Z is for Zeitgeist

I had read Zeitgeist before, but never really understood what it means. It's "the spirit of the age; trend or thought in a period," according to my faithful Websters New World Dictionary. The Roaring Twenties, the Swinging Sixties...and so on are a good example of attempts to read the Zeitgeist of an age.

I wondered what my decades would be called. I wonder what your decades would be called. I hope all the adjectives are good...Terrific Thirties, Fine Forties, Fabulous Fifties...but if not, it's never too late to change. Yeah, it's a cliche, but it's one I'm working on believing.

And this is the end of the April Blogging A-Z Challenge. I finished late, but I finished despite being ill. And I'm feeling better as we head into the warmer parts of the year. Maybe this will be my Super Summer. I hope it's yours.

Y is for yappers

Do you have yappers in your life? Not those little dogs that nip at your heels, but similar. No, I'm talking about people who nip at your dreams and your plans, who are unable to support anyone because they know better. I've certainly had them in my life, and the energy they sap from me is discouraging. They're the more visible form of The Levelers.

The Levelers want to bring you down. They want you to give up, to wallow in your failures, and to never achieve anything. They use all sorts of things: The Yappers, The Backbiters, The Naysayers, The Overbearers ... but the most dangerous thing they do is use your own insecurity against you. They make the price of failure seem too terrible to pay. "It's safe, better, easier," they whisper, "to never try. Go watch TV. There's a new reality show to watch. Just sit down, and soon nothing will matter."

And they're right. If you allow them to level you, to stop your dreams, then eventually nothing will matter. Don't let them do it! Stand up, get out, start moving, be the person you always dreamed you should be. Kick the Yappers to the curb, face the Backbiters, have more Yeas than they have Nays, tell the Overbearers to back off ... but most of all, believe in yourself.

Believe in yourself. And don't worry about failure. You're going to fail. Everyone fails many times, but all you have to do is succeed one more time than you fail to be a success. And yes, I'm preaching to me, too.

I got a yapper problem myself, but I'm going to overcome them. Aren't you?

X is for xanthic

"The girl with the xanthic hair" doesn't sound as good as "the girl with the golden hair" or even "the girl with the yellow hair." Xanthic, of course, means "yellow or yellowish," according to the first meaning in my Webster's New World Dictionary. Yes, I still have a print dictionary. I find it more useful and more complete than the online versions. Also, sometimes I like to browse for new words. A book is perfect for browsing.

I wonder sometimes why people don't enjoy the feel of a book. Yes, I know about your Kindle and all its dubious wonders, but it's not the same. Books have a certain heft, a certain smell ... maybe even a bit of magic in them. I do know books can survive for centuries. Your Kindle won't. Not because Kindles are bad, but because tech changes. File formats change. And electronics corrode.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe four centuries from now, someone will find your Kindle in a corner and fire that baby up and read the entire Twilight series and start retching uncontrollably.

But I doubt it.

W is for water

I've been told that our previous wars were about oil. Nothing is that simple. All wars have a multitude of causes, many of which we don't know or can only guess at. But I think the wars of the future will be fought over water.

It's already happening. L.A. is out of water so it eyes the water of surrounding communities and states and tries to get it. Texas and Oklahoma have battled over water rights for years. The prairie states are taking water out of aquifers faster than it can be replenished. My own town is attempting to gather support for building a lake for water for when our wells go dry.

It's worse overseas. Yes, we can make the desert bloom, but should we? And don't the people who live there have a right to water?

Most people don't realize that we have yet to come up with an affordable solution for making ocean water safe to drink. We can do it, but it costs a lot, and it uses a lot of energy, particularly as we pollute the ocean. We humans are incredibly short-sighted. We leave the problems for our descendants to solve. They will curse us.

And we will deserve every single curse.

V is for viper

Ever know someone like this: viper tongue and not afraid to use it. Supremely confident of their right to cut someone down to size with the appropriately vicious comment. Never do they imagine that they're busy removing a mote from their victim's eye while ignoring the huge pole in theirs. It takes a special kind of smallness to speak without kindness. To lay waste just because you can. It took me so many years to realize that being kind was the true power. Any pig can be snarky and smug. Any lout can be loud and mean.

