Closed for repairs

It was a beautiful day here in our corner of exurbia, but nothing interesting occurred to me.

Sweater weather

I'm sitting at my desk in the middle of the afternoon with the windows open. I've been wearing a light sweatshirt all day.

The back of summer has been broken at last, and I'm so happy.

Like the person from Sweden who stopped by my little web freehold the other day (välkommen!), many of you discerning readers hail from cooler climes. Some of you live in Michigan, Wisconsin, Vermont and other frigid zones well north of the heat and humidity of Suburbingham, Alabama. Oh sure, it might get nasty hot where you are for a few days a year, but it's not the same kind of enduring and oppressive heat that we get.

Discerning readers from lands where winter seems to go on forever know just how happy they are that first day in April, May or June when they can finally step outside without a sweater or coat for the first time in what seems like forever. That's exactly the joy I experienced when I threw on my seatshirt after getting up this morning.

Tonight's low is forecast to be 49 degrees Fahrenheit (that's 9 degrees Celsius for those of you living in the metric world), and last night was almost as cool. There's a light breeze, a clear sky and the air is crisp. Life is good.

We'll sleep happily tonight with the windows wide open, and the air conditioner may stay off until sometime next April. Joy!

In our part of the Deep South the winters last long enough and are cold enough that we too look forward to the warming months of spring and the hot days of summer. But when summer arrives, it outstays its welcome, and the heat and humidity eventually wear you down. For me August is the worst month because you have already survived the brutal days of July, and the sauna is still cranked up full blast. During the summer months we live in a cocoon of air conditioning--it's a matter of survival here. Outside, the air is so thick with humidity, you can almost touch it. And it's like this both day and night for months on end.

But the weather we are experiencing right now makes it all worth it. I think I'll make some popcorn and a cup of hot tea tonight. Woo hoo!

On an entirely different subject, I've just committed the most self-centered, self-indulgent act imaginable in the most self-centered, self-indulgent year of my life. Now I'm going to compound that act of self-indulgence by sharing it with you.

Teri has said several times that Project Y is a very visual story and she thinks it would make a good movie. She actually said it would make a better movie that it would a book. Her comment stung a little, but I forgave her since she meant it as a compliment.

That got me thinking. Even though I'm not supposed to look at or even think about Project Y until October 26th, while mowing the lawn the other day I started putting together a soundtrack to go with the cinematic adaptation of Project Y. I tried to pick songs that represented the key figures and events of the story and arranged them in the approximate order in which they appear.

Then, I put a playlist together on i-Tunes and burned it to a CD. It's really good.

I won't bore you with all 21 tracks but here are some of my favorites on the soundtrack album.

Since this is all about being self-centered, I started the list with "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles and ended it with "Every Day I Write the Book" by Elvis Costello.

To represent both my protagonist's career crisis and the airline accident that starts the story, I chose two great songs, "Pressure Drop" by Toots and the Maytals and "Crash" by the Primitives.

There are several songs in my list for scenes with the bad guys, but my favorites are "Know Your Enemy" by Green Day and the sublime "Ring of Fire" cover by Wall of Voodoo.

"Take Me to the Mardi Gras" by Paul Simon is my parade song.

"Tiens Bien" by Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys is playing at the crawfish boil.

Love blooms to the sound of "When the Pain Dies Down" by Chris Stills and "I Don't Know" by Lisa Hannigan, among others.

"Hammer to Fall" by Queen and "Ballroom Blitz" by Sweet play just before and during the climactic scene.

For my discerning readers who have agreed to critique second draft of Project Y when it's completed, I'll send you a soundtrack CD along with the manuscript.

We're off and running

Here's the first sentence from Volume 2 (tentatively titled Academic Affairs):

Truck Sanders was on the verge of falling asleep in the middle of his ENGR 101 class when the professor fell over dead.

Oh boy. This is going to be fun.

A visit from my muse

I've spent the better part of two weeks moping around waiting for inspiration to strike. Finally, sometime late Saturday night, it did.

I'll be honest. I haven't accomplished much since finishing the first draft of Project Y. When I completed the draft, I promised myself I wouldn't look at it or think about it for six weeks before embarking on the second draft, and it's taking every bit of my willpower to keep me away from it until October 26th finally rolls around. In the meantime, I needed to find something to do with myself, and that meant setting off on a new authorial adventure.

But that has proved harder to do than expected. Days passed without much happening. A writer with a track record might have been able to justify the time off by saying he needed a little time to recharge the old batteries. I don't have that luxury. After all, the Best Year Ever is already one third finished as of today, and I was feeling a sense of urgency about getting on to the next thing right away.

I had been playing with several ideas for Volume Two, and ultimately settled on trying my hand at an old fashioned murder mystery with a a bucolic college campus setting. I busied myself by inventing my main characters and outlining the story before coming to an immediate and screeching halt. You see, in order for a story to qualify as a murder mystery, somebody has to be murdered. It's one of the rules for the genre. I knew who I wanted to kill off and had a vision for the opening chapter, but for it to work, I needed my victim to die in a particular way. And I just couldn't figure out how to make it work.

I don't mind telling you that I was getting more than a little frustrated at my inability to solve this problem.

So there I was on Saturday night, firmly ensconced in my captain's chair and gorging on dessert portion of the day's college football all-you-can-eat buffet. It was an exciting game, Texas Tech versus the University of Houston, and I was dividing my attention between that and The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand's massive tome that's something between a romance novel and anti-socialist rant.

Then it hit me when I wasn't even thinking about it. It came out of the blue, and my inspiration had nothing whatsoever to do with anything happening on the TV screen or in the book I was reading. All of a sudden I knew exactly how my victim was going to die, and it was a beautiful thing.

I'm not going to spoil anything for you yet, discerning reader. But, trust me, it's clever and quite likely the first time a murder victim has shed this mortal coil in quite this way in a work of fiction.

This is the second time my personal muse Nat'ly has seen fit to thump me over the head in this way. That's her, if you wondered what she looks like. The first time she visited I was slogging my way along about a third of the way through Project Y, and she showed me the climactic scene in detail and in a flash. Once I had that vision, the story finished itself. The first time it happened, I danced around in my office. This time I just sat in my chair, stunned and grateful.

Inspiration is a really amazing thing when it happens, and those two moments have been some of the most joyous of my life. It's like working on a difficult puzzle for a long time and seeing the missing piece fall into place. I don't know how many of these moments I'll have, but the first two have been mysterious and wonderful, and they're a big reason this really is the Best Year Ever.

New deal

Merde.

Pardon my French, but I'm more than a little upset that my body, which has served me fairly well for half a century, has chosen the Best Year Ever to turn on me.

Several months ago, my doctor put me on a blood pressure medicine after rightly issuing a stern admonition to lose a lot of weight.

This was the first prescription medicine I've ever taken, and I wasn't at all happy that I had allowed myself to get so fat that I needed to take a drug to keep me from stroking out.

On Monday I was back in his office for a routine checkup, quite a bit lighter than I was during the last visit, but still heavy enough that Dr. Marshall felt it necessary to beat me up a little more on the obesity front.

Then, yesterday afternoon the phone rang. It was Tina from Dr. Marshall's office with the results of my blood work. She read out a bunch of numbers, but the bottom line was that my borderline high blood sugar had barely crossed some sort of unhappy threshold since my last test and my cholesterol levels had gone from not very good to pretty darn terrible. Tina informed me that the doctor was now putting me on a second prescription medicine to go after the cholesterol issue.

"Dr. Marshall left me a note to read to you," Tina said ominously. What followed was a fairly extensive diatribe on the evils of red meat, simple carbs, sugar, salt, obesity and the virtues of exercise and fresh vegetables. "And he wants you to come back next month for another blood test," Tina finished. I was self-righteously ticked off when I hung up the phone.

Okay, I'll admit it--I'm way guilty on some of the charges. I eat way too much white bread, white rice, potatoes, salt and red meat. But I'm totally innocent on the exercise and sugar indictments. I consume almost no sugar or sugared drinks and I've been working out more in the last six months than I have in many, many years. And, I've actually been losing weight, haven't I? Doesn't that count for something?

I admit that I have increased the simple carbs and bad red meats (like hot dogs and hamburger) in my diet over the last several months, mostly because the Best Year Ever plan includes scrimping money and those foods are cheap; so I can see how my cholesterol and blood sugar levels have gone up since my last blood test.

