Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Here goes, my first try at Friday Shoot Outs! Colors of the rainbow. . . Now, since I didn't see the theme until this morning (laughing - okay, I'll do better with the next one) - I will have to interpret it with the photos I took yesterday and a few I took last week . . .
This was actually a mistake I made with my camera! But I just loved the colors so I kept it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Last night, I held a novel to read. I opened it, and read and enjoyed and wondered about the author, what they were thinking since they'd sent their words to the world and if they know how beautiful they are, and that at that very moment, I was reading their words and they'd never know me, never know I smiled, and then closed the book with satisfaction, turned out the light, and dreamed.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I love it yeah yeah yeah, I love it yeah yeah yeah, and with a job like that, I know I should be glad....
This has happened to me with my fiction, and with the columns/restaurant reviews I used to write for publications. When I sat down to write, the idea would not come, the original thought would not work. The words stuck. Nothing revealed from the original thought. But…I kept writing, putting down the other words that wanted to come anyway, and soon something else emerged, something that did work. I kept going until I “finished” and when I was done, I went back to the beginning and took out what I needed to of the original thought and left the rest as the revision for my finished piece. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes our mind is changed before even we know it needs to be changed. There are many times when we must follow where we are led. What a journey! This is living, folks. This is writing. This is manipulating the language without constraint—ah.
The use of point of view is to bring the reader into immediate and continuous contact with the heart of the story and sustain him there.”—Tom Jenks
Your reader will see and feel and be through the eyes of the character(s) who is(are) speaking. To me, the characters are not just the heart of the story—they ARE the story.
The poor novelist constructs his characters, he controls them and makes them speak. The true novelist listens to them and watches them function; he eavesdrops on them even before he knows them. It is only according to what he hears them say that he begins to understand who they are.”— André Gide
Those who know me have heard me say and I will say over and again say—listen to your characters. Let them show you where they want to go. Yes, sometimes we must manipulate as the author, but only when you allow your characters to be who they are, and not who you wish them to be, will everything begin to make sense, to pull together. This goes for non-fiction, as well—don’t try to tell us who you are writing about, show us through their actions, and play with the language, fudge a bit if you have to. Just because it is non-fiction, doesn’t mean you can’t embellish a bit—for isn’t life one big story told a different way with each telling? (And don’t be afraid to use dialogue in your essay.)
Surely the test of a novel’s characters is that you feel a strong interest in them and their affairs,—the good to be successful, the bad to suffer failure.”—Mark Twain
If you are not interested in your characters, why should anyone else be? Alternatively, If you do not believe in your work, why should anyone else?—believe me, it will show. The reader always knows. Give them your best. Give them the truths—and this word “truth” means more than what first appears to you.
I was never too interested in starting with “ideas” and applying images. I wanted the stuff of it all, the pillow, the mint leaf, the crust of paint. Let the little things lead.”—Naomi Shihab Nye
Another thing those who know me have heard, and I will say over and again: those “little things” – those images, those sensory details, the little details and images make your story or essay come alive. Don’t be afraid to add something small as a curled leaf, a spot on the bedroom wall, tracks of freckles across a nose, a single red bird in a field of white snow (as long as you watch for cliché!), or images/sensory details, such as a woman chopping onions and then sautéing them in melted butter, a boy watching his father shave/work/laugh/cry/spit/scratch/leave, a girl placing a bare foot in the water and shivering—the foot is only the beginning of the entire body’s immersion in what will become…, a moment of discovery, a glance, a sigh, a well-placed touch with just the tip of the second finger from the left—play with your images, think of the big things, yes, but those little things, little images, will make your work live.
“….You start out putting words down and there are three things—you, the pen, and the page. Then gradually the three things merge until they are one and you feel about the page as you do about your arm. Only you love it more than you love your arm.”—John Steinbeck.
There are those times when the world as we know it goes away and our own inner world takes over, and soon the words are coming and the characters speaking and the story or essay is forming and there is nothing else but that, nothing but this world, this place, this feeling we as writers are creating. Hours can pass, and we lift our heads and, wait! It can’t be three o’clock, just a little while ago it was eleven o’clock—we have been to other-worlds, alternate universes, going gone, and the coming back is surreal—seemingly less real than the inner world we’d just come back from.
Not every writer loves his craft. Not every writer always enjoys writing and manipulating the language. Not every writer (and I doubt any of them…) is deliriously happy every time they sit down to work—especially when it comes to revisions revisions revisions. Well, if you do not always love it, so what? If you want to write—then write. I love it, but I get frustrated at times. There are times I say, “I wish I weren’t a writer. I wish I didn’t love it!” but I know I’d not have it any other way. I know I’d wither and wilt and die a bit if I could not write, create, do what I do—as clichéd as that sounds, it is what it is.
