Central Snark

UPDATE: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ONE OF OUR FAVORITE SNARKSTERS - PAVEL!

and of course RABBIT RABBIT!

So two Japanese art students and a pair of Italian twin brothers walk into an Italian restaurant…and out comes Blonde Redhead, more or less. The band was formed in 1997 after a chance meeting at an Italian restaurant. One of the art students dropped out and the result is the trio of Kazu Makino who is now married to one of the twins, Amadeo Pace and are now based in New York (Brooklyn I believe). You with me so far? Let’s continue on to the music (but first check out the Band’s site above which is artsy cool).

After a bit of a scuffle, I am featuring the video for the song 23 from their new album of the same name. My five year old son, Julian wanted to feature “that scary song”, Melody from an older album which you can find on the Band site above:

Of course, for a quick musical review, head on over to Blonde Redhead’s MySpace.

That’s it - blondes, redheads, brunettes, whateva - have a great weekend!

~ DJ LAMPSHA

Head on over to HUMOR-BLOGS.COM where you can tell them we also know how to have a good time!

BY now, many of you are aware of the fact that we don’t do much cooking. We’re pretty sure many more of you would also know this, if you’d bothered to read yesterday’s post. But that’s beside the point. The point, for we’re thawing it out, even as we type, is that we go to great lengths to avoid preparing anything more complicated than, say, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and/or cheese quesadillas. That said, we’re no strangers to our kitchen — it is, after all, where we keep our dishes. Not to mention our take-out menus, which currently sit in a drawer filled with those quaint thingies people use to keep from burning their hands when taking stuff out of the oven. But, as is too often the case, we digress.

IT recently occurred to us (a minute ago) that June is technically a “big” month for weddings. Matter of fact, we were invited earlier this month to the nuptial celebration for the person who used to groom our dogs. Unfortunately, we were unable to attend, what with the need to find a new groomer, and all. Still, we sent a lovely gift, in hopes it would be found useful to the happy couple as they trotted away into the sunset of wedded bliss. And yes, we sent cooking utensils, because we think everyone should have his/her kitchen crammed with as much useless junk as we do — none more so than two lovebirds recently united in marriage.

PERHAPS we should have included the following 1949 video, because it’s virtually “crammed” with Helpful Cooking Tips that seem surprisingly… kinky. Cream. Fold. Soft ball stage. Beat. Kneading the dough. Simmer. Loss of juices. Marinate… Just because we don’t spend an inordinate amount of time in our own kitchen doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate the sexual undertones associated with cooking terminology. Or overtones for that matter. In and/or out tones, too. That said, some of the terms used to prepare a variety of delicious dishes are almost as hilarious as some of the less-than-delicious dishes we’ve prepared over the years, in an effort to give the illusion of being “a good wife”.

AS you’re about to see, the honeymoon is over for Tim. As far as we can tell, it’s just about over for Margie, as well.

NO Margie, your cake didn’t turn out so well, and neither will your marriage. Like that wreck of chocolate congelation you tried to whip up, you’re headed for a big, messy fall. Oh, no doubt you’ll manage to keep Tim from finding out about your terrible cooking skills for a while. Heck, follow our lead and you may never have to open your oven again. No Margie, not that oven — you’re still a newlywed, you dumb bitch, that oven should be opened 24/7. No we’re talking about take-out, something you’d know about, had you bothered to read our post yesterday. But that’s beside the point, Margie. No, not the “point” at the ends of your perky breasts. Yeesh, Margie, keep up. No, not that kind of up, Margie, Tim’s not even home yet. Margie, why do we think there’s something you haven’t told us? Or Tim, for that matter? Apparently you’re not as innocent as you appear. As we were saying…

TIM may never realize how much you suck in the kitchen (another thing you failed to mention, Margie?), but he will find out about the time you fooled around with Marcos, the milkman, and be “upset”. He won’t take kindly to that fling you had with Ramon, your gardener, either. And trust us, Margie, Tim will be more than a little chagrined, when he learns the true nature of those lube jobs you were getting from your mechanic, Bubba. But the indiscretion that will send poor Tim racing out to file for divorce, is the one that resulted in the birth of your first child — exactly 9 months after you got back from the “girl’s only get-away” you took with Judy and Babs, to that Sandals Resort in the Caribbean. Nonetheless, Margie, we predict you’ll land on your feet (and/or back, as the case may be), and ultimately make millions penning a “how to really cook” book, entitled “I Knead Soft Balls”.

