Of Cabbages and Kings

Tag-- Er, I'm It!

2012-08-30T08:35:00.001-04:00

One of my writer friends, Whitney of the Write in Life blog, tagged me with something called "the 777 Challenge." This is a game where instead of pegging me with a dusty eraser in the head, as one does in an effective tag if I recall properly (I might not recall properly due to eraser/head impact), Whitney asked me to complete a feat of blogly derring-do...

A little like Festivus' feats of strength, really, but with sentences.

The task is to post seven sentences from my latest work in progress from either the seventh or 77 page of the book. And then tag seven other authors to do the same.

"Easy," you say. "Who can't type in a few sentences from something you've already written?" But see, usually I don't let people look, touch or even breathe on stuff I have in first draft form.

I mean, first draft work is so bad that even I don't really want to have to look at it. Only I do. Because, well, much like the dishes in my sink, no one will get it done for me. Also like crusty dishes, I feel it stinks more when I expose a first draft to air. Usually things have to have a good fifth draft or so before they're all all scrubbed and shiny enough to meet a friend or two.

So, I want it noted that I will probably be having heart palpitations about this, sending seven stinking crap, unedited first draft sentences out into the world to fight their own battles when they are so young and weak and smelly.

But because Whitney asked-- and also because I haven't posted in a while and have been feeling guilty-- here goes. This is from page seven of the second There Goes the Galaxy book I've been working diligently on, called The Purloined Number.

"So you know what this means, don't you?" mused the eldest being. "This means this isn't just any Protostar 340-K. This is Captain What's-His-Name's--"

"Rolliam Tsmorlood," input Strah.

"--Rolliam Tsmorlood's Protostar 340-K. This isn't just one of the worst ships ever made in the Greater Communicating Universe. This is a pivotal entertainment prop once owned by an historic Underworld figure who was exiled to Altair-5 for his crimes, and likely is at the bottom of a tarpit by now."

Phew! That hurt a little. And I hope you had your gasmasks on.

Okay, now, the second part of this mighty challenge is to tag seven other writers and task them to do the same thing. But, see, the thing is, most people I know really hate being tagged.

So here's the deal-- if the challenge seems fun to you and you're working on a writing project, I say-- feel free to tag yourself. This is like a blank check for tagging. Tag away.

I have no fulfilled my part of of the tag challenge. I'm going to go have a cold compress and lie down.

Oh, and if you're curious about There Goes the Galaxy, my thoroughly-edited book that does not make me nauseous or fearful to share, it's available in paperback and Kindle version here on Amazon, and for Nook here.

Sorry, Dolly-- 9 to 5 Star Wars Parody Spoof from Stormtrooper Perspective

2012-08-10T14:35:00.000-04:00

Someone on G+ had posted the graphic above, and it got me feeling musical all over. So I couldn't help but try my hand at the song this image so desperately wanted to be paired with.

Please do not crush my trachea with your mind because of it. I need my trachea. It's been so good to me.

Tumble out of bed and you stumble to Cantina
Get yourself a bowl of farina and--
Look, it's laser fire!-- you'd better dive!

Jump in formation and your blood starts pumping
Darth looks your way and your heart starts jumping
When Friday comes you hope you're still alive...

Chorus:

Hope you're still alive
What a way to earn some space cash
Barely getting by
When there's not much rebel backlash
Want to march ahead
But ol' Darth won't recognize you
Dressed in uniform like all the guys do...

Well, you'd try lead but your neck might shatter

You're just one point in the Dark Side's data

But you've got schemes; those droids can't get away

You're in the same troop as a lot of your friends

Just a-waiting for an escape pod to retirement

But the tractor beam's on and it's all gonna tow you away

Chorus:

Tag PhotoAdd LocationEdit

The Hoveround as Commuter Vehicle

2012-07-18T08:16:00.006-04:00

I'd written about this once before as a joke (in "Is there a way to speed up my Hoveround Powerchair?") where a speed-crazed grandmother soups-up her powerchair and hits the motorways with the zealousness of a NASCAR winner.

But yesterday, in five o'clock rush hour traffic, I saw my post come to life. Yes, across Pittsburgh's busy East Carson Street, a white-haired lady in a high-powered electrified chair went off-sidewalk and out-of-the-box with determination and a dream, careening down our chaotic streets like Dale Earnhardt Junior himself was hot on her tires.

I was stopped at the light, so I got to see her make a lane for herself on a two-way street, navigating through several major intersections, startling motorists stopped at lights, who undoubtedly looked over to see an elderly lady's head even with their passenger window and levitating on by...

The sidewalks have just been replaced through this area and there are shiny new sloped curbs, made for just these sorts of assisting devices. But the lure of hitting the mean streets and reliving one's racing days must just be too much to resist.

How can you say no to the smell of the asphalt, the clouds of exhaust, and the wind through your hair when you have such power right there beneath you?

So, to this undaunted driver I say, please-- stay safe out there, lady. And hey-- get a helmet, would you? (Because I'd kinda like photos of that, too.) :)

How to Write a Thriller Movie Title

2012-07-12T15:37:00.003-04:00

I've been digging into Netflix's thriller archives lately, and I've almost caught myself renting the same movie twice because the names are all so similar.

Which got me thinking, there's a formula to choosing an appropriate title for a thriller movie. Here's my idea:

Choose any single noun but make sure it's vague. These words seem to fall into a few categories...

Architectural. Choose a location that's in the house, a part of the house, an item in the house, or the house itself. But make sure it's only one word. (You can use "the" if you absolutely must.) Have fun with it! Here are some off the top of my head:

The Corner
Gutter
The Eaves
Playroom
Hamper
Cupboard
Icebox

Notice how menacing simple things like a playroom or hamper can be when it's only one chilling word? It makes you think:

What happened in the playroom that whispers of secrets and creepy toys that aren't even Tickle-Me Elmo?
Does the stench of death surrounding the hamper include more than just your husband's balled up socks from his IM baseball team?

Now try it with multiple words in the same genre, and you'll find you give away too much. You want to leave something to the imagination. So you can't do things like:

Time-Out Chair
Lumpy Sofa
Streaky Windows
Gunky Fridge
Attic of Too Many House Centipedes.

Actually, I take that back. Attic of Too Many House Centipedes is friggin' scary. Have you seen those things? They're like two-inch long Amtrak trains on a roundtrip schedule to scare the crap out of you. They keep cornering me in my bathroom.

In fact, now I think about it, I can't believe no one's used house centipedes as the main feature in a major horror flick. Freddy and Jason versus Centipedo. I wouldn't sleep for days.

Neither would Freddie. (He can dish it out, but he can't take it.)

But I digress. Aside from selecting a one-word, centipede-free architectural element, you also can go with a -tion word. Try words like:

Distraction
Potion
Elevation
Intention
Dentition

(Come on, dentition can be scary! Would Steve Buscemi be the same after braces? Do you not feel a chill run down your spine when Gary Busey smiles?)

You can also choose a title that's directional:

Fallen
Risen
The Plummet
Reverse
Mirror
Above
Follow
After
Skid
Fishtail

And you seem to be allowed to break the one-word rule as long as you include time and/or a number:

Two Minutes to Die
Five Days and Three Hours
40 Miles Per Hour
Six Feet
27 Toes

(Well, okay, 27 Toes might have to be about a girl in a '30s carnival freak show, but I still think it could work.)

