Being a Public Nuisance

So, on top of the new job, I am now the proud owner of lower ears. I received two things yesterday: a new haircut, and a shot.

I had to be talked into the haircut. I don't mind haircuts. Except for the fact that I never like the outcome -- which is probably more the result of me being terribly down on myself -- they're not terrible experiences. My aunt, my mother, she who is so dear to me all talked me into getting a shorter haircut that can be gelled into the "messy" look. Since that was three votes from three women I respect highly, I caved. They think it looks fantastic, so I'll take their word for it. Anyway, haircuts = not a big deal. Sitting in a chair while someone hacks off the fluffy curls that I get when I let my hair grow long isn't painful, and actually sometimes results in some nice conversations.

On the flip side, needles are the devil in every way. Shots are an outdated procedure, and a large source of physical and mental torture, in this age when we can land men on the moon and carry an entire library of books on a device about the size of a cigarette box or smaller. I also, I'm ashamed to admit, throw a huge fit when I have to get them. I complain for days in advance, and the complaining grows worse the closer the shot gets. On the plus side, this means I can never be a heroin user.

Because of my new job, I had to get tested for TB. I have never had a TB test before, but anything that has to do with needles or me losing blood to anybody else puts me on edge.

My girlfriend went with me and, God bless her, she should be optioned for sainthood for not strangling me in the waiting room. I complained the entire time about how they were going to stick me with the wrong concoction and then I'd be sent home in a pine box. When the nurse finally led me back there, I heard a kid crying, and started accusing the doctors of running an underground organization that tortured children and sold their tears on the black market. All this was in good nature, but to cover over how scared I actually was of the needle. I don't think my girlfriend realized how scared I really was until she saw the look on my face -- the look of panic in my eyes -- when I saw the needle.

"Are you serious? Do you see that thing? I thought they said it'd be tiny! You could harpoon a whale with that thing! I was thinking a quarter of an inch long, not two inches! Are you harvesting my marrow? You'll scrape my bone with that thing!"

My girlfriend is way too patient. She even managed to keep her cool when I began demanding blood for blood when the area I got the shot started bleeding.

On the way out the door, I was still ranting, so they gave me a sticker with a happy purple hippo on it that said, in big, happy, ironic letters, "I got a shot!" I accused the hippo of making a mockery of my traumatic experience, and obviously the hippo got it's jollies by laughing at my pain. Also, because the test left a bump for a few minutes, I began trying to convince my girlfriend that what they really did was give me an injection that would raise my body temperature to ridiculously high levels, and that bump was actually me boiling from the inside out.

Eventually, for the sake of our relationship, and my relationship with anybody that meant anything to me at all, I shut up. I consider it payback, though. Dearest One has had her moments where she has gone off on rants too -- usually in traffic when she sees a bumper sticker that contradicts her beliefs, or when she's cut off by some inconsiderate bozo. Once, she tried to tailgate and intimidate a diesel hauling a backhoe in her tiny little Ford. You just can't do that.

I may have been loud and obnoxious before and after the shot, but during, I was calm, quiet, and still as can be. There's something to be said when all you have to do is look into someone's eyes and know that everything is going to be okay.

Parallel Universes

One story idea that has always been a favorite of mine is parallel universes. Stories where the heroes travel to worlds are mirrors of eachother. I love to read stories where the worlds may resemble something close to what we know with minor differences, and stories where the alternate world has been wrecked because of some catastrophic event where Johnny McBoogernose was elected mayor in Hicksville, USA instead of Timmy Straightentrue.

When I was a freshmen in highschool, I discovered Stephen King's series The Dark Tower, and they remain some of my favorite books. I love how they explore alternate worlds and alternate time lines and the idea that the universe is like an onion in reverse -- there are layers of worlds stacked on layers of worlds and each one may only differ slighly, while some may be enormously different.

Well, oh denizens of the SoaM universe, I have invented a machine that will let you explore alternate dimensions. The diagram of my invention can be seen below, although it may be too technical for most of you unscientifical folk. Just trust me that I spent many hours perfecting this design.You may question the morality of this. "Jason," you may protest, "couldn't even glancing briefly at another world throw ours into chaos, much like messing with the time stream." "What is this, freakin' twenty questions?" I would reply with anger. Seriously, why in the world would you be questioning me anyway, I just invented a freakin' transdimensional portal generator. When my findings are reported to the International Scientists Organization and Recreational Center -- or I-Soars -- I'll be able to buy and sell you guys like goldfish anyway....