~snuppy

Can ya smell what’s cookin’ on Humor-blogs.com?

AS many of you know, some of us are big fans of Mexican take-out. Not just “big” fans, mind you, but MUY GRANDE fans. We love it, and we don’t care who knows… unless it happens to be some poor schmuck standing behind us shortly after we’ve had a particularly tasty bean burríto. But we digress, as so often happens when we start reminiscing about bean burrítos and/or that guy we “inadvertently” offended the other day.

THE fact that we really hate cooking helps to explain our passion for take-out. Fortunately, we happen to like many different kinds of cuisine: Mexican, for sure, but we also adore Chinese, Thai, and Italian, to name but a few ethnic variants. Oh, and if someone delivers it, chances are pretty damn good it’s gonna wind up in our house and/or on our dinner plate at some point in time. But our real passion is for Mexican comida (that’s food for those of you who no habla Español). Black beans, rice, corn and/or flour tortillas, salsa picante… mmm. Makes our mouths water just thinkin’ about it. As you might imagine, there are a number of Mexican restaurants in the area that we enjoy, but only a couple we’re especially fond of. One that’s poco un más (a little more) basic and one that’s poco un más, um, gourmet. Not fansíco schmansíco gourmet, mind you, but definitely more upscale than, say, el mucho más basic Taco Bell.

THIS restaurant — let’s call it Ole Mole, because that’s its name — happens to be our Very Favorite. But the other one is muy delicioso, too, so we order from them often, as well. In fact, we laugh nervously whenever we head out to pick up food from this “other” restaurant, because it’s practically next door to Ole Mole, which means there’s a chance we could get caught. Sometimes we duck in the car while speeding past our beloved Favorite, in hopes the owners and/or staff don’t catch a glimpse of us, and realize we’re getting ready to “cheat” on them, by feasting on some other chef’s tasty fare. Needless to say, by the time we sit down to eat, our mouths are happy, but our nerves are frayed.

IMAGINE our surprise, then, when we called our “other” favorite Mexican restaurant the other day, and ordered our “other” favorite dishes — dishes that are not available at Ole Mole — and were told they weren’t on the menu. Imagine our confusion, when we argued over the phone with Señorita Order-taker, by saying something like “What the hell? We order this at least once a week”, and were told “Is it a special order? Because we don’t offer plain enchiladas, only enchilada suizas, with chicken.” Imagine our embarrassment, when — because we were, by then, very frustrated and hungry — we angrily demanded to speak with the manager, who recognized our voice and asked us point blank “Since when do you eat enchiladas? What happened to verdura tacos, arroz con frijoles, y empañadas?”

GULP. That’s when it occurred to us that putting our two favorite restaurants’ numbers next to each other on speed dial was a huge mistake. HUGE mistake.

SADLY, that’s not the end of this pathetic tale. Imagine our utter and/or total humiliation when we tried to order from our favorite Thai restaurant the very next week, and were told “Pad Thai? ¿Usted ha ido loco? PAD THAI??” and then got cussed out mucho más en Español. That’s right, we did it again. Suffice it to say, our favorite restaurant tried to break up with us after that incident, but we’re hoping to win it back by showing we can — and will — remain faithful. As far as Gabriella y/o Rosíta are concerned, anything we’re eating these days that’s NOT on their menu, is being lovingly prepared at home, by our own two hands. And we’ll do our very best to stay true, because we’re not food sluts, dammit. Still, we do get pretty hungry. And we don’t like to cook. Thank goodness Taco Bell is on the other side of town, otherwise, at any given dinner time on any given night, we’d be up Río Shíto without a burríto.

~snuppy

¿Dónde podemos encontrar Humor-blogs.com? ¡Necesitamos reír, pronto!

