Yesterday, Brian Keene wrote a touching blog post called "A Little Warmth Against the Winter Chill." In it, he writes about the pleasure of spending time with younger writers whose hearts had not yet hardened, whose enthusiasm blazes bright warms the people near them. Making art day in and out is tiring, and it's never easy when people repeatedly try to screw you.
I'll never be able to be objective about Brian Keene. He has, more than anyone else in this business, been a mentor to me. When I was starting out, he had a website called World Domination 101. It laid out the principles that any writer needs to follow in order to get anywhere. Write as much as you can. And value your writing. As someone who did not initially understand the value of his writing, this was excellent advice. And I pass it on to anyone who needs it. Do not accept bad terms for what you have worked so hard to create. Value yourself, value your work. He was the first professional to say that he thought I could make it to being a full-time writer. Which I haven't yet, but it's something I'm striving for. For someone who makes art, the good word of someone who makes good, successful art is huge.
Did I mention that his book Dark Hollow is one of the best books I've ever read? And now I have spent time with the man who wrote it, being interviewed for his podcast. I try to express my gratitude often. I have watched too many people go away, or have near-misses. Thank you for the inspiration, and encouragement, Brian. You have made a tremendous difference in my writing, and my career.
And yes, I will be continuing the Heap series.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Farewell, Might Hunter Egil
It's hard to say good-bye to a companion of nineteen years.
Egil was my first cat, my first pet as an adult. Hadn't much thought about pets, but the Queen of Science and I were living with another couple who had cats, and I discovered that I liked them. When one, Lucifer, died, we went to the pound to pick up a replacement. And came home with Egil.
Everyone knows their cat is special. Egil wasn't the smartest cat I had ever met, but he was affectionate without being clingy. I've met dick cats, overly-affectionate cats, demanding cats, and all other sorts. Egil was just my sort, and I suspect that was because we influenced each other of such a long period. We got him nineteen years ago, at around six months old, so he grew up with us.
At a funeral, you tell the good stories.
We adopted Egil in California. When we had just gotten him, we put his litter pan in the bathroom off our bedroom, and kept him with us at night. About five minutess after the lights went out, we would start with these plaintive meows, as if he were a lost child. So we would scratch at the blankets and encoutrage him to come to the bed, and that usually took five minutes. But he'd settle down, usually on top of me, purr, drool, and fall asleep. To me he has always been that lost voice in the dark, looking for comfort.
Egil was the inventor of nut-hockey. One Christmas, we set out a big bowl of uncracked nuts. Pretty soon we got tired of cracking them, so they sat around. Until Egil discovered them. He would scoop a nut out, and then smack it around the wooden floor, chasing it across the room until it inevitably fell down the heat register. He'd try to fish it out, and after a little while, give up, then go back for another. I have no idea how many nuts we lost down that register.
We drove Egil from San Francisco to Vermont. He hated it. He spend at least four hours every day crying, mostly about being in a cage for so long. At the beginning the trip, we bought him this kitty bed made of foam so he could snuggle down in it. He shredded it into a heap of cotton balls over the course of five days.
He forgave me. Because he loved me. He really did. When I took him to the vet for the first time in Vermont, he was confused and angry, the way cats are at the vet. To calm him down on the exam table, I gave him a little skritch behind the ears. Which that got a purr from him, and that was what I wanted. But he was still purring when the vet started the checkup. "He's purring so loudly I can't hear his heart." I shrugged. Not much I could do. So he turned on the sink tap, picked Egil up, and brought him near the running water. Egil stopped purring, untl he was set down on the exam table next to me again. And he started purring, without me even tuching him. The vet had to wave him at the water a second time to get him to stop.
On a day when men came to the apartment to repair the windows, we didn't want Egil to make a break for it. Once, he'd jumped out of a second story window into asphault. So we closed him in the laundry room. When the men were gone, we couldn't find him. And it's not like the laundry room was huge. After fifteen minutes, we heard a paintive meow. He was in the washing machine. Somewhere, I have a picture of him, big eyes staring out of the waching machine. And it's really difficult to get a cat out of a one of those. My arms don't bend the proper way.
