[Surrogate's Blog]
A day without surrogate, is like any other day, except... without surrogate.Could you?
2007-04-29
Good morning Boys and Girls.I'm watching one of my all time favorite movies right now, "Defending Your Life."
Flipped on the tube to watch the Sunday Morning talking head news shows and it's on with an hour to go or so, and as usual when I run across it, I can't turn it off.
Albert Brooks and Meryl Streep are wonderful, and his hilarious "Bob Diamond" is the best role Rip Torn's ever had.
I know every damn line in the movie the way others know "Rocky Horror," and find myself doing the more memorable lines along with the characters.
Won't go into the plot, but I swear, if you're ever in the mood to see a truly imaginatively and uplifting screen-play brought to life by some of the very best in the business...? Well, this movie I can, (and do) watch, at least a couple of times a year.
I've been in a remarkably good mood the last week or so, and had actually thought about either renting it or picking it up at the library, so this is especially nice.
Ahhhh.
Be good to everyone.
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BANG!
2007-04-27
Good morning Boys and Girls.Wednesday afternoon, I'd just gotten home. I was hungry and started making some food right away.
One cup of rice, one and a half cups of water, a pinch of salt and a couple of drops of oil; turned up the burner.
Looked in the fridge to see what I'd add to the rice when it was done. Pulled out some celery, part of a red pepper, an onion and a jar of crushed garlic.
Brought it to a boil, covered it and turned the flame down as low as it'll go, and came down here to check email and the like while it cooked for twenty minutes or so.
Cat walked into the room to say hello, and jumped up on my lap. We relaxed for a minute or two and...
Bang!
Something had fallen HARD somewhere in the house. What the...?
Trying to imagine the direction the sound had come from, I started the search. Kitchen? Mmm. No. Nothing obvious. Living room. Nope. Garage? It is attached... maybe... nope. Upstairs, all three rooms. Nada. Hmmm.
The rice smelled done, checked it and turned it off. Spent another ten or fifteen minutes looking all over the place, I mean whatever it was made a LOUD noise. Surely...
Finally gave up and, and as the evening wore on, forgot about it. The rice was good. Caramelized the veggies and garlic in a hot skillet, then added the cooked rice for five or six minutes... spices... a little salt and a lot of pepper... Great.
Yesterday morning I went through two pots of coffee, spent another hour or so editing the story before I decided that the rain was NOT going to stop anytime soon and I might as well face it and get ready for work.
Stepped into the shower, and directly onto the plastic shower-stuff holder that had held my shampoo, razor, soap and my extra "shower" tooth brush I use when I'm really running late, that had been secured to the wall via suction cups...
...and I didn't get it right away...
About ten seconds elapsed between the time I bent over and started picking up all my stuff from the floor in the shower there and finally connecting it with the previous afternoon's "Bang!"
Be good to everyone.
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I no rite gud, but I try!
2007-04-25
Good morning Boys and Girls!Raining here, not hard; just a morning shower I'd guess.
I'm in that annoying stage right now where I spend every spare minute editing. So far? Over a thousand simple corrections, and that's before I change a single sentence substantially.
Get this: In twelve places I actually used the wrong character's name. For instance I'd say "And Snoopy said..." instead of "And Charlie Brown said..."
I've found thirty-five places where I used the word "and" instead of "an."
Fourteen places where "though" became "thought," (or vice versa.)
Hundreds of misplaced punctuation marks, and hundreds more where I used the wrong ones - the most common being inserting a period where I meant to place a comma. like right here.
And the most difficult problems for me to catch? Easy. Especially in long sentences, I have a very difficult time noticing when I've gradually switched tenses.
I really wish I'd paid more attention in in English class...
Oh yeah, see in the sentence above where I've repeated the word "in?"
Must have caught a couple hundred occurrences where I've done that, and frigging spell check doesn't catch it either. Wonder how many I've still missed?
Anyone ever use the grammar check feature? I tried. I really did. Every sentence ended up sounding like it had been written by Queen Elizabeth's speech writer. I mean... Yuck!