By the way, if you worry about what the editor or publisher wants, you will drive yourself crazy. Instead, why not write for an audience of one: you. The rest will work itself out, one way or the other . . . That’s what I did with TENDER GRACES.
Monday, June 22, 2009
You can find "writing tips" all over the web, in books, on blogs, under rocks, in the refrigerator behind the mayonnaise. But there are general things I think about as an editor, as a writer, and as a reader and from time to time I'd like to share them.
I want to talk this morning about things I see as "cliches." I try double dip hard not to write cliche-ingly. Those cliches can be tricky; they can be sneaky. It's not always the obvious cliche of "soft as a cloud," or "hard as a rock," etc. There are other things I think of as "cliche." Those things that are over-used or unimaginative or sometimes just, um, "lazy writing." And this does not mean one must try to be clever - if you are trying to be clever, it will show that you are TRYING to be clever. If one is constantly THINKING about what they are writing and how they are writing it instead of actually just writing, then the work will be stilted or the work won't be done or one could freeze up and feel as if they will "fail" - there is no failing, there is doing what feels right for You--and if writing with the cliches below feels right to you, then for gawd's sake write that way.
Some things I think of as "Cliches" (and yes my word "cliche" doesn't have the emphasis mark but I'd rather have none that use a ' ):
Please don’t end your story with “it was all a dream.” Or, set me up with a situation and then I find out it's a dream. As I always say: Rules are meant to be broken, but you dang sure better be good at it and convince me! I love reading dreams in a story, but I like to know they are dreams and not feel as if the author is trying to fool me or say "gotcha!" Those "gotchas" better be done in a way where I think "oh! I didn't expect that! Cool!" and not the gotcha that has me rolling my eyes and feeling frustrated and "fooled."
Watch those descriptions of characters where they look into mirrors and then describe themselves, for example: “Betty looked into the mirror and studied her strong determined chin, her curly red hair that framed a pale winsome face, the freckles across her haughty nose.” Who does that? Who thinks about themselves in that way? I can see something natural, though—the character notices something that we really would—hair all messed up or lipstick smudged or a spot of dirt on a cheek, etc. Just be careful that your character looking into the mirror to describe their physical characteristics to the reader doesn’t become a cliché--if you describe your character in a mirror, then it already is a cliche.
This is my own personal pet peeve, but, watch phrases such as when something floods a character’s mind or body or whatever, as in “Relief flooded Betty’s body,” or “Anger flooded her veins," or "Happiness flooded Betty's mind." It's just a personal thing for me - maybe it's been overdone, but mostly I'm looking for something more compelling to describe the feelings Betty is having .
Oh well, those are just a few things I am thinking about this morning. More important for you is to get the words on the page; the more you practice, the more things that come to you naturally or instinctively or through an awareness, the more you will automatically do them so that in re-writes you have less work in front of you. If I knew what I know now back when I first wrote Tender Graces, that novel would have been completed and ready to go much sooner. Do I sometimes make mistakes - hellvitica yeah! Do I sometimes mess up and write out my own pet peeves? I do and I try to catch them. Will I ever stop learning how to be a better writer? Heckles no! Writing-words and language-is alive and breathing!
Now, I am going to go work on Virginia Kate Book 2. See y'all later!
google image: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WTtnAYyqVog/RnquAL19y1I/AAAAAAAAA9I/Vmj8mBEiAx4/s400/cliche-bingo.jpg
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Barry says about his blog: Welcome to this highly eclectic blog. It began its little life as an lighthearted look at the events of the world around me, especially the adventures of my dog Lindsay. However in March of this year I was diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer which, as you might suspect, changed the nature and tone of this blog considerably. It now, for the most part, chronicles my search for a healthy life both within and without conventional medicine. However, I continue to post about my dog Lindsay on Wednesdays, and participate in "Our Town Shootouts" on Fridays. And every now and then, I just post what I want.