So, tell me, using the system above, what's your new thriller movie title? Just whatever comes to mind, please. :)

Father's Day Gift Ideas for Darth Vader

2012-06-15T07:53:00.001-04:00

"Dear Dad- This Father's Day, I want to take a moment to say that even though you tried to kill me,
and convert me to the Dark Side, and you blew up my sister's home planet..."

What do you get the Dark Lord who has everything? How can a Sith celebrate Father's Day in out-of-this-world style?

At Of Cabbages and Kings, we want to make it easy for you to give Dear Old Darthly Dad the gift that won't get anyone's feelings--or tracheas--crushed.

Consider these can't-miss gift ideas:

Tickets to a Dark Side (of the Moon) laser light show
A gift certificate to Sacks Sith Avenue, for the latest in designer black cloak fashion and robot hands
New minions. Order 'em by the case, because you know he'll go through them.
Palpatine Mist, asthma treatment, in bulk. (It shows you care.)
A subscription to Evil Overlord Illustrated
George Foreman's new Bantha Barbeque Grill-- fun and heart-healthy! (Unless you're the bantha.)
Lightning protective gear
A crocheted lightsaber cozy with "Dad" embroidered on it
A box set of the long-running program, Space's Funniest Jedi Mind Tricks

And of course, the number one thing you can get your favorite Dark Lord for Father's Day is...

The droids he's looking for

Thank you, we'll be here all week folks. Enjoy the bantha steak!

Warning: Mad Beeper is Loose

2012-05-31T14:43:00.000-04:00

My normally-pasty face flushed the kind of rich red that tomatoes want in a hot summer fashion. A buzzer sounded with nasty, tattle-tale glee.

The store worker rushed over to confront the issue. Soon a puzzled frown creased his brow, as logic set in. Wasn't I entering, not leaving? People didn't shoplift before they came into a store, did they?

And as he stood, lips trying to mold the right question, I explained. Explained the way I had at Kohls.

And at Target.

And at Barnes and Noble.

(It was a busy day.)

I explained that I am The Mad Beeper. And (regrettably) I cannot be stopped.

See, this is my accessory to disruption. Or rather, something in it is, since my mysterious Beeptasticness has followed me through two entirely separate handbags.

Oh, I have turned this particular handbag inside out like a frog in seventh grade biology. I have examined its guts. I now know its polyester and vinyl soul.

I have brought in an elite team of trained security tag sniffing animals. (Okay, my cat Alice, but she's very thorough.)

And as far as I can tell, there is no special sensor lurking as a part of this bag.

Which means, I have stowaway object, plotting my perpetual, so public embarrassment. I just haven't pinned down the perp yet.

I look accusingly at my lipstick, and it pouts at the injustice.

I eye the remote control to the gate of my office, but it remains unmoved.

I try to push my cell phone's buttons, in hopes of a confession, but it drops my signals.

Somewhere, within the satin blend lining of Kathy VanZeeland pastel snickers the source of my continued humiliation. And I will find it.

Oh, I will root it out.

Until then, I can only ask that my innocent appearance continue to serve me well... that any frisking be fleeting... and if not, that the security guards be mightily cute.

Cat Alarm Operational Instructions

2012-05-26T07:51:00.000-04:00

Congratulations on your purchase of this finely crafted Cat Alarm, (10 pound, shorthaired white van model). We hope you will enjoy its exquisite functionality and streamlined style.

Your Cat Alarm will go off each day-- no need to set it; it is entirely self-setting.

Upon going off, the alarm will subsequently need to recharge using meat-based Kibble(tm) charging dock. (Sold separately)

You may expect your Cat Alarm to operate according to the following preset phases, assuring a timely wakeup each day, possibly several hours before you even need to rise:

Gentle purring motor and Nuzzle(tm) motion
Level two Headbutt(tm) technology
Runaway locomotive racing action
Close proximity "purr blast" capabilities
Snuggle on-head wake-up features
Single claw to the cranium final phase mode

We hope you and your handcrafted Cat Alarm will enjoy many years of efficient wake-up calls.

With Apologies to Edgar Allen Poe

2012-05-16T16:37:00.000-04:00

The Sabre

Once upon a driveway weedy
Narrow, hilly, grass gone seedy
Sat neglected in the queue o'er many an indoor chore
Came a neighbor's Buick Sabre
Parked in haste and without labor
Parked across my driveway, right across my driveway's weedy floor
"Crikey! K-turns are a bore!"

But leaving, I did do that K-turn
Thinking that the lady'd learn,
Would at some point begin to learn
Just what the yellow curb is for
But then that evening and another
The same red Sabre, this same mother
(Of two children), she went blocking
Blocking my car's exit door
"Look-- at least two feet or more!"

So I began some heavy plotting
And quite soon I started jotting
Down a note, reminders gentle, courtesy I would implore
But as I wrote, the Rage said, "See here:
You've lived in this spot for years.
She's often seen you parking, parking up this driveway's weedy floor
It's a fact she just ignores."
And here my kindly note, I tore.

But funny thing, as I was leaving
This next day, and still quite seething
At the lack of care for others shown in this one woman's moor
On the side of the red Sabre, SOMEONE ELSE felt need to labor
Keying down the starboard side like nothing I had seen before.
Seems I was only one upon her blind and blustery tour.
Quoth Lady Karma,"I keep score."

Car's Stick Figure People Exterminated Through Dalek Invasion

2012-05-15T10:29:00.001-04:00

Not a molecule of that stick figure family left!

This was a photo I took this morning driving into work. I think I made the driver a little paranoid as he/she looked in the rearview, but paranoia is the price one must pay when your car flair is entertaining and Doctor Who-centric.

I've Been a Bad, Bad Blogger...

2012-02-17T10:09:00.001-05:00

My e-silence has been deafening. And the bony fingers of Mother Guilt have been clutching at my shoulder, poking me to action. She rasps in my ear, "It has been a month, and you have blogged of neither cabbages nor kings." Her breath smells of old burnt coffee and cigarettes, which is probably why her voice sounds so much like Harvey Fierstein's.

I try to explain, I've been pulled in a number of different directions lately. Some of them good, like trying to promote my book while writing the next one. And some of them not-so-Cabbage-worthy. Like trying to wrap up my Dad's estate, a place from which humor posts do not easily come unless you enjoy laughing at a woman who wakes up at 2am freaking out that she forgot to submit some paperwork on the paperwork.

I am hanging in there. I am clinging on.

But Mother Guilt says to stop making excuses, my lack of productivity has forced her to come all this way, she's not getting any younger, and if I cared at all, I would get my posterior in gearior and write a damn blog post.

Mother Guilt is a taskmaster.

So I explain to her how I thought I was on the cusp of a post idea the other day. See, I keep getting these spam emails that make me wonder how many times they've been used as evidence in divorce court.

They're usually from a name like "Amber" or "Tracy" and they begin with "Hey, babe-- how come you don't answer my texts anymore?" They go on to tell an elaborate tale of how I, apparently, blocked this chick on Facebook, but we used to do a lot of flirting and now she's single again and going to be moving to my town, and she doesn't know anyone else here, and she would like to pick up where we left off.