It's unfair. My reward for thrift is a second prescription drug, and one that I'm not pleased about taking. The pharmacist pointed out that one side effect of the statin drug I'm now on is that it can impair the user's liver function, so it's important for me to get a blood test for that now every year. "It's too bad that it can wreck the thing you've only got one of," she said a little too cheerfully for my taste.

Merde.

So now I'm on two different drugs, and I've got to continue to lose weight, eliminate salt and sugar from my diet and watch my intake of simple carbs and red meats. I can deal with one or maybe two of these at one time, but I don't know how I'm going to handle working through all of these things at once. After some deep thought, I've concluded my diet must now consist entirely of raw broccoli and prescription drugs in order to follow my doctor's laundry list of dos and don'ts.

For the last 50 years, my body and I had an arrangement. I was to eat and drink whatever I wanted in whatever quantities I desired, sleep as little as possible and exercise only when the mood struck. In return, my body was to keep on running without issue or complaint. That was our deal, and it worked out pretty well for both of us for a long time. Now, apparently the arrangement has changed, and I don't like the new deal one bit.

Me and my Strat

Whoever first said you can't teach an old dog new tricks probably knew what they were talking about.

A long time ago, to take a break from my frenzy of dulicmer acquisition, I bought a bottom of the line Stratocaster electric guitar, and my Strat has pretty much sat in a corner of my office gathering dust ever since. It looks exactly like the one pictured here. Recently, I picked it up for the first time in years.

Early this month I took the first in a short series of beginning guitar lessons offered through my church. The class consisted of about a dozen rank beginners of all ages who came eager to become overnight guitar shredding virtuosos. Our instructor is Connie, the extremely gifted and unbelievably patient music director of the church.

The goal of lesson one was fairly modest. First we learned how how to tune our axes. What should have been a simple process taking no more than a few minutes lasted interminably and put one of the students at a major disadvantage almost immediately when he broke his E string.

Once we were more or less in tune, we slugged our way through our first four chords--G, Em, C and D. Our assignment was to practice playing a very simple song using these chords and return a month later ready to rock the house with our new found skills.

Most of the guitars brought to the first lesson were hand-me-downs and a few of them could be charitably described as unplayable junk. I didn't bring one of those. I walked in with Teri's mint condition top of the line Martin acoustic/electric dreadnought.

If you are familiar with guitar manufacturers, you already know that Martin builds expensive guitars that both look and sound beautiful, and Teri's guitar is from the premium end of this already premium line. Her guitar really is a work of art, and in the hands of someone who can play it as well as she can, it sings. We bought the guitar at a shop in Austin, Texas on the day before my father's funeral service. Teri agreed to play at Dad's service but neither of us thought to throw her old guitar in in the car during our hastily arranged departure from New Orleans. Buying a new guitar gave us something to keep us occupied on a very sad day.

I had no business bringing equipment this good to my first lesson. But the Martin is the only acoustic guitar in the house these days, so I took it with me after receiving Teri's permission. Never have such miserable sounds emanated from such a fine instrument. To make matters worse, within moments the fingers of my left hand were in real pain from the pressure of the strings digging into my fingertips.

To be fair, nobody else was doing any better than I was, and collectively the noises we made were frightening--more like the cries of a mortally wounded animal than anything remotely musical. And I wasn't the only one in pain. Don't worry, Connie told us with a forced smile. With practice we would get better and our tender fingertips would develop callouses making playing painless, she promised. When she couldn't stand it any longer, Connie sent us away with the admonition to practice every day.

The next evening I dragged my long forgotten Stratocaster and small amp from my office into the living room and set them next to my easy chair with the rationale that it would be prudent to practice with a guitar worth one twentieth of Teri's beautiful dreadnought rather than risking damage to an instrument with the same approximate value as my car. After dusting it off, oiling the fretboard and getting it in tune, I turned on the amp and started fumbling my way through my four chords. Within seconds the cat fled the room. He had an annoyed look as he ran off and his crooked tail was raised and turning bushy.

After a moment or two, Teri gently pointed out that it was getting late and our back door was open, so perhaps I should turn down the amp a bit. I agreed to her suggestion, even though the amp was already at approximately the same volume as the television and completely inaudible to any of our neighbors. After a few more such gentle suggestions, the amp was still technically on but no sounds could be heard coming from it even to me sitting less than a foot away. Teri is a master of psychology. She did this so sweetly that I didn't realize what she was doing, but I finally got it. It really was that painful to listen to.

That was three weeks ago, and the Strat and amplifier are still in the living room. I'm practicing every day, but I haven't hit the power switch on the amplifier in some time. If you've ever played an electric guitar, you already know that a Stratocaster makes almost no sound when it isn't plugged into an amp, and this has brought harmony to our home.

It's all good. I'm getting my daily practice in without torturing Teri or the cat, my fingers don't hurt so much and I'm actually getting a little better. A few times, Teri has even pulled out the Martin and played and sung along with me to help me work through my song. That's true love.

Egg balancing day

I've been away for a few days. Did you miss me? I didn't think so, but it feels good to be back.

At 4:18 p.m. (Bayberrry Daylight Time) today the sun will cross the equator for the second and final time this year and autumn will officially begin. The days are getting shorter. Actually they've been getting shorter since late June, it's just that they are getting shorter at their fastest rate right now, so you're noticing it. And while we're at it, the days aren't really getting shorter--there are still exactly 24 hours to each one, but you know what I mean.

I bet you've heard that it's possible to balance an egg on its end during the spring and fall equinoxes. Have you ever tried it? If not, here's your big chance. Go ahead; give it a shot. I'll wait right here for you.

So, how did you do? Turns out that it's all a big fat hairy lie. It's possible (difficult, but possible) to balance an egg any day of the year. It's not any easier today.

If you live in the Southeastern United States, you know that it's been raining virtually non-stop for days. Our cat Scram is furious with us for allowing the rain to continue so long. My friend Jack e-mailed some dramatic pictures of his flooded street in suburban Atlanta. Here in Suburbingham we've had flooded rivers, and a few semi-submerged cars.

The days and nights of rain and the really high humidity levels are starting to make things smell a little, um, funky around here. Well, maybe that's just me, but I'm really ready for it to dry out for a few days.

There have even been several deaths in the region from the flooding including a young man who jumped into a rain swollen drainage ditch on a dare and was swept away. This falls firmly into the "hey y'all, watch this" subcategory of routine life experience in the south. Usually Billy Ed survives these ill conceived experiments, but sometimes they end tragically. We're really good at mixing comedy and tragedy down here.

Teri has been fighting a nasty bug for the last few days. Yesterday it knocked her down and she missed her first day of work in many years. It was hard to concentrate yesterday between the persistent hacking cough and emergency weather bulletins emanating from the living room, so I eventually gave up trying to work and started reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.

It's a different experience reading a novel after you've just written one. It's easier to see the machinery clanking along now, and I look for it. I made it through about 150 pages of her 1,000-plus page tome yesterday. I'm enjoying it, but find myself deducting style points when she offers an unrealistic bit of dialogue, produces an unclear statement or hammers a particular point plot point home one too many times. I want to reach back in time and shake her a little bit while shouting "I get it Ms. Rand--there's no need to rant or make the exact same point for the fifteenth time in ten pages." Of course Atlas Shrugged is widely regarded as a literary masterpiece, so who am I to argue with the now departed author?

Today, the first day of autumn, I begin work on Project Z. I took several days off to decide what I wanted to do next. I meant to start Project Z late last week but I couldn't make up my mind on what it might be.

I decided that I wanted to do another work of fiction and see if I could do a better job the second time around. I've been juggling a few ideas around. One I rejected but still think has promise involves an ancient manuscript, scroll or tablet that is filled with a number of specific and accurate predictions--kind of like Nostradamus on steroids. Only a tiny handful of predictions remain to be fulfilled at the time the document is translated by the scholar studying it. I came up with some very cool predictions made by the ancient scribe, but I couldn't come up with a reason anyone would try to prevent their coming to light now. I spent much of yesterday trying to get in touch with my inner conspiracy nut and inventing a bad guy or secret cabal, and failing miserably. I'm tossing The 50 Prophecies of Herodotus back in the compost bin for a while to see if it ferments.

