Although I have been crappy about updating in recent weeks, I have in a very mysterious way been writing my ass off. (This is in reference to the super double top secret project I wrote, that my writing partner won’t let me talk about for reasons I don’t understand, but go along with for his comfort. And yes, mentioning something that I can’t elaborate on further does make me feel like a huge douche. I hope that is mitigating.) Anyhow the good news is that I am now pretty much done with the super double top secret mysterious writing that I am not allowed to tell you about.

The sad news (other than that I can’t tell you about the secret project) is this: for the next two or three weeks I am going to place my sole focus on the super double “go ahead and read it if you want to” project that only about fifty of you care about. What is this project? Why it is my middle grade fantasy book, Gray Bolt Ascending, of course!

I had a very good momentum going with it when I first started, then lost it due to a bunch of responsibilities being dropped on me from out of nowhere. But now, I am going to bear down and finish the first draft in the next two weeks. So approximately fifty of you should now rejoice. Your minor “squee” of excitement will not suffice. I need some serious rejoicing. Okay? Good.

Enough, enough. Seriously, you should stop now. You’re making me uncomfortable. No seriously knock it off!

ONE OF THE GOOD GUYS DIES AT THE END! DOES THAT WIPE THE SMILE OFF YOUR FACE?

There, I thought that would do it. Also, I’ve been wanting to announce that kind of news since the first time I saw previews for sweeps season on television when I was a toddler. Although in this case I am not just making a joke. One of the good guys in my middle grade fantasy book will die by the end. Muahahahahaha!

Now for an interesting tidbit. Did you know if I write fiction for too long I get a sort of creative mental lag? I just start thinking up different weird scenarios that don’t have anything to do with anything.

Yesterday I spent thirty minutes staring off into space thinking about how horrible it must be to look like Abraham Lincoln (this is because no matter what you do to your hair style, you will always look like Abraham Lincoln) whereas people who look like Jesus are just crying for attention. Hey assholes who look like Jesus! Don’t come whining to me when a simple haircut would solve all your problems. Guys who look like Abraham Lincoln are the real unfortunates.

So today, while I was knee deep in Gray Bolt Chapter 13, I started to think about what it would be like if I were a crusty old sea dog in a bar with sawdust covered floors, thumping my peg leg in time with the music, as I swung my beer stein from side to side as I hollered old shanties. I concluded that this would be pretty awesome, except for the times when I had to stare distantly out at sea and talk about how “Aye, the sea she’s a harsh mistress she is, but one I love more than I have ever loved any faye lass.”

Then I looked up a bunch of sea shanties on youtube, and sang along with them. This one is my favorite.

In episode twenty-six, in perhaps the ballsiest moment in the history of children’s television, he turned into a tree and died. This is of course after he spent a gut wrenching twenty minutes or so saying goodbye to everyone he loves. I think the clip speaks for itself.

Also, why is it that every time I embed a video the spacing gets screwed up for all paragraphs following the video? I would really like to know this.

I’m at my mom’s house for the summer looking after my little brother and sister while they’re on break from school. While I of course have done the typical dress, feed, and scold routine that comes with being a big brother, it wasn’t until yesterday I got a chance to really go out of my way to be the best big brother ever. My little sister and her friend wanted to go see the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 and needed a chaperon.

I would not have agreed had not a multitude of factors conspired to overcome my natural sense of reason.

1. My little sister’s friend has the saddest, biggest, puppy dog eyes I have ever seen in my life, and she’s moving away in a few weeks so this is probably the last time they’ll have together.

2. She’s also Mormon, and like people with severe mental handicaps, I feel Mormons have to be sheltered from the cruelties of the real world.

3. I wasn’t even fully assuaged by that until she said “But my mom said it was okay to see it because it’s PG-13 and that means there can only be two kisses in it!” Which was just so adorable coming from a nine year old that I ended up saying yes.

Thus began perhaps the most humiliating night of my life for the past five years. Fuck me running.

The First Humiliation

My mother drops us off at the theater because she has to go to the grocery store. I, a grown man, got dropped off to see “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2” by my mother. I don’t know why, but the fact that this was the sequel to “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” made it even worse. At least seeing the original would have afforded me some kind of dignity.

The Second Humiliation

I had the privilege of going up to the sales desk and saying “Two children… and uh… one adult to see ‘The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants… Part Two’” which caused no end of amusement to the ladies on desk. They didn’t even have the decency to laugh out loud and leave me angry. They waited until I was almost out of earshot before they started to giggle.