But to be kind ... to try to look beyond a person's faults and mistakes and find their good qualities ... to be more than lip service to the idea of compassion ... that's hard. That's what we should strive for. It's not as much fun, it's not as smart, it's not smug, it's not as ego boosting ... but it's how we humans could be if we were willing to work on it. If we were willing to bend.

If kindness wasn't such a bad taste on our viper lips.

U is for undying

Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction is a book of poetry that I've been working on sometimes. When I finish 100 poems or so, I will publish it. My take on it was to tell the stories of as many traditional monsters as I can, but only if I can cast their stories in a new light or at least an unfamiliar one.

What follow is the title poem. It's still a work in progress, but I thought I would share it with you.

Undying

You cannot imagine
the things I have seen,
the loves I have lost.
Empires all fall.
Kings rot into dust.
But I remain.

Shall I tell you of
Alannah’s auburn hair
and pale sweet body?
Or of fiery Elizabeth
who rode white horses
across the verdant moors?

And what of Helene,
witty and bright with
a body made for sin?
A hundred or more Janes,
A multitude of Marys,
A handful of Opals.

I loved them all.
I gave them wonders.
I watched them die.
Love did not save
Renee from plague,
or Teresa from war.

A few learned my secret.
They begged me
for the blood kiss.
I denied their pleas;
humans must burn
bright then die.

Teresa understood.
Ume fled in fear.
Vivian tried to slay me.
Yet I live on,
four thousand years
more or less,

Searching for anything
-- anything at all --
worth dying for.
Empty I travel
until a woman
stirs my passion.

Zola, this is what it means
to love a creature,
untouched by time.
Love me while you live,
and I will still love you
after dust covers your eyes.

Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission of the author and publisher. From the forthcoming Undying: Poems of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Thank you for reading.

T is for torrent

Torrent

Your love on me lies
sunbright glistening
on the waters of
my cascading soul
as it tumbles through
the lichen-covered
rocks of pain and hope.

And sometimes you ask
why I love only
you as if rivers
could possibly choose
the paths of their journeys
to the sun-touched sea.

Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission of the author and publisher. This poem was published in a slightly different form in EndlesS, copyright 2008 by Many Rivers Harbor.

S is for "Sex and the Single Novelist"

Sex and the Single Novelist

A fantasy novel I’m working on is as much a love story as an adventure story. My characters have a couple of scenes where they indulge in a bit of kissing and hugging. I wanted the scenes to seem romantic and charming. I do neither of those well in my writing (I do them fine in real life, thank you for asking) so I thought research was needed.

I went to my local library, waited until right before closing, and then checked out 10 modern romance novels, including several historical romances. I explained to the clerk I was only doing research. She cleverly concealed her avid interest in what I was saying by yawning widely.

I took the books home and opened one. I was pretty sure I’d know the plots of the book: girl meets boy, he treats her badly, they fight the whole book, and then they fall into bed as the last page is turned.

Man, I’m out of date. They fall into bed a lot sooner and more often these days. Many times. The rest of the plot is still the same, but they’re doing the naughty and doing it with a lot of detail. A lot of detail. Of course, they don't use clinical terms to describe the sex – apparently that would kill the mood – instead we are treated to phrases (and I didn't make up any of these) like "his throbbing man-shaft of pleasure iron," "her snow white, silky soft nursing mounds," and one that I had to read twice to fully appreciate its complete awfulness: "her undulating cavern of velvet passion."

Cavern? My gosh, how big is this woman? Do they give tours? Is her last name Carlsbad? And that undulating can’t be good. She needs to see a doctor and fast. As for the “pleasure iron,” I showed that part of the book to a friend of mine, and she said, “Ouch.” Then she borrowed the book and hasn’t returned it to me yet.

And the way they talk during sex. Something like this: "'She spread her arms wide and cried out, 'I cannot wait! Take me now. Fill my senses with your savage love. Let me fly among the heavens. Let us soar to the stars above, my love, and we will shine among the hosts.'" Look, lady, he’s not the space shuttle.

But instead of running away from this madwoman, he draws closer and says, "Yes, my love! We will outshine the stars! We will blaze like a fiery comet on its journey to the illuminating sun!"

Later on, she would awaken to discover he had stayed awake all night staring at her “pure alabaster body softly gleaming in the moonlight.” Rather than being creeped out, she felt all warm and fuzzy to know he had watched her drool and snore all night.