So I'm going with Plan B for Project Z. I have only the vaguest idea of the plot at the moment, but I've already got quite a cast of characters dancing around in my head. Get the door honey--a whole new crop of imaginary friends are at the door and waiting to come into our lives.

Plague of toads

It's not quite a biblical plague, but we've been overrun with toads this summer here in Bayberry RFD.

Most of them are cute little guys no bigger than a marble, but once in a while I'll spot a lunker boss toad roaming the yard like he owns the place.

I don't know if this is normal or not. Our first two summers here in Suburbingham were marked by drought and extreme heat, not exactly ideal breeding or living conditions for amphibians. But this summer has been cooler and wetter, so the toads are doing just fine and have clearly been in the mood for love.

I have to be very careful not to create a gore fest when I mow the lawn these days, and I look closely as I push my trusty mower lest I create puree of toad.

A couple of weeks ago a toad, not one of the big 'uns but not a baby either, was disturbed by my lawn care ministrations. He hopped onto the driveway and in the direction of the open garage to escape the whirling blades of death.

I didn't want the little fellow to get trapped in the garage leaving behind a dessicated toad body for Teri to find months later, so I picked him up to move him to a safer haven. Contrary to what you may have heard, toads don't cause warts and they don't bite, so I knew I was in no danger.

But in the process a childhood memory literally flooded back as I recalled one defense mechanism that toads do have--they pee all over their captors. Who knew that one little toad could hold so much liquid inside him? Within a couple of seconds I had quite a little puddle in my cupped hand.

After releasing the animal and washing up, I thought about how an incident like this could cause the forgotten lessons of childhood to come streaming back.

We think of the world as staying the same from year to year and one summer as much like any other, but that is far from the truth. Seasons follow in their regular order, but no two seasons are exactly alike. Each season we experience is unique, distinct and is a gift from God if you want to get down to the bottom of it all. This summer may follow the same patterns as the others in our lives and will always be preceded by spring, but each also differs from all the rest.

One bit of evidence of this is found in the way the natural mix of the Bayberry Woods varies so much from year to year. The number of rabbits I see is way down from last year, and I haven't seen a single bat or deer all summer. But the population of hummingbirds and toads has exploded. Hmmm. Our wild blackberry bushes thrived this year and my fig tree is producing like crazy, but my tomato plants died early and we've already planted cabbage and collards in their place.

Some seasons produce happy memories, while thoughts of others bring back thoughts of sadness or resentment. Teri mentioned in passing the other day that the summer of 2009 would always be especially memorable for us. She would remember it as the season when we both turned 50 and acknowledged that milestone in grand style surrounded by dear friends on a boat in France. It was the summer her husband spent writing, not knowing if the lost income from the experiment would bring financial ruin--only that it was something he felt he had to do. And it was the summer our Callie, a dog who was so much more than just a dog to us, fought her losing battle to cancer and broke our hearts.

Autumn officially arrives here a week from today at 4:18 p.m. Already our dogwoods are starting to turn (earlier than last year) and our oaks, while still green, have begun to drop a few leaves here and there. I enjoy the change of seasons and the natural cycle of life that accompanies them, but I especially enjoy fall. I like the crisp nights, and I revel in the show put on by the trees as their leaves turn from green into a peaceful and all too brief riot of color. When the color show reaches its peak, a walk around the little lake near our house in the late afternoon of a sunny day can be truly breathtaking. The shades of red, orange, green and brown in the hills surrounding the lake are reflected in the water, leaving you with two worlds to enjoy--the world of the air and the second, more mysterious, world of the reflected surface.

One unique season ends and a new one takes its place for good or ill. I wonder what the next one will bring.

Factory layoff

I feel like I just got laid off, and in a sense that's exactly what happened.

Earlier this morning I finished the first draft of Project Y, tentatively titled Carnival Time against the advice and better judgement of the only two who have commented so far (including my dear wife).

Hooray for me! It feels great to have accomplished a huge personal goal. It's definitely not polished, it has some huge problems and it's light years from publication, but it's an actual, for-real novel. I think I've written a pretty entertaining story that gently explores relevant themes.

Now what?

In recent weeks I've read advice from two authors (one of them hugely successful) who both offer the identical suggestion: after completing the first draft: put the thing away for six weeks. Try not to even think about it as it stinks up your hard drive. Then return to it, and read through the entire manuscript before launching into the second draft. What you read after that layoff will almost seem to be the work of someone else, they say, and you'll feel less pain from the slashing and burning you're about to inflict on your precious forest of words.

I think I'll take their advice, which means commencing work on the second draft on Monday, October 26th. It's going to be difficult to hold off that long, like waiting for Christmas, but it makes sense to me and I'm determined to try.

So now what?

The workers in the dream factory have been producing widgets on time and under budget for quite a while, and now the factory has closed suddenly so the owner can retool the assembly line for a new model. The problem is that the factory owner has no clue what the new model will be and until he gets a clue, the workers have nothing to do.

First I'm going to take a couple of days off to read, think, cut the grass and my hair and generally just get away from myself, my muse and my imaginary friends for a little while. For the last few weeks especially, I've been fairly obsessed with my project, and I've been living more with Tony and Daphne than I have with Hank and Teri. They've become almost real to me as I've written this, and I hope that when I read through the book again late next month they'll seem half as real on the printed page.

I've got some ideas floating around in my brain, but right now I'm watching the wheels spin on the creative slot machine and hoping for the right combination to fall into place.

Finished!

Exactly two minutes ago, at 1:46 a.m. on Tuesday September 15th, 2009, I typed "The End" as I completed the first draft of Project Y.

My bouncing baby book weighed in at 80,914 words.

I'm going to bed now, but, before I do, would you like to hear how it ends? Good--I had hoped you would.

Here it is:

“Hi.”

“Hi. Did you really get fired in Houston yesterday?”

“Yup.”

“How’d that go?”

“Very fast. That part was kind of weird. Even with the time zone change, I was still back in my condo in Atlanta by three in the afternoon and asleep by five. I slept thirteen hours straight for the first time since college and still felt a little groggy when I woke up this morning. How are you doing?”

“I spent most of Ash Wednesday asleep. Maybe eleven hours. I had to unplug my phone and turn off the cell because people kept calling to ask me about the Meeting of the Courts. Did you know you’re a star?”

“So I hear.”

“The people at Gwin and Lenny’s party all want to know if you're a secret agent or in some kind of special forces for chubby people after seeing you on TV. Have you seen yourself? It’s impressive.”

“No I’ve been either busy or asleep since you dropped me at the New Orleans airport. This morning I bought a car and a couple of computers and then planned out a few upcoming trips. Oh, and I had a nice long chat with a Detective Clancy this afternoon.”

“Yeah, he showed up at my office this morning. Seems like a nice guy. So, where are you going?”

“I’ve got a quick trip to Vegas next weekend and then a trip to Louisville for the Kentucky Derby in early May. Both are more or less business trips, but the business part will only take a couple of minutes each. Want to join me for either of those?”

“I’d love to, but my schedule is packed for the next couple of weeks, so Vegas is out. And the first week of May is finals, and I’ll be up to my eyeballs in student papers and exams then. Any other trips on the horizon?”

“At some point very soon I need to fly to Phoenix to see my daughter Kelly. I want to find out if it’s even possible to start making up for lost time. Also, I’m going to India for a few weeks in April to eat some curry, look at some temples and clear my head a little.”

“Sounds good. And expensive.”

"Speaking of good and expensive, have you ever been to France in June? I hear it’s a nice time of year for one of the world’s top minds in medieval French history to get some primary research done.”

“Wow, is that an invitation?”

“It could be.”

“I don’t know Tony. I can’t afford it right now and I’d feel funny letting you pay my way--especially since you’re currently unemployed. Let me think about it.”

“Okay, but don’t take too long Daphne or I might have trouble finding a good chateau to rent.”

“Tell me Tony, do your future travel plans include New Orleans, by any chance?”

“Very possibly. I’m free tomorrow, and I’ve got a brand new Camry that needs breaking in.”

“What time can you get here?”

The End!

Doh!

I just lost about 10 pages of manuscript when I saved over Project Y with an older version on both my hard drive and my memory stick. I hate myself. Taking a 20 minute break to calm down.