It is fun though. I find myself laughing at me a lot, which is never bad.
Want to find a whole new level of humility? Write something really long - and then correct it yourself.
Be good to everyone.
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Snippet last.
2007-04-16
Good morning Boys and Girls.First, an apology to friends I've ignored the last couple of weeks. The lousy weather here has allowed me to work on the novel I started the first of the year eight or ten hours a day the last couple weeks, instead of the one or two I'd spent each morning.
The good thing about this, is that when you get into it, and limit your distractions, there's a synergistic thrust to what you get done, meaning that a single eight hour session can be equal to a dozen or more one hour sessions. Or, at least that's what has seemed to occurr.
I finished the first draft Saturday evening, at least a month earlier than I'd planned, and, as I told my son in an email last night, of the seventy-seven thousand or so words, at least a dozen of them are not half-bad and in the right order; the fact that they're all in different chapters notwithstanding.
So here's a final tiny snippet:
..................
Ronnie showed up about seven and after the hugs and quickie chitchat we were on the road ten minutes later. I asked he if he wanted me to drive, since he’d just made the hundred and fifty mile trip coming the other way.
“Nah. I brought some coffee and had a couple of cups on my way over.” He reached down and grabbed a plaid-printed thermos. “You guys want some?”
“Mmmm. I do,” Clara said from the bench seat behind us where she was settling in. She’d insisted I ride up front with Ronnie and I fiddled hopelessly with the screw off cup and cap, trying to pour the coffee on the bumpiest rode in town. I managed to give Clara half a cup, which was all I dared pour just then and she she cracked wise about my generosity, or lack thereof.
“I’ll spill it if I pour any more. Just wait till we’re on the highway, would ya?”
“Yes sir.”
“Thank you.” I looked over at Ronnie and, shaking my head, said, “Women.” He glanced at me raising his eyebrows and making an “o” with his mouth.
About a tenth of a second later the back of my head was wet.
“Oops.” I heard from the back seat. “You’re right. This road is bumpy.”
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Imus...
2007-04-13
Good Morning Boys and Girls.
Okay. I'm going to weigh in on the Imus thing here...
I've been a fan for many many years. He is, and always has been, repugnant, callous, surly, bawdy, rude, crude and unrefined.
He is also generous and kind and has been an effective and loud voice for good causes that have had very few others speaking up, and speaking out, for them.
He is also VERY smart, despite his wacky taste in music and clothing.
Okay now this next is going to be hard for people who were NOT regular watchers and/or listeners to understand, but do me the honor of trusting me on on this, cuz I swear, it's so...
Imus had a way of making racist remarks, that to me, poked fun AT racism. It was clever and subtle and... was easily misunderstood, and often. Even THIS remark fit into this catagory, I think. No one, who was a regular listener, thought he was REALLY deliberately disparaging these women, though that's not to say they weren't and shouldn't have been offended.
I heard the remarks live and have seen them fifty times over the past week. As usual, when he'd make these sort of remarks, he'd drop his voice into a fake "cracker drawl" which to me, always meant he was saying "This is what moronic crackers are thinking."
Too cute? Yeah. Too easily misunderstood? You bet.
A firing offense? Sure, but ONLY if he meant it to be hurtful - which, unless I'm the worst judge of character in the history of man, I don't think he meant for it to be.
This was a guy who hopped on the bandwagon after Katrina, was instrumental in getting the death benefit for soldiers killed raised from six thousand dollars to HALF A MILLION, helped raise a hundred million dollars for children with cancer and the families of infants who've died of S.I.D.S. and then, just recently, helped raise fifty million for the Center for the Interpid for injured soldiers NOT being properly cared for by the very government responsible for their injuries.
Plus, of course, he's been running his Imus Ranch for kids with cancer for the last ten years.
This guy simply wasn't a hater. This was a guy whose style walked the edge; an edge he, admittedly, from time to time, completely obliterated.
I keep wondering this: who'll take up the slack on all the good things he used his abilities and his bully pulpit to provide?