Also, the kids were pretending like they didn’t even know me, so it’s not even like I could use them as a shield.

The Third Humiliation

I walk up to the ticket taker who is some meat head teenager with enormous forearms who decides he’s going to be shitty about my choice of films.

I said “How’s it going man?” as I handed him the tickets.

In a very dickish way he replied “Just working” rolled his eyes, looked at the title on the tickets and snorted. “Third door on the left.” As I walk by him he’s shaking his head.

I look back at the kids, and think but do not say, “You had better enjoy the fuck out of this film.”

The Fourth Humiliation

I stand behind the kids as I let them order their concessions. I refuse on principle to eat anything sold at a movie theater. Then I walk down to the theater. Surprise surprise. We’re an hour early.

“Karen, what time did you say the movie started?”

“Umm… it said 5:30 on the internet!”

So instead of being five minutes late I had the pleasure of arriving almost an hour early… to see the sequel… to “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”

The Fifth Humiliation

So then I had the distinct pleasure of going back to the lobby, calling my mother on the phone, and saying “Yeah mom? I need you to pick us up. We’re an hour early… to see the sequel to ‘The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.’” It was at that point that I got the feeling that everyone working on staff was starting to get a few laughs at my expense. I am sad to say I was not a big enough man to find humor in my own situation.

“Ha ha! Check it out! There’s some fucking loser 23 year old kid in here calling up his mom because he came too early to see ‘The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2!’ It’s not even the first movie in the series so there’s no way he can have been fooled as to what it’s really about! Dude is calling his mom! What a fucking moron! If I was him I would shoot myself right now!”

The Sixth Humiliation

So when my mother shows up I’m told we can’t leave with our concessions by the ticket taker with the muscular forearms. I try to tell him that we’re coming right back because the movie starts in an hour, and he gives me another dickish snort.

The manager comes up and tells me I can give it to the people at concessions and retrieve it upon my return. At this time, I’m the only non-employee in the lobby, so everyone watches as I go back to the concession counter to give them the popcorn and pop (that I was not even going to eat or drink!) for the staff to hold onto until I got back.

The Seventh Humiliation

Then I sat in the car for an hour with the kids while my mom went to the bank and the kids talked about how they’re just like the girls with the magic pants.

My five year old niece Natasha, who has been here for a month and a half, said “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Pants aren’t magic. I’m happy I don’t have to go.”

I sank down really low in my seat and wished I was dead.

The Eighth Humiliation

I go back to the theater, I have to explain to the ticket taker guy with the beefy forearms who I am, even though I’m sure he already knows. I show him my ticket stub, he snorts again. If the kids hadn’t been there I would have fucking punched him in the neck. Then when he went down on the ground I would have squeezed his testicles between my palms like Superman crushing coal into a diamond and shouted “Who is laughing now you nutless fuck! Who is laughing now!”

Instead, I go to the concession stand, explain who I am again, and get the popcorn and pop (that I am not even going to fucking eat or drink!) back and give it to the kids. Then we get into the theater.

The Ninth Humiliation

The kids want to sit in the very front, so I go to sit down in the very front. They then tell me it’s uncool to be seen with an adult in the theater and they want to sit two rows behind me. I tell them that it’s much more uncool for an adult male to be seen alone at a showing OF THE FUCKING SEQUEL TO THE SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PANTS!

So they end up sitting behind me, and I’m positioned perfectly for the 30+ women (I was literally the only man there) behind me to see a single white dude in the very front of the theater waiting for the SISTERHOOD OF THE FUCKING TRAVELING PANTS TWO to start.

The Ultimate Humiliation

Then I watched the movie. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. God help me, I couldn’t. For two hours and ten minutes I watched “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2.”

These are newspaper clippings about the time my fourth grade teacher dropped dead in the middle of class. This has the teacher’s actual name in it, so I didn’t want to put the full picture up on the front page. But if you click it will redirect you to the scan of the newspaper article.

The Day my Fourth Grade Teacher Dropped Dead… and No One Cared #1

The Day my Fourth Grade Teacher Dropped Dead… and No One Cared #2

Here is my driver’s license where you can see my birthday.

Also, I really need a haircut in that picture. Moving on, here I am at senior prom with my date.

This was taken immediately after B’s wheel chair almost rolled into the marina, at “The Oyster House” in Olympia. I may not look good in a tux, but B is totally rocking that dress. High five, B! More after the jump. (more…)