Road trip

It has been a strange journey on a long and winding road and I'm really ready to park this car, so I'll be driving through my alternate reality non-stop until I reach the way station at the end.

While speeding through this last section of the road, I'll have the top down, the stereo cranked and my imaginary friends riding shotgun to point the way. It may take a day or two to reach the end of the road, so you won't hear from me again until I finally cross the finish line. I'll be back after I have re-emerged and grabbed a shower. Until then, I'll miss our conversations, discerning reader. But I hope to come back with a good report of the last bits of scenery along the way.

Asleep at the wheel

I'm not sure how coherent this will be today, but I am sure it will be briefer than usual. I'm feeling a little off center today, but at least I know why. Last night I collapsed into bed at 1 a.m. and the alarm clock fired off at 5:15 a.m. "Make it stop, please make it stop," was the only coherent thought I could form as the alarm slammed into my brain like a pre-dawn sledgehammer.

A few years ago this wasn't a particularly unusual night for me, and I would have been just fine the next morning. In fact, I could pull off several consecutive nights of short sleep before needing a full night to "catch up."

Not today. Maybe I'm just out of practice, but I really don't feel like I'm firing on all cylinders at the moment. I thought you were supposed to need less sleep as you got older.

At least I have only myself to blame for today's discombobulation.

I was up very late writing, much later than I had planned. I couldn't make myself stop. The finish line for the first draft of Project Y is just ahead. I might finish it as early as this weekend, but it will be done sometime next week at the latest.

The stage is all set for the final big scene, and all of the characters are in place. Over the next couple of days they will play it out on my computer screen. I'm not sure of everything that will happen, but I am sure that somebody's gonna die.

One reason I had so much fun writing yesterday stemmed from a technical problem. Throughout the process of writing Project Y, I've tried to be true to my New Orleans setting. Virtually every location I used in the book is a real place, or should be. Even when I made up a location, I tried to keep it real. I used Google Earth to find just the right spot for a warehouse, biker bar and several homes where scenes take place. Other locations such as a district police headquarters, the Windsor Court Hotel and various restaurants are very real. And if Project Y is ever distributed beyond my computer's hard drive, several discerning readers might just recognize a certain house on Peniston Street.

But yesterday I began writing about a real world event that occurs in the wrong location for my purposes, and I was having trouble making that location gibe with what needed to happen there. I had been stewing on this problem for several days when the answer came to me. You're a writer, you idiot, and this is a work of fiction. Why don't you invent the setting you need? So I did. And I had way too much fun building and staffing The Hotel Muses yesterday, the most beautiful mega hotel on lower Canal Street. I'm sad this hotel doesn't really exist, because I'd check in in a heartbeat.

After I built my hotel--a marvelous backdrop, if I do say so myself--I had to get back to Tony and Daphne, who were having a lovely time snuggling on the couch at her place as they watched the end of Mardi Gras unfold on TV. I've had fun with these two as I've tried to develop a romance around a bunch of major obstacles. These two are both career driven, they live far apart, they have known each other for only one day, they both carry mid-life baggage, and general mayhem finds them at every turn. I've enjoyed trying to make a romance bloom believably under these challenging circumstances, and I think I've at least partly succeeded.

Maslow joins a biker gang

Today's writing sample was inspired by Teri. Teri was confused by the motivations of a coalition of six outlaw motorcycle gangs intent on disrupting Mardi Gras. My explanation that they were under the influence of a charismatic leader didn't satisfy her, and she went on to question the motivations of both the gangs and the leader.

So I decided to address the issue directly and have a little fun doing it. The result was the gang members eloquently rationalizing their own behavior using Maslow's hierarchy of needs. If you've taken Psych 101 or Marketing 300, you're already familiar with this concept. If not, the bike gang member will do a pretty good job of explaining it to you.

The discerning readers among you who have read some of the other excerpts from Project Y posted here may have already realized this story isn't exactly rooted in reality and isn't meant to be. The previous samples I've posted were partly selected to disguise that to the extent that I could. I didn't want to ruin all the surprises for you. But if you didn't realize that the premise of the tale is from the deep end of the crazy pool, you will now.

It was Samuel Taylor Coleridge who first said that a fantastic and implausible tale had to have enough truth in it to obtain the reader's "willing suspension of disbelief"--in other words, the discerning reader must buy into enough of it that he will go along with all the crazy stuff. I hope there's a ton of truth in Project Y, because there's going to be a whole lot of disbelief to suspend--much more than you might have suspected up to now.

I've changed one profanity to something silly--you'll know it when you see it--but I've left a couple of mildly naughty words in. Hey they're bad guys--they're supposed to have potty mouths.

I hope you like it:

“I’m a little confused, will someone remind me again why we’re doing this?” asked John Ed Miller, aka Moon Dingo, the war chief of the Memphis Mongol Horde. The guy from the Desperados had sure got them worked up at the bar the night before and almost everyone immediately bought into his crazy plan. But after sleeping on it, John Ed couldn’t see much point or payoff to the exercise.

He had to admit that he and his Mongol brothers were enjoying themselves. One key reason was they were mostly following strict orders to behave, which in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, left them plenty of room to operate. But this was not turning out to be the two day rampage they had all been anticipating for months.

John Ed was with the five other war chiefs at the suburban home of the president of the Desperados, a guy named Crusher. Their exact titles varied slightly from organization to organization, but the function was the same—to lead their men into battle when necessary.

John Ed’s question was met with grunts and few shoulder shrugs. Clearly he wasn’t the only one confused by the objective. He was about to propose calling the whole thing off in favor of a last night of general mayhem in the French Quarter when the dude who got them all excited at the biker bar entered the room.

“Good afternoon gentleman. Sorry I’m a little late. I was at the site making some final arrangements for this evening. Have I missed anything?”

“Well, dude, I was just asking the other war chiefs if they could remember what’s in this for us or even the reason we’re doing this in the first place, and I’ve got to tell you some of us seem to be struggling with the concept. I can’t speak for the others, but this seems like a pretty stupid plan when you step back and take another look at it. I’m thinking of pulling out the Horde. No offense dude,” John Ed said.

“None taken, Moon Dingo. It is Moon Dingo isn’t it?”

John Ed nodded, suddenly pleased, and for no good reason, that the dude remembered his name, even though he didn't remember his.

“Brother Dingo raises a valid point, and no general wants to go to war without having a clear objective, a clear battle plan and a clear exit strategy,” Krunk said. “Am I right war chiefs? Warthawg? Buzzsaw? Tuna? Are you with me on this? Ape Man? Powder Burn? Moon Dingo? Are we in agreement here?

John Ed found himself nodding along with all the others. Damn, this guy is good, he thought. It wasn’t so much what he said as it was how he was saying it that made you want to go along with him. It’s like that Jerry McGuire movie, he thought—he had them all at hello. He was sure they weren’t being charmed by his rugged good looks or manly demeanor—dude was ugly as a mud fence and looked twice as weak until he opened his mouth. He was full of confidence, though. He’d give dude that much.

“I’ve got a one word answer for why we’re doing this, my brothers. Respect. Tell me, are any of you familiar with Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs?” Krunk asked.

Two hands went up. “I’ve got a master’s degree in clinical psychology,” said Ape Man. “So, yes Brother Krunk, I’m very familiar with the concept.”

Krunk. That was dude's name, thought John Ed.

“Excellent,” said Krunk. “Then you already know that, according to Maslow, all humans have a range of needs that begin with the most basic physical requirements and, once met, progress toward increasingly abstract psychological needs. The most basic needs are physiological, such as food, shelter, sleep, clothing and sex—not necessarily in that order. Next on the Maslow’s list are needs of safety including health and financial security."

"Above needs of safety come social needs like friendship and intimacy. That’s the main purpose served by our clubs—to fulfill our natural human need for love and friendship. Well, that and to be totally badass.”

“Once you’ve fulfilled your social needs, you can begin your quest for respect and self-esteem on Maslow’s hierarchy. That’s where my plan comes in. As outlaw bikers we might already be meeting our social needs, but let’s be honest, we don’t get the respect we deserve from the outside world. Cops harass us and so-called society looks down on us as losers, criminals and useless white trash. Usually, we’re okay with that and even embrace it as part of our image, but I think it’s about time we finally received the respect we deserve. Do you agree?”