The historical novels followed the same plot, although they had more pirates and sword fights. The women are all cold and haughty, but hiding a burning passion. They only need a handsome rogue for their passion to be finally released. Luckily enough, the men are handsome rogues, but need the love of a good woman to realize that they always wanted to live in the suburbs and have several children who will carry on their family name (since they are actually the wayward sons of dukes or princes, but never accountants or lawyers).

This is not to say that they were badly written books. At least three of the books kept me reading as the writer cleverly found ways to tweak the conventions that confine a romance novelist. And two of the books were even intentionally funny. Don’t think I’m picking on romance novels.

But I was shocked by the graphic nature of the books. As I read them over and over and over ... and over and over, I kept wondering what’s this world coming to? And these were at the public library. Not in a brown paper wrapper or anything.

Still, reading those books was informative and helpful. I learned what phrases I will not be using in my book. In fact, I think the characters in my fantasy novel will have to content themselves with shaking hands and exchanging meaningful glances. Any more than that could cause undulating, and none of us want that. I don’t think we do. Do we?

Excerpted from Floozy & Other Stories, copyright 2010 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission from the publisher and author. Thank you for reading.

R is for rebellion

I've always been a rebel. Oh, not the tattooed, partying, leather jacket on a motorcycle rebel. Not the Goth or the druggie or the Emo. Not the easy ones. I'm the contrary one.

You tell me that I can't do it. You tell me that I'm unworthy. You tell me that I can't beat you. You tell me that I can't touch you. You tell me that I shouldn't even try. And something cold and bleak rises up in me, looks at you from behind my eyes, smiles grimly, and says silently, "Watch me. Just you watch me."

There's real rebellion behind that. I don't like being told no when I know I'm right. I won't stand for it. And that rebellion, that desire to make my own choices and live my life my own mistake-filled way, has pushed me to do things that I would have thought I lacked the courage for. I have danced where angels fear to tread, God help me.

Rebellion has pushed me into things I shouldn't have done. What wisdom I have has been paid for with wounds and scars. I've often wanted to be different. To be willing to go along with popular opinion on religion, civil rights, sexual freedom, environmentalism, technology, philosophy, just the sheer act of living ... why couldn't I make it easier on me? Why?

I don't know. And at this stage in my life, I'm not sure the answer matters. I have this hard core in me, the place where my morals and standards reside. It has been rocked many times, but it still stands. It refuses to bow, to change, to be easy.

There are worse ways to be. Worse ways to live. What I am, I am. I can be content with that. I will have to be. I don't how to be anyone else.

Happy Easter!

Easter is about beginnings. It seemed like the end, but it turned out to be a beginning. No one knew the world would change. No one could see that far ahead. Good Friday starts in pain and ends in death. Easter starts in death and ends in life and joy. I hope your day is filled with love and peace and the calm assurance that we don't end at death and we will rise to greet a new glorious day.

Creationsong

So sang the Host:
Be, spider and bird,
Be, wolf and whale,
Be, mite and giant,
Be, all things that fly,
All things that crawl,
And all things between, be!

Be, cherub and seraph,
Be, man and woman,
Be, lamb and lion,
Be, all things that are fierce,
All things that are gentle,
And all things that are both, be!

Be, love and hate,
Be, sorrow and joy,
Be, envy and generosity,
Be, all things that move the heart,
All things that still the soul,
And all things that renew the spirit, be!

Be, all things that were,
Be, all things that will be,
Be, all things that could be,
Be, all things that will not be,
Let all things be!
Be!

Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission of the author and publisher. This poem was published in a different form in EndlesS, copyright 2008 by Many Rivers Harbor.

Q is for quiet

Sometimes I need quiet. The world presses against me, threatens to drown me. The world is too loud, too fast, too confusing, too mean, too much. So I seek a quiet, dark place to sit. Sit and breathe. Alone away from people with their agendas and desires.

I've found that a lot of creative people seek solitude at times. For most of us, we crave it. I've known a few people who say they can write in the middle of a busy intersection. I am impressed by their powers of concentration, but I couldn't do it. I need a certain amount of calm.

I do play music when I write. But it needs to be music I know well so that I can ignore it. Or so that it can fall below my level of attention if that makes sense. I am conscious of it somewhat. Fast songs make me write faster; slower pieces slow me down. Sad songs and dramatic songs likewise influence my mood.