Okay, I admit it: I am in love with Barry. I can just stand in line, because that line is as long as my mountain is high. Over the last few days, I have picked up rock after rock, putting it in my hand, seeing how it "felt" - so that I can send to Barry a special "healing" rock from my mountain cove. I'd like to send him two - - one that comes from the cold running creek, and one that comes from the mountain itself. Of course, who knows if my rocks really heal in a physical way, but, I do believe by holding them in his hand and feeling the ancient quality and mystery and wonder of them, he will feel better. For , as his profile reads, Barry has cancer and is going through some rough times right now. Oh, you wouldn't know how that suffering must weigh upon him, because his spirit of strength and his love of beauty and of family and of life, of his wife Linda, his energetic and full-of-personality-and-spunk(Like Barry!) dog Lindsay, his respect and love of nature and exploring--all of these things are Barry the Man. The cancer is not Barry. The cancer is an interloper, an alien that has attached itself to Barry's body. A parasitic bastard. It does not define him, but it is shaping him and his moments. It is calling attention to itself as it is its nature to do. Right now, I have a hate upon all hates of that cancer. But, I won't go on about that, because I'd rather write how much I love Barry.
I go by Barry's place and there is always much going on since I missed my daily "drive by Barry's Place;" so, I scroll down to catch up, gulping Barry's adventures in big hungry bites. I want to make sure he is okay, too. To make sure he's not hurting or feeling unwell. I want to see what Lindsay is up to, or his wife Linda (she has her own blog and I like going by there as well). I laugh at Lindsay's antics . . . I smile at Barry's way of seeing his world and the world of his Lindsay. I know this: The world is a much much better place with Barry in it.
Barry has 611 friends on his blog--think about that number: 611! Yet, when he comes by here and says hi, I feel as if I am special, as if I am thought of and thought about.
I could go on and on, but you should go read Barry, go meet him, go say hello. If you have not gone by Barry's place, go there...right now! Click HERE.
Barry said about Tender Graces: Tender Graces is a complex novel of powerful characters in exotic settings wrestling with life's relentless and all too puzzling demands. It is by turns horrifying and exhilarating, hilarious and all too real. It has one of the most unlikely heroes in modern fiction. I know you've heard that before, but this hero isn't a ghost or a man from Mars, it is a woman who emerged from her own troubled past and became through her own efforts a normal human being. Normal in a clinical, not a statistical sense. A woman whose very normalcy transforms, and challenges, all the other characters in the novel. And maybe the reader as well. [...] Despite its appearance, Tender Graces is not a woman's book, at least not exclusively. It is a very adult book in which very real characters wrestle with life's complexities and come to their own conclusions....for the rest go HERE
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
My luncheon with the Red Hat Society Ladies went well. I find it hard to talk about myself, though. I think that's the hardest part for me to be an author, talking about myself. I tended to deflect and asked people things about themselves, and since all of the RHS ladies are also writers, that was easy enough to do. But it was a lovely lunch at the Herren House (a Bed & Breakfast) in Waynesville. Good food and wonderful company. I actually have a red cowboy hat that I bought while traveling with my brother Johnny and his (then) wife to the SC coast - we thought it was funny, that funny red cowboy hat. I never knew about the RHS back then. But I didn't wear it yesterday because I forgot about it; however, the Ladies had their hats, or red bows on their head, or read hairbands . . . teeheehee -They looked so jaunty and bright.
Y'all have a great weekend! Any plans? What will you be doing? Let me live vicariously through you - ha!
(google image from: http://www.renc.igs.net/~tcollier/Red%20Hat/red%20hat%20lady%20new.jpg)
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I found your note in my pocket and just had to write you! Your succinct message of “inspected by 22343484JH5TW2” came through clear—I read between the lines; I get the love…yes.
Of course the garment fits perfectly, each thread lined up like little children before recess—is that a nod to the innocence of our budding but virtuous relationship? Although, I have a teeninesy bone to pick with you 22343484JH5TW2; there were two hanging threads on the left sleeve! Could not you have taken just a moment to snip them so that my garment would have been more than perfect? Don’t you see our connection by garment, tag, and little tiny slip of paper as an expression of our affair in that perfection? Oh, I suppose you were distracted by something…something…oh!—but wait!—who distracted you? Were you flirting with Inspector Number 456748GH8583J4? I can’t bear to think about it. Your eyes lifting to meet hers, just as you were about to scan the sleeves of my garment. Oh sigh! Oh Heavy Sigh~! What wounds we mortals partake of!
I shall forgive you that indelicate glance at the winsome 456748GH8583J4. In fact, I snipped the threads myself and placed those threads against my heart before tossing them away—why, they floated in the wind for a moment before touching down in the waste receptacle! Ah, light threads of my love, 22343484JH5TW2.