Every head nodded in unison, and there was a metallic rattling noise as the men sat up in their seats, rustling the stainless steel chains attached to various articles of clothing.

“I promise that what you’re about to do will earn the permanent esteem of every outlaw biker across the planet. Law enforcement will fear and respect us. The whole thing will be on television, so, as long as there’s a You Tube, the whole world will get to watch us with awe and wonder. Shock, awe and, most of all, respect--how does that sound to you?”

“Sounds pretty toading good,” Warthog said thoughtfully.

“You forgot one-,” interjected Ape Man, “Maslow’s ultimate need and the one that transcends all the others—self actualization.”

“I didn’t forget it Ape Man,” Krunk said. “I didn’t bring it up because I don’t really see this as a transcendent self-actualizing kind of event for most of us. Maybe it will be for me,” he laughed, and for some reason John Ed and the others found themselves laughing right along with him.

“Now, if there are no more questions about motivation, let’s go over the plan again and each unit’s role in it.”

Pomp, circumstance and tedium

I couldn't put it off any longer.

Yesterday was the only full day of research I've put in on Project Y, and it was the one I had been anticipating with dread I knew it would be a day of pure unadulterated tedium. I've been lucky on the research front until now. Since the setting of Project Y is New Orleans at Mardi Gras, I already knew quite a bit about my subject, and that has made the need for additional research fairly minimal to this point.

Still, I've been surprised at how many times I've had to look something up as I've flogged this beast. Does the bus or the streetcar run on Canal Street on Lundi Gras? What does a fully loaded Boeing 737 weigh? What is the police district that encompasses the French Quarter and where is it headquartered? What's the best intersection to place a bar on Terpsichore Street? What are some of the details of float construction? These are the kinds of questions that send me to the web on a daily basis.

But yesterday, to prepare for an upcoming scene, I had to endure the Meeting of the Courts.

For those of you who may have never been to New Orleans at Carnival, the Meeting of the Courts occurs on Mardi Gras night when two of the oldest and most highbrow Carnival Krewes hold their formal balls. The balls are filled with pomp and majestic splendor. Near midnight Rex, the King of Carnival and his queen are invited to the winter palace of Comus and his queen. The winter palace is in reality a hotel ballroom converted into an elaborate stage set. The four monarchs sit enthroned together looking regal. As midnight approaches, Rex and his queen leave the ballroom and Comus and his queen soon follow. Then the Captain of Comus gives an order, and the curtain is literally and figuratively drawn on Carnival for another year.

This program runs for a full four hours and the entire thing is broadcast live on television. As entertainment goes, it's virtually unwatchable, but many New Orleanians couldn't imagine missing a minute of this torpid pageant. It moves at a snail's pace, and nothing about it ever changes--if you've seen one Meeting of the Courts, you've seen them all. As one of the announcers proudly stated, "I don't think they've changed a single cue in 75 years."

Weeks ago I obtained a two DVD set of the Meeting of the Courts from 2008, and I've been putting off watching it ever since. It took me eight hours to watch the four hour program because I had to keep stopping it to take notes and there were parts I had to watch several times over.

Like Mardi Gras itself, the whole thing is completely over the top and ridiculous, and it only works because everyone--participants and viewers alike--agrees to pretend to take it seriously.

For me, the best part of the program is the team of announcers, which also remains the same from year to year--Henri Schindler, Peggy Scott Laborde and Errol Laborde. All three are steeped in the lore and traditions of Mardi Gras. The two men have each written books on Mardi Gras, and Peggy has written at least one book on New Orleans history. The three are also deeply connected to the two krewes and the people in them.

It's fun to see the two men announcing the show wearing formal white tie and tails and holding the microphones in their white gloved hands. Peggy always looks adorable in her ball gown, but the poor dear clearly had the flu in 2008 and bravely hacked her way through the whole thing.

My favorite of the three is Schindler (pictured here in an old publicity photo), who is the float designer for Rex and also designed the floats for Comus before that krewe abandoned parading a number of years ago. He may know more about Mardi Gras history than anyone alive. Henri is soft spoken, but he can be very funny--both intentionally and unintentionally. He's also incredibly passionate about Mardi Gras. For him there's nothing pretend about any of this--it's all very, very real.

Uncomfortable with any change in the program, no matter how minute, at one point Schindler made an disapproving noise as he observed the Captain of Comus. "Hmmm, I notice he's wearing a blond wig. In recent years his wig has been raven." You could tell from his tone that he was trying to decide if he could accept this radical departure.

When Peggy commented on the beauty of the Comus set, Henri came up with this gem: "Yes, it is quite a grand palace. And it may be a winter palace but it's always the herald of spring."

At one point when nothing was really happening (which was most of the time), the camera focused on the pages of Rex and his queen. The pages are two cute fourth or fifth grade boys who are the children of krewe members. They are elaborately decked out in miniature versions of the king's gold costume complete with white tights and blond wigs under their feathered hats. They also wear lipstick and rouge, which strikes me as a little creepy.

"The pages always provide a lot of interest," Henri said, sounding just a bit too interested. "They're being groomed. This is their first exposure to this fabulous world."

I'm glad that's finally over with, and I got what I needed.

Thanks to all of you who voted in my most recent poll. I had a lot of suggestions via e-mail, but Hank Henley won in a landslide. I guess I'll keep my name for now and focus my creative energies finishing Project Y and coming up with that ever-elusive title.

Tomorrow I'll toss another writing sample your way, for those of you who enjoy them. I meant to give it to you today, but I rambled on longer than I intended, and I'm sure you've already had more than enough of me for now.

Chick flicks

Warning: nonexistent words ahead--flickography, bamboozlement, bubbahood. For definitions, consult the author of this blog.

Teri and I took advantage of that extra free day in the long holiday weekend to go to the movies on a real date. This is a rare treat for us and something we do only a few times a year.

Since we go to the movies so rarely, we select the films we do see with great care. This is not a decision to be entered into lightly. We tend to alternate picks. The last film we went to was Star Trek, which was my choice, so this time it was Teri's turn to make the selection. And that meant--you guessed it--chick flick.

Now I'm all boy and completely at ease with both my masculinity and my bubbahood, and I would have selected the latest Quentin Tarantino bloodbath if it were up to me, but I'll make a confession here: I secretly like chick flicks--the good ones anyway. And the one Teri picked yesterday was an especially good one--Julie and Julia.

In case you're not up on recent chick flickography, here's the basic premise of the "true story" of the film: New York worker bee Julie Powell (played by the absolutely adorable Amy Adams) decides to cook her way through Julia Child's culinary classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking in the course of a single year while blogging about the experience. Meanwhile, a parallel storyline relates Julia Child's experiences as the wife of a diplomat in postwar France and the birth of her culinary and authorial career. Julia Child is brilliantly portrayed by Meryl Streep.

The film's director is Nora Ephron who has also directed some of my favorite chick flicks of all time including Sleepless In Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, You've Got Mail, and the very underrated My Blue Heaven.

If you haven't already seen Julie and Julia, go. It's a really good film and has everything you could ever want in a chick flick plus a twofer of the best chick flick settings--New York and Paris. Word of warning: this film will leave you very hungry for boeuf bourguingnon.

Since the movie revolves around twin characters--a blogger turned book author and an unemployed housewife turned book author, I considered this outing to be career research. I wonder if I can deduct the price of the tickets on next year's taxes?

It turns out getting a book publisher is easier than I ever dreamed possible. It seems that if the New York Times discovers your blog, literary agents and publishers will instantaneously fall all over themselves to publish anything you care to write, sight unseen. It also turns out that it really helps to have an inside connection at a major publishing firm. So if anyone out there knows movers and shakers at the New York Times or a big fiction house, point them to my blog, and I'll be all set.

By the way, when did movies get to be $7.25 for the bargain matinee? Yikes. Teri and I shared a Diet Coke, which was plenty big but came to nearly five bucks. That was bad enough, but a couple of ladies in the concession line ahead of me got the discounted combo pack consisting of one small bag of popcorn (which the theater operator calls medium since they don't offer a small), two small sodas (ditto on the size bamboozlement) and a small bag of candy (code word: "selected"). The price for their discounted snack bundle for two came to over sixteen smackeroos. They didn't blink; I would have fainted. It's not entirely an old fart thing giving me pause since the ladies were about my age and they seemed to be cool with paying over sixteen dollars for a snacks I could have reproduced at home for well under two bucks.

