Writer stares with glassy eyes; defies the empty page

The email I was half-expecting came last week: Unclaimed, a short story that I had previously sent out under another name, was rejected by Lightspeed Magazine.

The email was cordial enough, considering it was a standard form rejection—as if the editor was worried about hurting my feelings. He didn't have anything to worry about there. I don't think rejections are a sad thing, at all. In fact, the way I see it, a rejection should be celebrated.

They are not indications that you are not good enough. They are not suggestions that you should give up, at all. They're just an acknowledgement that whatever piece of writing you submitted is not suitable for that outlet—whether it didn't strike a chord with the editor or won't fit within the genre.

Rejections are a sign of two things: first, that you have something in common with every other writer who has ever taken quill to ink, pencil to paper, or finger to keyboard.

Second, they are proof that you are out there trying. Both of those things are important to keep in mind, particularly during the early part of your writing career, which can be an exercise in loneliness and futility. It takes as much time to find your audience as it does to find your voice.

I was expecting the rejection of Unclaimed. I wasn't all that happy with it when I sent it out. That may sound like a self-imposed justification now, but it's the truth. I had to cut so much out of it to meet the word count that a good portion of the character and back story had to be sacrificed. As a result the narrative was choppy, the characters undeveloped. I probably would have passed on it, too.

So why send it, when even I didn't think it was good enough? To get things circulating, I guess. A quick rejection from that magazine meant it was okay to send out the longer, better, version elsewhere. Plus, it had been a while since I submitted anything, and I thought I could benefit from a renewed sense of focus.

I think I'm right on both accounts. Keegan, the main character in 'Unclaimed' is a series character. I've only written a few of his short tales, so far, and have only begun to sketch the outline for his life's story in my head—and I already feel sorry for the poor guy. He may make it to his happy ending, but I don't think any of his friends will survive to enjoy it with him.

In the meantime, I will keep plugging away, working at his character and others, undaunted by the little bumps along the way. That's good advice no matter who you are or what you're pursuing: whether it's being published, finding a new job or connecting with your future husband or wife. Keep it up. There are plenty of obstacles in life. You don’t have to be one of them.

 

 

"You can get anything you want..."

"Keep your eyes open to your mercies. The man who forgets to be thankful has fallen asleep in life."

Robert Louis Stevenson

 

Thanksgiving has, for me, always been a time of reflection. I can look back at the year almost done and see what I've accomplished and prepare myself to attack what still needs to be done with a renewed vigor.

 

I can realize that despite my many failings over the previous 11 months, that I still have plenty to be thankful for: a happy, healthy family, home, job, the means to get between the two; friends who can make me laugh, provide a sounding board for my story ideas, bear my illogical rants and pretend my jokes are funny.

 

It's also a time when most of us can say: it's okay to slow down and take that time to reflect. Most of the world shuts down on Thanksgiving Day so we can all get reacquainted with the family members we don't see often enough as we eat too much and watch the Detroit Lions lose. Or it used to be, anyway. Nowadays, too many of us are looking at the clock when the turkey is pulled from the oven and the knives are sharpened—because Thanksgiving is also the traditional start to the holiday shopping season, and that season is starting earlier and earlier.

 

I've never been a part of the 'Black Friday' crowds. I've never even felt compelled to get out of bed at 4 a.m. to do much of anything—let alone push my way through throngs of sleep-deprived people battling for a cheap television. Watching those sales creep ever forward, from 5 a.m. to 4 a.m. Friday morning to 8 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day itself makes me wonder about the priorities we have as a society, and how we are allowing corporations to carve away the sanctity of family for the sake of a few bucks. Black Friday is morphing into Gray Thursday and that makes me feel a little blue. What's next? Turkey carts to serve shoppers as they wait outside the stores?

 

Are we really that desperate for a good deal? Is the economy in such bad shape that these stores need this time to shore up their bottom lines? On both accounts, I hope not.

 

Still, this is something we can only lament and cannot change. To change it, we'd have to change ourselves. We'd have to resist the pull of the good deal—at least for a few more hours—and realize that family is indeed more important. We'd have to stay away from those stores to show them that it's not worth their while to open up that early, to send a message that their employees' time would be better spent at home cooking, eating, talking and laughing. We need to show corporate America that they should put people ahead of profit.

 

Lessons from The Outer Reaches

Alice T. Kat started as a marketing gimmick for a pizza place that never opened.

The idea was to write up a little adventure—or part of an adventure—every week and send it home on a coupon sheet that also included a space to draw and color a scene from that week's installment. When you turned in the drawing the next week, you'd get a bigger discount or a free 2-liter or something like that. The pictures would be posted in the store and eventually printed in an informal book, which would also be available for sale.

Like I said, the shop never opened, but Alice wouldn't go away. I decided to try to keep up a regular serial story to practice things like themes, settings, dialogue, characterization—all the essentials of good story-telling. The concept was that if those things are perfected, then the medium didn't matter. A good interesting story about a bunch of, say, space-faring cats, could be just as compelling as a tale where humans are the central characters.

Did it succeed? I'm not sure; you'll have to tell me.

I have learned a few things along the way, and enjoyed myself enough to continue it, anyway.

First, I was surprised to tally up the words in her first adventure and find that I had written nearly 16,000 of them. That reinforces a simple truth about writing: keep it up. Do something every day, even if it's just a few paragraphs or pages. Those paragraphs and pages add up and, even if the story itself doesn't amount to anything, the skills eventually will.

It is a bit disjointed in some places and the wording is a bit terse and awkward in others, but it's just a first draft. A draft is something you can fix, and a draft is something you can fix. In her book, Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott talks about the necessity—if not the virtues—of the sh*tty first draft. Simply put, you have to start somewhere and if writing about space cats and nationalistic (or should that be planetalistic?) Plutorian renegades gets you down at the desk every day, then so be it.

Finally, whatever you decide to write, make sure you get some kind of enjoyment out of it. Find a way to have fun. You'd think that would be the easy part, but it's not. Sitting down to write is not fun, not always, it is a job like any other and all the more difficult sometimes because there is often no paycheck—or even a chance of a paycheck—at the end of it.

Ultimately, if you don't have fun writing it, nobody will have fun reading it. So perhaps I'm a bit chagrinned because, out of all the concepts I've identified and thought about over the past several years the one I've chosen to make the most public probably has no defined market. There were still bits that I liked about it, some passages of dialogue, a couple of the titles (such as 'the mosquito and the porcupine') that may appear in some other form somewhere down the line. It's all practice, after all. Writing is one of those skills where quantity will ultimately bring quality.