Oh! I can imagine you right at this moment, inspecting another garment—perhaps a jacket, a shirt, a pair of pants (or even shall I say it, under garments!?)—your keen eyes resting on a flaw, and upon seeing said flaw, you toss the offending garment into the rejection pile, or into the Big Discount Store pile, shaking your head at the messiness of life itself! Then, you turn to the next and it is silk and you rub the silk between your fingers and it is so soft and lovely and is that when you think of me, 22343484JH5TW2? Oh that it were so; oh that it were so. I think not. I think you are not thinking of me. I think I have been forgotten! Damn these mortal coils of hell!
In fact, I bet right now you are staring at that damnable 456748GH8583J4! I bet right now the both of you are sharing a lunch break together! I bet you have asked 456748GH8583J4 to inspect the shirt upon your own back (a private joke between you! Oh oh oh!) I can-not stand it. In fact, I am not wearing your garment again, 22343484JH5TW2! *SOB* I cannot bear to look at, to have it upon my body knowing you inspected it and then rejected its wearer. I will tear it asunder! Rip it apart!
But wait, it is a nice garment, after all. And with the two threads gone, well, it’s quite nice. And well, it seems there is another inspector on the horizon. Seems Inspector Number 67BD547584375SM8858548JFG48488FMN (see how much LONGER his number is and with the hidden naughty codes in it?) has sent me a secret message in a nice hugging pair of slacks!
So, I close this letter, Inspector Number 22343484JH5TW2. Never more. Never more. Alas.
With deepest sorrows to what might have been but too bad you messed up and missed out and now I’ve found another and too late for you,
One Who Shall Remain Nameless
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The 2009 Bram Stoker Award Winners:
NOVEL: DUMA KEY by Stephen King
FIRST NOVEL: THE GENTLING BOX by Lisa Mannetti
LONG FICTON: MIRANDA by John R. Little
SHORT FICTION: "The Lost" by Sarah Langan
FICTION COLLECTION: JUST AFTER SUNSET by Stephen King
ANTHOLOGY: UNSPEAKABLE HORROR edited by Vince A. Liaguno and Chad Helder
NONFICTON: A HALLOWE'EN ANTHOLOGY by Lisa Morton
POETRY COLLECTION: THE NIGHTMARE COLLECTION by Bruce Boston
Monday, June 15, 2009
“What does it mean, Miss Darla?”
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I gave her a little wave and walked out with Dylan into the dark. The air was close and wet, settling on my skin. My clothes rubbed against me until I thought I’d go insane. I wanted to throw off everything and run howling at the old moon. I watched Dylan from the corner of my eye, watched his mouth forming all those words. My body itched and jittered. I didn’t like that itchy feeling one little bit.-- Virginia Kate Book 2
I am thinking of doing a "virtual reading" - I have this webcame on my laptop - it's not all that great, but it works. What do y'all think about that? If I record a reading of VK...or does that seem boring? Wouldn't it be cool if somehow we could do it "live" where people could ask questions or whatever and we could talk? I'm sure somewhere somehow this can be done, but I'm not savvy enough to set it up.
Here is what we had for dessert Friday night when we had two friends come over - I used to call them "GMR's Theater Friends" but they've become our friends- two of The Regulars came over and GMR prepared a jambalaya pasta. I made dessert and all I did was this:
Saturday, June 13, 2009
I put the card in the envelope, along with a photo of Andy and me that I’d had Bobby take with my camera, sealed the envelope, addressed it to the little white house down the long road in the little holler where my mountain shadowed it, licked the stamp and pressed it, put my return address, and walked it out to the mailbox, even though the mail wouldn’t come until Monday morning. That way, it would set in there and wait, and I wouldn’t change up my mind about sending it.
I pictured it riding in mail trucks. I pictured it being delivered. I pictured Mrs. Mendel picking up the mail and taking it to Momma. I pictured Momma looking at the envelope. Then I forced myself to picture Momma opening it, reading it, and then smiling. I pictured her picking up the phone to thank me, but that’s when the picturing turned fuzzy and far away, as far away as my mountain. ..VK Book2 excerpt, rough draft
Friday, June 12, 2009
Sometimes, I'm moody. Although the older I get, the more my moods even out. I can be silly for no reason at all. I can be sardonic. I can be negative. I can see things in ways that GMR says “I never thought of it like that! Hey!” I can tell him, “that person isn’t as they present themselves,” and then later he asks, “how did you know…” Because, I am wise, sage, otherworldly to his practical. Huhn. Right?