We all have said it, we all have felt it and looking into the mirror, it takes serious delusion plus some altering medication to believe otherwise.
The other day I read a tag-post on our very own lampshade lady´s site. And it made me think. What did I do 10 years ago? Yesterday seems to have gone so quick, last week certainly flew by and don´t even get me started on where June went and if it even made an appearance.

10 years? A lot has happened. Some of you had kids and saw them going to their first school day, some of you opened your own company, some of you met someone and went down a different track than you thought you would…10 years is a major step into the next leg of your life. Granted, some of you still watch the 257th re-run of Star Trek epsiode 37 , series 15 “The escape to Nemisis” in your mom´s basement … but hey, whatever beams you up!

This goes out to all that have done the best with what they were given at the time.

Here´s my top three countdown of the things that made my last ten years worthwile, a little scary and absolutely necessary:

• 3) I moved to Iceland in 1997, leaving behind hurt, no prospects and an amazing pair of red rubber boots! I found my family herre, lots of hope and realized the rainbow had more colors than just red.. although I´ve never been a huge fan of orange, it looks quite lovely next to yellow.

• 2) I figured I was just smart enough to move above the low expectations my birth environment demanded of me and reading a book wasn’t as hard as I thought it´d be, so I enrolled in the university and even did well. Don’t worry, I won’t turn Narcissa on you … after all it was my mom that dragged me kicking and screaming to the sign-up. She is so pushy, someone needs to talk to her and with all that education she is insisting that I mow the lawn. What?

• 1) I discovered myself…learned that you can’t please everybody, someone is bound to not like you. Having your thoughts, opinions and feelings makes you you. And once you actually stop self-deception, the people that are compatable with your complex structure of weird inclinations, will see and make you shine. Although when they start to demand you polish your shoes, it´s time to branch out!

This makes me happy, it all mattered in putting me right here, typing this..10 years well spent, I think!

Now I encourage you to take a minute and look back over your last ten years, what´s the first thing that comes to mind and are you willing to share?

Would you look at the time? I have to run…!

~Penguin out!

IT’S official. CRUMMYJOEL is now in the “system”, which means our funny friend can post on a more frequent and/or regular basis. Which means our funny friend has to post on a more frequent and/or regular basis. Which means oh please oh please oh please post on a more frequent and/or regular basis, CrummyJoel, because we love these crummy-but-not-really letters of yours, and since our “other” funny friend, DIESEL, is busy selling t-shirts and/or making book pitches, we need you. Not that we didn’t need you before, mind you, but now we’re kind of desperate, in that clingy way we get sometimes. Not “hang on to your pant leg for dear life” clingy, mind you, but “oh sure we could make it without you, but puh-uh-leeese don’t force us to try” clingy. We know you hate that, and we hate ourselves for getting that way, but what can we say? Oh sure we could make it without you, but please don’t force us to try! Uh, heh heh. All this to say… CrummyJoel is now in the “system”, and all is right (and/or write) in our world. Also, from here on out, he’ll get no special treatment (and/or set-up) from us. What he writes is what you’ll get, which you’ll find out for yourselves, as soon as we let go of his pant leg. ~snuppy

***           ***           ***           ***          ***         ***

Dear Crummy Driver:

Just the other day, I was wondering to myself what it must feel like to merge onto the freeway on a Big Wheel©. Now I know. I realize that a vehicle as large as yours might take some time building up to highway speeds, but considering you were driving 85 mph on side roads methinks you could have been a bit quicker on the uptake when joining interstate traffic.

As is always the case not only were you able to merge with absolutely no problems (leaving the clusterf&^k to the line of endless traffic that had built up behind you), but you immediately felt the need to move to the left-most lane of freeway traffic. Which would have been fine, except for the fact that you swerved in front of 14 vehicles in the process. Oh, and the fact that you immediately set your cruise control on approximately 36 mph.

After negotiating the merge mess you left me with, I finally made it over to the fast lane. And by fast, I mean “36 mph”, because by that time you were leading the charge. I would’ve given anything for you to move right and let the faster traffic (me) pass. When you finally did, little did I realize the nightmare that your changing lanes creates. Hey, next time you get into your car, do me a favor and find those mirrors. You know, the ones you use to put your makeup on. Notice that if you take your face away from these mirrors long enough, you can actually see the traffic behind you and therefore avoid recklessly careening directly into their trajectory. Of course, this would mean that your makeup would have to get applied in some place other than your car at some time other than when you are on the interstate. A sacrifice, yes, but perhaps one that is best for everyone involved.

