No one is quite sure where November went. We?ve checked under the stairs, the closet in the guest room and, of course, the attic where I was sure I had heard it padding around at night but, alas, there?s no sign of it. Or at least the first half of it. I remember the end of October ? taking out the jack o?lanterns, one under each arm, and remarking to myself that this must be how the executioner?s apprentice felt, taking out the trash after work. Continue reading “Missing: November 2012”
Trying to make my word count at Caffe Mediterraneum on Telegraph. Looked up from the sidewalk. Snapped this. Zoomed and cropped. Looked familiar-ish. What do you think they’re talking about? You know, besides calling the cops on the man taking pictures of them from the street…
NaNoWriMo: It sounds like the nickname of someone’s Italian grandmother. It?s actually the too-clever-by-half acronym for National Novel Writing Month, which, at present writing, is about a third past. Or, to use the unit of measure valued most by Wrimos (their slang, not mine), you should have written about 16,670 words by now.
Every November, thousands of participants around the world attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. And why shouldn’t they? Writing a book on a lark is one of the few cheap thrills that taps directly into the unprecedented shifts in how consume and share media. Before the Kindle, iPad and sundry other e-reading devices and apps, one’s month-long quest for literary immortality would likely molder in a drawer. Now, it can be honed, polished and published to your eager readers and become the next ?50 Shades of Gray,? you know, given enough BDSM and other acronyms befitting a Craigslist “casual encounters” ad (NaNoWriMo ain?t one of them).
I can?t recall if it was from a poly-sci teacher or a bumper-sticker that I gleaned ?Voting is like muscle ? use it or lose it.? True, rights can atrophy from neglect, so they must regularly be exercised. Just probably not all at once. Like, don?t combine your rights to free speech and to bear arms by writing someone?s name on a bullet. It tends to weird them out.
Who Should I Vote For? Not Me.
But do vote. But not for me. You see, I?m more appointable than electable. I like to pretend this is akin to being more lovable than likeable, you know, once you get to know me. And if you knew me, you?d never vote for me. But you can make an appointment anytime.
In school, I never ran for ?class president? since I was never in class and I assumed that was a prerequisite, being half of the job title and all. The ancillary offices like Homecoming King and Prom King weren?t in my purview either.?I was an underclassman with dyed black hair and a leather jacket, which, in those pre-Columbine, pre-Oklahoma City days, was tantamount to domestic terrorism in rural suburbia. Also, I inhaled before it was back in fashion (was it ever out?) and had already begun harvesting the boneyard of indiscretions that make my closet look like the Catacombs of Paris. Continue reading “Should I Vote? Duh.”