Until he was seventeen, Ael loved mice. LOVED them. Ate them with gusto, and never, as far as I saw, played with them. He threw up virtually every sort of food we gave him, especially as his renal failure began to kick in. But every mouse he ever ate stayed eaten.
The house is quiet. I've dug a small grave in the back yard. It's been a difficult year. Now there won't be a little guy waiting for me when I get home, looking for food or lap time. I'm going to miss him. There are other cats, but none of them is Egil.
Farewell, Might Hunter Egil. I hope it's nothing but salmon and mice, warm sunbeams, and all the lap time you ever wanted.
Egil was my first cat, my first pet as an adult. Hadn't much thought about pets, but the Queen of Science and I were living with another couple who had cats, and I discovered that I liked them. When one, Lucifer, died, we went to the pound to pick up a replacement. And came home with Egil.
Everyone knows their cat is special. Egil wasn't the smartest cat I had ever met, but he was affectionate without being clingy. I've met dick cats, overly-affectionate cats, demanding cats, and all other sorts. Egil was just my sort, and I suspect that was because we influenced each other of such a long period. We got him nineteen years ago, at around six months old, so he grew up with us.
At a funeral, you tell the good stories.
We adopted Egil in California. When we had just gotten him, we put his litter pan in the bathroom off our bedroom, and kept him with us at night. About five minutess after the lights went out, we would start with these plaintive meows, as if he were a lost child. So we would scratch at the blankets and encoutrage him to come to the bed, and that usually took five minutes. But he'd settle down, usually on top of me, purr, drool, and fall asleep. To me he has always been that lost voice in the dark, looking for comfort.
Egil was the inventor of nut-hockey. One Christmas, we set out a big bowl of uncracked nuts. Pretty soon we got tired of cracking them, so they sat around. Until Egil discovered them. He would scoop a nut out, and then smack it around the wooden floor, chasing it across the room until it inevitably fell down the heat register. He'd try to fish it out, and after a little while, give up, then go back for another. I have no idea how many nuts we lost down that register.
We drove Egil from San Francisco to Vermont. He hated it. He spend at least four hours every day crying, mostly about being in a cage for so long. At the beginning the trip, we bought him this kitty bed made of foam so he could snuggle down in it. He shredded it into a heap of cotton balls over the course of five days.
He forgave me. Because he loved me. He really did. When I took him to the vet for the first time in Vermont, he was confused and angry, the way cats are at the vet. To calm him down on the exam table, I gave him a little skritch behind the ears. Which that got a purr from him, and that was what I wanted. But he was still purring when the vet started the checkup. "He's purring so loudly I can't hear his heart." I shrugged. Not much I could do. So he turned on the sink tap, picked Egil up, and brought him near the running water. Egil stopped purring, untl he was set down on the exam table next to me again. And he started purring, without me even tuching him. The vet had to wave him at the water a second time to get him to stop.
On a day when men came to the apartment to repair the windows, we didn't want Egil to make a break for it. Once, he'd jumped out of a second story window into asphault. So we closed him in the laundry room. When the men were gone, we couldn't find him. And it's not like the laundry room was huge. After fifteen minutes, we heard a paintive meow. He was in the washing machine. Somewhere, I have a picture of him, big eyes staring out of the waching machine. And it's really difficult to get a cat out of a one of those. My arms don't bend the proper way.
Until he was seventeen, Ael loved mice. LOVED them. Ate them with gusto, and never, as far as I saw, played with them. He threw up virtually every sort of food we gave him, especially as his renal failure began to kick in. But every mouse he ever ate stayed eaten.
The house is quiet. I've dug a small grave in the back yard. It's been a difficult year. Now there won't be a little guy waiting for me when I get home, looking for food or lap time. I'm going to miss him. There are other cats, but none of them is Egil.
Farewell, Might Hunter Egil. I hope it's nothing but salmon and mice, warm sunbeams, and all the lap time you ever wanted.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Media Properties
Yesterday, I picked up Hellblazer #300. The final issue.