Quite honestly I was surprised you had time for the makeup, what with everything else that was going on in your vehicle. The main deck of the Enterprise had less activity than your driver’s seat. Between your makeup, coffee, CD karaoke, and cell phone, I swear you must have sprouted an extra arm out of the middle of your torso to keep it all going. By the way, do the size of cupholders match the size of the vehicles they occupy these days? I didn’t realize that had Starbucks started selling their coffee by the silo. Then again, I didn’t realize that Chevrolet had started selling aircraft carriers, either.

Eventually, we became separated and I can’t say that I was sorry. Of course, the reason we were separated is that I took heed to the warning that the left lane was ending in 2 miles. I got over to the right lanes, as I was specifically instructed to by multiple signs containing very large flashing LED lights and the scruffy gentlemen with orange vests and flags. I’m pretty sure you got out of the left lane approximately 10.6 inches before it ended. I wouldn’t know for sure as I was a ways back, a location reserved for people who follow traffic rules and dictated by those people who stay in lanes until there’s only 10.6 inches to spare. Thanks.

Next time, please do us a favor and take public transportation. Maybe you could earn some tips with your CD karaoke.

~Crummy Joel

PS: humor-blogs.com asked that if you are going to flick cigarettes out your car window, could you try not to aim for our sunroof? Thanks.

PERHAPS some of you know about the small-yet-not gathering we were invited to over the weekend, that was less tête-à-tête than soirée. That is, if by “soirée” we mean “not an elegant affair in a private home, but a large cacophonous group of normally quiet bloggers, assembled at one table in the middle of a Manhattan restaurant”, which, of course, we do. That’s right, many of us were treated to the joys and/or noise associated with the aforementioned gathering Saturday afternoon, and don’t ya just know we’d like to tell you about it? And don’t ya just know our heads are still swirling with the overall thrill of the whole affair — so much so we’re pretty sure we won’t be able to do justice to the event? And don’t ya just know we’re gonna try anyway, because that’s just how we are?

BECAUSE we’re nothing, if not ADDled at any given moment of any given post, this may seem a bit… convoluted, if not flat out confusing. Do your best to keep up, that’s what we plan to do:

DOUG! Wow. The curmudgeon! Cool. Oooh, a curmudgeon with blue eyes. Very cool.

YOUNG woman at the end of the table with the amazing hair but who’s name we didn’t get, and who shall be referred to, from here on out as: Debbie! Nice to meet you! You’re in my chair.

AL! Where’s yours and Doug’s wife? And why are you and that guy sitting next to you wearing matching shirts?

Al’s friend in the matching shirt! Howdy! Pleased to meet ya! (Didja catch his name. No, did you? No. Started with a “k”. Ken? Karl? Keith? Kirby? Kevin? Koby? Kurt?)

PIA! Keep flashing that brilliant smile of yours my beautiful friend, and we’ll have to put our sunglasses back on.

SAR! Who knew they made stilettoed tennis shoes? And what’s up with deleting your blog?

GINA! Yay! Hooray! It’s my dear NBFF! I missed you!! What’s that? You don’t feel well? Uh, maybe you should sit over there, next to “Debbie”, she seems, um, lonely.

TALI? Beautiful girl! Aren’t you glad your mom dragged you with her to this thing? Are you having fun yet?

NEVA! Now isn’t that special? Purple toenail polish to match that toe you stubbed yesterday. Clumsy and colorful, who knew?

JOEL! You mean to tell me driving an hour and a half into the city on a Saturday isn’t your idea of a “good time”? Go figure.

DUDE/girlfriend/bub/missy, i am SO happy/thrilled/unnerved to finally meet you! You’re exactly/so different/slimmer/bigger/taller/uneven/younger/older than i thought you’d be!