My MBA wife likes to lecture me on something called "place utility" when I go on rants about the evils of price gouging captive audiences as I did when we settled into our seats. Place utility indeed.

After the movie, Teri and I visited one of those mega bookstores in the same shopping complex as the theater. Teri spent most of her time flipping through beading and home decor magazines while I perused most of the current bestsellers, sampling them for word count and point of view (or POV if you're a hip writer type), two things I'm completely obsessing over right now as I see the second draft and some really tough decisions looming just ahead.

But I was really craving some beouf bourguingnon, and the Julia Child cookbook is one of the few classic cookbooks we don't already have, so I was tempted to drop most of this month's blow money on a copy. The bookstore had a gazillion copies of Julie and Julia on an endcap display but not a single copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking . It's not like this movie snuck up on anyone. Don't you think Barnes and Noble would have thought to order a few extras? Could this be part of the reason publishers are really struggling right now? I'm just asking.

Dreamland

The dreams are back.

For most years of my adult life, February was the month when I had the most vivid dreams about work. No surprise there really. My college textbook sales job was highly cyclical and February was the pivotal month of the sales year. It was the make or break time upon which your whole year depended. Most professors made their final fall semester textbook decisions in March and April, but February was when you could do the most to impact those decisions.

If I was a CPA, then February would have been my April. If I owned a department store, then February would have been my December.

My old job was a lot like farming, and February was the time just before harvest. I had plowed my fields, planted my crops, applied the fertilizer (insert your own joke here) and fought off the insects and other predators. Then, even though I could see I had raised a bumper crop, I knew it could all get wiped out the day before harvest in a sudden hailstorm. And even as the harvest was being gathered, I'd pray desperately for the price of soybeans to stay high for just a few more weeks.

So it's not surprising that I dreamed of work during the most uncertain and pressure-filled time of the year. Those weren't fun dreams, and I don't miss them. During the last couple of my years in the book biz I stopped having those dreams. At the time I thought it was a sign of maturity, but I realize now it was a sign something else was missing. Passion, fear and insecurity are a powerful set of motivators for any salesperson and so are confidence, talent and belief--but it's that first group that feeds dreams. Not having those dreams was not so much a sign I'd gained maturity as it was a sign something that else was gone. In hindsight, the absence of those dreams should have told me it was time for a life change.

Which brings me to last night's dream. I've been having vivid dreams again lately as I thrash through Project Y. I think about the story a lot as I approach its climax and am starting to consider whether it will turn into something anyone else would ever care to read. I like my story--I like it a lot actually (passion, check). But I wonder if I'm wasting my time with the BYE. Can I get this story cleaned up and coherent in its final version? Am I really good enough to write something worthy of publication, or am I just imagining that I have something here? Even if I am good enough, will I be able to find a method of distribution? If I can get it distributed, will anyone actually read it? Will I ever see a dime out of any of this? (fear, insecurity--check and check) So it turns out that the same group of motivators powering my dreams as a salesman are doing the same for me in my new "creative" life.

Here's the difference--my old dreams were scary, the new ones are kind of cool. Last night I dreamed about writing a new book, but in my dream the book's characters were very much alive and acting out their scenes. In this new book, two minor celebrities meet and are very disappointed when neither knows the other is supposed to be famous. One is a soccer star who would be instantly recognized anywhere in the world except for the US, and the other is a beautiful female contestant from some reality TV show like "Survivor" or "The Bachelor". My book even had a title I love--"Plan B" (for B-List celebrities). I checked, and there have already been several books with that title, but it's still pretty good, and I wish I could dream up something that good to name Project Y.

I don't think "Plan B" will ever get written, but there's the kernel of a good story there somewhere. Okay, time to stop dreaming and get back to work. It's Labor Day, but the dream factory is running today and there's a quota of widgets to produce.

Have a great Labor Day

The Labor Day weekend is my favorite holiday of the year. Let me count the ways:

The weather is still nice, perfect for grilling, and my charcoal burning black beauty (death to gas grills!) will be fired up and smoking this weekend. Teri and I will splurge on a big fat steak and a couple of gigantic taters for baking. We'll sit on the porch and discuss whatever crosses our minds while the grill heats up and then make happy moaning noises when we dig in. Usually Labor Day weekend isn't brutally hot like July and August, so you can actually enjoy the weather outside. There's a hint of fall in the air, but at Labor Day we can still pretend that summer will last forever, even though this weekend more or less officially marks the end of summer fun for another year.

College football is back, and having SEC games to watch is reason enough to continue living. On Saturday night we'll be tuned in as the Crimson Tide takes on Virginia Tech in Atlanta. Teri teaches at Alabama now and my father taught at Virginia Tech when I was in middle school. My first paying job in life was selling Cokes at the stadium for the Hokies home games.

Saturday night our friend Ginny will be at her umpteenth consecutive Auburn game cheering on her beloved Tigers. I'm not sure how many Auburn games Ginny has been to, but she has attended all but one of Auburn's home and away games over the last several decades. She broke her streak of hundreds of consecutive games by skipping the Syracuse away game immediately after 9/11. She did it for two reasons--her family was nervous about traveling at that strange time, and she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't "weird" with the streak.

And Quincy, good luck to your UVA Wahoos this weekend. I hope they can defeat both William and Mary.

But the main reason Labor Day is my favorite holiday is the freedom you get from its lack of structure. Expectations are low on Labor Day weekend. You can go to the beach, go to a game, grill out with friends, read a good book, wash the car or even watch Jerry Lewis if that's what you want. Anything goes on Labor Day. There are no mandatory fireworks to watch, you don't have to hand out candy to the neighbors' kids, there are no family dysfunctions to muddle through over turkey, there are no trees to trim or special decorations to drag out of the basement. At Labor Day you get a couple of days of sweet freedom. What could be better? Of course if you're a member of a union, you are probably expected to show up at a rally or cookout at some point over the weekend, but I bet that involves only about six people in all of Suburbingham, since we're not exactly a hotbed for labor unions around here.

Other than firing up the grill and watching the Bama game, I'm not sure how I'll pass the weekend. Heck, I might even get some work done.

Happy Labor Day y'all!

Must see TV

First of all, I don't care how many of you vote for Buster McStudley, I'm not making that my pen name. I'm dismayed that the McStudley option is currently in second place on the poll now in progress. Hmmm, now that I think about it, "The McStudley Option" would make a great book title or band name. How about a compromise? If enough of you insist on going the McStudley route, I promise I'll create a character with that name in a future project.

Sometimes my choice of television programming boggles even myself. Teri is confounded by how she has occasionally found me rooted to my easy chair and mesmerized for hours on end by the World Poker Tour or the World Series of Poker. She finds this particularly odd since I don't play poker and don't even gamble at all. My aversion to gambling is not so much an issue of morals as the fact that I learned a long time ago that I'm really bad at it.

Then there's Man Vs. Food, a program on the Travel Channel that somehow entrances me. The TV upstairs is mostly off these days--I'm banking most of my television watching hours for the start of the SEC football season, which begins this weekend. But I do switch on the little TV in the basement when I'm exercising, as I was last night--and last night there was a Man Vs. Food marathon to keep me occupied.

The premise of the show is pretty simple. In each half hour episode, Adam Richman, the young and affable pudge who hosts the program, visits a different city and samples the local low brow cuisine. He'll visit two or three establishments and chow down on the deep dish pizza, burgers, barbecue, seafood platters or whatever that town has to offer. Then he'll finish the show by taking on a restaurant's eating challenge.

The eating challenge is what you tune in for. The nature of the challenge is almost invariably a house specialty that's either massive, unbearably spicy or both. A dozen of the hottest sushi rolls or chicken wings in the world, a twelve egg omelet doused in chili, a five pound burrito, a gigantic steak and all the trimmings--you get the idea. Each restaurant has established rules for completing the challenge and time limits usually apply. Sometimes Adam completes the challenge successfully and sometimes "food wins." The usual prize for defeating the food item is a tee shirt and the glutton's picture on a "wall of honor."