I'm sad. John Constantine, the archetypal Sweary British Mage, has been a fixture for more than half of my life. I've got more comics featuring the character than I can comfortably lift. The most popular section of my website is dedicated to John Constantine. And now he's gone, subsumed into a younger, blander version of himself without any sort of ties to the culture that he grew up in.
That's the John Constantine in the DCUniverse, the new 52. He's younger and nobs around with Zatanna, the Phantom Stranger, Frankenstein's creature. But he's not much of a character. Original John Constantine was rooted in the punk of the 70's and 80's. He was a member of a spectacularly failed band (Mucous Membrane). This gave him a center, a starting point. His disrespect for authority, his iconoclasm and cynicism made perfect sense, because I understood the movement he came from, the zeitgeist from which he was born. The desperate 70's were his formative years.
This depth came from the minds of Alan Moore, Steve Bissette, Rick Veitch and John Totleben. They looked around and created a character that was from their time. And people responded to John Constantine. He was something new--a working-class mage. Until Constantine, comics magic weilders have been remote mages, men with towers, women with witches terrible powers. John was different. He was a magical mechanic, not getting involved in the ritual of magic, but doing the necessary things in order to get the desired result. If the words are the thing, then why not just say them, rather than intoning them? Was a copper-inlaid pentacle really necessary, or would a quick chalk one on a linoleum floor be just as useful? This practical approach was unique, stripping away the mysticism and obfuscation, as well as the overblown speeches. Dr. Strange has all sorts of charms and talismans, the Specter is the Veneance of God, Dr. Fate channels the power of whichever Egyptian god through his helmet, the Phantom Stanger has some strange origin story. John as none of these. He wasn't a doctor, a mystic, or Judas. He was a self-made sorcerer who got into magic as a way to impress the girls. He came from a poor family, ran away when he was 16. Never went to college.
As such, he was always an iconoclast, and a smart one. He has never been a hero, because heroes do the right thing. John was a ruthless bastard who looked at the big picture and kept his eye on it, often at a personal cost, or to the cost of a friend. That said, what he did always needed doing. And after the price was paid, he usually got drunk. We've even seem him cry a time or two. Constantine was that small person who moved the wheels of the world because they had to. Not because they were getting fame or glory. He was easy to relate to, because he wore his faults and vices on his sleeve. He smoked, he drank, he cursed. All of these motions and emotions made him human, someone I could relate to.
He changed as different writers wrote him differently. Jamie Delano's Constantine was very different from Garth Ennis's Irish Rebel, Mike Carey's masterful manipulator. All these were different and yet recognizeable as the same person. But there were some authors who didn't get it, who didn't understand the point of planting your feet, and flipping off God, the Devil, and the police simply because it needed to be done. And ultimately, this was Constantine's downfall.
Because Constantine was a media property. The media he appeared in was produced on a deadline, and that had to be hit, whether the writer had a good idea or not. And since the creators weren't willing to write him for more than a decade, the chore had to be passed on to someone else. And so there were John stories that were from individuals who didn't really understand what he was about. Certainly the film that used the Constantine name was pretty clueless. As, sadly, was the last man to write the comic. But that's what happens when a character is a media property.
And so one of my favorite favoirte media properties flicks his ciggie into the bushes and heads out for Pubs Unknown. There's going to be a hole in my life for a while. But I'll always have those brilliant issues, and when I want, I can open up a box of comics and visit the good old days.
I'm sad. John Constantine, the archetypal Sweary British Mage, has been a fixture for more than half of my life. I've got more comics featuring the character than I can comfortably lift. The most popular section of my website is dedicated to John Constantine. And now he's gone, subsumed into a younger, blander version of himself without any sort of ties to the culture that he grew up in.
That's the John Constantine in the DCUniverse, the new 52. He's younger and nobs around with Zatanna, the Phantom Stranger, Frankenstein's creature. But he's not much of a character. Original John Constantine was rooted in the punk of the 70's and 80's. He was a member of a spectacularly failed band (Mucous Membrane). This gave him a center, a starting point. His disrespect for authority, his iconoclasm and cynicism made perfect sense, because I understood the movement he came from, the zeitgeist from which he was born. The desperate 70's were his formative years.
