–the freakin’ symphony?”

With that, Hampy pounces on Niall Jobsz, a local college student and lover of the arts whose knowledge of Haydn’s oeuvre is not his strong point.  “Hold it right there, pal!” Hampy says as he jabs the younger man hard in the ribs.  “Pipe down or I’ll trow youse outta here!”

Some members of the audience look on in alarm, but others nod with approval.  “It’s a slippery slope,” says Board of Trustees chair Jeffrey Huang.  “The barbarians who clap between movements today are the ones who show up in the loge boxes with Tostitos and salsa tomorrow.”

59 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

////

30

Nov

Security Agency Says Snack Sacks #1 Holiday Target

WASHINGTON, D.C.  The Transportation Security Agency, the arm of the federal government that protects the nation’s transportation systems, today issued its holiday survey of articles most likely to be seized during mandatory passenger searches, singling out snack-size bags of cookies and chips as items of particular concern.


“Now hop on one foot and make a noise like a seagull . . .”

“Terrorist organizations have been known to use thnack thacks to hide weaponth of math dethructhion,” said TSA Administrator Kip Hawley as he searched through a Mini Oreo Snak Sak carried by ten year-old Timmy McNair of Needham, Massachusetts and tested some of its contents.  “We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t search each and every one of these suspicious containers.”


“Yeah, right–cookies.  Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

Transportation Security Agency employees have been accused of singling out passengers carrying snack foods in the past due to long shifts without breaks during the busy holiday season.  “I don’t see why that should be a problem,” said Deputy Administrator Albert McNair.  “It’s not as bad as feeling women up with your electronic security wand–which is fun for both parties.”


“I have nothing to hide.”

Salaries for entry-level jobs with the TSA are generally low, forcing employees to bring sack lunches in order to make ends meet.  “There is a temptation to shake down every teenager with a backpack,” says TSA Employees Union shop steward Michael Montenegro.  “If the government would raise the starting salary our people wouldn’t have to confiscate every bag of Doritos we see.”

The TSA, which is part of the Department of Homeland Security, says it is only doing the job assigned to it by Congress in order to secure the nation’s borders. 


Cheetos Girl in Tub:  It can happen here. 

“Some of the stuff we seize has a freshness date that’s about to expire,” said TSA head Hawley.  “I wouldn’t want to have orange dust from a stale bag of Cheetos on my hands if something ever went wrong.”

59 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

////

30

Nov

I Wish I Liked Golf

I wish I liked golf,
I really do.
Instead it makes me rolf—
I’m not kidding you.

The breathless recounting of shots from bad lies,
The loud colored clothes that assault the eyes;
You can have all that golf course insecticide—
It all makes me contemplate suicide.

But miniature golf, that’s another thing.
The windmill, the whale hole, it completes my spring.
The little yellow pencils seem appropriate when
You’re playing with children, not flab-gutted men.

I’ve played Pirate’s Cove, with fierce buccaneers,
Where the balls roll in mouths and come out the ears.
I’ve played Dino-Golf, with a large orange T-Rex
Who gave me the yips as bad as a hex.

Outside of Boston there’s a Constitution Course
With choral readings of Articles of course.
You don’t get all the amendments ‘cause there’s only 18 holes
But the greens are Astro-Turf, so don’t worry about moles.

In short, if play golf with you I must,
I won’t check your score, you have my trust
As long as you’re willing to visit my club
Where the fairways are plastic and so are the shrubs.

59 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

/////

29

Nov

Will Your Relationship Survive the Holidays?

The holidays are a stressful time of the year, straining both long-term relationships and brief flings that begin as drunken come-ons at office parties.  How does one cope with competing and often conflicting demands of “significant others” that clash with family obligations, year-end business demands and last-minute shopping?  Ask your Holiday Relationship Advisor, that’s how!


“Mmmfffttthngg!”