For sure, this is true: if I thought he was a racist, I wouldn't have been watching and listening all these years.
On the other hand, I sure understand the way this made people feel.
Regardless, the networks have spoken.
My two cents.
Be good to everyone.
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Mourning the loss of one of my favorite people...
2007-04-12
Good morning Boys and Girls.
Today I mourn the loss of Kurt Vonnegut.
I loved the man. As a human being, he was national treasure; a thoughtful, caring and deeply insightful individual who, for many decades, cleverly and continuously skewered the foibles of the society in which he lived for 84 years - till yesterday.
His "pessimistic" public persona, which he cultivated in his writings, to me, was nothing more than a tweaked extension of his personal hope and worry for the world.
He was a realist, to be sure. He knew in his heart as every thinking person I knows does, that without change, this world, at least as we know it, is not long for the universe. Christian leaders, especially those who seem to be awaiting Armageddon with lust, castigated his writings with the very sort of venom he warned against, usually in his patented innocuous and simple prose.
Over his five decade career he wrote about factories and the mechanization of our world, the explosion of technology and it's affects on civil society, space travel, religion, poverty, the dangers of hypocrisy - especially in the powerful, mental illness, and love.
He loved a lot; heart achingly so.
I was once privy to a long personal letter he wrote to the father of a friend of mine in which he talked at length about his worry over his son Mark as he worked through a period of mental illness, which Mark later wrote about himself; and eloquently so.
Been expecting his death for a few years now, but I still feel a real sense of loss. Though I don't share his talent, didn't know him in the least, I've usually felt like he was a kindred spirit; one who thought thoughts and spoke words I wish I had the brains, creativity and heart to think and say.
I'll miss him a lot.
So it goes.
Be good to everyone.
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April 10th.
2007-04-10
Good morning Boys and Girls.First, an admission of an error in judgment, or at least in prognostication.
I said, at the time of the '06 elections, when gas prices dropped so quickly, that by Easter they'd be back up to $3.00 a gallon and that the drop was nothing more than an effort to help maintain the status quo.
Looks like I was off by a couple of weeks. The national average for unleaded regular as of yesterday morning was $2.86.
I love the new explanation the oil companies have used the last few years that gas prices "always" go up a lot in the summer during heavy "drive time."
I have a friend who owns three gas stations in the Detroit area and has for decades. He's explained to me on many occasions that in years past, while it was true that the gas station owners might raise prices a penny or two prior to the holiday weekends, the wholesale prices never varied from season to season more than a percentage point or two - but then, that was before all the mergers, when there was more competition amongst the various companies.
Personally, I'd love to see gas prices taxed by another buck as part of an overall effort to find new ways to power our cars, heat our homes and the like. But, at least for now, with the current bunch of people running things, I realize that particular dream is "of pipe."
Out my window this morning, every twig, branch, every blade of grass, and leaf on the ground, is frosty white.
April 10th?
Be good to everyone.
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Easter in surrogateville.
2007-04-08
Good morning Boys and Girls and Happy Easter.Today celebrates the belief held by many Christians that Christ rose from the dead three days after the cruel, though ridiculously common act, of nailing him to a cross.
I too, along with millions of others, celebrate the idea that faith cannot be kept dead simply by killing the messenger, though I do not believe that Jesus physically rose from his tomb. My faith is in the message Jesus taught in as many different ways as there were opportunities for him to preach to groups of people during the three years he worked in his field.
I wish people would remember the style Jesus used to make his points.
He used stories. He made things up. He embellished.
Was he a liar? Many Christians use the resurrection as a "litmus test" for Jesus himself. Many say that if he did not truly rise from the dead, it is tantamount to proving he was a fraud. -This, actually used as an argument as to why believing in the magic and the miracles surrounding the story of Jesus is necessary to "being" a Christian.
I find this "logic" absurd.
