Hey, Don't I Know You?

Last week, while reading Mitch Albom's book, Have a Little Faith, on the return flight to Indianapolis, I overheard a conversation between the two men who were sitting behind me. I couldn't help but listen in.

One of the men turned to the other and said, "Hey, don't I know you?"

The other said, "You might know me. I am an actor. I've been on many television shows and I'm driving back to Chicago in a few days to be on Oprah. She's doing a whole series of shows about me."

The other guy seemed dumbfounded: "Really!! Holy Cow. I thought I knew you!"

So anyway, this guy waxes on for the next hour about all of his television roles, his career highlights, his up-n-coming appearance on Oprah, etc. And the guy sitting next to him is buying all of it.

Finally, when the plane lands, I get an opportunity to look behind me. The "actor" is some kid who looks to be about eighteen years old. But he's clearly no actor. When I stand up, he looks at me and smiles as if to say, "Can you believe these people? They'll believe anything!"

Anyway . . . it was quite a story, and the kid was a great sideshow (though he, obviously, was no actor at all). He was just making great flight conversation and seeing how far he could push the buttons and the boundaries.

But you know, people believe and see what they want . . . but I'm still waiting for that person to turn to me and ask, "Hey, don't I know you?"

Lord, are they going to hear some tales! Not everyone knows this, but I was once the king of Lithuania, and I am heir to the throne of Transylvania, and I once bit the head off of a lion, just for fun.

Should be a great flight.

I Need You!

Last week I received an acceptance letter in the mail . . . a rather formal note from an editor who was passing along the good news that she was accepting one of my articles for publication. I yelled, "Whoopie" and then pocketed my twenty-five dollar check, which I intended to cash later in the day so I could buy lunch for a friend. (Heck, what else you can you do with twenty-five dollars anyway?)

But I did happen to notice that at the bottom of the letter the editor had also included a handwritten line: "I really like your stuff . . . I need to see more from you!"

Wow, and this from another woman!

Later, I showed this to my wife and asked, "Do you think I should call her and see what she has in mind? I mean, it's not every writer who gets an invitation to earn another twenty-five dollars by performing."

"Don't flatter yourself," Becky said. "It's just a lousy twenty-five bucks, which is the story of your writing life. Think of all you'd have to do just to earn a hundred dollars."

"I can stand on my head," I said. "And you know about some of my other tricks."

"Yeah, I've seen 'em"," she said. "Believe me, she won't even pay twenty-five dollars for one of your standard performances."

"I'll improvise."

"Just get in there and type," Becky said. "That's the best chance you've got of earning enough money to rotate the tires. And don't bother me any more, you weirdo. I've got papers to grade."

Back to Old New York

A couple of months ago I received an invitation in the mail from The New Yorker magazine. They were inviting me to subscribe for a mere $25 a year (26 issues). How could I pass that offer up? So, I subscribed.

Now, I'm receiving The New Yorker via mail again, and I'm enjoying every issue. Great essays, book reviews, stories, poems, and more. There's little doubt that this is still the top American general interest publication available.

I also continue to submit my tired, worn and weary efforts to the magazine in hope that some editor there will say, "Hey, here's some idiot in Brownsburg, Indiana who wrote a great piece. Let's buy it!"

After submitting to the magazine for the past thirty years (yes, 30!) I think I've earned at least one acceptance. And that would just pay for the postage I've used. The way I figure it, I've shelled out at least $1000 over the past 30 years in postage, envelopes, paper and ink . . . just for a shot at appearing in the pages of this one magazine.

So, come on New Yorker . . . make an old writer's day. Say "yes" already! If you don't, I'm going to go broke buying stamps.

Got Faith?

Flying back from California last week, I read the entirety of Mitch Albom's new book: Have a Little Faith. Albom's other books have also been best-sellers, including Tuesdays with Morrie, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, and For One More Day.

I liked Have a Little Faith. It's a book that I will likely use for sermon illustrations and other talks, and our little book study breakfast group will be tacking the title in January. So . . . I'm ready to discuss.