Alice's first tale was about the dangers of pride and the way the labels we so callously put on other people—or beings—can cause a lot of damage. Her next, which exists only in the scrap of a few sentences in my mind right now, is a little broader, about how we look at and take comfort in things that most others either ignore or take for granted.

Thanks for reading and, especially for letting me know what you think so far. I'll see you in the Outer Reaches, and beyond.

 

"You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille...."

My last conversation with Congressman Thad McCotter was one of my favorites.

I was still in the newspaper business back then and we were discussing the difficulties the U.S. automakers were having in getting loans from the federal government, compared to the blank checks that had simply been given to the banking industry. We had similar thoughts on the issue—it was basically Main Street vs. Wall Street—although his opinions were more well-informed and articulate.

"You know," I said, "maybe I should get a bunch of newspaper guys to come to Washington and ask for a bailout or a loan, too."

His answer: we'd have to ride in on bikes, bundle up the plan, and throw it in everyone's bushes at four in the morning.

I always thought that was a good joke; and his sense of humor was one of the things I always liked about him. That and he always struck me as a voice of reason within the Republican Party which, in my humble opinion, wasn't always easy to find.

I still liked the guy and respected what he's done in office, even as I watched the apparent end of his political career with a growing sense of unease and disbelief. Already strange, it crossed over into the truly bizarre when he abruptly resigned from his office rather than serve out the few remaining months of his term. I don't know if we'll ever know the true reason for that and I might not believe it even if I did.

The end result is that has left Republican voters in his district with not only one conundrum, but two. First, the choice on primary election day, between Kerry Bentivolio and Nancy Cassis, a write-in candidate. I personally can't get behind either of them. I am all for getting more 'regular people' involved in politics, but I don't think congress is an entry-level position--although Bentivolio may get a sympathetic vote or two for having the temerity to run against the Republican machine.

The second conundrum is the post-primary-pre-November election to find someone to fill out the few remaining weeks of McCotter's term. I wonder if that's what McCotter meant when he referred to 'striking a match' in his resignation email—because that aspect of this certainly stinks.

It'll all be over in a few short hours and my mailbox will probably appreciate the rest. Then, it's on to November. What a weird year; politics as unusual.

The cure for the summertime blues

On my way back from a meeting today, I stopped at a gas station and was subjected to one of the subtle horrors of summer: big people in little clothes.

In this case, it was a large woman filling up her car at one of the pumps; her back was to me and she was holding on to a floppy straw hat with her other hand (it was warm and windy today). She wore a pair of bib overalls and nothing else. And shoes, she probably wore shoes, but I didn’t look that far down. I was too turned off by the rolls of flesh spilling out over that frayed denim.

Don't get me wrong. I love all of God's creatures—or most of them, at least. I can do without insects that bite or are larger and hairier than they have any right to be. And I, personally, can find beauty in just about anything. It’s situational and it goes both ways. Anyone can look beautiful in certain light, at certain angles or when they laugh. Likewise, a supermodel can easily look hideous if she’s yelling at a child, digging out a stubborn booger or kicking a hungry kitten out of her path.

However, there are certain universal guidelines you should follow no matter who you are, how old you may be or what you look like, and one of those is: dress according to your body type. I'm not saying you have to put a bag over your head, wear a Snuggie everywhere or anything ridiculous like that but if, for example, it looks like your ass crack goes all the way up to your neck, you should probably put on a t-shirt. No matter how hot and windy it is.

I offer the same courtesy. When it's hot, I wear long shorts to cover my spindly legs and, usually, socks to hide the warped yellowish talons that my toes have turned into. I tuck in my shirt so the laser burn from where I had my tramp stamp removed doesn't gross anyone out and, when my neck goiter is particularly pink and throbbing, I'll wear a shirt with a collar—even though it feels like sandpaper against the inflamed peak. It's the least I can do.

"You throw the ball; you catch the ball..."

Well, the Detroit Tigers are about to start the second half of the season—figuratively, at least—tomorrow.

They go into the series at Baltimore at a disappointing 44-42, in third place, 3.5 games behind the Chicago White Sox and half a game behind the Cleveland Indians—and it took a five-game winning streak against two weaker teams to get there. Eighty-six games into the season, and we still don't know entirely what they are capable of or how this season will end up. All we know for sure is that the race to win this division will be a lot closer than most people predicted.

I'm disappointed in the way things have gone so far, but I'm not entirely surprised. I was in the minority of people who didn't think the Tigers got any better when they signed Prince Fielder to replace the injured Victor Martinez. Even if things had gone the way that everybody expected—that is, that the Tigers would simply pound other clubs into submission—I still didn't think they'd win as many games as they won last year. It's not easy to win 95 games. This is (in brief) why I thought they'd stumble:

The pitching

I had serious concerns about Justin Verlander going into this season. He pitched a ton of innings last year, in the regular season and the playoffs. I thought he would take a step back, in part because of the lack of defense (which I'll get to in a bit) behind him and in part because his arm would show some signs of fatigue. Verlander, by the way, has surprised me. He's had a couple shaky outings, but he's been as good as last year and, with five complete games in the book already, will at least be in the Cy Young discussion at the end of the season.

The bullpen couldn't realistically be as good as it was last year, when the Tigers were undefeated when they had the lead in the 7th inning. Jose Valverde, a big reason for that, didn't blow a save all season and that kind of success is virtually impossible in today's game. On his own, he'd account for a few more losses this year.

The defense

When the season started, we were looking at the prospect of a sub-standard fielding first baseman, third baseman and second baseman combined with a short stop with limited range. Centerfield and, perhaps, catcher were the only bright spots on the field. I've always appreciated speed and defense in baseball, so I wasn't expecting to like to watch this team too much, at all.

There have been surprises here, as well. Notably Miguel Cabrera, who hasn't been anywhere near as bad at third as people thought he would be.

The hitting

Yeah, I still had concerns about the lineup. I didn't think Martinez could be replaced—I didn't think even he could duplicate his rare ability to get clutch hits last year. The 2011 season was the last time I could remember feeling confident when the Tigers had runners in scoring position with two outs. V-Mart was outstanding in those situations.