My being neither male nor gay, I didn't find myself scouring my memories for some one-night-stand named Amber. But I keep thinking if I were a not-so-web-savvy wife and I noticed this in my husband's email box, I might have a pang of concern. And a print-out for the poor dude when he'd come home.

Mother Guilt took a drag of her cigarette over this and said this wasn't enough for an actually funny blog post; it had no real resolution or any exaggeration potential for true comedic value, and I agreed. It's good to agree with Mother Guilt now and then; the element of surprise gets her off my back for a minute or two.

So Ma Mere Guilt is apparently still ruminating about where to apply the bony finger of shame next. That's why I thought I'd intercept her and let you all know I'm alive and haven't forgotten about you, that I've just been stretched as thin as filo dough on a Greek grandmother's kitchen table.

The Greek grandmother is probably pretty good with the guilt, too. But at least with her, there would be flaky, flaky pastry.

Question of the day: so have any of you gotten these very personal-seeming spam emails from Ambers and Tracys?

Lost Braincells and Alien Abductee Tweeting

2012-01-13T10:04:00.005-05:00

"So, what have you been doing lately?" you ask, since I obviously have been highly blog-negligent. "Well," I respond, "a mix of tasks that are entirely too boring for a humor blog, EXCEPT for two things. One is I've been working on the sequel to my novel There Goes the Galaxy. And the other is, I've been obsessing over a song I can't remember.

Probably more of Item B than A, too, if I were honest.

So maybe you peeps can help put me out of my misery. About 1:40 in to the Flight of the Conchords song in the video above there's this chorus of a few notes that I KNOW came from some other song. One that I think was popular in the 70s, was moody, reflective and sad (of the Cat's in the Cradle type genre) and for the life of me, I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS. It's been driving me nuts. I mentioned it on Facebook and while I got some great suggestions, they weren't the songs.

So I thought I'd open it up here. Remember: not the whole song. Just 1:40 in.

Amusingly, one of my Facebook folks suggested there was a phone app where you could sing notes of a song and it would give matches for it. I downloaded it immediately and sang the melody several times. As there's really nothing but "Ahhhhhhhs" by way of lyrics, I felt it didn't exceed my reach.

And according to the app the apparent close matches to the folky-sad song I am thinking must be:

Sun of Jamaica, by the Goombay Dance Band!

Um, no.

So before I leave you folks today, I had one last little bit of news I wanted to mention.

For those of you who have read or are reading There Goes the Galaxy, you might be interested in knowing the tale's leading man, Bertram Ludlow, seems to have opened himself a Twitter account and is trying to help us people of Earth. It appears he's giving advice on what to do in case of alien abduction and how to succeed in the Greater Communicating Universe. You can Follow him at: https://twitter.com/#!/BertramLudlow

You never know when you might need tips like that. In fact, now I wonder if the reason I can't identify this friggin' song is because of some missing memories due to alien abduction?

Have a great weekend, folks!

Baby, It's Cold Outside -or- The Sweater That Didn't

2011-12-20T08:20:00.000-05:00

I braved some favorite clothing stores recently looking for what would amount to a decent, festive Christmas sweater.

Something without brown snowflakes, or gender-non-specific penguin families, or herds of puff-paint moose galloping with merry holiday abandon. And that's when I noticed...

What's with all the short-sleeved sweaters?

Now, I may be wrong, but it seems to me a sweater without anything to keep your arms warm is not, in fact, a sweater. Sweat doesn't enter into it, see? Frostbite, yes. Goosebumps, yes. Freezing to death on a sooty stoop selling matches for two-pence in the snow, yes. Sweat-- highly unlikely.

To paraphrase the character Edmund Blackadder, "What you have there, Percy, if anything, is an -Er."

And I am well-aware that Fashion-- the people that brought us fake eyeglasses for people with perfect vision, and jeans that only begin in the posterior under-awning region-- isn't exactly the industry of practicality. But this... this just seemed like the whole sweater rack is having some low self-esteem identity crisis.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the sweater says, slouching a little more on the hanger. "I just don't feel comfortable tackling the duties of being a sweater all by myself. My generation of sweaters was taught the importance of teamwork. It's all group projects these days. Achieving total sweater success by myself would just be arrogant... above myself... showing off. So, um, I'm gonna just need you to pick up my long-sleeved yet more lightweight thermal undershirt friend over here to go with me. That'll be an extra $20, please, 'kay, thanks."

"But... but I don't want to layer," I tell it. "I just want one single-tasking sweater."

"Well," continues the short-sleeved creation, fringe purposefully preventing it from meeting my gaze, "I'm afraid it's either the two of us, lady, or you freeze your pinecones off this holiday season. I never go anywhere without my BFF. Or," suggests the sweater with a new, flirty tone of hope, "you could always add my friend over here..."

"Another friend?" I ask hesitantly.

"Meet... the poncho!"

"Hiiii," says the poncho giggling. On closer inspection, it appears that this poncho was designed to only go around the neck and shoulders. It is not a poncho. It is, in truth, some sort of micro-poncho, a pon or perhaps a cho, a wooly dinner napkin with a hole cut through for the neck. If it were in white, it could be the collar of a Carmelite nun-- who also, coincidentally, does a lot of layering. In fleecy purple, however, it looks like Aunt Dottie's arthritis kicked up in the middle of a thoughtful Christmas gift which will be pushed back to next year.

"I'm leaving," I tell the garments. "That sweater I saw with the brown snowflakes perched on the yellow snowbank wasn't really so bad..."

"But wait!" the sweater shrieks. "You can't go. You-- you haven't even met our vests yet!"

"Heeeey!" greet the vests, flashing their linings, their buttons winking in the light.

"Oh... get knit!" I say, the only holiday bell jingling here being the one on the door marked Thank You, Come Again.

Orange-Ray Junior, Where You At?

2011-12-15T08:16:00.000-05:00

So over the past few weeks, I have come home from work anticipating my next installment in a brand new form of entertainment-- the answering machine message saga featuring the family of one "Orange-Ray Junior."

Now, part of this is my fault, and I take responsibility for it; on my landline answering machine, I had left the default computerized male voice that instructed callers to leave a message at the beep without recording my own message. This was for two reasons-- one, every time my power goes out it wipes out any customized message and I have to re-record it. And two, I didn't really want strangers to know who lived at the address. Safety reasons, dontchaknow.

But to the family of one "Orange-Ray Junior," the fact that they kept calling a number day after day, and Orange-Ray the Younger never connected with them, appears to have been no major red flag that something was amiss.

Initially, I couldn't tell what name it was these determined folks were even saying due to the uniqueness of the name and the family's hearty Southern drawl. But last night's episode, courtesy of "Nana-Pam," clarified the moniker of our remarkably social leading man.

The series began like this:

"Now, Orange-Ray Junior, Paw-paw said he'd go huntin' with ya, so you give him a call back." (Click.)

I suspect Orange-Ray the Second did not make that call.

Two days later:

"Orange-Ray Junior, you got that appointment you gotta git to, so you be there, you hear me? I think this is yer phone, ain't it?"

I'm not clear on how asking an answering machine could resolve that question when you never leave a call back number, but maybe the family has a nuanced insight into that which I don't.