Adam always points out the frightening failure rate of those who have previously attempted that day's challenge. "Over two thousand have tried, but only thirteen have finished the noodle bowl of death," he'll intone ominously before diving in.

What in the world is wrong with me? What could I possibly I find compelling about this?

First of all, it's just gross. As he nears the end of the day's challenge, the poor guy is always incredibly uncomfortable, very messy and sometimes in obvious real pain.

I'd also like to point out that I'm currently on a diet (21 pounds down since Christmas, thank you very much, but still 49 pounds to go before I hit my goal weight), and I was watching this parade of gluttony while I was exercising! The last thing I need right now is to watch is a TV show that celebrates binging on onion rings, oysters, burgers, pizza and all the other foods that brought me to my overly substantial present condition.

I just can't believe how many restaurants around the country offer challenges like this. Eventually the producers will run out of them, bringing the program to a crashing halt.

While absorbed in the Man Vs. Food marathon last night, I caught a promo for an upcoming program on the Travel Channel. Andrew Zimmern is the host of Bizarre Foods, a show in which he travels the globe eating live insect larvae, scorpions, rodents and other really gross foods considered delicacies in places McDonalds hasn't yet discovered. Next week he's going to Belize, a country I visited last summer on a church mission trip. I can't wait! You can bet I'll be on the treadmill in my basement when that episode comes on.

I did eat a beating cobra heart a few years ago when in Vietnam, and I drank the blood and bile of that animal too. I topped that particular meal off with a small glass of snake penis wine. Take that Adam Richman! Take that Andrew Zimmern! But that's a true story for another day.

How we roll

The math really shouldn't work, so I'm not sure why it has so far. I'm really not.

Today I'm going to talk about money, which is not a topic for polite conversation, so I'll understand if you choose to stop reading at this point.

When the Best Year Ever began on June 1, our household income instantaneously dropped by way more than half. The main reason (the only reason, really), I hadn't taken a year off to follow my fantasy before now is the good income I made in the corporate world. But eventually I came to the conclusion that the link between money and happiness is a tenuous one at best, and I decided to go ahead.

Before we began the BYE, Teri and I made sure we had enough saved up to cover any deficit spending beyond what her modest college instructor's salary brought in. Basing my estimate on our "normal" baseline spending habits and tightening it a bit from there, I figured we could just scrape by drawing down about $1,000 a month from savings. Then I made sure we stashed away that much plus a lot more to cover emergencies and any errors in my mathematical windage before we took the plunge.

Here's the weird part. We're now entering the fourth month of the BYE, and we haven't touched our savings yet. In fact, we've added to our savings account in that time. Over the course of the last three months, our quality of life hasn't suffered at all, and mine has improved dramatically.

I really don't know how this is working. No matter how much we've made over the course of our married lives, we've generally found a way to spend almost all of it. How could we cut our income by nearly two thirds and still make it when we thought we were barely making it before? The math shouldn't work, yet it does.

I do have some ideas, though. Back in the day (before June 1), if we wanted something, we'd just buy it without much thought as to what it cost and without much need to be accountable to each other. There are plenty of instances of this I can relate, but my closet full of expensive dulcimers and the watch that cost way more than my first new car are a couple of examples of past impulse purchases that immediately come to mind.

When Teri's car had some minor mechanical issues one day a couple of years ago, we just headed off to a car dealer and drove off with a new one in about an hour. We wrote a check for the new car and didn't think that much of it. The money was there and she wanted new wheels. Why not?

Those days are gone. When the cash for clunkers deal was going on, I checked and saw that our old Jeep (the car that was having trouble a few years ago, but still goes where I need it to) qualified. I was sorely tempted to trade it in and take the "free" money the government was giving away to get people to buy new cars. Teri correctly pointed out that this was a ridiculous idea given that our paid for "clunker" is running just fine, and getting a new one would significantly deplete our war chest, even if it was a bargain.

We're making the BYE work financially in a thousand little ways, and for the benefit of anyone out there on a tight budget, here are some of the things we've learned about money in recent years. A lot of the ideas we use to do the money thing in our house are taken from money guru Dave Ramsey, whose radio program and book The Total Money Makeover have been an inspiration and the foundation of what we do.

So here are my top four ways to make a tight budget work:

1. Owe as little as you can. Teri and I are obsessive about this. For quite a while we've paid no interest to anyone for anything other than our home mortgage, which is very modest and on a 15-year fixed-rate note. We both have credit cards, but we always, always, always pay them off in full each month. Without fail. If we want to make a big purchase like a home improvement or a car, we'll pay for it out of savings or save up for it.

2. Spend as little as you can. I loved those $6 loaves of organic multi grain goodness, but it's $1.17 loaves of store brand white bread for me these days. I love a great French cheese, but for the $20 a pound you'd spend for the really good stuff, you can buy a lot of bricks of generic cheddar. Most of our veggies come from my garden in the summer, and all our meats and most other staples are bought only on sale. The air conditioner stays off unless it's really uncomfortable. I dearly miss Netflix, but our movie rentals come free from the limited selection at the public library these days. Teri always brings her lunch to work with her--something she rarely used to do.

My friend Colleen told me the other day about how the top restaurants in New Orleans are offering incredible bargains during the slow summer season. She mentioned one top restaurant offering a $42 multi course special dinner, and that really is a terrific value. But when you throw in a glass of wine and the tip and multiply by two, that's over $100 for Teri and me, and that represents something like three months of our current "date" budget.

I've got hundreds of other examples of ways we spend less than we did before, but you get the idea. Basically it amounts to not spending anything if you don't have to and looking for cheaper alternatives if you do.

3. Make do with what you have. Want and need are two different things. Other than a nice new computer, I've made no major discretionary purchases during the BYE so far, and Teri has been sacrificing too. These days it's hard to think of something we think we really need that we don't already have or can't live without. I really want a new lawn mower, one that requires less work on my part to mow our large "estate". But I'm not going to get one on our current budget as long as I can keep the old push mower in working order.

4. Plan your spending. This is the most important part of our plan and one we've been getting better at for several years. At the beginning of each month we have a formal budget meeting that runs about a half hour. Our next one is tomorrow night. When we began these formal meetings a couple of years ago, they ran a lot longer and occasionally ended in tears, but we got better at it over time. Now we actually look forward to them.

In our meetings we present three spreadsheets to each other. I prepare two of them and Teri produces the third.

The first spreadsheet is a statement of net worth and lists the current value of every account along with the value of our major assets (house, cars). The only negative number on that spreadsheet is the current mortgage balance. The bottom line number fluctuates pretty wildly from month to month because most of our net worth is tied to retirement plans invested in the stock market. I keep a running graph of each month's total on the spreadsheet. That graph was really ugly in the months following the stock market collapse and is still way down from its all time high but it's been going in the right direction again over the last few months.

The second spreadsheet has two columns listing our previous month's spending. It accounts for every dollar in and out. One column shows where our money came from and the other shows where it went. I have a bunch of categories on the second column ranging from mortgage, church, cash out, utilities, insurance, credit cards, magazine subscriptions, veterinarian, etc.

The third spreadsheet is the one Teri does and it takes up the bulk of the meeting. This is where we determine how we'll spend our money in the month ahead. We do a lot of our spending in cash and budget for all of it these meetings. We discuss what we'll need in the coming month for our regular spending categories like groceries, drug store, clothing, "depot mart" (purchases at big box stores), haircuts, date night, etc.--basically anything that's not related to mortgage, utilities and insurance. We also each get a small amount of "blow" money each month that we can spend on anything we like without accounting to each other for it.

Then we talk about any unusual expenses we anticipate in the month ahead. Last month I wanted some funding for pine straw and cypress mulch, for example. Are we planning a party? Will either of us be going out of town? Do we need to buy gifts for anyone? Do we need a new DVD player? If anything like that is going on, we add that to the spending spreadsheet too.

I know this may strike you as kind of strange already, but here's the really weird part of this process. We take the total number at the bottom of Teri's spending spreadsheet, and one of us goes to the bank and takes out exactly that amount. In cash. Yes, it's a lot of money to be carrying around. Then one of us (usually Teri) stuffs the money into a series of about a dozen envelopes. Each envelope has it's own name and amount "Hank grocery--$245", "Teri Clothing--$75", etc. The idea is that you can only spend what's in the envelope and not a penny more on that category (unless you want to dip into your blow envelope). Pulling money from your drugstore envelope to buy groceries or to pay for a haircut is strictly forbidden. And once an envelope is empty, you can't spend any more on that category until the next month rolls around. I cheat sometimes and pull out the debit card at Publix, but only when it's the end of a month where we dramatically underestimated what we would need for food. Hey, ya gotta eat.