Sure, I figured Fielder would hit. I knew Cabrera would hit. I hoped Austin Jackson would find a groove somewhere between his rookie season and last year. I thought Brennan Boesch, too, would settle in and be more consistent; I thought they were both good for a .280 average with occasional extra base power. I didn't expect Johnny Peralta to duplicate his 2011 season at the plate, nor Delmon Young to continue to hit for average and power.

Some of those fears and concerns have played out, and some have been proved unfounded. Where does that leave us?

I don't know. Hopeful, for sure. Optimistic? Maybe. The Tigers are facing a deficit that is not overwhelming, by any means. Many teams have overcome a larger deficit in a shorter period of time, but those teams have also had the good fortune to have the teams they were chasing stumble a bit, too. The White Sox look like they are coming together, too, and they had the advantage at this point.

The Tigers have the potential to make a run and win the division, but they have no room left for error. Thirteen of their next 14 opponents have a record of .500 or better and the Tigers essentially need to win each of those series to earn their second consecutive division crown. They have to be consistent, and they've shown an inability to do that thus far. They have the best pitcher in baseball in Verlander, one of the best hitters in the game in Cabrera and, while I hope I'm wrong, I don't think this is their year.

"You won't get wise with the sleep still in your eyes..."

When I first set out to write The Prankster's Reward, I had a target of 120,000 words.

One of my main gripes about fantasy fiction is that it tends to take a writer 10 years and three or four 1,000 page books to tell a story and I didn't want to do that--not yet, anyway. I wanted to write a relatively compact adventure tale that would leave readers craving more but wouldn't take such a huge investment of time to get to the end.

More than eight months later, the novel is done. It comes in at about 85,000 words, which means my initial word count was fairly accurate. It will take a lot of work to make it even readable enough to get someone else's opinion on it. Most of that work will be in adding depth to the characters and providing the backstory to the things I revealed in the final chapter and epilogue.

I've learned quite a few things along the way, particularly in the last month, when I declared my own personal 'writing Waterloo' and told myself that if I didn't get any consistency in my writing, do it with any discipline at all, then I was just going to quit and admit that life had won. The goal was impossible. Save yourself the frustration and spend more time with the family. Perhaps you can take something away from my struggles.

First, I am too hard on myself. Looking back, it's amazing that I was able to finish it at all, giving everything that was going on in my life. A battle with blood sugar, documented here. The impending foreclosure (or, hopefully, short sale) of my house, which I've written about here under the tag 'the third miracle.' The care and recent passing of my father to early onset Alzheimer's. It is okay to let things like this eat into your time, but it is not okay to let them defeat. All things pass and, as Winston Churchill once said: If you're going through hell, keep going.

Second, I allowed my own story to drag on to the point where even I got bored with it. If you're not invested in something you're writing, how can the reader be? Henry David Thoreau, a guy who knew a thing or two about writing, advises us to 'strike while the iron is hot.' A writer who tries to tell his story after the passion has faded is like trying to iron a shirt with a cold brick. Or something to that effect.

As romantic and cool as it may sound to say you can write something as you go along, the reality is that it's a lot more practical to plan things out ahead of time. That way, a plot point that you suddenly think about in chapter 21 doesn't require writing chapters 3-17. When I go back to edit this novel--and by edit, I mean rewrite--I'll do it the right way. I'll have a full outline. Character sketches. Back stories. I will set up a desk in my garage, beyond the reach of my wifi, and close the door to all distractions.

And go back I will. Write I will. For at the end of myWaterloo, I had an 18-12 record for days writing vs. days non-writing, and I know can improve on that. It doesn't matter what's going on in your life. Your dreams are still out there, waiting patiently.

"It's a constant fight (a constant fight)..."

Man makes plan, God laughs.

I forget who first said that to me, but I've had many reasons to revisit that saying over the past few years. Lately, it's been because as I grow older my body is slowly betraying me. I could cruise through a long bike ride that would probably humble me now. Yardwork leaves a stiffness that lasts until I have to plan the next project--even if that is three days later. A jog? Forget about it. And there are many times when I can't even control what I'm thinking, or how I act.

That is the result of unpredictable blood sugar levels and the frustration forced on me through Type II Diabetes.

When I first started to work at Oakwood Healthcare (the 'second miracle' I sometimes refer to, for those that are keeping track), I looked at it as a way to finally get it under control. It hasn't exactly worked out that way because it's not as simple as popping a pill, giving yourself a shot and living the way you want to live, the way you always expected to be able to live. It's been a struggle.

So when Oakwood started a 'Vitality for Life' initiative that would provide virtually unlimited access to nutritionists, trainers and health coaches, I jumped at the chance. And, because managing this condition (I refuse to call it a disease) has been a challenge for me, I figured it'd be a challenge to others, too. So I wanted to figure out a way to help them, and came up with the concept for my latest writing project.

It is an ongoing healthy blog geared toward the blood-sugar-challenged, as well as the aging weekend warrior in all of us. Many of the things I've learned through the past year are applicable to anyone with any kind of health concerns, and it's my hope that by talking more about the challenges and successes, I can let people know they're not alone and perhaps give them an outlet, too.

Here is the application letter I sent in for the Vitality of Life contest, entitled: Apply Blood.

I dab the end of the strip and suck the remainder of the bright bead of blood from my finger tip as the countdown starts.

It is not quite noon, so this will qualify as a ‘before meal’ reading. So much depends on the result. In the short term, it will forecast how I will feel for the rest of the day: how productive I will be; how much caffeine—if any—I will need to overcome any sluggishness I feel; what I can safely eat for lunch. In the long term, it means, simply: how long will I live and what will my quality of life be?

5….

I know this. I am a diabetic, having been diagnosed as Type II years ago. I have heard the lectures and the stern talks from doctors. Until a year ago, I couldn’t do anything about it because I didn’t have health insurance.

4…

When I started to work at Oakwood, one of my first personal goals was to get my health in line. At my first regular trip to the doctor, he asked me: What can I do for you today? I answered his question with one of my own: “How much time do you have?”

3…

We started with the blood sugar, because diabetes is a multi-system disease. It eventually affects everything. I went to the nutritionist. I got a meter. I followed the instructions. This time, I’m going to beat it, I told myself.

2…

But the diet didn’t work and the sheet the doc gave me to record my Blood Sugar Readings (BSR) didn’t leave enough room for info. I graduated to a diary and essentially turned my fingers into pincushions trying to gather enough evidence to figure out what was happening inside me and how I could control it. That was several months ago.