About four days after this:

"Orange-Ray, you coming over the hill yet? Okay now, bye." (click)

At this point, I'm dying to know where in tarnation, with a Pittsburgh city area code, these people were calling from.

And presumably if they knew O-R, Jr. should be coming over the hill, they talked to him at some point between the answering machine messages I received. So did no one ask him over the Thanksgiving festivities about his number?

Apparently not. Because, last night, as I swept in from work, I saw another red light flashing on my answering machine. My hand reached for the button with excitement. Could it possibly be?

Yay! It was!:

"Orange-Ray Junior, this is Nana-Pam. This is your answering machine, ain't it? 'Kay, bye."

Once I got done laughing, I decided I would let Orange-Ray's family off the hook-- in a very literal way-- by leaving them a message. It is as follows:

"You have reached the answering machine of a person who is not, in fact, Orange-Ray Junior.

"If you'd like to leave a message for me, that would be terrific!

"If you're a member of Orange-Ray Junior's family, I'm sorry, I don't know where he is, but he doesn't live here. I think he gave you all the wrong number. Good luck!"

And I imagine this should clear up any confusion on their end. But I admit, I'm going to miss the messages.

I am going to miss the visions I had of the Orange-Ray Junior clan, heading up over hills, going hunting with Paw-paw, hanging out with Nana-Pam, and using a compact, sectionable fruit as a name that carries on from one generation to the next.

Thank you for the joy, Orange-Ray. You have made the past weeks merrier ones.

12-16-11- UPDATE TO YESTERDAY'S POSTS...

If you can believe, I came home last night to another flashing light on the answering machine. And yes, there was another message for Orange-Ray. THAT'S RIGHT-- even after changing my outgoing message to address the problem.

The latest installment went as follows:

"Orange-Ray? Did Pappy let you in? 'Kay, bye."

So there's a Nana-Pam, Paw-Paw AND Pappy. The cast of characters grows!

Also, in listening to this message, I think I MAY be wrong about the Orange-Ray name. It might be some very drawn out, multi-syllabic version of "Andre." (Owendre?) But I can't make my vowel do the stretching exercises to make it work realistically.

So the mystery continues.

Wonderful "What's That?" Wednesday Winners!

2011-12-07T08:13:00.001-05:00

So today, my friends, we have the answer to last week's "What's That? Wednesday" game, and I have some giveaway winners to announce! Woo-hoo!

The correct answer to the mystery object is...

A deodorant protective cap!

So the first person to guess that correctly was Ms. Hartz! Let's give a big round of applause to Ms. Hartz for her awesome eyes on this one!

And for the question of what the item's alternate use in my house is, the answer is:

A cat toy! This was not, of course, by my design, but through popular demand at my house. Apparently, that little tab at the top makes it perfect for tiny furred beings to bite onto it and bring it to me, over and over and over again, for endless sessions of fetch... HARRY. (Yes, I'm talking about you.)

So that means the first person to guess the item's alternate use-- a cat toy-- is Reforming Geek! Way to go, Geek Gal! You do know your cat toys!

So each of you two nifty people will win a copy of my humorous space fantasy novel, There Goes the Galaxy. I will need you to just email me at jennthorson {at} earthlink {dot} net with your addresses and I will mail your books out to you right away.

Oh, and if anyone is interested in ordering their own copies of the book, in either paperback, for Kindle, or Nook you can do that here. They also make fun gifts for folks who like a little humor with their sci-fi. (Both Nook and Kindle versions are currently priced at $0.99, so it's easy on the wallet, too!) :

Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/There-Goes-Galaxy-Jenn-Thorson/dp/0983804508/

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/There-Goes-the-Galaxy-ebook/dp/B005M2RRRA

Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1034986423?ean=2940013437449

Thanks for playing along, everybody!

What's That? Wednesday

2011-11-30T08:03:00.001-05:00

Greetings, folks! Today we're going to play a little game I have lifted from my friend Kathy of the Junk Drawer because 1.) Kathy is an innovator and 2.) it has been a case of "long time no blog" here on Cabbages and I didn't want you all to think I had fallen off the face of the Earth or that I didn't love you anymore.

The game is called What's That? Wednesday. All you have to do is guess what the object up at the top of the page is and share your answer in the comments section. The first person to guess correctly will win a copy of my comic space fantasy novel There Goes the Galaxy.

And for some added fun, for the person who correctly guesses what alternate use this item has in my household, that person will also win a copy of my book. (No, no one person can win two copies. We want to spread the freebie goodness around here.) I will announce the winners next week at this time so everyone has a chance to play.

It should be noted that I personally am terrible at these sorts of games, which Kathy can attest to because I have left many a lame answer in her comments section over the years. I am also horrible about guessing how many items are in a jar, or how much change I have dropped on the floor because my purse wasn't closed, holding up the line and annoying the heck out of the people in line behind me.

Good luck!

There Goes the Galaxy Chapter One-- Now with More Talky-Soundy

2011-11-06T15:51:00.001-05:00

Just because I thought it would be fun to try, I've done a reading of the first chapter of my novel There Goes the Galaxy-- complete with bad accents!

However, any bad accents you might hear in the paperback or ebook versions are solely the reader's responsibility.

Thank you.

The Comforting Cacophony of Infomercial Shouting

2011-11-04T09:58:00.002-04:00

"And if you act now, you'll get twice the amount of shouting for your grouting FREE!
That's two times the number of decibels per ear than you'll find in stores!"

I was having the morning java and checking email messages when a sound in the background caught my attention.

It was an infomercial ad with a loud, gravelly-familiar voice that I knew Simply. Could. Not. Be.

Billy Mays?! But Mr. Mays has passed, leaving a void in the all-important Product Demonstration and Shouting niche market.

Sure, an Australian guy had tried for a while to sell us super-mops and shammies and made us aware of the deep, infiltrating inadequacy and safety issues of our dirty car headlight covers. But that guy didn't really know us, did he? He didn't really understand that we are unmotivated to remove pet stains on our carpet for a low price of $19.95 and even doubling our order if we act now, when the benefits are told to us in a bright Aussie accent.

No, we need a good old-fashioned American Man to shout at us with all the zeal of that uncle who dines on meat for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. One who hugs all the kids in the family just a BIT too hard causing the occasional rib fracture, but only because it's done with love.

So when I looked up from my email, I was unsure what I would see. Had Billy Mays been cryogenically sealed in a vacuum-protected food preservation device that makes tomatoes and other produce last twice as long, just pay shipping and handling, and now he had returned to us?

Why no! This was a new Purveyor of Products. A fresh new face in As Seen On TV treasures!

Marc Gill is his name, he tells us, and while his head may be shinier than that of his predecessor, his style is eerily similar. Yes, Marc has come to save us from the Australians, from the ShamWow scandals, from not having tile grout that glows as brightly as Tom Cruise's teeth.

I realized then how great our loss had been. It had been at least a year since I had been shouted at regarding pipe drains and dirty sinks and whites that could be so much whiter. I had not been informed at great volumes how my clothes could all fit into a Ziploc sandwich bag to save more space.

But now, we have Marc Gill to fill the empty spaces that only jolly ear-bleeding vocal projection can soothe.