...anyway, until the boys in white coats recognize my excellence, I will offer free rides to anyone who wants to visit a few alternate dimensions. Remember, these things may frighten you, but just remember that this is only a demonstration and a real ride will cost you your first born child -- so, basically, cheaper than a full tank of gas.

Without further ado, SoaM of the Other Worlds: SoaM Beta, SoaM Gamma, SoaM Delta, SoaM Epsilon -- (this world calls their site "The" Scribblings of a Madman. Everyone knows that my scribblings are "THE" scribblings, all others are imitators. I'm SoaM Alpha.)

I hope you all enjoyed your trip. Please watch your step and thank you for travelling.

What Kind Of People Do I Attract?*

* Everything I'm about to tell you is 100% true. I didn't make any of these stories up.

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One of my friends recently sent me a quiz: "What Kind of People Do You Attract?" I took it two different times and got two different answers. Apparently I attract Geeks and Yuppies, depending on my mood. I'm fine with attracting Geeks. Geeks are awesome. Yuppies . . . I don't know. Well, from what I've seen today, I'm starting to wonder if I don't attract nutjobs as well.

At lunch today, I had a choice of cheese covered mush, hamburgers floating a yellowish, bubbly liquid, a hot dog shaped something, or pizza. So, fearing for my stomach, I went into the pizza line.

Because my friends and I were there earlier than usual, the lunchroom was more crowded than we were used to. I sighed inwardly when some muscle bound shmuck in a backwards cap and a striped shirt took the last piece of any of the pizza. That meant I'd have to wait in line for more, but, considering the alternative, it wasn't that bad.

While I was standing there with my hands in my pockets, waiting on the people to bring out some pizza, I had a total stranger walk up to me. He looked at me and frowned with concern. I was concerned too -- when someone you don't know is concerned about you, you should probably be concerned too. Then, he told me, "I hate to tell you this, but I'm afraid Buddha wants to steal your soul."

My first reaction was WTF?, but I've had experience with crazy people before** and I didn't want to offend the looney, so I responded with, "Thanks for the warning."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. I had encouraged him. He moved out of his line (the sandwich/hamburger line) and stood next to me and replied, "I only warn you because...he's Buddha! You don't know what he can do!"

Fearing that this person might take my polite response as an invitation for friendship, I replied "Yeah, man. Thanks. I'll keep my eye out."

Thankfully, that's all he needed to hear, because he nodded and wandered back into his own line talking to someone he knew -- or maybe some other poor chap -- saying, "Yeah, it's all a big conspiracy theory."

That was really the only eventful thing that happened today, but it was enough to make me wonder.

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** A guy I used to work with at my old job told me all kinds of stories -- he had buried treasure, his house being built on an indian burial ground (and that meant his house was haunted by the angered souls), he had fought demons, etc. One of his most memorable stories was when he told me his hand was possesed by a demon, and the only way he could exorcise it was to slice it open . . . luckily an angel healed it or he would have bled to death. On a side note, I was very happy to quit that job.

The Idea Well

Everyone writer has one. We go to it whenever we need ideas -- whether it be for stories, or characters, or for chapters for novels or whatever. It's the place where all creativity is stored. Sometimes it's called our muse. That's probably a better description when the muse is being bitchy, but for the purpose of this illustration, it's a well.

After I sent my stories off, I was reluctant to get back to the keyboard. I wasn't the first couple days, but the longer I wait for responses, the less eager I am to get back to writing. I don't feel excited, and actually getting the words to flow takes longer and longer to do. I wasn't sure what was locking me up, but I've had trouble sleeping because I keep dwelling on it, and I finally figured it out. It came to me when I was clearing out old files on my computer.

Everynow and then I go through the computer and look at what I've got saved that's been building up and stuff. Obviously, since the virus fiasco, I don't have as much built up, but I'd like to think that deleting some of the crap time to time helps the computer run faster.

Well, I looked through my story folder at stuff that might be a candidate for deletion, when I realized something. I almost never delete anything I write, ever. Everything I've written (with the exception of some one page starts that fizzled before they got going) is still saved on there. I browsed through the files and found stories I started in the sixth grade that are still on there.