Dear Holiday Relationship Advisor:

For eight years I have been living with a man named Darren Fletcher, who I will refer to as “Bud” to preserve his anonymity.  Bud is a homebody and does not like to travel since he is on the road so much for his job as a saleman for Arch Pneumatic Fasteners.  This year Bud surprised me at Halloween by announcing that he wanted to go see the Grand Canyon for Thanksgiving.  I was overjoyed and I told him so, but he said “Uh, Earleen, I want to go by myself.”  I was hurt, but I realized if I am ever going to talk Bud into marrying me I have to be tolerant of his “quirks.”


“There’s some kind of beetle in your ear!”

Anyway, the night before Bud was going to fly out of KC International a woman shows up at our door and asks is this where Darren lives and I said yes, who are you?  She says she is Judith Marie Oehrke and is going to the Grand Canyon with Darren–I mean Bud.

Well, I was polite and all and I told the woman to have a seat and I went in and gave Bud “what for.”  He says calm down, it’s a charter flight and Judith Marie has driven up from Camdenton, we’re going to ride to the airport together to save gas.  Okay, I says, I understand, although I was a little bit “put out.”

After dinner, which was Pork Chops Hawaiian Luau-Style with Kraft Miniature Marshmallows on top, Bud says he’s tired and is going to get a good night’s sleep, and Judith Marie says me too, so I says “You two go pack your bags I’ll clean up,” which I did.  When I was finished I went into the bedroom to get some sheets for the pull-out couch and what do I see but Bud and Judith Marie under the covers together big as life, she’s reading a Southern Home magazine from my nightstand!


“We’ll buy you a souvenir at the Grand Canyon gift shop, okay?”

Well, there was probably smoke coming out of my ears by then, but Bud just looks up at me and says “What?” as if he can’t understand why I’m mad.  I nodded my head at the “interloper”, and he says “There’s plenty of room and you wouldn’t want Judith Marie to sleep on the couch–she’s gonna be stuck on a plane all day tomorrow.”

 

 
Take care of your spit curls, and they’ll take care of you.

I didn’t want to make a scene, so I brushed my teeth and put on my nightgown and Scotch-taped my spit-curls to the sides of my head and climbed over Bud and got in the middle.  I was not going to let my two “vacationers” turn my bedroom into a “bridal suite” if you know what I mean.

Next morning I get up and fix them breakfast and say goodbye in the driveway, but now I am haunted by the fear that I may be losing Darren.  Am I wrong to be suspicious?

Earleen Walters, Knob Noster MO
Dear Earleen:

I’m afraid I’m going to have side with Darren and Judith Marie on this one, Earleen.  If we as a nation are ever going to end our dependency on foreign oil, car-pooling is a must.  Don’t let your feelings for Darren get in the way of energy conservation–or we’ll all be the losers, not just you!

Dear Holiday Relationship Advisor Lady:

A few months ago a new fellow started working in our mail room, his name is Keith.  I will be right up-front about this–I have a gigantic crush on him, and I think the feeling is mutual.

Keith delivers our mail every morning around 11:30, although he is actually supposed to get it done by eleven under his job satisfaction goals.  He is very “social” and likes to talk to people as he makes his rounds, this slows him up–or down.

Yesterday Keith came by my cubicle and handed me an inter-office envelope, the goldenrod-colored kind with the holes in it.  He was giggling when he gave it to me, and said “Here’s something for you from the guys in the supply room.”  I squished it in a couple places to see if I could figure out what was inside, but I gave up after a while and unwound the string.


Office supply room:  Men go mad from the tedium, if not the pressure.

Holiday relationship lady, I nearly fainted when I unwrapped the white tissue paper inside and a white mouse with a red ribbon around its neck jumped out at me!  I squealed but by then “Keith” was gone and Jim Ray Houchens and Ernie Bott from the supply room came out from around the corner and started laughing at me.

Needless to say, I filed a grievance with Human Resources and now Jim Ray and Ernie have named Keith as a witness.  Do you know any way I can avoid dragging Keith into this mess?  I don’t want to spoil my best chance at romance since that stupid fishstick Ray West dropped me for the hostess at the Round-Up Steakhouse.