1…

It’s strange how you can do the same thing on consecutive days and get different results. I exercise—a lot compared to some people. I have cut down on the carbs, dramatically. I eat smaller meals more frequently, counting things like grams of dietary fiber. One day, this routine will get me down to 170. The next…

 268.

Well, f*#%. I wonder what threw it off this time?

Hopefully, as I figure this out, I can help you learn to be healthier, as well. But I caution you: what works for me may not work for you, and vice versa. It’s a complex carbohydrate world out there, and we have to take it one day at a time.

For current entries, visit the Dearborn Patch.

And, as always, let me know what you think. Here, there, or anywhere!

'Drunk, and in charge of a bicycle'

Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) did more to inspire me than any other writer.

I have a dog-eared, highlighted and yellowed copy of his Zen in the Art of Writing within reach at nearly all times and several quotes from it in a file on my desktop labeled 'In Case of Emergency.' His words, bold, simple and pure, are more than just a reflection of who he was. They're a reflection of who we all should be: enthusiastic about life and adventurous in its execution.

The above quote came from that book, as did the title for this entry (It is perhaps my favorite title, dating back to my time in Eugene, OR, when it quite frequently applied to my state of mind and activity). Here are some more:

"Every day I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. That landmine is me."

"So while our art cannot, as we wish it could, save us from wars, privation, envy, greed, old age or death, it can revitalize it amidst it all."

"We must take arms each and every day, perhaps knowing that the battle cannot be entirely won, but fight we must, if only a gentle bout. The smallest effort to win means, at the end of each day, a sort of victory."

"If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer."

His advice was directed toward writers, of course, but it applies to life, too. Passion, he says, often saves the day.

I use the quote 'You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you' often enough, when I'm trying to convince myself to sit down and actually do the job. I've had a tough year so far, and thought it was particularly appropriate. Only yesterday did I realize that I was reciting it to myself and others, but not really embracing the concept. the difficulties I've had in piling up the word count stem from the fact that I was, once, 'drunk on writing,' but have since sobered up. I have managed to take all the fun out of it.

One of his final interviews--I have since lost the link--contains this gem: "I don’t think about what I do. I do it. I jump off the cliff and build my wings on the way down."

It is not very practical advice for adventure seekers, but writers can do a lot worse. For everyone else, I think it means it's okay to take a chance; it's good to take a wild leap, to live life with gusto and seek that zest and gusto we may have lost.

Thanks for the parting words, Ray. Thanks for the stories.

"Pick up my guitar and play; just like yesterday..."

With elections in Wayne County and at the state and federal level, not to mention what will likely be contentious local races in places like Plymouth Township and Van Buren Township, this campaign season promises to be one filled with intrigue.

One place I did not expect to see it, however, was in the race for the 11th Congressional District, where incumbent Thad McCotter was destined for re-election.

I know one of his Democratic challengers, Dr. Syed Taj, both through my job at Oakwood Healthcare and former work as a newspaper editor who sporadically covered Canton Township, where Dr. Taj served on the board of trustees. While I like and respect Dr. Taj very much, I thought he faced the proverbial uphill battle in taking on an incumbent in a district that so heavily favored Republican candidates—and McCotter's district is so thoroughly Republican that all he really had to do was get his name on the ballot.

Oops.

Well, by now, anyone who cares (and many who don't) know about the issue with McCotter's petitions. For those that don't, about 84 percent of the 1,850 or so signatures turned in on behalf of McCotter were ruled invalid. Michigan Attorney General Bill Schuette said recently that he would investigate the situation and would not hesitate to prosecute if his office found any sign of fraud.

That's a good thing, of course, because the last thing anyone needs is to give voters another reason to be suspicious of the electoral process. (Although one could probably make a case that the gerrymandering that created a district virtually destined to remain in Republican hands, itself, 'undermines the whole validity and credibility of the election process'.)

I will be interested in the outcome of the investigation, which McCotter has said he asked for and will cooperate fully with. I've known McCotter for more than a decade, as I sporadically covered his political career dating back to his time on the Wayne County Commission. As he climbed the political ladder, I thought all he needed to do was work on his people skills and he would be able to do anything he wanted in government. I was happy to see him run for the top office in the nation, actually, and still think he's a better option than Mitt Romney.

I can't believe he had any direct involvement in this petition fiasco. He has too much integrity and too much respect for the electoral process to knowingly allow such a thing and, besides that, he's too intelligent to think that the petitions—if they were as obviously false as they've been described in the news reports—would pass even a cursory inspection.

It's hard to say what the long term and short term fallout will be, who will benefit and who will not; if McCotter will be able to pull off the monumental long shot of a successful write-in campaign or if someone else will. The end result, though, is that McCotter now faces his own uphill battle, and this race got a lot more interesting.

From The Detroit News: http://www.detroitnews.com/article/20120601/POLITICS01/206010372#ixzz1wYqPPSNW

Grace and a grain of salt

My mom has often asked me where my creativity comes from. I never really thought about it; I’m just happy the stories come to me, regardless of the effort it takes to put them into words.

But it’s a good question. She can follow a pattern better than anyone. She can make a pant suit out of a discarded piece of fabric, knit you an afghan, build you a stuffed bear (complete with articulated joints), embroider a wall-hanging—and you should see some of the Halloween costumes. But creating completely new things isn’t really her thing.

Dad was a math guy; he worked with computers. Equations were his building blocks.

It wasn’t until the last few months that I really started to think about that question but when I did, the answer was pretty obvious:

I learned how to be creative by listening to my dad swear.

Now, he wasn’t given to much profanity. He wasn’t the kind of person to drop an ‘f’bomb the way some people say ‘Hi,’ or anything like that. He didn’t swear often, but when he did…

He put swear words together like a toddler building a toy train, cramming one word after another with reckless, free flowing abandon. He didn’t care if the words belonged together or not—he just wanted them to roll.

I’d give you examples, but we are in a house of worship—and guests, at that. Suffice it to say that the last thing my brothers, sister or I ever wanted to hear when we were growing up was a plaintive voice calling from the garage or the basement: “Can I get some help, please?”

Because dad, for all his gifts with the more…florid…forms of speech, was equally as gifted at making a simple job become more complicated—and therefore frustrating—than it needed to be.