This depth came from the minds of Alan Moore, Steve Bissette, Rick Veitch and John Totleben. They looked around and created a character that was from their time. And people responded to John Constantine. He was something new--a working-class mage. Until Constantine, comics magic weilders have been remote mages, men with towers, women with witches terrible powers. John was different. He was a magical mechanic, not getting involved in the ritual of magic, but doing the necessary things in order to get the desired result. If the words are the thing, then why not just say them, rather than intoning them? Was a copper-inlaid pentacle really necessary, or would a quick chalk one on a linoleum floor be just as useful? This practical approach was unique, stripping away the mysticism and obfuscation, as well as the overblown speeches. Dr. Strange has all sorts of charms and talismans, the Specter is the Veneance of God, Dr. Fate channels the power of whichever Egyptian god through his helmet, the Phantom Stanger has some strange origin story. John as none of these. He wasn't a doctor, a mystic, or Judas. He was a self-made sorcerer who got into magic as a way to impress the girls. He came from a poor family, ran away when he was 16. Never went to college.
As such, he was always an iconoclast, and a smart one. He has never been a hero, because heroes do the right thing. John was a ruthless bastard who looked at the big picture and kept his eye on it, often at a personal cost, or to the cost of a friend. That said, what he did always needed doing. And after the price was paid, he usually got drunk. We've even seem him cry a time or two. Constantine was that small person who moved the wheels of the world because they had to. Not because they were getting fame or glory. He was easy to relate to, because he wore his faults and vices on his sleeve. He smoked, he drank, he cursed. All of these motions and emotions made him human, someone I could relate to.
He changed as different writers wrote him differently. Jamie Delano's Constantine was very different from Garth Ennis's Irish Rebel, Mike Carey's masterful manipulator. All these were different and yet recognizeable as the same person. But there were some authors who didn't get it, who didn't understand the point of planting your feet, and flipping off God, the Devil, and the police simply because it needed to be done. And ultimately, this was Constantine's downfall.
Because Constantine was a media property. The media he appeared in was produced on a deadline, and that had to be hit, whether the writer had a good idea or not. And since the creators weren't willing to write him for more than a decade, the chore had to be passed on to someone else. And so there were John stories that were from individuals who didn't really understand what he was about. Certainly the film that used the Constantine name was pretty clueless. As, sadly, was the last man to write the comic. But that's what happens when a character is a media property.
And so one of my favorite favoirte media properties flicks his ciggie into the bushes and heads out for Pubs Unknown. There's going to be a hole in my life for a while. But I'll always have those brilliant issues, and when I want, I can open up a box of comics and visit the good old days.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sharing a Small Pleasure
A few years ago, we set up a 'pie' fence. A rhubarb patch and some raspberry canes--the sort that the locals call "black caps." It wasn't all that difficult, just transferred some brambles and canes that were crowded next to the garage out to the fence. It's worked like a charm, you can no longer see the ugly chain-link fence the previous owners had.
Our berry harvest is pretty astonishing. We pick twice a day so the birds won't get at them. And this is what we get:
The above represents two days worth of picking. Berries from our own yard... one of the small pleasures of living out of the city. They go really well on ice cream.
Our berry harvest is pretty astonishing. We pick twice a day so the birds won't get at them. And this is what we get:
The above represents two days worth of picking. Berries from our own yard... one of the small pleasures of living out of the city. They go really well on ice cream.
Friday, April 23, 2010
And next... off to fight a Green Knight
Having had a long, slow slog getting back to being energetic... I'm not thinking about myself as having Seasonal Affective Disorder. After all, I'm not so depressed that I can't get out of bed. I just miss the sun (see my Floating down the Nile posts) when it's not up for eight hours. But I'm not thinking of it as SAD. I am, however, scknowledging that I do slow down during the winter months.