For each of my books, I had a soundtrack. Mostly fast, upbeat music, but slower, darker songs for the murder mysteries. I can use music to set the mood for the book, be it inspirational, holiday, mystery, and so on.

I used to wonder what pens other authors used, and then I wondered what computers and what word processing programs. Now, I wonder what music they use. Or do they require only the blessed quiet? I can understand that.

P is for passion

Passion

If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.

I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
'tween indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don’t stop oh don’t stop.

Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission of the author and publisher. This poem was published in a different form in EndlesS, copyright 2008 by Many Rivers Harbor.

O is for open

I think it's hard to be open about our feelings. At least I find it to be so. I don't know why. Just an innate sense of caution, I think. Too many experiences of sharing and having it used against me. I often tell people what I think they want me to feel, which I sometimes do feel, but not as strongly as they want me to -- or really, as strongly as I think they want me to.

We spend most of our lives hoping to find that special someone with whom we can be completely honest and yet he/she will still love us anyway. Most of us never find him/her. That's just the way life is. It's not so much that Mr./Miss Right isn't out there, but we get tired and settle for Mr. He'll-Do or Miss I-Could-Do-Worse.

You might think that what I wrote sounds depressing, but I have seen many wonderful, long-lived marriages built between He'll-Do and I-Could-Do-Worse. In fact, some of these marriages grow, and they end up being Mr. and Mrs. Exactly Right. So there is plenty of hope in the world yet for romance. Don't give up. And every now and then, try a bit of openness. You might be pleasantly surprised by what happens next.

N is for nothing

I actually wanted to leave this post blank -- nothing, you see, but then it occurred to me that I could write something and then hide it by making the font the same color as the background, and the reader -- you as it turns out -- could only read it by highlighting the text. If you think of doing that. Which will surprise and please me if you do. Do let me know in the comments. That would be awesome.

M is for muse

Other writers talk a lot about their muses. "Oh, my muse is silent." "My muse is so fickle." "My muse torments me so."

Listen, I won't date someone that abuses me, and I for sure am not going to let my muse do so. If your muse isn't treating you right, then kick it out. Get a new one.

Maybe your muse is a bun-haired, ruler on the knuckles, prim, proper spinster who purses her lips and glares cuttingly every time you show a bit of spirit. Or maybe it's a brooding, sullen, shirt with floppy cuffs, dark eyed brute who stays in his garret except when he ventures out to down a glass of absinthe at the local bohemian cafe.

Here's what you do: While she's at the local temperance league meeting, pack her bags, put them on the porch, shut and lock the door. As for the brute, while he's sipping his absinthe, gather his flea-infested belongings, stick them in a bag, and throw them in the front yard. Then call an exterminator to spray his room.

My point is that you're the boss. Don't let your muse kick you around. And if you take a firm hand with it, you just might find that the spinster has always wanted to let her hair down and go dancing, and that your brute loves sunshine and flowers and sometimes sings happy songs.

L is for Linger

Linger

I dreamed of you last night.
We laughed as we walked through
a park. Our children played
near, calling for us to watch
them slide fast or swing high.

I dreamed of you last night.
Your hazel eyes followed
me. A smile touched your lips.
I could not resist them.
You tasted like cinnamon.

I dreamed of you last night.
Our breaths mingled as our
bodies joined. You cried my
name and shuddered as did
I. Then you turned away.

I dreamed of you last night.
I wandered through a house
empty of your presence,
footsteps echoing, air
quiet, still, and cold.

The children live with you.
I never taste your lips.
We have turned away.
Our love is still and cold, but
I dreamed of you last night.

Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission of the author and publisher. This poem was published in a different form in EndlesS, copyright 2008 by Many Rivers Harbor.

K is for kiwi

One of my favorite fruits is kiwi. Love the tangy flavor. Hard to peel,

but worth it. I usually cut it in half and then use a spoon to scoop out the middle. Good stuff. The artificial flavoring never really tastes like a kiwi. That's why I avoid strawberry-kiwi soda. That and the excessive sugar.

Excessive sugar is found in so many things these days. I'm amazed how many foods that you wouldn't expect to be sweetened are loaded with the stuff. There is mounting evidence that excessive sugar is the culprit in many diseases, such as heart disease, diabetes, cancer, etc., and of course, the dreaded lard hiney.  I've been trying to cut back on my sugar, but I do fall of the wagon sometimes. It's hard to avoid and hard to give up.