Sometimes, things are too cluttered around me. I am building a "nest" in this room where I am doing the most of my writing. It is beginning to look awful. Something must be done. To start: I have two books that were sent to me for book give-aways that I still have not given away - they are both Virginia Ellis books. One is The Wedding Dress and one is The Photograph - So, I've decided that the first person to tell me, in the comments, "I want those copies of Virginia Ellis's books!" will get them. Now, that's done!
image google images: http://rlv.zcache.com/you_are_boring_womans_basic_t_shirt-p235269182458406305g0mb_210.jpg
Thursday, June 11, 2009
We didn't know it until we saw the credits, but GMR may have had a voice-over character on one of the series (I think it is part 4): Appalachia, A History of Mountains & People.
Last night I used this new thing I bought were you put a pad on the circular majiggee and then it vibrates and you run it over your face. Then, I put a green mud mask on my face and let it "harden." I rinsed it off. I put on moisturizer. I felt spa-ish.
While watching King of the Hill, I had a sudden crush on Hank Hill. I am weird.
It is softly raining, right now.
At this moment, the name Annie comes to mind. Who knows why, or who Annie is or why she comes to mind. There is a dog named Annie we see sometimes on our Lake Junaluska walk. Maybe I am thinking of that Annie.
I love the moon.
Here is a recipe that is easy for everyone: Take two pieces of bread. Put two pieces of cheese between it. Put that into a buttered skillet. Brown both sides, get the cheese gooey. Put it on a plate. Serve with it tomato soup that has added black pepper. You will feel happy and comforted. Add slices of apple and you will feel even better.
I wonder if someone is reading Tender Graces right at this moment. I wonder if someone has just finished her, and I wonder if someone has just begun her, and I wonder if someone is looking at her wondering if they should purchase her, and I wonder if someone is missing Virginia Kate right now. I am, so I will get to work on her . . . right . . . now . . .
Google images: http://www.seriouseats.com/required_eating/images/20070522grilledcheese.jpg
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Come on; admit it, Mom in the Commerical. The youngest kid is your favorite. You toss and turn about this at night, but the results are always the same: Little Timmy is your favorite and Older Brother Billy is, well, is not. You can try to pretend, what with that smarmy smile you give Billy, while all the time Little Timmy is your pride and joy and all the world to you and more. You thought, “Little Timmy deserves.”
You don’t fool me one bit, Mom. There little Billy is. He sees there’s one slice of bread. He’s thinking, “Hmm, how can I make sure I get my due?” For after all, Big Brother Billy has been slighted time and again by his shitty little brother Little Timmy. Time and again, Big Brother Billy has watched as you, Mom, slather attention and praise and extra bits of food and toys on Little Timmy. And, wasn’t there that time you gave BeeBo the Tiger to Little Timmy? Even though Billy loved BeeBo the Tiger with all his heart? You had only said, “Now, Billy. You’re too old for BeeBo now. Let Little Timmy have him.” And off you’d gone, holding BeeBo the Tiger in your traitorous hand while Billy sat in his room all alone. And didn’t Big Brother Billy hear Little Timmy squeal with delight as he most assuredly hugged and hugged on BeeBo, especially since he’d whined for BeeBo the Tiger ever since Daddy Who Isn’t Around Anymore gave it to Big Brother Billy? And didn’t you get a secret wiggly little pleasure out of knowing you made Little Timmy slap hap happy and Big Brother Billy sad? Because, after all, and don’t you deny it! After all, doesn’t Big Brother Billy look exactly like your ex-husband the lying deceitful cheating bastard? And doesn’t Little Timmy look just like You? Huh Mom? I got your number!
So, there comes the one slice of bread and the jar of peanut butter. Mom is oh so sneaky, yes you are. Instead of letting your two kids battle it out Kid Style with Kid Justice; you insert yourself between them with intent to make sure Little Timmy comes out on top! So, you sneakily tell Big Brother Billy, “I’ve spread lots of gooey good stuff peanut butter on the slice of bread *wink wink* Now, Billy Bo Dilly, you can cut the slices into two pieces *wink wink*!”
The kitchen goes silent. Billy thinks (because he is still young and hasn’t yet figured out the slinky devious workings of Mom), “Wow! For once I get ahead! Mom’s on my side! This will make up for BeeBo the Tiger! Hahahahahaha!” So, he cuts the slice of peanut butter bread into two pieces, with one piece slightly larger—the larger will be Billy’s! yes! Mom winked at him; all is well. His tummy gurgles with anticipation.
