Lawnmower Man

We live in a cul-de-sac of twelve houses. Been here for nearly nineteen years. Six or seven of them have changed hands since we moved here, taking us ever closer to the top of the list of "longest term neighbor." Kristin probably met just about everyone who ever lived on our short street. I didn't start getting outside and meeting the folks until 1999, so a few escaped without ever getting to know me.

Poor dears.

I didn't even wave as cars came and went at first. I'd pull in the driveway after work and wouldn't step outside again unless it was time to mow the lawn or go back to work, so I didn't see a lot of cars go by. When I did, though, I'd reach down to tie an already-tied shoe or I'd look back at the house as if trying to remember something.

Eventually I stayed out longer and met people and found they were all pretty nice. There have even been a couple of block parties over the past few years. I wave at people, they wave at me. Some have had kids that befriended my own, and I have been a substitute teacher for the next wave of youngsters. We notice if another's garage door is open late into the evening, and we loan each other tools and books and spices, and we wheel each other's emptied garbage and recycling bins back to the house if we are out doing our own. Well, one guy does it. In fact, he walks the entire short block and brings up everyone's cans. Nice guy. Little weird, though.

To the best of my understanding, the family next to ours bought the house next to theirs, one of the corner lots, a few years ago. Then, they bought another one at the bottom of the street, giving them three of the twelve houses. This was a little while ago during a real estate heyday, and I don't know how that's working out for them. It's none of my business. One facet of the deal, though, is working out nicely for me.

I haven't maintained a front lawn for a few years now. It gets green in the rainy season, and it is now, and in the summer it is neatly cropped hay. Doesn't get watered, doesn't grow. It's not a weed patch, but as I say, this is a semi-arid plain, people. Your lawns are unnatural! The problem is when it does grow because of the damned rain, it is thick and hearty, and not particularly well-suited to my push mower. Thus, summer mowing is unnecessary, and winter mowing is a curse.

Until now. Mr. Multiple Home Owner, in all his intrepid do-it-yourselfness, recently purchased a riding mower, purportedly for his three nearby properties and others he has elsewhere. Because we are the closeknit helpful kind of people previously described, once he began mowing his three yards on our street he figured he might as well do a little kindness for neighbors. After all, he motors from one end of the block to the other, seeing as he owns a corner lot and one at the turnaround, why not take care of a few others. So now, on mowing day, he does just that. He decamps the mower from its trailer, and spends thirty minutes mowing up and down the block.

He was just here ten minutes ago. I heard the mower and could tell he was in my front yard. I smiled to myself and checked off one more item on my To-Do list.

Even though the service is convenient, I'm still not going to water my yard this year. I'll give the guy one less yard to worry about for at least six months.

State of the Bunion

I applaud our Commander-in-chief, the Elected One, the one and only Barack Obama (and let's just say with that name he is of course the "one and only"; that's no "Robert Smith" type of name) for taking to the airwaves and the Informational Superhighway to bring up the national horror of the bunion. That scourge of the foot, that most unsightly bump, has no celebrity-sponsored charity and is generally hidden away like your grandmother's goiter.

Regardless whether you think President Obama was born in this country, or whether you think he is a rabid socialist, or whether you think his only aim in life is to take this country swiftly to ruin (by the way, if you think any of those things, you might be an idiot), you must certainly agree with me that he has not shied away from affairs of the foot. Those afflicted with bunions are crying in their beers at this very moment, knowing that relief is coming. Stem cell research might help, or perhaps studying bunions on rats. Either way, my wife will be happy. I'm not saying she has a bunion, heaven's no, outing her in that regard would be tantamount to saying she's got the ugly feets.

For the record, I like my wife's feet.

And as the president said earlier tonight, "The state of our bunion is strong." I can only assume that he will be sending me a check soon so that I can get my wife that bunion surgery.

Not that she has a bunion, mind you, this is just preventive medicine I'm talking about. Really, people, stop with the mindless rumormongering.

And now, the Republican response . . .

F*c*

Last year I signed up on Facebook. My kids were all on it, my wife, my sister, lots of other people I knew. Lots of people I knew weren't on as well. So I gave it a try and watched for a week or two and then said, "Forget this!"

At that point I deactivated my account and thought nothing more of it. It hadn't introduced me to anyone I didn't know already, and those folks I wanted to converse with I already did via email or the phone. Or, like, you know, in person. The way communication has always worked.

A few weeks later, without really thinking about it, I typed facebook.com on the computer browser and, lo and behold, once I put in my password (*******2 . . . what? you thought I'd tell you what it is?) my whole facebook life came back in full living color. My friends, my family, my stupid comments. They had saved each and every one of them and waited patiently for me to return. That was how I knew the facebook really loved me.