I sunk back into my chair, a sense of renewed peace washing over me, and looked at my coffee mug. Why, this mug wasn't travel-safe and impact resistant, able to take the force of a two-ton car running over it or a herd of water buffalo...

Ah, but it's all okay, isn't it? Because I know in a few months, our new friend Marc will undoubtedly have the answer. And I'll be sure to hear it, no matter where I am.

The Mum of All Fears: 70s and 80s TV Taboos

2011-10-21T16:33:00.001-04:00

(

I was talking with a friend the other day about what, as children of the 70s and 80s, we were and weren't allowed to watch on television. And looking back, the overarching results are pretty entertaining:

If the stuffed clown doll tries to strangle a child protagonist: Jenn can watch it
If a dude with an axe threatens his wife Olive Oyl in remote hotel location: Jenn can watch it
If a boy is eaten by a possessed tree: Jenn can watch it
If possessed trees uproot themselves for world domination: Jenn can watch it
If a hotel owner pokes lots of holes in Jamie Lee Curtis' mom in a shower, while dressed like grandma: Jenn can watch it
If plague-ridden, scythe-carrying seamen go after Jamie Lee Curtis, her mom and Adrienne Barbeau during a weather anomaly: Jenn can watch it.
If Melanie Griffith's mom gets nearly killed by pretty birdies, and Bob Newhart's first wife gets pecked to death: Jenn can watch it
If little creatures live in the fireplace and go after a housewife named Sally: Jenn can watch it.
If Kurt Russell is in Alaska with aliens: Jenn can watch it
If Kurt Russell is in San Francisco with ancient Chinese evil: Jenn can watch it
If Kurt Russell has only one eye in a post-apocalyptic society, and Adrienne Barbeau isn't being chased by plague-ridden seamen: Jenn can watch it

(Hmmm, now starting to wonder about this Mom-Kurt Russell trend...)

Anyway:

What Jenn could not watch, under penalty of no-phone-calls-to-friends-which-might-as-well-have-been-death was:

Charlie's Angels. I never did find out what my mother's problem with this show was, other than she said she felt they were poor role models for a girl. Ironically, I was allowed to watch James Bond films with Dad because, apparently, Pussy Galore was candidate for a Nobel Prize or something. Go fig.

Any John Waters films. I knew why I wasn't allowed to watch these films. It was explained to me like this: these movies were about teenagers who "Sassed Their Parents."

So now that years have passed, I've finally figured it out. The logic was, monsters and evil clown dolls (and Jamie Lee Curtis' boobs) weren't real. But Kids who Sassed Their Parents were real.

And that was the most horrifying thing of all!

(Insert bone-chilling b-movie horror scream here!)

So tell me: what weren't you allowed to watch on TV growing up?

Humorous Space Adventure Short Story: The Hyphiz Deltan Job

2011-10-07T12:30:00.000-04:00

I had posted this tale a few months ago, prior to giving my novel the launch. But I thought now that There Goes the Galaxy is officially out there in the world, I would repost it for the folks who missed it.

This short story uses two characters found in There Goes the Galaxy, and it takes place a Universal year or so before that storyline. People who are reading or have finished the book are likely to recognize 'em.

Enjoy!

_____________________________

The Hyphiz Deltan Job

Never agree to be Lookout when you’re pressure-locked into a Personal Smoking Enjoyment helmet, Tseethe Tsardonee decided.

Lesson learned.

Sure, the headgear met Greater Communicating Universe (GCU) public safety standards. And since Tseethe had been smoking so long he’d evolved to actually feed off the stuff, it wasn’t like the helmet was exactly optional these days. It was medicinal. Survival. Prescribed even. He was smoking his way to continued good health.

But the heavy bubble around his head and neck reduced his peripheral vision. It compromised his reaction time. Tseethe looked out across the desolate Hyphiz Deltan street, jumping at every imagined movement before his smoke-fogged lens, leaping at every crackle of sound that filtered through the in-helmet audio.

He suspected he was losing that air of brusque, fearsome self-possession he’d worked so hard to craft over the past Universal years. It was the first time he felt like a liability.

Not that he’d ever tell Rolliam Tsmorlood that. Tseethe still needed the yoonies from this job to fund his own Underworld endeavors. Projects more profitable, dignified-- more sane-- than busting into a fragging Print Liberation Lounge to steal something no life-form whose brain hadn’t gone free-space would even want to touch, let alone add to his criminal resume.

And while Rollie was pretty off-orbit by GCU standards, he did pay well and reliably. Plus, the man hadn’t noticed Tseethe wasn’t 100%; fragging the LibLounge surveillance system into nanoparticles took most of his attention now.

“Um, nice little fire ya got going there,” Tseethe observed. Even through the night shadows and his clouded visor, he could see the flames licking what was left of the Klinko® Exterior Intruder Repellant System.

“It’ll burn out in a minute,” Rollie assured him. The camera box was melting in on itself. “Prob’ly.” Something spit and flared. “Any time.” He cleared his throat, redirecting his weapon’s sights on the LibLounge front doors.

And WHOOSH! The doors whisked open, an electronic voice shrieking, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Come in! Just don’t hurt us!”

Tseethe leapt back, his own hand-laser drawn in a flash. It was a trap; it had to be. He peered through the smoke for oncoming assault, but the streets were lifeless. The LibLounge remained still and dark.

Rollie made a sound that was either a cough or a laugh. “Property Self-Preservation Personality Module,” he explained, stepping over the threshold. His equipment, stashed in a convenient hoverbox, trailed dutifully behind. “Fear sensors; they’re new. The real estate insurance people lobbied for 'em. Supposed to reduce property damage claims.”

“What about theft?”

“Funny you mention it. Turns out, theft insurers prefer security systems that don’t just give up under duress. It’s all being hashed out in court.” A small lantern pierced the darkness, and Tseethe could see the tall man with the white-yellow hair kneeling beside a large silver drop-off bin. “Meantime, it’s all gone silent alarms now.” Rollie pulled a thin rectangular device from his toolbox and slapped it on the bin. “Which reminds me: aren’t you supposed to be looking out?”

If he were paying any attention, he would have seen Tseethe already positioned in the doorway. Frankly, the fresh night breeze was a relief from the powerful LibLounge smell. The whole place reeked of baked grains and spices, roots, berries, small dead things, large dead things made into small dead things, and whatever other delicacies they pureed into those muddy-thick shakes of theirs. He knew some people raved about the stuff. Even craved it. But it was all too unnecessary for Tseethe’s tastes. Give him a bottle of Carsoolian pod liquor and a funnel and he was a happy man.

The smell of refreshments mixed with the smell of customers past-- ones whose Regimentation Hours of Mandatory Recreation were routinely spent here. At the LibLounge, customers would savor the latest infopills, Capsule Club discussions, and the thrill of exchanging their burdensome volumes of print for instant knowledge and in-store discounts. It was a good deal, really; the LibLounge helped GCU communities declutter, ease into the latest infopill technology, and the print incineration was free.

Meanwhile the street outside remained silent. Tseethe checked the clock in his helmet: Regimentation Hour Two, local time. That meant Mandatory Sleep on Hyphiz Delta, when all sensible native Hyphizites completely shut down, hearts’ beats slowing to nothing, brain activity minimal. They wouldn’t feel a growing night chill, the pinch of a passive-aggressive spouse, or hear the friendly sounds of breaking-and-entering. Yes, the good people of Hyphiz Delta would replenish their energy supplies for the dawn of another productive day.