I finally got it, what I was afraid of. When I go back to my story, it's the first original idea I've had in a while, something that I just came up with when I was sitting around one day. I was inspired by the movie 12 Monkeys starring Bruce Willis, but it actually has almost nothing to do with 12 Monkeys, but I'm getting off track. The reason I'm afraid of going back to the keyboard and the reason I never delete anything, is because I'm petrified of running out of ideas.

I think part of the reason that I finished only one or two stories in my life and then left the rest to gather dust on the hard drive is so I could come back to them, write on them, improve them, make them pretty, and then leave them. I was always guaranteed to have something to write as long as all those stories were left unfinished, or the ones that were finished could be rewritten every few years as I improved in my writing.

When I sent off my stories, it was the first two I'd completed in a long time, and my mind went through shock. I just sent two ideas off. I can't go back and rewrite those, I can't improve them. They're gone.

The reason I never finished a novel idea was because I was afraid that if by some astronomical chance I got published, I was afraid I would be a one hit wonder. I was, and still am, afraid that if I get anything published, it's dwindling the number of ideas I'll have. I haven't settled into one genre very easily, I don't have ideas off the wazoo, I haven't, until a few years ago, written very much very consistently, and I don't dream that often to get ideas.

I'm absolutely terrified that I've already drawn the good stuff out of the idea well, and that eventually I'm going to draw stuff that either sucks, or that has been done over and over and over.

So . . . now that I've figured out the problem, I have to figure out how I can fix it.

Submission and Opening Pandora's Box

As many of you know, I finally got the guts up to mail off a couple of my short stories for publication. Yesterday, I mailed it off.

I was going to mail them off on Saturday, but we wound up not going to town until the post office had already closed. Since the mail didn't run on Sundays I had to wait until Monday to mail them off. In the mean time, I started researching magazines, because one of the first things I realized was you can't sell a short story if you don't know what market to send it to.

I found some that were perfect, but then I decided I needed to go through one last time and make sure everything was square. Since it was for real this time, since it was for all the bannanas, I wanted to make sure that I had caught all the grammer mistakes, that I had fixed all the parts where the writing was weak, blah blah. What I didn't realize was that, by examining the stories for just a moment, I opened Pandora's box.

I saw one thing that didn't work. No, two. No, three. Now, four. Five? Six? What were they, multiplying? At one point I was so delirious that I swear, when I looked at the page, I saw the words fornicating and creating more and more errors and mistakes.

In horror, I set out with my trusty pen and began hacking and slashing, fixing errors and repairing typos, changing parts of the story that didn't seem to work, or fleshing out areas that needed more fleshing. I must have cost us a small fortune in paper and ink, and I'm sure everyone in my family read them five times, if not more. I apologized to my mom over and over and over again about all the trouble I was putting everyone through. Bless my mom's heart, by the end of the evening, she was probably more frazzled about the mailing than I was.

Finally, I got the last draft done, a few errors had to be fixed but nothing major. Then I stressed on printing out address labels, making sure the addresses were perfect and the right SASE (Self-Addressed, Stamped Envelope to those of you who -- like I did -- have no clue what a "SASE" is) with the right manuscript envelope, and finally, I crashed into bed at one in the morning, exhausted from stressing so much.

The next morning, I woke up at around 7:30 -- the usual time for me on the weekdays -- but by 10:00 I was already exhausted. I had hardly slept the night before; I was still worrying about the manuscripts. So I decided to take a nap. At noon I woke up in horror, my heart pounding, because I realized a few pages from one of my manuscripts still had writing on them from errors I had to fix, and I hadn't printed out the new pages to replace them. I flew to my laptop and, in a frenzy, I fussed with it until every page was perfect.

Then, I had another problem. Paperclips! I needed paperclips! Everyone knows you can't mail off a manuscript without paperclips!!! So then I had to search the house for paperclips. We were out! So I called my mom and had to have my brother pick up paperclips from her work so that I could mail them off.

So then, I finally had to go to the post office. The last time I went, I had made a simple mistake -- I thought I had grabbed all the money in my pocket to buy stamps, but I had forgotten a nickel, so then the old, bald man behind the desk had to look at me like I was an idiot and tapped his fingers impatiently after saying, "If you don't have more than that you're not getting any," while I searched for the missing, elusive nickel.