Except now I was a tad acrimonious. I labeled it f***book as some sort of dodge, and friends and I ended up calling it f-star. I checked it regularly but usually was sickened by my own behavior within moments. I didn't want to be on f-star. I even figured out that I could call it f*c*book because it looked even more profane than f***book. I used it and hated it (though it came in handy when I was on the great southwest motorcycle tour last September). I didn't know what to do, so I did what I always do when I don't know what to do. I went overboard.

I deactivated my account again, but I went further this time. I dug around online and found that the deactivation only works until you put in your signon and password again, and then you are 100% back in it. Except you could request that your entire f*c*book persona be deleted entirely, as long as you were willing to wait the two weeks before your request would be completed. If at anytime you signed on during those two weeks, BAM!, you were back in it. I made the request late last fall, and kept my frantic fingers away from the keyboard, and then I was gone. Dust. My account could not be reactivated, it was as if I had never been on the f*c*. Just like I wanted it.

From that point on I was happy to be the guy without the f*c*book account. Just like i am the guy happy to be without a cellular telephone, a microwave oven, or cable TV. Happy happy happy. I thought I would live out the rest of my days, during the f*c*book scandals and system updates and movie excitement, without ever worrying about it again. The wife was still on it, as were the kids, and whoever pass as friends, but I was free and clear.

In the past two weeks I was advised by a radio DJ who was interviewing me on air about my new novel (Beer Maker, available soon!) and by a literary agent listening to me pitch a memoir of mine (Census Man) that I should really consider f*c*book as a means of publicity and promotion and information and all around good fun. It took me all of two days to give in and sign up (again) and begin harassing all of those good people who were once my online friends as well as clicking on anyone who showed up as a possible friend. At this point it is all about promotion of self. Something that gets under my skin, quite frankly, but if I don't do it, who the hell will?

So, welcome me back. I'm unhappy to be here.

Pitchapalooza

This is American Idol for the literary set. Stand up, pitch your idea for a book, and try to get publishing professionals interested in your idea. You never know where it will lead, and your odds of winning are much better than the lottery, which is, like, one in kajillions.

I heard of this Pitchapalooza event from my mom, who passed along an email from one of the presenters, Alice LaPlante. Alice, along with Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry (authors of The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published), were offering an open mic of sorts at Kepler's Books in Menlo Park, California. Having been recently uninspired at a meeting of the California Writers Club at a local Borders Bookstore, I planned on watching from the fringes, just to see what was going on. Kristin and I took the motorcycle so the afternoon wouldn't be a complete waste. At least we'd get a nice early winter sunny ride!

There were plenty of chairs when we arrived, mostly empty. Kristin staked out a seat near the front and dropped her jacket. I ambled between the bookstacks. Eventually we settled on seats about ten rows back. Folks weren't exactly filling the rows. A gray haired dude in a purple jacket (turned out to be host David Henry Sterry) started a pad of paper at the front and one at the back. He said that if you planned on pitching your book idea you should add your name, email, and occupation. At first I planned on just passing along the pad when it came my way, but as usual Kristin knew what was good for me long before I did. She prodded me with questions, such as which book I could talk about, and what would I say.

I have written a few books, that is true. Available online via a so-called self-publishing outfit. In the old days they were called vanity presses. Whether I haven't marketed them well, or they aren't marketable, I am not the one to judge. Kristin and I talked about the humor column collections and a mid-grade book called Fixing Scissors and a memoir called Census Man. I was still not convinced I should volunteer myself for the ignominy, especially when it was divulged that those pitching would stand at the podium with the microphone alongside the three judges. We'd be pitching to the crowd as well as the professionals! I knew I shouldn't.

But what if I did? We chatted about Census Man and decided it was a lifeless title. We joked about what I could say ("In a world where Census Man wanders the streets . . .") and I knew I had no business volunteering. Which meant that of course I should, so when the pad of paper appeared I wrote down my information and passed it on. As the program officially began we were told that the pitching would go on for an hour, they'd randomly choose from the names, and not everyone would necessarily get a chance, but anyone who purchased their new book would get a thirty minute consult at some point in the future (a $100 value!).

The first called forth was a fellow who did a pretty good job in his sixty seconds. The judges had a few positive comments for him (we were told there was no "Simon" amongst them) and then a woman stepped up to give her pitch. Then they called the third name.

Me.

Holy crap. I wandered to the front and tried to remember what Kristin and I had talked about. One judge nodded to me and started the stopwatch. I decided to skip over the preliminaries that nearly half of the people would start with ("Can you hear me?" and "My name is . . ." and "Okay, what this book is about is . . .") and I just launched into it.

"Get Off My Porch!" I said to a healthy dose of laughter. "This is the true story of a ragtag group of 2010 census workers who battle an untested handheld computer device and meet lonely old folks, suspicious conspiracy theorists, and a number of angry animals, including dogs, cats, and one duck."