I'm starting to refer to it as "Celtic Solar Hero." Gawain, in some stories, gains strength as the sun goes up during the day, and slowly loses is as the afternoon wears on. There are a few other examples of this sort of hero, none of which I can think of offhand. But I now think of myself this way. Although the sun remains a burning ball of hatred when its on full blast, it's also a source of strength.
I'm starting to refer to it as "Celtic Solar Hero." Gawain, in some stories, gains strength as the sun goes up during the day, and slowly loses is as the afternoon wears on. There are a few other examples of this sort of hero, none of which I can think of offhand. But I now think of myself this way. Although the sun remains a burning ball of hatred when its on full blast, it's also a source of strength.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Hard choices made more difficult
I've been underemployed for close to a year and a half. I need to get a better job. I've been on the job search for the past year, but it has been unsuccessful. The key to getting there is to make the search it a part-time job. To pound at the search relentlessly until something cracks.
I've got a part-time job. It pays some of the bills. I've got another part-time job. I write. Over the past week, I've stopped writing in order to concentrate more on the job search. What is making this difficult is that I'm being rewarded on my previous writing. And because I find the job search stressful.
Two people in the writing group have send me notes about how much they're enjoying the Current Project. That's unprecedented. The story, if I do say so myself, is very good. It will be published after it is finished and polished. And, on Saturday, I received my first pro-pay check for a story ("The Dark Horse" in Cthulhu 2012). That's something I've wanted for a very long time.
But right now, the short-term goals are more important than the long-term ones. And hopefully, when I have a new job, I'll be able to return to writing with a renewed sense of urgency. But I'm not very happy right now.
I've got a part-time job. It pays some of the bills. I've got another part-time job. I write. Over the past week, I've stopped writing in order to concentrate more on the job search. What is making this difficult is that I'm being rewarded on my previous writing. And because I find the job search stressful.
Two people in the writing group have send me notes about how much they're enjoying the Current Project. That's unprecedented. The story, if I do say so myself, is very good. It will be published after it is finished and polished. And, on Saturday, I received my first pro-pay check for a story ("The Dark Horse" in Cthulhu 2012). That's something I've wanted for a very long time.
But right now, the short-term goals are more important than the long-term ones. And hopefully, when I have a new job, I'll be able to return to writing with a renewed sense of urgency. But I'm not very happy right now.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Invitations
If there's anything that makes you feel like a part of the writers' community, it's getting an invitation from people whose work you respect. Over the past couple of months, I've received several invitations to submit to projects. It's a warm feeling.
Part of the reason I decided to write was because I like talking with them. I listened to Tim Powers speak at a book signing, and I knew that I wanted to have conversations with him and people like him. At NECON, I have spent wonderful hours talking about ideas with other writers. It's unimaginable fun to sit in a group of people who are throwing out ideas, with other people knocking them in utterly insane directions.
To my delight, I'm getting there. Hard work pays off, as does having the right phlebotomist.
Part of the reason I decided to write was because I like talking with them. I listened to Tim Powers speak at a book signing, and I knew that I wanted to have conversations with him and people like him. At NECON, I have spent wonderful hours talking about ideas with other writers. It's unimaginable fun to sit in a group of people who are throwing out ideas, with other people knocking them in utterly insane directions.
To my delight, I'm getting there. Hard work pays off, as does having the right phlebotomist.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Ars Brevis
For a change of pace, I helped out with a local ice sculpture contest on Saturday. Have I ever carved ice before? Heck no! But the Geek Bar sponsored it, and a friend asked for volunteers. We didn't win (that went to the guy who brought power tools), but I think we did pretty well.
As you look at these pictures, it should be noted that I spend a total of an hour working this, while the Primary Artists worked more than four hours each. So any glory I get is pretty much riding on their frozen coat-tails. Some people weren't quite sure what it was (working in a clear medium is more difficult than it appears), so I carved the name of the ship in the hull. I think that helped people figure it out.