Maureen Eberly, Paducah, Kentucky

Dear Maureen:

Jim Ray and Ernie have a constitutional right to a fair trial, and they did use an envelope with holes in it so the little animal could breathe.  I see no way out for the “object of your affection”–perhaps you and Keith can set up a “deposition date” where you prepare for your testimony while you share a late-night dinner of take-out Chinese!

 

Hello Holiday Relationship Person:

I have a question for you.  Last month you told “Confused in Chillicothe” that he should not give a Best Buy gift card to a woman on their first Christmas together because it was “impersonal.”  I beg to differ–giving a woman a gift card lets her know exactly where she stands with you, she can see the amount you spent right on the card.  She gets to pick out whatever she wants and doesn’t have to waste time returning something she doesn’t like.  She also doesn’t have to lie to you when you go over to her apartment and say “Hey, where’d you put that print of the tiger and the reflecting ball I gave you for Christmas?”

I don’t know where you get off trying to run people’s lives.  Maybe that’s good advice in the “ivory tower” where you live, but not for regular folks down here on the ground.

Clint Weller, Jr., Stillwater OK

Dear Clint:

I certainly didn’t mean to offend you or “Confused in Chillicothe”.  All I meant to convey is that women appreciate it when a man puts a little thought into a gift, instead of just plunking down his credit card at the check-out counter of a soulless, big-box retailer.  If you have had success with pre-paid gift cards by all means continue to give them to your girlfriends.  Or you might just use cash, and get yourself a real hooker.

60 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

/////

29

Nov

Ask Mr. Postal Service Person

Everybody loves the daily walk down to the mailbox, especially when it’s chock full of greeting cards and catalogs that cause Mr. Postal Service severe back pain and make him a little snippy around this time of year. 

  

The US Postal Service is here to serve you, the people who make it possible for Mr. Postal Service Person to retire in just 1,432 more work days, as if I’m counting.  Last summer several postal patrons wrote to me with questions, and when I received their letters yesterday, I immediately sent them the following helpful responses:

 
The Big Bopper

Dear Mr. Postal Service Person:

I purchased some 41 cent stamps a while back and now they are no good since it costs 44 cents to mail a letter.  Nobody told me this beforehand–what am I going to do with the sheet of ”Big Bopper” commemorative stamps that I bought just before the price increase?

Ewell Pickens, Paducah, Kentucky

 
Oliver Wendell Holmes:  “I’ll play first base, third base, outfield–anywhere but Philadelphia.”

Dear Ewell:

Oliver Wendell Holmes once said “Taxes are the price we pay for a civilized society.”  He also said “Three generations of imbeciles is enough” and ”If a horse won’t eat it, I won’t play on it.”  No wait, that was Richie Allen.

 
Allen:  “There is nothing so powerful as an idea whose time has come.”

Anyway, if you haven’t figured out by now that stamp prices are only going to go up, why don’t you take your business to Federal Express and pay eight bucks to send your stupid mail?

 

Dear Mr. Postal Service Person:

Whatever happened to Mr. Zip, the friendly cartoon character who helped introduce zip codes back in the 60′s? 

Allison de Vries, Pottsdam, New York

 
“We’re offering free flying saucer rides if you sign up for a MBNA Mastercard today!”

Dear Allison:

Mr. Zip retired and returned to his boyhood home in the Alpha Centuri galaxy.  He periodically visits the US to abduct human subjects in and around Roswell, New Mexico.

 
Reba the Mail Lady

Dear Mr. Postal Service Person:

Why is a male employee of the Postal Service called a “mail man,” while a female is called a “mail lady,” like Reba the Mail Lady on Pee Wee Herman?  To be fair, shouldn’t a “mail man” be called a “mail gentleman”?

Bob Rouchka, Tarkio, MO

 
“I just closed my eyes for a minute, okay?”