We are all addicted to sugar, baby, and don't you forget it.

J is for Jumping Jack Flash

I watched Jumping Jack Flash on TV a few years ago. Loved Whoopi Goldberg in it. It's not a five star movie, but it's at least three star inching toward a four star. Whoopi has rarely found roles worthy of her talent.

However, I got the movie the other day and decided to re-watched. Since it was on DVD and not on the TV, none of the obscenities were edited out. Wow. That's why I downgraded it from a four star to a three star. I think of obscenities as seasoning on a meal. Too much and the meal is ruined. Mostly because the vulgarities start to lose their power. Eventually a four-letter word becomes meaningless through repetition.

A lot of writers do that: pepper their works with so many "shocking" words that the words lose all meaning. Especially if they use them as adjectives. A "f-ing good time" is the vulgar equivalent of saying a "very good time." Most people know to not use "very" because it is basically meaningless. Eventually, the overuse of the "f-word" empties the word of its shock value.

Use vulgarities to good effect if you're going to use them. Otherwise, they're bankrupt language. Worse than that, they're lazy language.

I is for Ignatius

Recently, I went to a Treasures of the Church Exposition at the local Catholic Church. After an interesting lecture, we were allowed to actually touch 164 relics of the church associated with various Saints and the Holy Family.

We were supposed to find our personal Saint. Being a Baptist, none of the Saints "spoke" to me as the lecturing Father said they might, but I did find two that appealed to me.

First, Saint Ignatius of Antioch. I liked that he was a writer, and I loved the sound of his name. Ignatius. It rolls off my tongue. His feast is October 17. He was a convert from paganism and succeeded St. Peter as the bishop of the church at Antioch, Syria. He was the first writer to use the term "Catholic Church" and wrote a series of encouraging letters to churches while on a long journey to Rome as a captive. In Rome, he was thrown to wild animals around 107. (As you read the information card that was by each relic, you learned that only a handful of the Saints died of natural causes. The vast majority of them died in terrible and often horribly creative ways at the hands of various rulers and empires.)

St. Ignatius is quoted as saying, "No earthly pleasures, no kingdoms of this world can benefit me in any way. I prefer death in Christ Jesus to power over the farthest limits of the earth. He who died in place of us is the one object of my quest. He who rose for our sakes is my one desire."

The second saint I found is St. Lucy. We'll talk about her when "L" comes up, and I liked her not because of her name, but because she is the patron saint of authors and writers. Even as a Baptist, I think having a patron saint for my writing is a good thing.

If you'd like to learn more about these relics, visit the Treasures of the Church website.

H is for hush

HUSH

These are the stories
we’re not supposed to tell
old twisted stories
you’re not supposed to know
dirty family secrets
not seen in scrapbooks–

Blush over bruises 
glasses cover black eyes 
Shame pushed into her soul 

No nightlight in dark room 
hands tearing away his breath 
and his little boy clothes 

Finger down her throat 
can’t get it all out 
can’t be perfect 

Always outside looking in 
never more than a joke 
sweet cold razor on wrists 

Hospital bed that they whisper 
he deserves for loving those 
who should be shunned 

Wrong skin color can’t change 
wrong accent can’t hide 
wrong life can’t be lived 

These are the stories
that don’t get told
the old tired stories
that no one wants to hear

Don’t look back (let your tongue be silent) 
Don’t make waves (don’t rock our family) 
Don’t embarrass us (get on with your life)
Get over it or get out (we don't want to know)
Forget what you can’t change (forget, forget, forget)
Swallow the words (even if you have to choke)

But these are the stories
that sometimes get told...
and the world ends
and the family shatters
and we all fall down

but we get up–
we rise up and we fly
–how we fly! –
into the endless sky

Copyright 2014 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission of the author and publisher. This poem was published in a different form in EndlesS, copyright 2008 by Many Rivers Harbor.

G is for grit

I've always said I was bloody-minded. Lots of people take that to mean blood-thirsty, which is incorrect. No, it's more of a stubbornness, a willingness to do whatever it takes to accomplish my personal goals. It's not ruthlessness, because that would imply that I'm willing to or even eager to hurt other people, but that's not correct. This doesn't have anything to do with other people.