Albom's books have also incited a few parodies over the years (I love parodies). And one of the best titles I've seen here is: The Five Jerks You Meet on Earth.

Actually, everyone knows a few jerks. (This is a fact if you know me!)

But if I were going to parody Albom's latest book, I might write a title that would reflect the realities of my life. Titles like:

Have a Little Coffee

Have a Little Toilet Paper

Have a Little Sleep

Have a Little Savings Account

Have a Little Donut

Have a Little Leftovers
Have a Little Time With Your Wife

Have a Little Gasoline in Your Junk Car

Have a Little Time to Write

Edison the Nut

On my recent trip to California, I took along some books (as always). And the first book I completed in-route was Randall Stross's 250 page biography of Thomas Edison: The Wizard of Menlo Park.

I have always been fascinated by Edison . . . even the myth of the man, but after reading Stross's excellently-researched biography, I have to conclude that Edison was both a genius and a fruitcake. But then, what genius isn't a bit fruity?

One of the things I found fascinating was that Edison would frequently work 48 hours, even 72 hours straight, without break for food, rest or water when he was "in the inventing groove". This was not an uncommon week for Edison, and he was intent on creating new things, or finding improvements for standard inventions. But he often ignored the inventions that would have netted him huge profits, and continued to pine after odd inventions that had no chance of turning into anything substantive. Hence, a fruitcake. That, or Edison was stubborn as a mule. Probably both.

Now, I'm no Edison, but I have worked my fair share of 24 hour days (all-nighters) and I've even written two or three books in their entirety in a 24-hour period. But what human being can endure a 48 hour or 72 hour day without going batty from exhaustion? Or, after 20 hours, who wouldn't want to eat some black licorice while enjoying a coal black cup of coffee?

I liked this book, and have shelved it in my biography section, which has just about consumed an entire wall of my home now. I like reading about people. After all, there's always another nut out there trying to make a buck off a book.

More Methodist Madness

Okay, here's another one . . . a series of limericks.

The Methodist Limerick

There once was a man named John
Who was short, and sallow, and wan.
He was Wesley by birth
But of considerable girth
When he sat on his horse and rode on.

His brother Charlie wrote hymns
And his mother, Susanna, birthed hims
And each boy grew up
With an Englishman’s cup
And a head full of Latin verb-ends.

Both boys went to Oxford to learn
And both became priests by a turn
And they started a group
Filled with Methodist soup
And their hearts then started to burn.

Revival broke out in the church
And John used his dad as a perch
When he spoke from his grave
In hopes some would be saved
For he was never left in the lurch.

And that’s how it was, my friend,
With two brothers who knew how to send,
And the movement came near
And that’s why we’re here,
But it’s just the beginning, not end.

More Methodist Stuff

Call me fickle . . . but all of this charge conference nonsense made me wax poetic. Now, I've got a bunch of Methodist stuff that needs saying . . . oddly, of course. Hope all you Methodist-wanna-be s enjoy these this week.

Aldersgate Street
For All Those Weird United Methodists Who Love a Meeting!

When John Wesley went to Aldersgate Church “very unwillingly”
He was making a statement of curious fact and of serendipity.
And one of the myths that Wesley refuted is that he loved to gather,
But the fact is he really hated these things ‘cause the meetings did not really matter.

Sure, he thought that people ought to pray, and sing, and make right merry,
But he couldn’t foresee how his methods would spread and become rather horribly scary.
For among the many myths, my friend, that Wesley himself debunks,
Is that he loved his conferences (but at more than a few, he blew chunks).

So before we decide that a meeting is needed, or another caucus or force,
Let’s sit for a spell in the silent space and consider a more prayerful course.
And some will say it’s a sacrilege to believe that we don’t need a meeting,
And others might yell, “You are going to hell”, if they don’t have their charge conference greeting.

But consider John Wesley, our brother and friend, before you jump to conclusions,
For old brother John didn’t want to go meet and he sure didn’t harbor illusions.