Bob–

Good point!  The precise term for the friendly person who naps in his truck down the block from your house so he can s-t-r-e-t-c-h his route to cover a full shift is “letter carrier,” which is a unisex term that can be applied to both men and women.  “Letter carriers” are required to select a gender at the beginning of each workday so as not to unduly disturb the vicious dogs you people keep in your front yards, like you’re a bunch of crack dealers or something.

 
John Ratzenberger as “Cliff” on Cheers

Mr. Postal Service Person:

It must be hard for you to deal with the stereotypes such as “Cliff” on “Cheers,” the postman who used to spend all his time drinking beer and yakking when he should have been out delivering mail?  Are you ever tempted to “go postal” on somebody who makes a cruelly insensitive remark about your work ethic?

Norbert Downing, Fell’s Acres, Vermont

 
Ultimate Fighting Championship match

Norbert–

Why did you have to bring up “going postal”?  What was the point of that?  And why are you still watching Cheers?  It went off the air years ago.  What is it with you–you think you’re so freaking special. 

 
Non-violent UFC employees

A study by the Brotherhood of Letter Carriers found that postal workers are no more likely to engage in workplace violence than hockey players or Ultimate Fighting Championship employees.  Except for the round card girls, who are quite bodacious, by the way.

60 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

/////

28

Nov

Don’t Throw Out Those Thanksgiving Leftovers!

Tired of staring at lumps of starch in your refrigerator left over from Thanksgiving dinner?  Don’t throw them away!  Here are six great recipes that will turn Turkey Day rejects into December treats!

 

Stuffing Puppies:  Roll stuffing into 3″ balls, sprinkle with flour and paprika.  Heat oil in skillet and brown.  Place in freezer until solid.  Remove at Christmas time and hurl at carollers.


Get off my property!

Turkey Hokey Pokey:  This “comfort food” is great and easy to make!  Melt 1/4 cup butter, add 1/2 cup flour and whisk.  Add 1/4 cup sherry, 1 cup cream, 2 2/3 cup chicken broth, 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese, 3 cup chopped turkey and 1/2 lb. mushrooms-salt and pepper to taste.  Place 10 oz. cooked spaghetti in baking dish and top with mixture.  Put your right foot in, take your right foot out.  Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes.

 

 
“Tastes kinda gritty to me.”

Mashed Potato Mortar:  Add 1 cup gypsum, 1 cup sand and a dash of allspice to two quarts leftover mashed potatoes.  Using a trowel, spread between gaps in exterior brick walls and allow to dry.  Garnish with parsley.

 


“Y’all about ready for lunch?”

Turkey Piazza:  Strip dark meat from drumsticks and thighs.  Spread with linseed oil and flatten with a meat mallet.  Spread generously over patio.  Flatten with a sod roller and coat with extra virgin olive oil.  Children on “boogie boards” should wear helmets while sliding across the finished surface.


“I’ll have the white meat, thanks.”

Cranberry Shells:  Add two packages Knox’s Unflavored Gelatin to cranberry sauce and stuff back into cans.  When mixture congeals, stuff down barrel of howitzer and fire.  Caution:  May be considered a violation of Geneva Convention in some upscale neighborhoods.

 

 
“Cranberries incoming!”

Turkey Terza Rima:  Add mayonnaise to turkey scraps.  Mold mixture into three-line stanzas using a progressive rhyme scheme such as a-b-a, b-c-b, etc.  Submit to high-toned literary quarterly along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope and wait.  When rejection letter is received, launch cranberry shells and stuffing puppies at editor.  Repeat until satisfied.

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Take My Advice–I Wasn’t Using it Anyway.”

61 days ago Short URL 3 Comments

Uncategorized

/////

28

Nov

In a Concord Graveyard

. . . we walk between the rows
and note a familiar name;
the same as a couple we knew long ago.

His ancestor, with muffled oars,
was the fellow in the boat who
rowed Paul Revere to the opposite shore

from whence he rode to Lexington.
We haven’t seen them in years;
we were friends because of our sons.