No, it's the willingness to be ruthless with myself. To ignore my hurts and pains to keep going. Grit might be a better word. Particularly since the dictionary definition of "bloody-minded" seems to be "difficult to deal with : not willing to help others do things." The British define it as someone who is "stubbornly contrary or obstructive." Which are not the meanings I choose.

But grit ... I've certainly gritted my teeth and promised myself that I didn't have to survive another day, another hour, another minute ... just survive another second. And then another. During operations. When I shattered my arm. The cancer scares and the hours and days waiting for test results. The funerals of my mother and then my father -- nightmares that I can never wake up from because they're dead and buried, and that's what life does to us sometimes.

Still, I like my personal definition of bloody-minded best. Sometimes I make words mean what I want them to mean. Don't you?

“When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less."

"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master — that’s all.” 
― Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

F is for floozy

A few years back, I published a collection of humorous (I hope) articles that had been published in Floozy & Other Stories. Feel free to pick up a copy or several at Amazon or your local bookseller who can order if they are tragically remiss and haven't stocked it.

After it was published, two things about its title became apparent.

First, several girls made a point in claiming that they were the floozy mentioned. Naturally it was a just a joke for them, but still, I found it interesting that they were willing to say they were floozies. I made note of their names and phone numbers. One never knows when such information might be useful.

Second, people overwhelmingly assumed I was the floozy in the title. Yes, me. A paragon of virtue. And humble. Overwhelmingly humble.

I asked my friend Linda why that was.

"Well, you do date a lot," she said.

"How does that make me a floozy?" I asked.

"And it's usually different women," she said.

"That's not totally my fault," I said. "Protective orders alone generate a certain amount of turnover in my dating life."

"And you're about as faithful as a plastic cup," she said.

"That doesn't make sense," I said. "And it's not true. I'm always focused on the woman I'm dating. I'm faithful to her and her alone."

"Until the next date," she said.

... ... ... ... ...

"What was that?" she asked. "I can't seem to hear you."

"That's because I'm not going to dignify that with a reply," I said.

Anyway, I'm not the floozy in the book title. You have to read the book to find out the identify of the floozy, but it's not me, despite what Linda thinks. Or Lorie. Or Joan. Or Debbie. Or Pam. Or ... hmm ... never mind.

E is for effort, part 2

A friend read my post yesterday and said that he totally agreed with me.

"It's really an insult," he said.

"Well, I'm not sure if it's an insult--"

"What's really bad when you've taken your wife out to dinner at an expensive restaurant, gave her flowers, gave her a card that you spent an hour picking out, and then made love to her for at least two hours and made sure she was happy if you know what I mean--"

"Uh ..."

"And then you ask her how the evening was and she says, 'Well, you get points for effort.' And let me tell you that hurts."

"I'm not sure if you should be telling--"

"If I had ever had that happen," he added hastily. "Which I haven't."

"Ooookay."

"Never. Not even once," he insisted. "I'm just saying that I can imagine how it would hurt after all that effort."

"I have to go now," I said. "An errand. Or my house is on fire. But I have to hang up now."

"All right, but let me tell you again that it has NEVER happened to me. My wife loves my love making. Loves it. Begs for it."

"Look, I have to go now. NOW." I hung up. And not a moment too soon.

E is for effort

"You get points for effort." Really? I've heard that phrase a few times in my life. And it leaves me with a few questions.

First, who is rewarding those points and why do they have the authority to give them? Did they go to college for a degree in point rewarding? Or are they just judgmental and think they're allowed to give points because they're more awesome than the rest of us?

Second, points for what? Can we cash in the points for merchandise? Is there a goal where we reach a certain number of points and win a car? Or win a game? Get a trophy? If they're not worth anything, I don't want them. You can keep your points.

Third, who thinks that phrase is a compliment? People pretend that it softens the blow when they add it after they've told you that you've failed. Here, I'll kick you, and then tell you that the kick could have been worse. Whee.

Fourth, why am I ranting about this? Well, I don't know. I haven't heard it in years, but I read a book recently in which it was used, and I think it made me angry.

Fifth, why angry? Because I get tired of people offering their opinions when they are unsolicited. I know people who believe themselves to be authorities on many things, but they are not. And their willful disregard for facts makes me crazy.

Sixth, when am I going to stop ranting about this? Now.

D is for dance

I always wanted to know how to dance. I was raised in a very religious home, and that was simply something we weren't allowed to do. You could clap to music and maybe raise your hands, but no hip action and DON'T MOVE THOSE FEET!