Love this restaurant! What a terrific vie…

Well yeah, we were this close to buying one, but we heard they could…

MIZ B’s reading today was fabulous! She sounded just like Pat, the Cat lady… color me impress…

Seriously! Sit over there, “Debbie”, this is my chai…

Can I get a drin…

Ooooh, bread!

TEH PENGUIN would have so much fun with this grou…

When did you get here?

I just flew in this morning, boy are my arms tired.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

No seriously, I had some kid hanging on it for, like, the last 3 hours of the flight. It’s still numb. Stupid little bastard…

Should we order something now, or wait until…

Richmond is very lovely, but so hot in the su…

…and then he said “Beavers and Ducks!”

IN other words, we had a grand time, despite the fact that we were allotted exactly 5.29 minutes to chit and/or chat with each and every person sitting at that long-ass table. Not that we’re bitter, mind you. No, in fact, we’re just grateful to have been included. We managed to snag a hug or two from everyone, eat a tasty roasted vegetable and goat cheese quesadilla, sneak one fried onion sliver off Al’s friend’s (Kyle? Kent? Korbin?) plate, and, uh, slip out before the check arrived. How was that NOT a perfect afternoon, we ask no one in particular, especially those of you who weren’t there? Truth be told, the only “difficult” moment occurred when some of us left before some of the the others. Hard enough to say goodbye, but we were more than a little jealous of those who stuck around, because we knew they were about to be treated to one of Al’s fabulous tours of Lower Manhattan. Lucky bastards. We’re guessing even Al’s buddy, ol’ whatsis name (Klyde? Klark? Korey?) enjoyed himself beyond the words he couldn’t get in edgewise.

~snuppy

Tomorrow’s post is bound to be more, um, lucid. After all, it’s being written by a blogger who wasn’t in Manhattan and/or at that table over the weekend. That said, there’s a veritable bloggerama-ding-dong goin’ on 24/7 at Humor-blogs.com.

This will be quick and to the point. I have to be out the door, I don’t feel well and I’m meeting up with a favorite group of blogger buddies today. Wah. When I don’t feel well, I make silly mistakes and delete things and then I get cranky…well crankier than I am as I don’t feel well.

Considering my eyes are looking a little glassy, this group’s name is perfect - Bright Eyes. Check em out:

Here: The Group’s site

Here: MySpace

And here: in a video of the song, Four Winds, from their new album, Cassadaga:

That about sums it up. Hope you enjoy and while you’re at it, have a great weekend.

~ DJ LAMPSHA

Everyone’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at Humor-blogs.com.

THERE’S no reason to ever expose you to a post like this. Period. And yet, here we are, doing just that. Oh well, blame it on a chaotic week. Or the fact that, at the moment, our levels of energy and/or creativity are lower than usual. Or — and more to the point — blame it on the fact that today’s post is supposed to have something to do with Sex Education and we had the need to give an equal amount of time to the topic of “growing girls” everywhere, after last week’s look at, ahem, growing boys. Whatever it is, that’s why you’re reading all these words, even though we have no intention of reading any of ‘em, ourselves. And if that doesn’t make sense, so what? Do we look like we care? Who the hell do you think we are, anyway? Your lousy 7th grade Science teacher, Mrs. Anderson? Jeez, are we really that lame? Or are you under the impression we’re here to amuse you? To cater to your every whim? Seriously, what in the wide wide world of sports do you want from us? Blood?

OOPS. We didn’t mean to get so carried away there, we’re just a little on edge. No, not because it’s “that time” of the month. Yeesh. We’re just tired. And cranky. Not to mention headachy. We have cramps, too, but, trust us, it’s not what you think — unless you’re thinkin’ we ate too many beans for dinner last night, in which case, it is what you think — but that’s beside the point. The point, which is as big as the giant period that looks like a bubble being held by a naked lady in the upper left hand corner, is that we enjoy being a girl, but sometimes it’s hard, so shut up.

MEET Molly… an incredibly naive-yet-stupid young girl who’s about to discover that “men-stroo-ating” has nothing to do with a bunch of guys tossing around a deck of cards while playing a frenzied game of Crazy 8’s, and everything to do with the end of her heretofore uncomplicated life.