They invited us to join their country club.  Flattered,
we thanked them as graciously as we could,
but the gesture seemed tainted by patronage, not that it mattered.

I am a stranger here, resentful; would I join a place
that wouldn’t have my grandmother as a member?
And so, with what we thought sufficient grace

we let the matter drop. On an idle Sunday
we pass among the gravestones.
Our feet are muddy, and all seems vanity.

“Weep not for me, dry up your tears,”
reads the epitaph of one ancestor;
“I must lie here till Christ appears.”

The dead woman, like the wife, had the name
of a virtue, as in a morality play;
Patience or Prudence, a stranger to shame.

 

Their forebears prepared to meet their savior God
that paid their ransom with his blood;
The descendants drive by the graveyard,
their car clean, dripping suds from the wash.

61 days ago Short URL 4 Comments

Uncategorized

/

28

Nov

Big Book of Presbyterian Humor in Stores This Week

CHESTNUT HILL, Mass.  Molly Yardnal is a temporary stocking clerk at the Barnes & Noble book store in this suburb of Boston who’s finding it hard to do her job in preparation for the crush of Christmas shoppers.  “I guess people are buying books because big-ticket items seem too extravagant this year,” she says as customers squeeze by her.  “Either that or they’re cheap.”

Today, Molly is working the humor aisle as she rips open cardboard shipping boxes filled with copies of “The Big Book of Presbyterian Humor,” the latest in a series of similar titles by Minoz Press.  “Next to the Big Book of Jewish Humor and the Big Book of Catholic Humor, it looks kind of small,” she notes.


“If I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against–never mind.”

“It’s really intended as a stocking stuffer,” says editor Morris Korkin of his latest release, which runs to 24 pages, the last of which is blank and can be used for taking notes during sermons.  “Actually, you could fit two copies in your typical Christmas stocking.”


“I’ll be here all week.  Be sure and tip your elders and deacons!”

American Presbyterians have been known as a humorless bunch since colonial times, when Founding Father Thomas Jefferson first noted a dour streak in the Scottish immigrants.  “The Puritans put a man in the stocks this morning,” Jefferson notes in his diary at one point.  “The Presbyterians came by later and criticized his outfit for being too casual.”


“He hath not got those breeches at Brooks Brothers!”

The book is being hailed by the denomination’s ministers as a helpful tool in defusing the tensions that naturally build during the frantic holiday season.  “Say the two daughters get in an argument over whose David Yerman bracelet was more expensive,” says Rev. Scott Lee of the First Presbyterian Church in Duxbury, Massachusetts.  “Nothing gets people in a good mood again like a joke that begins ‘A priest, a rabbi and a lady snake charmer walk up to the Gates of Hell.’”


David Yerman bracelet:  “Haven’t you got something a little more expensive?”

The age-old question–Is there such a thing as a dirty Presbyterian joke?–is answered with an emphatic “Yes” by the collection, with a knee-slapper involving a first-class airline passenger who “poops his pants” after a particularly bumpy flight, notes Korkin. 


“But seriously, folks.  Our annual Osgood-Schlatter telethon raises hundreds of dollars to fight this dreaded knee ailment.”

“That’s the only one we found,” he says.  “For years we’ve heard rumors there’s another, about a grandmother who farts when her family visits her in a nursing home, but like Bigfoot it may turn out to be a hoax.”

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Our WASPy Heritage.”

61 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

/////

27

Nov

For One Coach, Writing About Writing Isn’t Writing

SOMERVILLE, Mass.  Maggie Turbek had a moderately successful career in the historically unremunerative field of literature, with freelance magazine assignments that paid in the low four-figures, a ten-year run as an editor in New York and a first novel that sold nearly twenty thousand copies.  “That’s not really a lot,” she says ruefully.  “There was no second.”


“If I catch you whining about writer’s block, I’m going to come to your condo and snap all your no. 2 lead pencils in half!”