Due to its populations’ unique vulnerabilities, the planet was well-protected from potential outside invasion, but its government wasn’t too concerned about rebellion from within. The people were comfortable in their current system, acclimated and fulfilled. Crime rates were low. Rebellion was never officially scheduled, so no one saw it as a priority.

Sure, occasionally there’d be a renegade who challenged Regimentation in a public way. But the offender would be captured, labeled a prib, and promptly exiled from the star system.

The planet’s Night Shift Regimentation Enforcement officers were on-the-job for just those occasions, but over time the work was known to take its toll. Most of them started with such simple aspirations: an exciting RegForce career and 2.5 progeny, that extra half-progeny looking so idyllic perched on the mantle when company came. But living life off Regimentation Schedule for too long, well, it tended to do things to some Hyphizites.

Things like heightened aggression, illogical thought, paranoia, the relentless drive to stun whatever moved and paper every physical surface in a colorful array of citations… Tseethe and Rollie had seen this behavior up close, at their own dramatic stunned-and-papered exiles. Ninety-seven percent of the time, the planet’s bedtime enforcement warriors had nothing to do; they waited around for stuff like this.

They would have salivated straight through their stiff collars if they knew two pribs had found a way to slip back into the system, even for a day-trip. It reminded Tseethe of that old Deltan proverb: “Remember the joy of launch, for reentry is what burns you.”

He was debating what that even meant-- and whether he should have packed more flame-retardant gear-- when down at the end of the street, something wavered. Something he hoped it was a simple trick of the streetlight on his in-helmet smoke.

The swirl of vapor thinned to tendrils, offering a clearer view. Tseethe’s hearts joggled. “Rollie, they’re coming,” he said. “About 500 kroms away. Looks like a standard surveillance patrol. I don’t think they’ve spotted us, but you know that won’t last.” He turned to see Rollie still kneeling by that collection bin, fiddling with the key decoder.

“RegForce,” grumbled Tsmorlood, “If only they’d all sleep the sleep of the Just, Productive and Fragging Dull, like everyone else on the planet.” The man’s orange-gold eyes were fixed on the key-cracker. His fingers moved across the device slowly, methodically, as he scanned for the right unlocking sequence.

Tseethe turned back to the street, tracing the progress of the uniformed beings. Now that they were closer, he could see they were short, dark men-- definitely not native Hyphizites-- with the same bland features, the same perfectly smooth, strategically-organized receding hairlines. It only meant one thing. “Simulants-- flaming Altair, they’re Non-Organic Simulants, Rollie! Our local boys outsourced the night shift to the polymer people. You’re gonna have to hurry.”

Rollie was still fooling around with that decoding device like it was a Vos Laegos showgirl at an after-hours party.

Tseethe let out an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you just laser the fragging bin? We’re kinda short on time here.”

But Rollie fixed him with an orange astonished glare. “Laser it? There’s print in there.”

“Of course,” Tseethe said through clenched teeth. “We can’t laser it; there’s print.” Captain Rolliam Tsmorlood was perfectly willing to stun, melt, disintegrate or blow up anything that got in his way in a 30 krom radius, unless it happened to be a completely obsolete hard copy of P.K. Flutterbitt’s Field Guide to Deep Space Fauna and What Will Eat Your Ship. Or The Black Hole Vacation Planner. Or The Intergalactic Gourmet’s Supernova Meals in a NanoSecond.

In fact, it didn’t matter what it was. If it was print, Rollie Tsmorlood was for it. Ninety-eight percent of the Greater Communicating Universe, including Tseethe himself, had gratefully switched to infopill because it was instant and simple with stellar knowledge retention. You couldn’t beat it for speed, flexibility and important kachunkettball stats.

No one missed print. Yet here was Rollie, ready to rescue the fragging stuff from the LibLounge purging bins like he was looting the Royal Coffers of Tiv-Vanees.

“Okay, what is it with you and print, anyway?” He was tracking the humanoids as they crissed and crossed from business to business in their methodical duty. “I know you enjoy a good lost cause, but flaming Altair! It’s all on infopill. It takes up space. What’s the fragging point?”

Tseethe glanced at the guy long enough to catch a smile as cold and serrated as a Marglenian fighting fish, right before it gets its dinner to-go. “The point, mate, is that someday… maybe not tomorrow… maybe not soon… but someday… print is destined to live agai—Ah!”

The exclamation was followed by the sound of minor avalanche. The collection bin door had released, and print came a-rumbling and a-tumbling to the floor. It echoed from the metal bin.

It was picked up by the robo-RegForce, who began to run straight for the LibLounge. “Incoming!” Tseethe checked the settings on his weapon. It was an XJ-36, a hand-laser on the affordable side, but accurate enough for both distance and close-range situations.

Rollie Tsmorlood was busy piling the print into the hoverbox. “It’s the smell, isn’t it?” he was now saying meditatively. “Of time, and use, and experiences. You don’t get that with an infopill.”

“It’s fire-or-bail time, man,” Tseethe announced, bracing his helmet against the doorframe; the XJ-36 had a little kick.

“Print’s tactile. Requires a bit of effort,” Rollie went on. “And portable, but never gives you indigestion.”

“Fire-or-bail!” Tseethe shouted. “Fire-or-bail!”

“Whereas, you down an infopill with a Feegar Bourbon-- I guarantee, mate, you’ll be coughing up whole paragraphs of chemical coding before the night is through.”

Tseethe fired-- one! two! In seconds, the Simulant RegForce officers were flat-out and fried across the LibLounge Welcome mat. Systems sparked. Fluids oozed. The fear sensors in the front doors were crying hysterically from witness trauma.

Tseethe stepped over to admire his laser work, and was impressed how much collateral damage had come from two clean shots. Sure, the Simulants could probably be rebuilt, but it would cost the RegForce more than a few yoonies. Not to mention all the paperwork they’d have to file with the Non-Organic Simulant labor union. Those guys were sticklers.

Turning, he saw Rollie holster his own still-smoking weapon. Tseethe had suspected there had been more laserfire than just his, but with lasers, you never could tell. He always wondered why the manufacturers didn’t add noise, make ‘em glow blue or something, just for safety and dramatic effect.

Somebody should write a letter, he thought.

“Time to launch,” Rollie announced. The filled hoverbox rose from the ground and hummed gently, stirring up crumbs and wrappers and print ash that hadn’t been caught by the LibLounge cleaning robots. It ruffled the top-layer of print in the hoverbox.

It ruffled the pages of Moople the Mootaab Goes to Mig Verlig.

“Stop!” Tseethe had let out a short, sharp exhale, and slammed his hand down on the hoverbox power button. The box sank and whirred to the ground. The print settled.

“Frag it all, Tseethe, what gives?”

Tseethe was smoothing back the book’s front cover with a trembling hand. Moople the Mootaab Goes to Mig Verlig. Through smoke, he read the title twice, just to be sure.