As you look at these pictures, it should be noted that I spend a total of an hour working this, while the Primary Artists worked more than four hours each. So any glory I get is pretty much riding on their frozen coat-tails. Some people weren't quite sure what it was (working in a clear medium is more difficult than it appears), so I carved the name of the ship in the hull. I think that helped people figure it out.
Monday, November 2, 2009
What a Halloween weekend should be
The Queen of Science and I traveled to Connecticut for a good friend's party, and it was most excellent. The costumes were great. We had a magnificent Genghis Khan, a delightful Snow Queen, a touch of steampunk, more birds than anyone anticipated, several devils, and a really awesome pair of French Maids. Even better, the conversations were quite interesting: the Snow Queen knows a very diverse group of friends, and at any point, there were at least two interesting conversations going within earshot. She is also a divine cook, and a hostess of the diligent, attentive old school.
Side note to college-aged trick-or-treaters: wearing a T-shirt that tells us which college you are going to actually reduces the likelihood of receiving candy.
Sunday morning, I staggered on sleepy legs to be script doctor and director of photography for Iren Bear's "Thanks Wargamers" video. I'm amazed at how little time it takes for Iren Bear to put together something solid and well-edited on Youtube. In it, he thanks the voters for his win (see previous post). This video also is the first to feature him, and features a hilarious cameo from Mrs. Iren Bear. Give it a watch if you're at all geeky: Iren Bear writes a concise, funny video.
Side note to college-aged trick-or-treaters: wearing a T-shirt that tells us which college you are going to actually reduces the likelihood of receiving candy.
Sunday morning, I staggered on sleepy legs to be script doctor and director of photography for Iren Bear's "Thanks Wargamers" video. I'm amazed at how little time it takes for Iren Bear to put together something solid and well-edited on Youtube. In it, he thanks the voters for his win (see previous post). This video also is the first to feature him, and features a hilarious cameo from Mrs. Iren Bear. Give it a watch if you're at all geeky: Iren Bear writes a concise, funny video.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
And Now the Dreams
Whenever I'm coming off a big pile of stress, I get very vivid dreams I can remember. Most of the time, I sleep soundly, and don't remember my dreams. The week or ten days following something stressful, this changes. So last week was a big one for strange things happening in my sleep.
These aren't anxiety dreams or nightmares, they just seem to be my brain letting off some steam after being put through a wringer. But the nature of them has changed since I noticed this trend twenty years ago. I used to get just flashes of nonsensical scenes mashed together with weird emotional cues. Now I seem to get plots. Not necessarily good plots, but events to definitely chain with each other.
Hm. There's an observation about amateur neurolinguistic programming in there, but I'm not sure what it should be.
These aren't anxiety dreams or nightmares, they just seem to be my brain letting off some steam after being put through a wringer. But the nature of them has changed since I noticed this trend twenty years ago. I used to get just flashes of nonsensical scenes mashed together with weird emotional cues. Now I seem to get plots. Not necessarily good plots, but events to definitely chain with each other.
Hm. There's an observation about amateur neurolinguistic programming in there, but I'm not sure what it should be.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Big Four Oh!
April 7, 2009. The weather is cold, the rain is interspersed with snow and sleet. I am officially forty.
And it's awesome.
I've recently learned that I am not the only child of the eighties who thought I would never be this old. Reagan's hawk posturing (later softened) led me to believe that there was going to be at least a 'limited nuclear exchange' at some point in the near future, and I would be dead before I was thirty-five. If you didn't live through the eighties, read Watchmen, Dark Knight Returns, watch Quiet Earth or read the rulebook for Gamma World. In school, we read Benet's By the Waters of Babylon, and The Planet of the Apes was a regular on television. So according to my inner seventeen year-old, every day after thirty-five has been a bonus.
But that's not the best reason to celebrate today. This morning I received a miscellany of comments from friends, organized by the Queen of Science. If an individual's wealth is measured by the friends he has and the company he keeps, then I am rich beyond Gordon Gecko's wildest dreams of avarice. I have the best friends and family in the world, and I married an incredibly wonderful woman. I am both humbled and moved by this gift of love. Thank you, my friends.
And it's awesome.