With that event still fresh in my mind, I felt my chest tighten. I didn't know what to buy or what stamps or how many I'd need. What if I messed up? What if I didn't get enough postage and then they got sent back, and then I'd have to wait even longer for a resonse. What if there was a line at the post office and, after running out of patience with my doddering around with my little stories, they rioted and sacrificed me on a table made of postage stamps and Express Mail boxes.

My heart pounded as I approached the desk. I cleared my throat and said, in a pitifully soft voice, "Ma'am, I'm here to mail these. I'll need a lot of stamps."

She smiled at me sweetly and looked at the envelopes. Then, she helped me buy giving me four stamps for the SASE, a book of stamps for home (because we were out) and then weighing and putting the proper stamps and their proper number on each package.

When I finally paid and left, my hands were cold, clammy, and shaky. I had done it. I had finally done it. I mailed off my stories, I submitted a manuscript...something I'd heard on author's blogs and biographies all my life, but never actually thought I'd do.

I drove in a daze, not really taking in anything that I saw as I drove. I got home and collapsed onto the couch.

A short story is only a fragment of what a novel would be. Just the thought of making sure every page of the novel was mistake-free makes me break out in cold chills. Not to mention, all this horror, all the ink and effort and stress and strain, and I still won't hear from them for months, and when I do, it may not (probably won't) be a "yes."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go dig my stuffed tiger "Hobbes" from my closet, fix myself a cup of hot cocoa, and curl up underneath my bed covers and hide from the Big Scary World.

Preparation

The other day I was watching TV, and I saw an advertisment for a new movie coming out. It's called The Bucket List. I immediately wanted to see it, because it starred Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, and they're both "must watches" on my list. The premise of the movie is supposed to be that these two old guys get together to do all the stuff on their "Bucket List" -- a list of things they want to do before they kick the bucket. It looks hilarious.

But, since I've been watching more movies and stuff lately, because I missed out on some serious TV watching in college (we almost never watch any), I started thinking about something I want to do. I want to make a "Bucket List," but it would be a bit more practical.

In movies, often times, people get put into the most extreme of situations, but situations where, if they knew one skill or another, they'd fare much better. For example, in Poseidon, everyone flocked to the guy from the...Navy I believe, but it may have been the Marines...because he knew so much about survival and ships and stuff like that. But Kurt Russel's character was a fire fighter, so he wasn't really a pansy either. And yet another character got things done because he used to be on the swim team.

So here's my idea, I'll spend my life learning all these little things, little, silly skills so that, when the time comes, I will be a survival god. I'll learn sword fighting, fencing, all the different martial arts styles, I'll learn speed reading, I'll train to lift tons of weight, yet be fast as a bullet. I'll train to power swim, I'll learn the architecture of buildings and ships, I'll learn the best ways to escape in a situation, and even pro-wrestling.

Imagine, stuck on a sinking ship? I'll get out. I'm a power swimmer and I know all the ins and outs of ships and submarines. What? Zombies are banging down my front door? That's okay, I know all kinds of ways to keep food fresh, purify water, building handy useful things from virtually nothing, like MacGuyver, and I'm a marksman with any weapon. Even if they break into my hiding place, I'll take them out with my mad shooting skills.

What? I'm transported into the past during the middle of a war? No problem, I know tons of different fighting techniques and weapon styles, I'll have it covered.

Sure you could call it extreme paranoia, but I prefer to call it being prepared.

Photoshoot

As you all probably remember, I recently suffered the loss of one of my dear friends, my laptop. I think you all remember the story, where I faced terrible odds and went face to face with the deadly gorgon...I mean Vista...in order to subdue the beast and save my family from its evil. Well, I lost, and finally, a few days ago, I got my new laptop. What better excuse to pull out the digital camera and have a photoshoot? It's perfectly normal for a man to want to photograph his new computer...shut up...

Ooh la la. Say there, do you come here often? You know, I'm a photographer, right? Ooh, come on, just strike a pose.

Oh that's just perfect. Yeah. Now lets see you lift up that top.

Bow chicka wow wow! Turn to the side.

Oh, that's sexy.

Okay, I'm all done now. I think I'll go seek some mental help and then get back to my writing.