Benji

On Saturday I began reading a thick biography, Benjamin Franklin: An American Life, by Walter Isaacson. I took this book with me to Saugatuck, Michigan when Becky and I set out for a one day early anniversary beach excursion. I got sunburned, but did manage to learn a bit about Benji's early life, including the obvious fact that my blog has a lot more in common with Benjamin Franklin's sense of humor than I realized. The guy would have loved blogging.

Benji was also nothing to look at . . . kind of like me on Saturday. I showed up for a day on the town wearing a pair of flowered shorts (green) and a bright blue shirt with whales as the pattern. I noticed that a lot of people were looking at me as we walked around town in the a.m. I asked my wife about this. "It's because you look ridiculous," she said.

I didn't really believe her until three gay guys who noticed me at breakfast started laughing at me and later, when a tour boat sailed by down the canal, I heard the tour guide over the loud speaker say, "Hey, Ladies and Gentlemen, take a look at the guy on my right. Yes, you see all kinds of fashion statements when you are in town, some better than others!" The whole boat-full of passengers and the crew were laughing and pointing, but I just waved and walked on.

Later, I changed in the back seat of the car. As Benji would have pointed out in his Poor Richard's Almanac many years ago: "A fool and his clothing are soon parted."

Living Testimonials

I rarely get feedback on my blog "on my blog", but I do get quite a number of responses when I cross paths with people who usually ask: "Do you really write that stuff?" Still, here are some of the more timely testimonials I've received to date.

Dad, don't write about mom. You're embarrassing her.
--Daughter (18) who will soon be leaving this house and won't have to endure further embarrassment from her father.

When do we eat?
--Son (15) whose kitchen excursions continue to drive our food bill into the stratosphere.

You're insane. I'd always suspected that I got the better half of the gene pool, and your blog proves it.
--Brother (43) who doesn't realize that I'm adopted.

When are you going to give up this charade of being a writer and come home to my lovin' arms?
--Wife (?) who never said this, but seems to share this sentiment every time she burns the meatloaf and asks me to come to bed during a late night writing marathon.

Retread

A few weeks ago I wrote an article for The Christian Century magazine. I thought it was a crisp, insightful, and thought-provoking piece . . . and so did the editor. But alas, there just wasn't a "place for it in an upcoming issue."

So, I rewrote it for another clergy mag and last week I got the word that it had been accepted as a "retread". That happens a lot in writing. A writer gets an idea, slants it for a particular magazine's tone and tenor, and then the piece dies on the vine and must be rewritten for another audience and tone.

I recently also sold another "retread" to an editor of a book series. That's fulfilling--the ability to be able to find something that is old, moldy and littered with dust and then find a home for it.

Next week I'm going in search of more treasure. I have piles (and I do mean piles) of written material that I have stashed away in filing cabinets, shelves and boxes. Hundreds of thousands of words, millions of words, and most of it I can't even remember where, how, or why I wrote it. Kind of like discovering gold in the backyard.

Excuse me...got to go dig now!

How To

Last week I was in a Barnes & Noble bookstore and noted the proliferation of "How-to" titles that have seemed to proliferate like fleas. There are books that can show a person "how to" make a deck, "how to" produce fuel oil from leftover salad dressing, or "how to" take the SAT test.

I wonder: are we really so helpless that we don't know "how to" do some of these things? I mean, if you look closely, there are actually instructions on how to fix a Pop-tart (the instructions are on the box). Are there people who actually need a manual for Pop-tarting? Heck, I've ruined entire meals without any instructions at all!

Still, I've been thinking: Do I have any books inside of me that could assist some of these helpless Americans who need instruction so badly? I think I do. Here are a few of the titles I've come up with. I'm glad to help and show you "how to".

How to Clean a Navel: Ten Easy Steps to a Better You Before You Nap.

How to Start an Andy Griffith Show Rerun-Watchers Club in Your Garage . . . and Twenty-five Recipies Aunt Bee Used to Make

How to Choose a College for Your Child: The Ultimate Parents' Guide For Talking Your Daughter Out of the Ivy League and Into an Affordable Four-Year degree at a State University Nearby and How to Pay For It Over the Next Decade

How to Understand a High School Freshman: What Makes 'Em Tick, What Ticks 'Em Off, and What To Do With the Ticks After You Remove 'Em from the Scalp

How to Please an Older Woman: The Ageing Man's Guide to Interpreting Female Overtures, Innuendos, and Subtle Body Language

Hiking with Sedaris

I realized yesterday that I have slowed immensely in my reading goals. At this pace, I won't come anywhere close to reading 100 books this year. Still, I'm approaching 50 (and a book a week ain't bad).

I did finish reading When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris, one of the funniest writers on the planet by my estimation. His essays always make me howl and in reading this, his latest book, I've kept pace with his entire corpus of writing. The guy spends most of his life in Paris, which is envious, but somehow he manages to have enough odd American experiences to justify a book every year.

He has a couple of hitchhiking stories--which is an experience I've never had. The closest I've come to hitchhiking was when my car broke down (actually wouldn't start) in a parking garage. I managed to find a ride home, but the guy who offered the ride was a college student and I don't think he said a single word the whole trip.

Getting my mail every day is about the longest hike I make. My driveway is 125 yards long, and this morning, going out to get the newspaper in the thunderstorm, I had all the adventure I wanted. I thought of the title of the book when I noted a lightening strike across the road. I'm grateful that I was not engulfed in flames.

Author Photos

Last week I was reading over my 20 page book contract and noted that I am to send 25 professional author photos (8 X 10 glossies) to the publisher for marketing and promotional purposes. Funny how I often overlook these little details.

Over the years I've had my picture taken by a number of professional photographers who have been sent my way via publishers, newspapers, and magazines. They are never what I hope for. Every time, I anticipate that I'm going to get a female photographer who will conclude our photo session by saying something like: "You know, you look kind of buff. Why don't you take off your shirt, go outside, use that shovel, and let me photograph you chucking that pile of pea gravel over your shoulder?" She would click away at the shutter and admonish me to "work it, baby, work it!" or "now you're showing me something!"

This never happens. All of the photographers who have been sent my way have looked like Chuck Norris or Grizzly Adams and they always start the photo session by asking, "So, where do you want to do this?" I always take a step back before I realize they are talking about photography. They always carry tripods and get their beards enmeshed in the attachments.

Even at home I can't catch a break. My photo is usually taken by a forty-seven year old, slightly bow-legged, pidgeon-toed wife with two thousand dollars worth of dental work. She looks through the shutter and says, "Get back in the house, take off that shirt, and put something else on. You look ridiculous."

I ask her if she wants to go with me while I change shirts.

She doesn't.

Shapes

I have completed a most interesting book on geography and history entitled: How the States Got Their Shapes, by Mark Stein. Essentially, the title of the book reveals the contents. How did each of the states come to have their respective shapes? What's the deal with West Virginia? (Have you ever really studied the shape of this state closely? It's absolutely weird!) Why are Colorado and Wyoming nearly identical rectangles? And the most interesting question as far as I'm concerned . . . why would anyone in his/her right mind want to live in Indiana when there are far more interesting states to live in?

Reading this book helped me to understand why Aaron H. wants to move to New Mexico. It's far more intriguing.

Shapes and sizes, of course, define much of what we do. People are drawn to some shapes, and not others. People have always considered me square, for example. My wife is a peach. My dog is an oval. I prefer triangles. In fact, I would drive a triangular car if they made one. But I'm stuck driving a box in a little box state.

Some day I'm going to break away like A.H. and buy a triangular car, load my square body into the circular seat and drive away to a hexagon-shaped island in the middle of a rhomboid sea.