I've recently learned that I am not the only child of the eighties who thought I would never be this old. Reagan's hawk posturing (later softened) led me to believe that there was going to be at least a 'limited nuclear exchange' at some point in the near future, and I would be dead before I was thirty-five. If you didn't live through the eighties, read Watchmen, Dark Knight Returns, watch Quiet Earth or read the rulebook for Gamma World. In school, we read Benet's By the Waters of Babylon, and The Planet of the Apes was a regular on television. So according to my inner seventeen year-old, every day after thirty-five has been a bonus.
But that's not the best reason to celebrate today. This morning I received a miscellany of comments from friends, organized by the Queen of Science. If an individual's wealth is measured by the friends he has and the company he keeps, then I am rich beyond Gordon Gecko's wildest dreams of avarice. I have the best friends and family in the world, and I married an incredibly wonderful woman. I am both humbled and moved by this gift of love. Thank you, my friends.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Did You Know?
Ten Top Trivia Tips about John Goodrich!
- In his entire life, John Goodrich will produce only a twelfth of a teaspoon of honey.
- Contrary to popular belief, John Goodrich is not successful at sobering up a drunk person, and in many cases he may actually increase the adverse effects of alcohol!
- A John Goodrichometer is used to measure John Goodrich.
- John Goodrich is the largest of Saturn's moons!
- Birds do not sleep in John Goodrich, though they may rest in him from time to time!
- Human beings are the only animals that copulate while facing John Goodrich!
- If you toss John Goodrich 10000 times, he will not land heads 5000 times, but more like 4950, because his head weighs more and thus ends up on the bottom!
- Twenty-eight percent of Microsoft's employees are John Goodrich.
- John Goodrich was declared extinct in 1902.
- John Goodrichology is the study of John Goodrich.
And thank God for #6!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
It's 2007, and I’m not going to my 20th high school reunion
In a misguided fit of nostalgia, I joined classmates dot com last year. This was partially because one of my classmates, who I didn’t know particularly well, died in a snowmobile accident in my local county.
And so nostalgia reared its head. I signed up with classmates dot com, and viewed the profiles and a few pictures from people I hadn’t seen or heard from in nineteen years. I’ll point out here that I wasn’t your typical social outcast by the time I got to high school–I was voted ‘class individual’ by my graduating class. Or at least, one of four class individuals, which will tell the perceptive a great deal about the people I graduated with.
Anyway, I signed up with classmates dot com and checked out the other people who’d had fits of nostalgia. And I remember, very distinctly, running across someone and thinking “he learned how to use email?” That broke the nostalgia spell pretty well, especially as I remembered that I didn’t particularly like a lot of the people I graduated with.
Not that I hated them, but they are a total of four hundred people who are pretty much irrelevant to my life at this point in time. I don’t agonize about what I did in high school, nor am I tortured by the treatment I received. I break out the yearbook less than once every three years. High School is pretty much a non subject with me. I moved on. There were other things to do, other places to go and both were more interesting than Newington High.
Class of 1987. For the most part, I wish you well.
And so nostalgia reared its head. I signed up with classmates dot com, and viewed the profiles and a few pictures from people I hadn’t seen or heard from in nineteen years. I’ll point out here that I wasn’t your typical social outcast by the time I got to high school–I was voted ‘class individual’ by my graduating class. Or at least, one of four class individuals, which will tell the perceptive a great deal about the people I graduated with.
Anyway, I signed up with classmates dot com and checked out the other people who’d had fits of nostalgia. And I remember, very distinctly, running across someone and thinking “he learned how to use email?” That broke the nostalgia spell pretty well, especially as I remembered that I didn’t particularly like a lot of the people I graduated with.
Not that I hated them, but they are a total of four hundred people who are pretty much irrelevant to my life at this point in time. I don’t agonize about what I did in high school, nor am I tortured by the treatment I received. I break out the yearbook less than once every three years. High School is pretty much a non subject with me. I moved on. There were other things to do, other places to go and both were more interesting than Newington High.
Class of 1987. For the most part, I wish you well.
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