I find it as just another thing Jesus himself would shake his head at in dismay were he to show up again; ironic since these same people are convinced he will do just that at some time in the very near future. (It's ALWAYS in the very near future, generation after generation - the "signs" always pointing to the day after tomorrow...)
Jesus, the man, is dead. -Has been for just about nineteen hundred and seventy-odd years. He was killed by people who were offended by his message and his metaphors. Killed by people who didn't "get it."
We are left with what HE said are the most important things we can do to live a good life - regardless if you think he spoke literally at all times, or that, as I do, he tailored his message so it would be best understood by the specific audience he spoke to at any given time.
Let's let Christ's teachings be resurrected. Remember, Jesus wasn't the "original" born again Christian. He was an itinerant preacher with some really important things to say; so important, it killed him.
Let's prioritize like he did.
Here it is, distilled:
Love. Love God. Love your friends and enemies as you love yourself.
If you'd kill your God, or your friends - or yourself? -then go ahead and kill your enemies, or allow it to be done on your behalf.
If not? -then no excuse or rationale is good enough.
We can turn our cheeks as instructed.
Happy Easter.
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snippet 10
2007-04-06
We’d planned on staying the night at the party, something most of us had made a habit of doing at cast parties. Frankly, this practice had been suggested by the faculty members who helped with the musicals, most of whom themselves showed up at the parties for an hour or two... Different times. Still their logic was sound; they knew most of us would be trashed, and didn’t want to worry about us on the roads.In the basement of the house, a couple of joints were being passed around a good sized circle and the talk, as had been the case for most of the night, once the post-performance back-patting and self-congratulations were done with, centered around Alma and Mr. Pedersen.
It was well past midnight by now, and the alcohol and pot had taken hold to the point where even those people who’d refrained from imbibing were enjoying the antics and slurred speech of the rest of us.
Jorunn was sitting across the floor from Amanda and me, leaning against the bulk of Joe Stephan, an absolutely huge trombone player who crossed the lines easily between the athletic department and our little music world. He was the center on the school’s football team and a state ranked wrestler. Everybody loved Joe.
Jorunn fit in well and had, over the months, seemed to become quite comfortable among us, but was still quiet most of the time, at least quieter than we were. Her English, though better than it had been when she arrived, was still a little odd.
She sat up suddenly, and passed a joint to her left, not taking a hit herself. I hadn’t noticed whether she’d been smoking any earlier, but she certainly didn’t have any just then. Someone was saying that they didn’t think it was anyone’s business what Mr. Pedersen and Alma did in private as long as Alma wasn’t coerced into the situation.
This was hardly an original position amongst many of us, though I still didn’t like it; she was a student, and he was a married man. Still, I hadn’t weighed in, not wanting my opinion to come across as a public condemnation of either one of these people, both of whom I liked.
Jorunn, the second she’d let go of the joint, in a voice that was both louder and more serious than I’d ever heard her use before, said, “I agree. Sometimes there is such a sex need, possible it is not to have control. Is not possible, and to anyone, this can happen. It is the lust.”
...........................
It is, “the” lust.
Isn’t it?
...........................
The lust, it seemed, had impregnated Alma. Who am I to say whether “the love they shared,” as Alma liked to refer to it, was real as rain or something she’d created in that pretty little head of hers that was indeed real for her but less so for Mr. Pedersen. I do know that he didn’t seem to be trying to contact Alma to make plans for their great getaway into the sunset; hell, she hadn’t been able to get a hold of him since the very day of Mrs. Baver’s discovery of... well, discovery.
In fact, the last time Alma had seen Mr. Pedersen, he was pulling up his pants in panic and telling her to go straight home - presumably to brush her teeth.
If this had happened today, think of all the ways they would have been able to communicate: secret e-mail accounts; instant messaging; voice mail; cell phones... Though, I suppose none of that would have mattered if Mr. Pedersen didn’t want to hear from Alma, or didn’t feel the need to talk to her, which, from the looks of things, he didn’t.