But then, you Mom! You sneaky wench! You put on that snerkity smile, hiding behind your Mommyness, behind the “This will teach them about fairness!” when it has nothing to do with fairness and all to do with Prewshush Little Timmy, and you then say, “Now Timmy gets to choose!”
Oh! How Billy’s world must have tumbled on its head. Foiled, he was. Tricked! By the hand of his own Mom he was swindled. And Little Timmy, with his oh-so-innocent grin that belied the “Nya Nya Nya Nya Nya!” he sent in secret code to his Big Brother, of course reached out his grubby little hand and grabbed the bigger slice while you, YOU Mom, swooned with delight over your favorite child prevailing!
And there, Big Brother Billy took his smaller slice, bit into it, and smiled. He smiled the smile of one who knows this is how his life will forever be when it comes to Mom. But piteously, because he thinks Mom has just taught him about fairness, when instead, and we all know this, Mom, don’t we? When instead, Mom just make sure her favorite little son Timmy received his due as Favorite Son.
After the lights on the set go out, and Big Brother Billy wipes the peanut butter from his face and runs outside to play, you, Mom, will suddenly “find” more bread, won’t you? And while Billy is playing in the dirt, his tummy lacking, you’ll prepare Little Timmy another sandwich; won’t you, Mom? WON’T YOU!
So, in closing, just know that I am ON to you. I know your game. You aren’t fooling me one speck.
Couch Sitter Uponer
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Oh dear. Where do I begin? It is always good to begin with Truth, for if one writes the truth, one never fears being “Found Out.” Yet, sometimes writing truths brings about issues of things, such as those that bite one on the hind end. Therefore, I held battle within. Who won? Well, it will be for someone else to decide, not I.
ShamWoW Guy; I shall tell you that whencly I firstly met you, oh, not personally, but on my television screen, I was repelled! Your face filled the screen and I jumped back several feet, over the back of my couch, and into the next room. That Popeye squint; and those tired, baggy, dark-circled eyes; that jittery mouth moving here, there, yonder, and back; the pale of your cheeks (and please, eat something Mister Man! Please, I worry—you’ve become so thin!). And, whilst I tried not to, I immediately compared you to Mister Billy Mays—yes, yes, not fair, for Mister Billy Mays is swarthy handsome full-bearded broad-shouldered khaki-wearing bright-eyed-and-busy-tailed demeanor, along with his LOUD VERY LOUD EAR-EARTH SPLITTING SHATTERING LOUD, fills the screen, nevertheless, with a wholesome aw shuckness that while one is quickly changing the channel so one is not rendered insane, one still sees that hearty health and eager demeanor. The comparison is liken to … to…comparing a big thick juicy steak (served to you by a very loud and obnoxious in law, however) to a piece of three-day-old chicken thigh (served by that tired old person who gets on the bus everyday as if the world is sitting right upon their shoulders).
But you, dear ShamWoW Guy. Dear dear You, when one day I watched you out of sheer pity, I saw something! There was a desperate quality, yes. There was a “Please Please listen to me! Please, just don’t change that channel! I’ll go Real Fast and you won’t even notice me hardly at all, just give me a moment and you’ll barely feel a thing!” But, beyond that, I softened towards that Popeye squinted eye and that exhausted mug, and the way you, Mister Shammy Shammy Cocoa Puff, gazed slightly to the right, and then to the left, and then up, and then down, anywhere but directly into my eyes, and there, in that moment, I said, “Awwwwww. Poor Shammy Bo Blammy!”
Now, dear dear ShamWowy, when you POP out onto the screen, with your little cloths and your little messes to clean—and your aunt Sloopy, your sister Merry-Mae, your granny Tootie, your momma, your uncle Jeb, your ex-girlfriend who shall remain nameless but was in the commercial before she dumped you, and your psychiatrist, all helping you sell your wares with the same exhausted but determined demeanor—well, I feel my heart pumping with pity and I stay and watch you, sometimes even until the end of the entire info-mercial!
In closing, You Dear Shammy Man, know that out of the thousands and thousands of people you are squinting to so endearingly, there is at least One (me!) who appreciates your beauty, your style, your relatives who shout, “WHAT EVER WOULD I DO WITHOUT MY SHAMMY CLOTH?!!?!??!?!???!??!”, your elfin-ruined face, and within all of that, I found your beauty.
With Love and Respect,
PS – Oh dear Shammy Man! Look what I found! Tsk Tsk Tsk – Oh Heavy sigh! They just don’t get you, do they? Not like me~! No sir. Not lik me….
Monday, June 8, 2009
Lake Junalusa, Baton Rouge