COUPLE of quick questions: why did Molly’s mom leave her gloves at the nurse’s house last night? Is there something they’re not telling us? Also, speaking of “weird relationships”, is it just us, or does Molly seem a bit obsessed with her sister, Jeanie — who looks old enough, by the way, to be her quirky spinster aunt, Gert? Speaking of “old”, how ’bout that dad? Is it just us, or did he look a bit past his prime? Speaking of “Dad”, how ’bout that look he gave Molly when he realized she was no longer a “child”? Speaking of Molly — who’s-not-a-child — she says she can’t go out with her friend because she’s got the “curse”? Wha-a-a? And speaking of “the curse”, did Molly really ask that nurse (and/or Mom’s secret “friend”) if she’ll always have hers on Tuesdays? Poor Molly. So young. So stupid. So destined to get knocked up by some horndog named “Chip” before she graduates from high school.

DON’T mind us, we’re not trying to be difficult, it’s just that our heads are exploding with all the Useful Information we just learned from this Enlightening Educational Film for Morons made in 1953. Not to mention those Not-So-Useful Yet Burning Questions related to all things “Molly” that keep racing through our fragile little brains. We told you we had a headache, now you know why.

~snuppy

By the way, and speaking of “Tuesday’s”, don’t think we weren’t a tad pissed off at DIESEL for leaving us high and dry 3 days ago. That said, and speaking of Diesel, don’t think we weren’t incredibly grateful for his timely — and hilarious — “save” yesterday, as well as TEH PENGUIN’S lovely — and wonderful — post the day before. Speaking of “timely, lovely, wonderful and/or hilarity”, don’t think we aren’t looking forward to another wonderful Saturday Spin tomorrow, assuming our NBFF, the lovely — and brilliant — DJ LAMPSHA, has enough time to do one before heading out for — what promises to be — an afternoon filled with good friends, good food, and, oh yes, lots of laughter. Golly, we don’t know about you, but we can’t wait.*

For a good time, read Humor-blogs.com. Exclamation point.

I’ve been thinking about writing a book for a while. By “a while,” I mean like six months, but in truth I’ve been thinking about it since I was about seven. It’s only recently, however, that I’ve started to think about writing a humor book. If you’re familiar with my site or the stuff I’ve written for the Snark, you may be surprised to learn that it’s only recently that I really started to write humor seriously. And if you don’t think you can write humor seriously, you should see the joke that my non-humor writing was.

For some reason, I always thought I was going to be a science fiction writer. I love sci fi, and I’ve written several sci fi short stories. You won’t find any of them posted or published anywhere, though, because they pretty much suck. I’ve got the rejection letters from a number of prestigious sci fi magazines (ha!) to prove it.

Here’s the problem: I don’t have the attention span to write serious fiction. I get bored with my characters and situations, and keep coming up with crazy new ideas that I want to incorporate. My characters start to question why they’re stuck it such dull, preposterous situations, and refuse to do what I want them to do. They crack jokes at inappropriate times, and their grave predicaments are undercut by my inability to comment on anything without irony. I guess the real irony is that I always thought this was a handicap. If you’ve read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, you know what a talented writer can do with a cast of wise-ass characters stuck in a bad sci fi story.

I’m no Douglas Adams, but after 30 years of trying to emulate Isaac Asimov I’m finally starting to find my groove as a writer. I’m working on a compilation of my better Mattress Police posts, and I’ve been making some progress on a humorous novel about the apocalypse. If I ever do get a book published, it’s going to be something in the humor vein.

With that as my goal, I’ve started browsing the humor sections of bookstores to see what kind of humor books get published. This may shock you, but what I’ve determined is that most humor books are crap. Of course, it’s my opinion that most of everything is crap, but humor books certainly are no exception. The conclusion that I’ve come to is this: To get published, a book has to sound funny. That is, it’s got to have a title like 100 Ways to Kill a Penguin With a Banana or Bring Lots of Water: How to Make the Most of Your Vacation on Mercury. The problem with books like these is that except for the title, they aren’t funny. At all. Ever.

Here’s the reason: The title IS the joke. That’s why it sounds funny. The problem is, there isn’t a joke in the world that can be stretched to even a hundred pages and still retain any of its humor content. In fact, if you’re like me, you’ll find yourself wishing for a nice punchy obituary section to liven things up a bit by the time you get to page four.