But dad was basically a quiet guy. Humble. And, in his own way, passionate. He had a great sense of humor, albeit a slightly unusual one. Even that, he kept mostly to himself, laughing when appropriate and sliding a zinger in when it was least expected. His usual expressions—which we’ll get to later—were as smile-inducing as they were confounding.

He was the hardest working person I’ve ever known. He would go to work all day, deal with us afterward, then do chores until he collapsed onto the couch. If he ever complained, I never heard it. That trait served me well in the news business, but even I couldn’t hold a candle to it.

And he was a fighter, too. When he had cancer, he had so little regard for that disease that he told us all about it during a card game.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” he said. “I have cancer. Let’s make that trump. It’s your lead.” We just gaped at him, the cards drifting out of our hands like petals from a wilting flower. He got radiation treatment on his lunch break and then went back to work.

Heart disease took his mother and older brother, but when dad had a heart attack, he barely even noticed. He eventually went to an ER—four days later—and, when we expressed our shock and outrage at hearing that, he just shrugged his shoulders and said:

“I just thought I was tired.”

But, Alzheimer’s…

Well. What can you say about Alzheimer’s? There’s no weight set that’ll help you. Alzheimer’s doesn’t care how much cardio exercise you do. It scoffs at a proper diet the way…well, the way most of us scoff at a proper diet. You can’t really fight it.

And Dad was a math guy. A computer guy. Equations were his building blocks. There must’ve been a moment when he realized that this was an algorithm that had too many variables to solve.

At least in time for him.

So he fought it the only way he could: for the next victim. He was part of a research program at the University of Michigan and we had his brain donated to the same department for study. Nobody could figure out why it hit him so hard and took him so fast while he was alive. Maybe now…

I guess you could call it the gift that keeps on giving, against the thing that keeps on taking. Maybe it’ll give some other son more time with his dad, some other wife more time with her husband, a few more poker games and campfires.

That’s one thing we can take from all of this. As for the deeper lesson, well, I had to think long and hard on that. Everything has a purpose. Everything happens for a reason, right? Well, possible reason could there be for this, to take someone who worked so hard, asked for so little, wanted nothing more than a better life for his children and who offended no one?

I don’t know. I asked that question a lot. If there was an answer to that, I didn’t hear it.

I am left with this:

Sometimes, in our quest for miracles, we overlook the little blessings. The smiles. Inside jokes. Pats on the head. Simple things we see and discard all the time.

My dad was never overly affectionate. I never heard him say ‘I love you.’ But he showed me every day, if I had been smart enough to notice.

That is what I’d like you to take from this, from my dad. Love, real love, real passion: it doesn’t have to be spoken to be valid. It’s evident in the little things that we don’t even notice. A guy who will make his own sandwich out of the crusts of the bread, and then tell you it’s his favorite part. Or someone who spends his last buck on a pop for you, and tells you he’s not thirsty.

Recognize that for what it is. Smile back. Say ‘thank you.’ Or even, ‘I love you, too.’ Because in the end, you don’t know how much time you have. I think my dad would like that, if he knew at the end we all got him.

What he wouldn’t like is us all crying over his loss. He’d be embarrassed over all this fuss (but he’d appreciate the sandwiches). He was a fighter, you know. Cancer. Heart Disease. Alzheimer’s. He was 2-for3.  And he got an assist in #3, right? Don’t be sad. Mourn his passing, and pass on his legacy. Remember your blessings. You are loved, even if you don’t hear it.

And, if you want to pass on his legacy, here are some simple ways you can do it. The beauty of it is, they don’t really require—or perhaps ‘defy’ is a better way to say it—explanation. His expressions:

When someone says: can I ask you a question:

“Shoot Bruce, the air is full of pigeons.”

To this day, I have no idea who ‘Bruce’ was, or what questions have to do with pigeons. We never met anyone named Bruce and, even if the sky was indeed filled with pigeons, dad wouldn’t be able to shoot one, anyway.

When you take a turn faster than you have to:

“Wheel that taxi, Ponch!”

When you’re waiting to turn into or against traffic:

“What is this, a parade?”

Or as a general exclamation:

“Nice going, Clyde.”

Clyde. That was another guy. We never knew who Clyde was. But ‘Clyde’ was the pinnacle of all insults for my dad. It superseded all commonly known swear words or pejoratives. We never met Clyde or anything, but he must’ve really rubbed dad the wrong way at some point.

And, if you’re doing something that just is not going like you planned, before you start stringing together swear words, try this gem:

“Well, that’s enough to piss off the pope.”

Well. There was more, but I don't remember the ending I tacked onto it, and I'm surprised that I even made it that far. Thanks again for those that came or passed along their thoughts. And thanks for reading here.

There are no little things, or "What I learned without realizing it"

So a couple of my recent blogs contain seeds that were planted in my subconscious a long time ago. Both came at a time when my mind was ripe for new ideas and concepts, when I felt a bit like a little worm on a really big hook and I had no other choice but to pay attention to everything that was going on around me and absorb as much as I could. I was just starting out as a newspaper reporter then, and I was both very aware of the weight of my new responsibility and ignorant of the long term implications of it.

First, the silly part. In my sporadically ongoing science fiction writing exercise, Alice T. Kat, Queen of the Outer Reaches, Alice talks a bit about the concept of Verbal Judo.

I first heard the term sitting in an office at the Canton Township Police Department. That was always one of my favorite parts of the job; who wouldn't like to just sit around and talk with cops?

"Verbal judo?" I asked. "What's that?"

"This idea of letting your words fight for you," the media relations officer said. He was a generally amiable guy, a bit round and cheerful—not what you'd picture when you thought of a police officer. Maybe that's why he was the media relations guy.

"Oh, I see," I said.

Then his whole appearance changed. The smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed. His voice dropped a bit and took on a harder edge.

"You better drop that weapon, son, or I'll knock it out of your hands, shove it up your ass and pull the trigger twice," he growled.

I, of course, didn't have a weapon. But I believed him anyway.

The other lesson is a bit more serious and is evidenced in the way Esmiralda thinks of her role in the world. Her character is still a bit of an experiment—and still very much under development—but it wouldn't surprise me if she took on some of the crankier aspects of my first newspaper boss, W. Edward Wendover.

I remember vividly the way he would berate me—and rightfully so—over some minor typo or misplaced decimal point.