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White Devil Snow
2007-04-05
Good morning Boys and Girls!It's a lovely January day here in Michigan. Not too much new snow last night; maybe an inch and a half. It's cold and so very windy that my sturdy tripod-based deer feeder blew over again. This is very upsetting in that it was designed and built by the same incredible mind that brought the world "Jesus Reporting by surrogate."
And wait a minute. It's not January. It's frigging APRIL!
Today, I made plans to play hooky with a friend of mine.
Last year he and I tried to steal away on four different occasions to play golf during the week. By the end of the season, it had become a joke. The first two times, it rained like crazy - which it had to, to keep us from playing, since a mere shower is not about to get the job done. Then in August, we'd both decided to take a Thursday afternoon off, confident the rain couldn't get us again. It didn't. Instead, his daughter decided to get appendicitis - something, he said, after she'd recovered from the operation and was well again and back on her feet - he was quite sure she'd secretly planned just to keep us from golfing.
I've never met his daughter, but I know how badly some women hate it when men play golf, especially when they ought to be working, so I accepted this logic unquestioningly.
In late September, we KNEW we'd be able to sneak away and made plans to do so, going so far as to make a tee time at a very expensive course, giving each other the mental high-five over the phone when we confirmed our plans for the next day. He lives about ninety miles away, which is why making the plans was a must and why a spur of the moment thing was never possible.
It poured. I mean... it POURED...
No biggie. It's just golf.
But this year? We figured we'd get it out of the way early.
Last week, as we both worked in shirtsleeves on Wednesday at the single account where we run into each other, we decided that we'd play today. It was about 75 degrees last Wednesday and I was actually sweating as I worked. I'd played the weekend before and was ready to rock. He'd played too and said he was hitting the ball well. Cool.
We set the big match for today.
Well?
It's a lovely January day here in Michigan. Not too much new snow last night; maybe an inch and a half. It's cold and so very windy that my sturdy tripod-based deer feeder blew over again...
Life is funny.
Be good to everyone.
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Making it up...
2007-04-03
Good morning Boys and Girls.
April 3rd.
As I struggle on toward the end of the first draft of the book I've been working on the last few months, I find the same thing happening that's happened during the writing of my two others: the closer you get to the end, the harder it gets.
After rereading the previous paragraph, I see it could be the answer to a joke/riddle. Why is writing a book like having... never mind. That was in poor taste.
In some respects, writing a novel is nothing more than weaving a lengthy and intricate lie. And, like all really good lies, it should have as many factual elements scattered into the story as possible to give it plausibility.
The difference, of course, is that a "lie" is usually told to deceive, while a decent novel, aside from hopefully being entertaining, is often meant to present little truths in a manner that may be more easily accepted and understood by the reader than simply stating them, list like, in a straightforward and dry litany. The challenge is making whatever points you hope to make without coming off preachy or stilted. It can be difficult, at least for me.
A zillion years ago, when I was youngster, one of the most popular books and movies of the day was the World War II era drama, "The Summer of '42." Some of you close to my age might remember this wonderfully written story about a young boy meeting and falling in love with a woman who, along the way, becomes a war widow.
'42 gave me a far greater understanding of the genuine anguish people suffered waiting for news of their loved ones overseas; far greater, in fact, than I'd ever had before even though I'd heard all about how awful it had been during the war throughout my childhood.
The story? A lie. But within the parameters of the story's plot and the characters suffering, a simple truth became crystal clear to me.
This example simply popped into my head, probably because I was so young when I experienced it and it seems to me it was one of the first times I remember coming away from a novel feeling as though I'd really learned something.
I don't pretend to have the talent to do "big stories" or make earthshaking pronouncements in what I write, but I'd like to think I have the perseverance to keep at it till I get it right regarding saying the little things I want to have said by virtue of the experiences I force my characters to endure.
So, it's with that in mind, that as I move on toward the last ten or fifteen percent of the text, I always find myself trying to figure out whether I've said what I'm hoping to say, and whether, at least to my ears and eyes, I've said it in a truthful way.
A strange exercise, isn't it? Am I lying truthfully?
Be good to everyone.
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