Microphone Check

Hello?

Is this thing on? Can I get a little less through these monitors please? No, still not feeding back. . . I need it to feedback. . . Yeah, turn it up there's a literary joke in here somewhere, I just need to make sure the microphone is on first. You got it? It's ready? Okay, great.

Hello!

Hiatus Shmiatus, right? Right? No seriously, sorry about all that hiatus bologna. That was me getting a little bit tired in the afternoon, a little sleepy in the evening and flat out walking-dead in the morning. I thought, hey what four to six minutes of my week could I reclaim for just one more pressing of the snooze button on my telephone. . . should have been the four to six I spend staring at all the Oreo Cookies lined up the snack aisle at the Albertsons, looking like little black and white rockettes behind their blue cellophane, ready to dance their way into my mouth, washed down my esophagus on a luge of whole milk and sunlight.

I should have sacrificed those in-depth gazes into sure obesity instead of scrapping the tidy task of writing a little something now and then and pasting it into the world wide web. Can't you have both? I'll tell you a secret, you can. Yes, I'm eating Oreos as I write this but I've done away with the large cookies and instead opted for the OreoMinis that one can empty into one's mouth, using gravity and cheek space as the only gauge for what is/isn't completely disgusting. I can fit nineteen little Oreos in there before choking on the chocolate cookie powder that I'm sure was invented for just such a safety purpose.

Ahem. Anyhow - you're probably wondering how plans for Las Vegas are coming. You're there in the dark just certain that I've already got my resume in working order, have leads on casinos that are hiring smart whipper-snappers (yes, I went there) to serve drinks or blackjacks. . . but you'd be wrong. Las Vegas will remain a destination for a little while longer. The daily grind and regular paycheck of Scottsdale's restaurant industry is chipping away at the Road Trip Budget of Summer Past - - or as I sometimes call it: The Money Shredder. So Krissy and I will remain until further notice.

During the hiatus you missed at least thirty individualized days of utter environment denial as I continued to believe, cross my fingers and BELIEVE that soon the weather would break, soon it would be less than 387 Kelvin inside my car as out from the air conditioning unit flies a hand-scribbled sign reading: Gone to Cooler Climes, good luck in the oven. Yours cordially, - Freon.

In the world of writing, (as this blog is simply a recreation break from what should be a rigorously mandated up-at-dawn with cramping fingers career in creating and refining several great works of soon-to-be almost important works of marginalized local market fiction) I have very little to report. Submission season saw the dispersal of an older essay that is very near to my heart to five or six new markets and a brand new piece that is very dear to my ego to several large markets that will likely slice the manuscript into four pieces and use it as office scratch paper. I kid, I joke - - they probably have stationary for that.

The work-for-hire screenwriting gig (ie my burgeoning career in making-the-best-of-things-for-money) is also going just fine if by fine I instead mean frustrating. It is work - sometimes work is frustrating and that is where I will leave it as the internet is a mysterious place and if my new employer (Hello Mr. Paden, Sir) stumbles across this blog in an attempt to find Nude Squirrels or Toaster Polish - - - well, we'll just leave it at that. (Oddly enough, no toaster polish websites to make fun of... I guess the world IS okay.)

October is almost here and yes, the weather has fixed itself. The days are warm and sunny, the nights cool and crisp - the way a desert should be. Whoever thought that living here and driving two six-ton SUVs at the same time has another thing coming - and of course, by another thing, I mean heat-induced mania. I think it should be a law that if you knowingly buy and maintain a large gas guzzling environment-humping automobile that you yourself should have to carry it to work twice a month. That would fix matters I think. Is that the hypocrite bell ringing? Do you, Mr. Snapp, not own an old-school Ford Explorer that gets as many miles per gallon as a team of dead rhinoceroses? Yes, in fact I do. And when I can, which isn't often, I do turn off my car and coast the way Mother Nature and Mr. Wizard intended when they invented gravity, electricity and ballpoint pens - the desert is hot and flat, there is not much coasting.

It's amazing that I feel off-topic right now, as though there were topics.

October also brings my foray into the world of wine as I will be enrolled in a 12-15 week sommelier program that will spit me out (yes, I went there) on the other end with a Level 2 Sommelier certification. If I play my cards right, this will still allow me to say the following phrases while employed in a restaurant:

1. Yes, m'am I will bring you a glass of ice for your merlot. (In this case, historically, pronounced myrrh-lot)

2. This is Zinfandel, but I gather by the horrified look on your face that you meant White Zinfandel which we have available for sixty-cents and it comes in a collectible tin can, so that's nice.

3. Yes, that's how much it costs.

4. No, I can't change the price.

5. I said no, I realize that you know the wine is CHEAPER at the grocery store, but they won't serve it to you there and none of their food is even COOKED much less delicious or prepared or delivered with the flair and style it deserves. You're paying for the wine and the experience that is surrounding it - if you don't want to drink wine at a restaurant, then just don't do it. Go home, we'd all be happier if you did. A Bud Light and a well-done filet? I'd be happy to accommodate you sir.

6. Yes, level 2 sommelier. It means "wine steward."

7. Yes, that's another word for waiter.

8. Why would I spend three months and a chunk of money to be a waiter if I was always a waiter, you ask. Drink your beer.

9. Fine, call me Somalia one more time so long as that lobotomized bimbo you're courting thinks it's funny and spits her myrrh-lot all over your pressed shirt.

10. Have a nice night.

Ahh... the more things change, the more they stay the same. . . Good to be back.