"If they don't trust you on the little things, they won't trust you on the big things," he said emphatically. "Learn to SPELL, godDAMmit!" The paper landed with a heavy 'thwap' on the desk and he stomped off.

In that (and in much more) he was right. It is true in writing fiction, just as it was true in newspaper work—and in life in general. In journalism, your readers will not trust you with facts if they can't trust you with basic grammar. In writing, readers are not going to trust you to craft a good story if you can't put a sentence together—and they're not going to trust you to put a sentence together if you can't put a WORD together the right way.

In life (particularly parenting), well, you can supply your own comparisons:

"How can I trust you to take the car out tonight, son, when you can't even walk down a hallway without colliding with a wall?"

"How can I trust you with $20, when you can't walk past a gumball machine without reaching into your pocket?"

"You want to borrow my chainsaw???!? You can't even cut a piece of chicken!"

The list goes on.

The point is: pay attention to the little things. How you deal with them will, in some way, forecast how you deal with the bigger things. And file away all the lessons you learn, too. You never know when you'll need them. Who knows, maybe something you picked up along the way will come out in a blog about a space-faring cat and her crew. Okay. Probably not in that way, but you get the idea.

Thanks for reading!

"Come explore your dreams' creation; enter this world of imagination..."

I recently read an essay that outlined 70 mistakes you should avoid when writing a fantasy story. It was in the form of a test that, if answered properly, would tell you whether or not you should admit your novel is a rip off of Lord of the Rings and, therefore, abandon it. There are some interesting questions in it, too, along with some funny ones. Most were designed to tell whether you are writing a bunch of cliches patched together with cardboard characters, but I think you could get away with some 'mistakes' outlined in it and still come up with a convincing story.

And so, in a sense, Esmiralda was born.

She came to me grudgingly but insistently, first as a version of a male character I had conjured earlier, and later, as her concept came together, as a means of stringing together many different stories in different parts of the same world. My main gripe with most fantasy fiction is that it always seems to require at least three books that take you six years to get through to find out the end of the story. I always thought there was a market for smaller, localized struggles. They don't have to entail the end of the world, but perhaps the end of the world--figuratively, anyway--for a character or two that people care about. These conflicts could take place in the same world, but different parts of it. Maybe they're connected, maybe not. The common link between them would be Esmiralda, or people like her, who are given the task of recording them so that they are not lost to the vagaries of history.

Esmiralda, or Mira, as she'll be known by those close to her, is the fantasy equivalent of today's newspaper stringer; a freelance historian in search of a story to tell, a hero to document, a legend to immortalize. That she happens on a guy named Seymuhr is her misfortune. Seymuhr is one of those fantasy rules you shouldn't break. He is based on an old Dungeons & Dragons character, but don't hold that against him. This is not necessarily his story--it is Mira's as much as anyone's--and I am not entirely sure where I want to go with it. At first, I thought I would try to break as many other rules as I could, but then I imagined Mira's frank gaze; her eyebrows raised, arms crossed, foot tapping and wondered if she was telling me to quit selling my talents short with silly stories about space cats, goofy warriors and the like. So I wouldn't pay too much attention to the title (The Unlikely Hero) or the tagline ('The odd times and tragic end of Seymuhr Skullsquasher'). Those'll probably change.

Speaking of change, this concept is a bit of one for me, too. Usually I'll have a plot idea, or maybe even just an opening line, and I'll come up with a name and plug someone into it. I have none of that here; only a beginning sense of who Mira is and what drives her, and not much else. I will have to figure out who everyone is, where it all happens, and how to connect all the dots. I will practice things like dialogue, humor, action, suspense and description along the way. 

The picture (above) is of an attempt to keep things straight. It shows a as-yet-unnamed world where all of this takes place. Gradually, it'll be filled in and you may recognize some words and names of places--or variations of them. The map is pretty blank now. At the top right corner you'll see a mountain range, tentatively named The Spine, that borders a place called Azrok, where Seymuhr hails from. It's accessible only by a pass called Azrok's Heel. It is a brutal place. Azrok is named after the stern northern God whose name came to mind while walking 'Action Jack-son' recently, and seeing the way Jupiter and Venus have been prominent in the night sky: the fierce Eyes of Azrok, looking down on the land. I even composed a Warrior's Poem about them, which will make an appearance in the blog.

In the far left, you'll see a town tentatively named Dervish, where my current novel The Prankster's Reward takes place. There's a space next to that for a new panel because that'll eventually be filled, too. Dervish, by the way, is short for something, but I started the novel so long ago that I have forgotten what it was. A shortened version of a phrase that translated as either 'Wall of Wind' or 'Wall Against the Wind,' depending on your inflection.

In the meantime, feel free to check out, follow, share and comment on Mira's adventures. I hope it'll make for an interesting tale, a pleasant diversion. I look forward to your feedback.

"Let me take a long last look, before I say goodbye..."

There's nothing more humbling than a good plan quickly derailed.

So. Well, this is humbling.

My old house in Wayne sits empty in a stagnant market, an impending deadline looming large. My plan to sell it and move with my reputation—and credit—intact, something I once referred to as The Third Miracle, will most likely not come to pass.

It was a good plan, too, spurred by events in my life that were mostly beyond my control. I can't write about all of issues that led to this point because many of them are very personal and I need to protect those involved. But let me assure you that there was no deliberate attempt to skip out on a bad investment, take advantage of a weak housing market or to otherwise become part of the problem.

Let me tell you as much as I can of what happened, and let you be the judge.

I originally wrote about my need to move in an old post that I categorized under 'The Third Miracle.' Family issues trumped everything else. When the first two miracles fell in line—the new job, the new house—the plan was to keep up on the mortgage for the old house and pursue a short sale. I knew it would be difficult, bordering on traumatic, but I had an opportunity to earn some extra income through an online editing job that I could take care of at night.

Besides, I couldn't just abandon it, the way so many people on my block had simply left their houses. I had only lived in Wayne for about eight years, but still considered it my hometown. I felt responsible for it. I moved there because of the school district, the neighborhood in general, the proximity to parks—there three within a few blocks. Those things hadn't changed. It was still a good house (during our relatively short time there, we replaced the roof, the furnace and the electrical system) in a good neighborhood. And I still love the town; it's one of the reasons I get so irritated at the actions of the government there.