For example, there is a book called The Zombie Survival Guide. It’s a guide for what to do when zombies take over earth. Funny, right? It’s one of the most popular humor titles out right now. The thing is, it’s not funny. I browsed through it for about ten minutes before it dawned on me that the book had exactly one joke in it. Zombies, get it? It’s not a humor book, it’s a zombie book. If you like zombies, or you are a zombie, I’m sure you’ll love it. Personally, I had to put the book down when I began to groan and drool on the carpet at Border’s.

(Note: There are some exceptions, but these are almost all books by ‘name’ authors like Dave Barry or P.J. O’Rourke. Basically, the people who can get away with publishing a book that doesn’t have an extremely narrow theme.)

A friend recently put my in touch with an editor at a company that publishes a lot of humor books, and she confirmed some of my suspicions. A funny title, funny chapter titles, and funny pictures. That’s what sells. I pitched her a couple of ideas, one of which had a very narrow “guidebook” type theme (sort of similar to the zombie book), and another that was a much broader idea, which would allow me some wiggle room to write more in my normal semi-coherent ADD style. She liked them both, but basically said that for them to use it I would have to take out the first person stuff — which would make it a more formal, third person style book. (I should mention, on the off chance that she reads this, that she was just communicating the realities of the market, and I’m extremely thankful for her frank advice.)

Anyway, so now I’ve got an opportunity to write a book for a reputable publishing company, but the rub is that I’ve got to try to do exactly what I’ve just been telling you seems to be impossible: I have to take a funny idea, break it up into a bunch of funny sounding chapters, and then drag it out for 170 pages without ever breaking the theme of What to Do if Your Spouse is a Werewolf. (That’s not the real title. But hell, maybe I’ll pitch that next.)

So, any ideas?

~Hopeful Diesel

Look for How to Succeed at Laughter Without Blowing Stuff Through Your Nose in the comedy aisle at Humor-blogs.com.

This is not humorous, it´s kinda melancholy…just thought I´d warn you! I was trying to come up with something else, but when your head is wrapped around something…it is hard to focus on anything else.

I had a Nightshift yesterday. Most of you know that I am working in a Nursing Home to pay for my studies. Many of you know that I like my job. Some of you know that I think it is really tough. We have a couple staying with us, decent people…a bit picky when it comes to food, but tolerable…always inseperable. I remember them telling me that 60 years or more they have lived and breathed side by side. I liked them alright. Last night, the woman died and left a husband devestated and so alone.
This goes out to all who have “loved and lost”.

I entered the nightshift and I could immediately tell something was off…there is a certain energy surrounding death that you can´t escape. I have been around this for years, it doesn´t frighten me. Sometimes I even think “about time” when a last journey took too long and involved too much pain. This was different; the ward was asleep, everything silent when suddenly my eyes fell on a man sitting hunched on a chair, not moving much…almost apathic.

After I got my report I went over to him and I could see there was little I could do. He wasn’t crying, he wasn’t doing much of anything, except breathing …it seemed every breath was a mountain he had to climb. I followed him to his room and made him comforatble in his chair and then I just talked…about everything that was going on in my head…no red threat connecting the different stories; I told him about the colour of the sea I noticed that morning while walking and about the lady that shoved her cart into me at the shopping mall and didn’t even apologize and how I was thinking about going back to university next fall. I talked until I felt I needed a glass of water and when I stood up he asked me not to go. I told him about one of my favourite poets, Emily Dickinson and recited this poem for him:

“Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play –
In accidental power –
The blonde Assassin passes on –
The Sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an Approving God.”

He asked me to translate it into Icelandic and I hesitated, I felt it was not my place. He insisted and I mentioned it was about death, he said he had some experience in that area and told me to go ahead. I did a lousy job, grammatically wrong I am sure and not doing any justice to my beloved poet, but he listened and he started to talk. He wasn’t as understanding or accepting as Miss Dickinson was…but he was talking.

We made pancakes at around 4 in the morning, he didn’t have any…but suggested a bit of orange juice squeezed into the dough and they tasted lovely.

~ Penguin out