The slim volume was faded and stained. It depicted a young mootaab running away from home, separating from the great purple herd. This uncertain creature stood in the busy mass transit depot of the Farthest Reaches Cosmos Corral, holding a ticket in one of its six three-toed feet, and leading luggage twice its size. (Unusual behavior for your average livestock, Tseethe granted, but Hyphiz Deltan childrens’ lit tended to take some liberties.)

“Tseethe, mate, something wrong?” he could hear Rollie say faintly.

But far from wrong, it was all coming back. Suddenly Tseethe recalled dozens of important life lessons Moople the Mootaab had taught him. Like why you should never even think of separating from the herd. Why you should adhere to a strict daily Regimentation Schedule. And why you should never, ever, ever discharge an XR-25 hand-laser without proper supervision.

“You’re not hit, are you?”

“Nah,” Tseethe managed. He was hit, though-- stun-gunned by memories, lasered by time. He hadn’t seen Moople the Mootaab Goes to Mig Verlig since he was barely out of Didactics classes. His second-level maternal archetype-- he called her “Nana” --used to read the tale to him in a hard copy version, just like this. That book once belonged to her M.A. Sure, the story was total Hyphiz Deltan propaganda, but it was also a Tsardonee tradition. There was even an XR-25 hand-laser-- really just a starter weapon—which they passed down along with it, generation to generation.

If it hadn’t been for Moople the Mootaab and his whiny conformist ways, Tseethe might never have become the creative, independent thinker that made him such an up-and-comer in the Underworld today. And he had that brainwashed, six-legged purple skein of fiber to thank for it.

“Look, mate, we’d better launch,” Rollie was saying. “Don’t know how many Simulants signed on for night shift, yeah?”

“Oh.” Tseethe looked up, as Rollie powered the hoverbox again. It rose, swirling up more crumbs and blowing an old bookmark from the collection bin. “Right. Of course. And, um, this is mine.” His hand shot out and grabbed Moople off the stack. He drew it toward his helmet. It smelled like the impact-resistant polymers and tangy astrodynamic metals of a good old-fashioned in-ship toy storage unit. “Y’know: payment. For my help. Along with the yoonies you owe me, of course.”

Rollie glanced from the book to Tseethe and back again, one pale eyebrow reaching new stratospheres in query. “Okay…?”

“Stellar.” Tseethe tucked the book into his pocket. “So let’s go. What’re we waiting for-- the whole fragging RegForce to bust down the doors?”

“NOOOO!” screamed the doors, electronic voice buzzing in terror. “For the love of Hyphiz Delta, NOOOOO!”

But Tseethe and Rollie were already slipping through darkened streets on their way to the ship, the hoverbox of print trailing close behind. Some might have said it was a little like a young mootaab reunited with its herd, after a tiring adventure.

Of course, Tseethe didn’t. He never noticed it through the smoke.

Cabbages' There Goes the Galaxy Book Giveaway Winners

2011-09-28T08:06:00.002-04:00

Ah, the excitement! The drama! The... er... two small, furry creatures butting in front of the camera trying to get involved in every aspect of the event whether I want their help or not...

Such was the Of Cabbages and Kings blog drawing for copies of my new humorous sci-fi novel, There Goes the Galaxy!

Now, this was a highly-technical process. First I wrote the names of everyone who left a comment on the giveaway post on small slips of paper and placed them in a bowl. Then my whiskered companion, Harry, got in the way while I went to take a photo to prove I had done this. So I moved him out of the way. (Repeat ten times and ultimately give up, leaving the following...)

Lovely plumage.

And then we closed our eyes and drew the following two names:

Yes, congratulations to John and Shirley! You have each won a copy of There Goes the Galaxy. Please email me at jennthorson [at] earthlink [dot] net with your addresses and I will send you your book.

If the books remain unclaimed by noon of October 5, I'll redraw a new name, so someone else can receive the copy of the book.

Also note: the separate GoodReads giveaway has closed, too! I have to pop off and see who the winners are there. GoodReads notifies those winners directly and I will be shipping off those book copies today.

Lastly, for anyone still interested in purchasing a copy of the book for their very own selves-- either in paperback or ebook versions-- that can be done on Amazon by clicking here: http://www.amazon.com/There-Goes-Galaxy-Jenn-Thorson/dp/0983804508/

Thanks to everyone for participating. Honestly, you all-- with your kind support and enthusiasm-- have helped make the whole publishing process so much fun.

The "There Goes the Galaxy" Book Giveaway

2011-09-20T09:37:00.001-04:00

It's got humor... fantasy... science fictioniness... and all the other things you want in a good book like, um, pages that turn and a spine that holds it all together! And best of all, if you leave a comment answering the question below, I'll put you in a drawing for one of two free copies of my novel, There Goes the Galaxy.

So, think about it... pages that turn, a spine, and I'll even throw in a totally cosmic cover attached to it, designed by my friend Dave, all for FREE if you're the lucky commentor chosen from the drawing!

Okay, I know: you're saying, "Get on with it. What's the fragging question already?"

And the question is: "What's the last book you read that you'd gladly recommend to a friend?"

(See, that was virtually pain-free, wasn't it?)

Commenting will be open until midnight next Tuesday-- that's September 27th. Then I'll do the drawing and will let you know on Wednesday the 28th who the lucky winners are.

If you want more info on the novel, you can check out my book site here: http://www.jennthorson.com

And if you don't want to go through all the hassle of a drawing, but think you might want a copy of the book in either softback or ebook form, you can order it on Amazon here. (It's also in ebook form on Amazon.co.uk for my UK friends.)

Thanks for playing along!
--Jenn

Henry the Eighth for Kids: Count Along with Henry Tudor!

2011-09-14T13:21:00.002-04:00

This was prompted by a Google search that came to my blog the other day. Someone was looking for "Henry the Eighth for Kids." Once I stopped snickering over the image of The Tudors filmed for a pre-school crowd--- ("you see, Timmy, when a King and his courtier love each other very, very much. Or, well, y'know, they dance together for five seconds at the Royal Ball and find they both don't have plans for afterwards...") --anyway, it really got my creative mind a-turning. So today I give you the Please-Don't-Read-This-To-Your-Children version of 'Henry the Eighth for Kids'":

Count Along with Henry Tudor!

Henry Tudor was a king,
In England long ago
Seven Henrys ruled before
This Henry had his go.

Now, Henry Eight, he had six wives
Though not at the same time
For that, dear kids, is "bigamy"
With no place in this rhyme

So count to One and we will meet
Queen Catherine Aragon
She was the One who bore no son
So Henry said, "So long."

See, boys back then were very prized
But girls were not so blessed.
Today each child is loved the same.
(Still, Dad likes Junior best.)

So Catherine was sent away
And now we count to Two
It's Anne Boleyn, the courtesan
Who Henry sought to woo

This Anne, she had a daughter Liz
But still no bouncing boy
Two children now King Henry had
Yet no heir brought him joy

And in these days was no divorce
So Mommy stayed with Dad
And Dad with Mommy, even if
She had a new friend Chad.

So Henry said good-bye to Anne
In his medieval way
Without divorce, he saw no course.
She lost her head one day

The word "decapitation" means
"To leave without your cap."
Mention it to mommy once
When she asks you to nap.

No, nevermind-- let's move along
Quick now to Number Three
Jane Seymour stepped upon the stage
(Without Kay Jewelry).