I also didn't want the stigma of a foreclosure following me, so I thought a short sale would be my best option (when the city bought and sold the house next door to mine for $11,000, it certainly didn't improve my property values). I had several people tell me for months, even years, ahead of time that walking away from the house was the best thing to do, but hearing it, saying it and doing it are very different things. I waited as long as I could and, with great trepidation, missed my first mortgage payment in order to make the property eligible for the short sale process.

Then, life happened.

Repeated trips to the hospital in Ann Arbor—the one not affiliated with Oakwood Healthcare—ate up so much time that I "lost editing privileges" on my late night gig. In other words, I got fired. I suddenly realized that I couldn't make up that missed mortgage payment—or keep them up at all. I have kept up the utility payments (although the water bill is currently past due), although that hasn't helped that much. On a trip to Wayne City Hall an employee there—someone I had considered a friend, and had had plenty of conversations with during my newspaper days—told me I was "shitting in Wayne and leaving." Another, whom I also talked with frequently, just glared at me and didn't even approach the counter. Some people in Wayne still shake my hand, but they don’t look me in the eye when they do it.

And so the stigma of foreclosure is looming down on me, after all.

I guess my plan wasn't all that good to begin with. Good plans don't unravel so quickly or completely after one or two hiccups. Perhaps I was just too optimistic in thinking that someone would quickly swoop in and buy up what is not just a move-in ready house, but one that won't require any serious work for at least a decade.

There have been offers. It is still for sale at the bank-approved price—which is more than twice what the house next door sold for. But a grim deadline spelled out in the pre-foreclosure sale agreement is fast approaching: I need an offer on the house by the middle of next month or the bank will take it back.

There's not much I can do now, other than to hope within the next few weeks that someone realizes what a great find it is and puts in an offer that the bank accepts. I am not sure what I would have done differently (or could have, for that matter). I haven't exactly given up on The Third Miracle, but I admit it's unlikely. Even so, I am still blessed.

Sweet memories, flashing very quickly by...

Nostalgia nearly overwhelmed me the last time I walked into Northville Township Hall.

It was a few weeks ago now, and the meeting room was crowded with residents and officials. So crowded, in fact, that I couldn't see an empty seat. I found a spot near the back wall leaning against the window with the hard edge of a window sill digging into my, um, posterior.

The meeting room had been crowded before, of course, but that was usually when people showed up with something to gripe about. This was different; it was potentially good news on something that every township resident had a stake in: the development of the former Northville Psychiatric Hospital property.

Someone nudged my foot and I looked up, first in irritation and then with a pleasant sense of surprise. It was Shannon Price, a former lobbyist now running for Wayne County Commission.

"Hey, Spiels," he said. "Did you ever think we'd be here?"

I had to smile as I shook my head. No, I did not. I didn't think the unveiling of the concept plan for the property would be anything but a nightmare for the township. But now the property is safely under township control and about to begin the long transformation into a community park.

Price was a big part of that success. He worked closely with township officials on the millage campaign that set up the funding for the purchase of the land, as well as the campaign against a proposed annexation of the property to Livonia. I didn't think either effort had a chance of success. I'm glad I was wrong.

Curiosity drove me to the meeting last month. It was a bit of an epilogue for me, a footnote. It was the last big story I covered as a newspaper editor, one of the last times I pushed the return key on the final line of an editorial and thought: Good luck and godspeed. I hope that helps.

So yeah, I was curious to see what the planners came up with the for the sprawling 400-acre site. And I liked a lot of what they talked about: the trails that accentuated the natural topography; the open community gathering space and outdoor pavillion--The Great Lawn, as it was referred to. Other aspects, well, they'd be nice, but were they necessary? Ask any community official with a fancy center that includes a pool and other features and they would probably tell you they're fun to have, but can be a bit of a white elephant. And I think recent history has shown everyone just how difficult it is to ensure proper funding for such upscale community features no matter what was going on with the economy.

On the other hand, no matter what happens in life, we all need to take some time to walk in the woods or just reflect with nature--and if you can do that while hurtling through the trees on a mountain bike, so be it.

I share some concerns about the price to develop some aspects of the plan and the timeline involved. But I watched township officials grapple with similar issues before. They've always shown good common fiscal sense by not developing anything they couldn't take care of. I just look forward to the day that the buildings are torn down, the ghosts chased out and the park open for all to enjoy.

"Easy for you to say; your pride has never been stolen..."

As usual, Henry broke the silence.

"It's not fair," he said. Emotion clogged his voice.

"What's that, bud," I asked, even though I already knew.

"Other kids have a grandpa that comes over just to hang out," he said. "I don't even have that."

We were on our way home, back from the first visit to my dad's new home, an assisted living facility he was transferred to on Tuesday, following his most recent trip to the hospital. We knew he was heading that way, for a while—in his reluctant moods he was just too much for my mom to handle. He's been essentially wasting away for a while now, gripped by early-onset Alzheimer's that has progressed more rapidly than anyone could have predicted, yet he still possessed a wiry strength that made him almost impossible to move.

Still, knowing it was in the future was one thing. Sitting in the middle of it, looking around and letting it all sink in—no matter how much you might have tried to prepare yourself for it—is quite another.

I didn't really know what to expect and because of that I didn't want Henry to come with me the first time. I didn't want to give him nightmares or anything. But he was insistent and I eventually caved in. I think that was only in part because I felt a bit of sad pride that he would even want to go, knowing how unpleasant it might be, but I'm ashamed to say that it was mostly because I didn't want to face it alone.

We eventually found him back in the TV room named, as you might guess, for the TV that sat silent and dark against one wall. He was curled up on a couch, slightly hunched over, with his arms crossed and hands tucked tight up against his armpits. He was dressed and I was thankful for that. Bandages covered both his ankles. His feet were otherwise bare and looked like I imagined Frodo's would have halfway into his march through Mordor. The nails were thick, yellowish and split at the ends.

In three weeks, my dad will turn 67. He should be just starting to enjoy the retirement he and my mom had planned, perhaps even making good on their desire to sell the big house in Canton, buy a motor home and take a long look around the country. The other residents of the home were all old enough to be HIS father, and they regarded Henry and me with a sort of vacant curiosity.

My dad's eyes were closed, but he was awake.

"Who would've thought, eh?" I said to him, blinking rapidly and trying to keep my voice steady. The corners of his mouth dropped and his lips trembled. I had to look away.

Later, I again tried to keep my voice steady.