So that's how we roll when it comes to money. I'm sure I'll have to dip into the savings account at some point during the BYE, but so far, so good.

Interactions

If you scroll down to the bottom of this screen, you'll see a little graphic that shows how much time remains in the Best Year Ever. As I write this, I have 272 days and 13 hours remaining and I'm already 25% done with the year I've dedicated to pursuing a fantasy. I really don't believe how quickly this year is flying by. The days are already getting shorter and noticeably cooler, and the back of summer already appears to be broken.

I spend way too much time on this blog--much more I anticipated when I started it. It has no potential to produce revenue and sucks time I should be spending on things that just might bring in a shekel or two. And to focus a public forum like this one on my self-absorbed ramblings is a little more narcissistic than I really am.

But even though you may be few, discerning readers, God help me, I love having an audience. The part I love best is when you participate, letting me know you're out there.

I love it when you bravely click the follower link, and I really, truly rejoice every time a new name appears on that list.

I love the e-mails commenting on the blog, and I especially love the comments you post on this forum.

Sadly, though, most of you choose to play the passive role of lurker, and the only way I know you are here is when I check the Sitemeter map to see where in the real world you come from. I'd love to know about the person who logged in from Lisbon, Portugal the other day. What misguided use of Google could have possibly landed you in this alternate universe?

So, self absorbed blogger that I am, I am once again calling on you to help me in my fledgling career as an author. I've kind of been obsessing over my pen name lately. I think Hank Henley sounds a little too folksy and not artistic enough for a "real" author. Add to that the fact that I live in Suburbingham, Alabama and I worry that would-be discerning readers might dismiss me as a country hick without having read the first word.

William Henley, my real first name, sounds okay, but there was a famous poet by that name, a fact that an old English professor of mine liked to bring up repeatedly as he compared me unfavorably to my namesake. I don't want to confuse or mislead anyone, so I'm not sure I should go the William Henley route.

Parnell Henley might work. My middle name is Parnell and Parnell sounds a lot more serious than Hank. It would also be a nice nod to my niece and nephew, who have been referring to me as Uncle Parnell their entire lives. What do you think? Too effete?

I've posted a poll on the right hand side of this screen. Make a choice and click. If you dare.

A handful of you have expressed an interest in reading a complete draft of Project Y, and I would be honored to have a few discerning readers give their input as I work through the second draft. If you think you'd like to do this, drop me an e-mail and let me know. My criteria are that you are at least close to voting age, you're an avid reader of fiction, and you promise to give honest feedback and lots of it. At the rate I'm going, I should be through the first draft within a couple of weeks and through the first revision a month or so after that, so you'd receive the draft sometime towards the end of October or early November.

Okay, who wants an excerpt from Project Y?

The scene that follows was a lot of fun to write and I knocked it out earlier this morning. Yesterday was my most productive to date in terms of word count. I took Teri's advice and have gifted Tony with a love interest. I spent the whole day yesterday developing that relationship. The scene that follows is sort of the yin to that relationship's yang.

For non-New Orleanians, here's what you need to know about this scene. Rex is an old line Carnival krewe, and its membership is composed of the very upper crust of New Orleans high society. They parade on Mardi Gras day. Each year one member is tapped to be Rex, the King of Carnival. Inside Rex, the king is known as Number One. To be chosen Number One, and even the members of Rex don't know how their king is selected, is a huge honor. Even though membership in this organization is supposed to be secret, the king's name is announced to the public a few days before Mardi Gras. The newspaper and TV stations do breathless in-depth profiles of Rex and his family and and also Rex's queen, who is always an attractive college girl from one of the other old line families in the krewe.

It's a fairly long excerpt, so we'd better get rolling. I hope you like it.

“Susan, do these tights make me look fat?” asked Ferris Gottschalk considering the reflected image of abundance in the full length mirror before him. He had just struggled into a pair of bright white tights which dug painfully into his waist and caused his ample belly to droop over his belt line like a wilted flower arrangement over the lip of a glass vase.

"What do you think Ferris? You aren’t just fat, you are positively obese. My gawd, your chubby legs look just like two overstuffed white kielbasas. And for God’s sake put on a tee shirt or something—that gut of yours is absolutely disgusting flopping over like that. But don’t worry about it sweetie. Just like Santa Claus, nobody really wants a skinny Rex. Rex is supposed to be a chubby and jovial monarch, and you fill that bill perfectly. That bulky top of your costume with all the fake fur and gold trim goes down almost to your chunky thighs. And those shiny gold boots cover up your lumpy calves. When you throw on the crown, the gloves, the fake beard and start waving the scepter majestically, you’ll look positively regal and no one will notice that you’re just another lardass.”

“Thanks for the moral support Susan—that sympathetic ear of yours is just one of the reasons I married you.”

“Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer. As soon as Mardi Gras is over, you need to start using that gym membership I bought you and drop a few dozen pounds or you’re going to stroke out on me before you turn 60. Either that or take out some more life insurance.”

“Susan, we’ve been through this before. I’ve already got a million dollars worth of life insurance. You’ll be just fine if I stroke out on you.”

“A million dollars won’t even pay off the house, much less maintain my lifestyle or get the boys on their feet. I don’t know how much money you’ve really dropped at those casinos in Biloxi, the number is different every time I ask you, but I know damn well you owe more money to the casinos than we have.”

“Susan, look around, why don’t you. You live in a freaking mansion on St. Charles Avenue, you drive your Mercedes SUV when you’re not driving the Lexus. You’ve got two walk-in closets filled with enough clothing to stock a department store, and the jewelry in the safe is worth more than most houses in this city. When you’re not serving on a committee of Uptown biddies to stamp out some obscure disease none of you care about, you’re skiing with friends in Aspen or entertaining at the house on the lake. I make beaucoups money, and you get more than your share.”

“Yeah, but you spend it faster than it comes in. Between the casinos, that girl you swear you don’t have and your brilliant investment schemes, I’ll be hocking those jewels in no time. I’m still fuming over the bundle you lost in that sugar cane factory scam. Where is that guy now with all our money? Brazil? Why can’t you just concentrate on growing the business so your boys will actually have something to take over when their time comes?”

“Good Lord Susan. I can’t believe you really want to stand here in our mansion and discuss our poverty. Why don’t you bring your problems to your therapist, personal trainer or plastic surgeon? They’re paid to listen to you—I’m not. I am freaking Ferris Gottschalk, the majority owner of Gottschalk Construction. I am also freaking Rex, the King of Carnival. Number One. It doesn’t get any bigger than that.”

“That’s another thing. I love how you boys refer to Rex as Number One, like it’s an even bigger deal to be king than everyone pretends it is or that it's some kind of code name like the Secret Service has for the president’s family. Yeah, we got our picture on the front page of the Times Pic, and the story made us out to be benevolent humanitarians and saints. I’ll grant you it was nice having our friends read about our stately manor and getting described as a gracious grande dame. I must have gotten a hundred phone calls and the comments on my Facebook page are off the charts.”

"But the truth is, Ferris, that we’re big turds in a small bowl. There are only a few hundred of you in the krewe and your daddy and uncle were both Rex before you when their businesses peaked. Your mother, sister and two cousins were all queens when they were in college. So don’t act like you’re all that special and that this is really a huge honor. You hit 55 and you’re still alive and in business. It was your turn, that’s all—simple as that.”

“Look Susan, this is my day. Please don’t ruin it for me.”

“I’m sorry Ferris. I’m just freaking out because it’s going to be a very long day. The sun isn’t even up yet and we both have to be on stage non-stop until past midnight. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to keep my hair presentable, much less keep all my outfits straight. It’s not easy being the wife of the king. I have to be radiant, beautiful and charming for something like 15 hours straight, and that’s not easy at my age. I promise I’ll be the model wife all day, but when we get home, I swear to God I’m knocking back a whole pitcher of cosmos.”

“And Ferris?”

“Yes Susan?”

“You do look kind of cute in those tights.”