Jane had the son of Henry's dreams
The apple of his eye
But birth was rough and times were tough
And Jane, she sadly died.

So let's count Four to Anne of Cleves
That's two queens now named Anne
Since this blind date won't turn out great
Annulment's Henry's plan

"Annulment" means to marry and
to say it doesn't count
Like "cooties, no takebacksies" does.
It gave the King an out.

This brings the count to Five, you see
Miss Howard-- Cathy Two.
But Henry learned the darkly news
That Cathy wasn't true

Our Henry was a little miffed
It was his pride, you see
So soon, as with dear Anne Boleyn,
Her wig flipped-- permanently

So here we come to number Six,
Last wife, and none too soon
This Catherine Parr she got so far
Outlived the Royal goon.

Three Cathys and Two Annes, he wed
And don't forget One Jane.
The moral? Keep above the Parr
When playing numbers games.

The Devil Drives Firestone

2011-09-09T13:13:00.004-04:00

"Knock, knock," came the sound on my passenger window at the grocery store parking lot. An elderly man with a cane was standing there, motioning. I rolled down the window with 68% certainty this wasn't a clever new snatch-and-grab ploy for car-jacking or, oh, for stealing the thrifted Oasis CD off my passenger seat.

(I can just see it now, as they sit around the retirement home common area with a stack of their lifted CD booty: "Is he saying 'wonderwall'? What in dadgum tarnation is a 'wonderwall', Elsie?"... And no, I don't know, either. It is catchy, but it confounds my days.)

(Then again, I don't know where Tarnation is. I think it might be out west near Perfection and Desperation.)

But I digress. A lot. Because, see, the nice man who was the complete opposite of a carjacker or CD thief in his do-gooderness had simply stopped to inform me that my right front tire was almost flat.

This was not unlike the situation two months ago where kind-hearted guys in a sports car waved at me at a red light to tell me that... my right front tire was almost flat.

Or my awesomely cool coworker, two months before that, who called me in my office to tell me that... yes, you guessed it. My tire was of the non-airfilled variety.

Three things we learn from this:

1.) People in Pittsburgh are caring and wonderful to strangers in a way that is almost mind-blowing. (Thank you, Pittsburgh!)

2.) I am too lazy and distracted to make time for regular car maintenance.

And 3.) This stupid tire had a breathing problem and I needed to have it examined.

Because this tire-- this brand new frigging tire-- had been slowly losing air week by week from the time I bought it. I would pump up, but then it would deflate again and just need more attention.

So it was more like a big name film star, than a tire, really. Or Meryl Streep's character in The Devil Wears Prada. You could never attend to it enough. Just when you'd think it had everything it needed, it would deflate, demand, and you'd have to blow air into its ego once more.

Thankfully, since we're in Pittsburgh, we have the solution to driving divas like this. Places like Duke's Tire, one of those old timey mom-and-pop (mostly pop) places which almost don't exist anymore, where the service is quick, efficient and, most importantly, they don't take guff from uppity rubber spheres with a need for regular adulation.

I was expecting them to find a nail, a tack, or water buffalo, or like the one time I had tire issues, the better part of a metal file. But it turns out there was a leak around the gasket. And in minutes, the good ol' Duke boys replaced it and sealed it for $15-- and a look of apology as if they feared they charged too much.

It warms the cockles of the heart, I tell you. All of them, those cockles. Not that I know what cockles are.

I imagine you pick them up on the way to the wonderwall in Tarnation.

There Goes the Galaxy-- Coming Soon to a Solar System Near You!

2011-08-29T12:39:00.000-04:00

Just a quick little announcement to say the humorous space fantasy novel I've been yammering about writing for, oh, forever now-- There Goes the Galaxy-- officially has a Facebook page, for folks who'd like to keep up with news on it. I'm targeting the launch for September-- I'll let you all know when I have a more specific date.

The Facebook page is here: http://www.facebook.com/ThereGoestheGalaxy for those of you interested in checking it out and learning more about the book.

As you can see, the cover is done now, thanks to my talented friend, Dave White. He did indeed create the Earth in a few mere days-- and the sun, as well. On the seventh day he rested and enjoyed a couple of breakfast tacos.

Anyway, I just wanted to share the progress with you all. Exciting times, my friends. Exciting times!

The Curious Case of the Confusing Campbell's Kettle Container

2011-08-22T08:43:00.001-04:00

Campbell's new Kettle of chicken chili. Hearty, tasty, and it looks so... microwavable... doesn't it? In fact, it looks like it's packaged just like Campbell's equally delicious and microwavable Chicken and Dumplings, and the beef veg soup with the little hamburger patties in it, and our tried and true friend, the traditional Noodle Soup.

I am a soup-a-holic, you see. I am all about new soupy, stewy goodness. I eat soup for lunch most days, and sometimes for dinner, too. I even got second degree burns once from an unfortunate soup spillage accident, and it didn't put me off my favorite flavors.

So when I saw this nifty new chicken chili, and a new beef and mushroom combo, I had them in my hot little hands as fast as a panicky spring bride grabs the discount dress of her dreams at a $100 gown blowout.

But when I got the chicken chili back to work, to see how long I needed to microwave it, I was surprised to see that the metaphorical gown did not fit the bride's most simple assumptions...

"Do not microwave in container."

WHAT?!

I read it twice, because it was so contrary to all my previous product experiences for this type of packaging.

"Do not microwave in container."

Now, bowls at work are not exactly a-plenty. I mean, while it's a homey sort of office we enjoy, it's still a friggin' office. We have the 400 examples of tradeshow mug swag that most executives covet, and the biodegradable plates we are grateful for when food is primarily eaten desk-ward, so we only lose a third of it or so down our keyboards. We also are not working in the wonderful world of Plastic-Wrap Land.

Think of it like a Frat House, only it smells a lot better and the decor is tasteful.

Sure, I could nuke the soup in a promo Initech mug or something. Which I did. But the whole thing left me befuddled.

Why package the soup in a non-microwavable container that looks exactly like every other microwavable lunch option? Hormel, Chef Boyardee, Campbell's Chunky-- all these folks have come to some quiet agreement that when a microwavable lunch choice is in one of these same plastic-lidded tubbies, it can be heated straight in the container.

It's like some unspoken rule between manufacturer and consumers, the way cereal comes in a box, and eggs come in a carton.

Instead, it's a little like buying a carton of milk to find what you have in there is actually powdered. Or grabbing a carton of eggs only to see there are pre-fried eggs in there.

And I know, in the great scheme of things, this momentary befuddlement rates about a negative 200 on the Inconvenience-o-meter. It's minutia of Seinfeldian proportions, I realize that-- and if I weren't such a lazy bugger, I would be at home making my own soup, and prepackaging it for myself in my own microwave tubs where I would be assured of its total nukability.

For those wondering, I even do have bigger things to worry about. Like whether my 401K will end up with enough to buy myself a nice pack of gum in retirement. If I still have my teeth. I know I'm not alone.

So with that in perspective, to our friends at Campbell's, I would just like to say, the chili was extremely yum. My only suggestion to you is to take a tip from a political campaign slogan that's rather fallen out of favor these days... When it comes to your Kettle, instead say: "Yes, we'll CAN."