And so Turbek has turned to helping other writers realize their potential with her inside knowledge of the publishing industry and her own creative impulse.  “The main thing I drum into my clients,” says the self-described writing “coach,” “is to stop writing about writing.”

Sunday afternoon find her at a bank of computers along with a recently-hired assistant, Lorna Twellman, a recent graduate of Tufts University who has been unable to find full-time employment with her degree in English.  The two bellelettrists scan social networking sites, on-line writer’s forums and other places where would-be writers congregate . . . to complain about the difficulties of their chosen profession.


“Can’t write . . . bang head on laptop.”

“I think you might want to take a look at this,” Twellman says to Turbek, and the older woman leaves her desk to peer over the younger’s shoulder.  “Oh my God–good catch!” Turbek says as reads a Facebook “status” update by Michelle Bromley, an M.F.A. in writing candidate at Skidmore.  “Can’t write today,” Bromley says.  “So I’m riffing on repressive ‘simultaneous submission’ policies at literary quarterlies that put my life on hold while I wait for rejections!”

“Leave this one to me,” Turbek says, and the younger woman scoots her chair aside.  “Let me quote you a line from The Godfather, girlie,” Turbek taps out on Bromley’s Facebook page, and Twellman recoils at the ferocity with which the seasoned pro cracks away at her keyboard.  “Nunzio–why do you complain?  This is the life you have chosen.  Capiche?”


“You’re not giving your work the proper respect.”

Soon the fruitless activity emanating from the young writer ceases, a sign that she has turned back to her work from a diversion that has slowed the progress of her coming-of-age novel to such a crawl her advisor estimates she’ll be eligible for Social Security before she completes it.  “For once somebody listens to me,” Turbek says as she pops a piece of licorice in her mouth.

She returns to her work station and checks out the “blog” of Todd Raymond, a client who sought her out when he was “blocked” writing a screenplay about the dissolute life of a young man much like himself living in New York City.  “WAY too much to drink last night,” Raymond has written.  “Woke up at noon, showered, off to brunch and maybe a hair-of-the-dog mimosa with friends!”


“On the other hand, ass hanging around in bar equals . . . nothing.”

Turbek scrolls down to the bottom of the “post” and adds a comment that is pithy, to-the-point, and merciless.  “Let me quote you a line from one of your heroes, Oliver Stone,” she writes: ‘Ass + Seat = Writing.’  You could waste another day, or you could maybe–for once–be tough on yourself AND ACTUALLY WRITE SOMETHING!”

There is a lag of about a minute before a reply appears:  “Okay Maggie–you got me.  I’ll stay in today.”

That’s not good enough for Turbek, who fires right back “And no J-E-T-S Jets! game on TV, either, mister.”


“Get back to your desk and stop wasting your time watching idiots like me!”

The blog goes silent after that final smack-down, so Turbek starts to check out some other clients in her stable, typing in their last names with an ampersand in the middle to see if she can catch them commiserating in a writer’s chatroom.  “What a couple of pansies,” she says with disgust, loudly enough for her assistant to hear.

“What?” Twellman asks, hoping to pick up some pointers she can use someday to hang out her shingle as a writing coach herself.

“They’re trading ‘prompts,’” Turbek says with ill-disguised contempt.  She quickly logs on to the site–icantwrite.com–chooses a user name and a password and breaks into the discussion with a ice-cold blast of realism. “Thinking of something to write about is half the battle!” she snaps at the two tyros.  “Do you think Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes traded ‘prompts’?  Hawthorne and Melville?  Lie down and think about something that made you cry, or made you scared if you have to.  DON’T ASK SOMEBODY TO BE CREATIVE FOR YOU!”

“O-kay,” says Cynthia Ward-Nathan, a freelancer who had just suggested “Why I’m Dreading My 10th High School Reunion!” as the prompt of the day.  “Well, uh, my writing coach is making me cry and making me scared–I guess I’ll write about that.”

62 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

Uncategorized

////

Blog at WordPress.com
Theme: Esquire by Matthew Buchanan.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 73 other followers