"Well, you have a great grandpa that you get to see on Saturday," I told Henry. "Not everybody has that."

"Grandpa wouldn't even shake my hand," Henry said, sniffling. "He doesn't want to be there. He wants to be home, with grandma."

"I know, buddy. We'd all like that, but this is the best thing for grandpa and for grandma..."

"I'm sorry," he interrupted me.

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for crying, because I made you cry."

I reached over and patted his leg. "It's okay, you don't have to apologize and there's nothing wrong with crying. When things are sad, you're supposed to cry. And this is very sad. We just have to try to make the best of it. The people there seemed nice; and it'll get easier."

And it will get easier. I know that. That's the final cruelty that this goddamn disease inflicts on you. But first it makes you miss the person even when you're sitting right next to him, trying to shake his hand or make him smile.

When drove the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Henry might've been remembering playing catch with my dad in the backyard. Or the time he bit into a bar of soap because he thought it was a brownie.

Mine took a darker route, a haiku:

And there comes a time
when the boldest prayers fall short
and you're left wond'ring

Brubaker, Phillips turn to supernatural horror in 'Fatale'

I have less free time these days and a dwindling budget to go along with it, so it’s rare for me to pick up any new book or comic book without knowing anything about it.

Any Ed Brubaker/Sean Phillips collaboration gets tucked right away into the ‘buy now’ pile. Their latest, Fatale, hit the shelves last week and it does not disappoint.

Brubaker and Phillips have worked together on several different critically-acclaimed titles; from the crime series ‘Criminal’ to their take on super-powered characters in ‘Sleeper’ and ‘Incognito.’ Their stories are dark and gritty; relentlessly paced.

Fatale is heavy on the noir like those titles are, but adds in a mystical element of Lovecraftian horror. The story is told by Nicolas Lash, the godson of the Dominic Raines, a writer of trashy—but popular—detective novels and revolves around a mysterious woman he meets at Raines’ funeral. From the beginning, he is captivated with Jo, and then he pulls a picture with a woman bearing her likeness from an unpublished manuscript The story then flashes back to that time, when two crooked San Francisco police officers are looking into a bizarre series of murders. Jo’s look-alike, who goes by the name Josephine, is there, too—along with a reporter named Hank Raines, who is trying to prove just how crooked the two cops are. Josephine is the link between them.

Brubaker’s story is impeccably timed, the characters well defined and distinctive. There are a few clichés thrown in, which took me by surprise, but the story itself is intriguing enough to overlook those minor annoyances. Phillips’ distinctive artistic style, which had always seemed perfectly attuned to the back alleys and sleezy bars of the Criminal arcs, is a more than adequate match for the grotesque and creepy places the corrupt cop Booker and his partner are drawn into, as well.

The first issue of Fatale has been out for a couple weeks and might be hard to find. If you can, it’s worth picking up. The second issue drops on Feb. 1.

So long, and thanks for trying

I've been lax at this whole blog writing thing lately (having missed the entire month of December and the last couple weeks of November) and realized I owe a belated thank you to Susan Rowe, a former member of the Wayne City Council.

As my Wayne friends know, Susan served on the council for eight years and, instead of running for re-election, decided to run for mayor when her second term was up. She ran a good campaign but lost to incumbent Al Haidous.

I don't live in Wayne any more or attend those city council meetings, but I always respected what she tried to do as a councilwoman--even though it didn't always make her popular with her colleagues. We didn't always agree on things, but there were plenty of times when she was the only one that I thought made any sense up there. I think the citizens will miss her presence.

I have three distinct memories of her that I would classify as favorites.

The first was when the city council convened in the Wayne Community Center to appoint a replacement for Don Hartford, an outspoken councilman who resigned in the middle of his term to move to Georgia. There was quite a bit of speculation on who would be appointed, and plenty of young 'fresh faces' who put in for the spot. Optimism was high. Before that optimism could run rampant at that meeting--in fact, before anyone could say much of anything at all--the council appointed a former councilman (Al Damitio, who is still serving). No offense to Al or anything (I've since grown to like him) but the energy just kind of sulked out of the room. I swear I could actually hear it dripping down the legs of the chairs, trudging across the carpet and sliding down the drains of the showers in the other part of the building. Here was the old guard, reappointing the old guard.

"Can we at least read the names of everyone else who applied?" Susan asked, a resigned look on her face.

The second was during the tax increase campaign two years ago. John Zech, the city manager at the time, had prepared two budgets--one that was mildly painful in terms of cuts and reduced services and another 'doomsday budget' that would be approved if both millage requests were rejected by voters. Those issues were both approved and the day was saved, sort of. Susan was the only one on the council who advocated to put the 'doomsday' budget in place, anyway, because she alone seemed concerned about the city's history of spending everything it could. I thought that was the smart way to go, too--as painful as it would have been--and editorialized it about the time, too. Six months later, the city was convening emergency budget meetings because Ford Motor was contesting their tax bill and it seemed the city would have been a bit wiser to save money, after all.

The third was more recent, with her questioning of the time frame between (a) the council's approval of a budget that included funds for an economic development specialist, (b) the removal of the 'interim' title from interim city manager Bob English's title and (c) English's hiring of councilman Mathew Mulholland to fill that position--after it had been combined with another part-time position to make a full-time spot. That would have all happened within a matter of weeks, without the position even being posted externally.

I like Matt, too, but wished I still had a newspaper column when all that was going down. Unbelievable.

On a grander scale, Susan was a cautious spender, very conscientious with public money, and I appreciated that, too. She was often the only one who questioned things. She was active outside of her role on the city council, as well, with organizations like the Southeastern Michigan Council of Governments (SEMCOG) and the Michigan Municipal League. Her advocacy efforts recently earned her a Woman of Distinction Award from the YWCA, and I think that was well-deserved.

I also want to thank her for following her words with actions, something sorely lacking in politics today. She said she was still going to be involved in the city and has been working with the Wayne Ripple Effect, a grassroots group of citizens determined to revitalize the town. She's also been sending info to the city administration from the many municipal list services she's still subscribed to--and would have been at the last city council meeting, too, if not for what she described as a terrible cold.

Maybe she'll run for office again in two years, maybe she won't. She hasn't said, but at least she hasn't ruled it out. Whether she does or not, I'm confident that she'll be around town, helping out and trying to make things better--and for that, I say thanks.