When I went to college, I took a few girls dancing. Apparently they were torn between horror and hysterical laughter by my dancing. One of them finally told me that she loved me as long as I didn't dance. For many reasons, that relationship didn't last, but now that I think about, maybe that was a reason, too.

These days I dance in the privacy of home, especially when a happy song comes on the radio or plays on the music service. My dancing would still probably horrify any onlookers, but since I'm alone, it's no one's business but my own.

Someday, though, I'm going to meet a girl who dances as badly as I do and enjoys it as much as I do...and we're going to dance the rest of our lives together.

C is for Catamount

"Catamount" is another name for a mountain lion or a cougar. Bet you didn't know that. Catamounts also are an occasional predator of humans. Mind you, this is mostly caused because the catamount population is increasing after years of decline due to conservation. It's not that the big cats seek us out or lure us to their den with offers of Twinkies® and beer. No, it's that they're hungry and we're convenient and look tasty--it's the same situation that a cheerleader confronts when she attends a frat party, although not as risky.

Certainly we humans are the only species that considers ourselves a delicacy. After one taste of human flesh, the consumer of said flesh apparently desires nothing else, be that consumer an animal or a man. Notice how many books and movies show humans as the equivalent to potato chips. "You can't eat just one." I'm surprised Lays® doesn't offer a human flavor; Hannibal Lector would be the spokesperson, of course.

Considering how many chemicals and medicines we consume, we're not health food. Definitely not organic and probably not free range. We should make other species aware of this. When we're walking in the woods and we hear a sound that could be made by a hungry bear or a ravenous sparrow, we should say, "I just had a soft drink that contained large amounts of Red Dye #1 and carcinogenic preservatives. I eat prepackaged foods all the time that are loaded with trans-fats." Naturally, a health-minded animal will turn away, and we will be assured of our continued well being until our arteries explode.

Catamounts are beautiful animals, but we shouldn't make them into our pets. I read a horrible news story the other day where this lady named Constance raised a cougar from birth, and it was as "gentle as an lamb," but then it turned on her savagely, stole her identify, destroyed her credit, and then ran off to Africa with the family dog. The lady was heartbroken, but it's her own fault.

Constance forgot the first rule of pet ownership: Don't let them know your financial information. I'm careful to make sure my fish never get any more information than they need to conduct their business affairs. At the very least, you shouldn't let catamounts drink and drive. Show some responsibility. And don't sprinkle yourself with seasoning before you venture into the forest. That's just asking for trouble.

B is for Bond

"Bond. James Bond." And with that iconic line, the original action hero introduces himself to people that he will be soon either be loving or killing and sometimes both. I grew up on the Bond films and even read the Bond books and short stories. I'm among that small crew that likes Roger Moore's Bond best, mostly because his movies were bigger and funnier.

But I confess here: I often found myself rooting -- well, not rooting -- maybe admiring the villains. After all, they build things: hovercrafts, lasers, solar ray satellites. Amazing things. One of them built an underwater city; one of them built a space station. Admittedly, there's that whole pesky destroy-the-world plan, but otherwise, they're doing great work.

Bond, on the other hand, just blows things up. You always know where he's been by the trail of destruction he leaves. Even Q only makes devices to destroy Bond's enemies. Where is His Majesty's Secret Space Station? Nowhere, that's where.

Bond villains, of course, always lose, mostly because they spend their time bragging about their plans instead of SHOOTING BOND ON SIGHT. If I were a Bond villain, the movie would go like this: "Bond. James--arggggh" And then I would proceed to conquer the earth.

A is for Alpha

Alpha is, of course, the beginning, and this is the beginning of the Blogging from A-Z Challenge. I did the challenge last year over at 51313 Harbor Street. My posts will be repeated there, but I will be posting here first each day.

A is also for April, which is the month of the Blogging from A-Z Challenge.

And A is for Anecdotes, which are little stories. FLOOZY and Other Stories is basically filled with anecdotes of various lengths. I'm not sure when an anecdote becomes a short story--maybe when it's longer than a few paragraphs. I don't think there's governing body that decides the various story length. But maybe so. There are governing bodies for just about anything these days. I want to be on one of those bodies. It must be satisfying to make those decision--as long as you have the ability to enforce them. Otherwise, you're just being annoying.

Anyway, that's my first post for the Challenge.