That was it. I was done. The crowd laughed as did the three judges. They seemed to like the idea and their most pointed comment was that I should have used more of my allotted sixty seconds. Point taken. Eighteen more people stepped forward, including a ten-year-old girl who did a great job. Kristin and I figured I was in the top five, and maybe the top three if I was lucky. Eventually they chose a deserving woman as champion, whose history of the sari (I believe she might have titled it Saritorial) sounded like a great idea for a book.

She is not guaranteed publication, but the judges would put her in contact with the right people who might make it all come true. I purchased their new book and got them to sign it, and I will get a thirty-minute telephone conference in the next month or so to further discuss Census Man and its possibilities. I could probably mention some of my other works as well. There was another agent in the audience whose business card I collected and I will contact him in the next couple of weeks with a query on one or more of my written works.

All in all, a great experience. Couldn't have done it without my mom, and my wife, and Kepler's Books. Thanks to one and all.

Remember: you knew me when.

Matt on the Radio

I read an excerpt of my new novel, Beer Maker, on the radio recently. You can listen to it right here, right now!



Be warned: it runs about 26 minutes including the pre-reading interview with KFJC DJ Ann Arbor. Maybe get something to drink before you press play.

You can also download it in case you want to keep a copy of it forever and forever. You might want to. It is that good. And, no, I'm not biased. Ha.

Click here to download. It is about 25 MB so it might take a few minutes, especially if you are too cheap to pay for DSL or cable.

Happy listening. I look forward to your positive and supportive comments.

'011

I've spent the last decade or so complaining about how people refer to our year numbers. For the first thirty-eight years of my life, ever since that lovely May day in 1962 when I sprang forth to ruin the world, things were going along all right. It was "nineteen" and the next two digits. Nineteen-seventy-nine. Nineteen-ninety-one. Stuff like that.

As 1999 ticked by I eagerly awaited the cross over to the next. If you were alive then, and you remember, there were many funny people thinking the world was going to end. Elevators would plummet to earth, traffic lights would blink out, and computer systems would crash. I thought it was funny because I thought it was all rather unlikely. Turns out I was right. Yay for me.

Then we hit 2000 and things began to go bad. I'm not talking the computer problems, I'm talking about how we said the new year. There was far too much of "the year 2000" rather than just "2000." I realize that it was an aberration, a very weird looking and weird sounding year, but there was no reason to wrap it up in the uncomfortable "year 2000." To this very day some people perpetuate this absurdity. I find it annoying.

Things calmed for a while. Two-thousand-one was all right, although if truth be told it should have followed the conventional nineteen-hundred-one from one hundred years earlier. Twenty-oh-one would have been better. Perhaps if we had done it that way we wouldn't be in the difficulty in which we are currently mired.

Two-thousand-two (twenty-oh-two). And so on until two-thousand-nine.

By the time we landed in 2010 last year it should have been clear to all thinking adults (and some particularly bright children like mine, and maybe yours) that we should say twenty-ten. It's easier than two-thousand-ten and we didn't say one-thousand-nine-hundred-ten, we said nineteen-ten. Clearly the first two digits of the year number should be addressed together. It is 20 and something, so I hope you pass along this message of hope and prosperity to everyone you know and tell them how to properly say the year.

Because some of the people you know are starting to annoy the hell out of me. Until we can get this corrected, I am going to return the favor. I will say twenty-eleven on occasion, but in the grand tradition of '08 and '09 I will call this year '011 (oh-eleven) and I am going to keep it up until the two-thousand thing is eradicated from our common language.

Who's with me?!

On the air

This week I will be reading an excerpt of my new novel, Beer Maker, on the radio! You can listen in, if you want. Wednesday, January 12 is the date. 7:15 a.m. is the approximate time. KFJC, 89.7 FM in the Bay Area, is the station. Also accessible at kfjc.org. There might be a brief pre-reading interview, followed by about twenty minutes from the story.

The novel is the result of my fourth year of Nanowrimo participation. That would be National Novel Writing Month, when folks attempt to write 50,000 words between November 1 and November 30. I hit about 64,000 words in 2010. I am currently editing the novel and should be sending it out to publishers in late February or early March.

So, listen in. If you'd like. This will be my second time on KFJC, my first was in early 2009 when I read a portion of my second Nanowrimo novel Fixing Scissors (available, by the way, along with my other books, at lulu.com. I can't say I sounded exactly lively, being rather nervous and all, but I am taking the proper steps to improve this time around. And no, not with any early morning alcohol.

The year of the bicycle

For many years I had a road bicycle, a blue one handed down by my sister after she upgraded. It was a bit small for me, but the handlebars and seat could be raised to the point that the lack of size was inconsequential. The most disturbing thing about the bike was that the shifters were located down underneath the cross bar on the frame. Of course, the bike was nearing twenty years old at the time; probably was state of the art when she first got it.

More recently I began storing a variety of bicycle parts as Lisa and her friend Dirk continued upgrading various road bicycles. I had wheels, handlebars, a seat, and many other components. I delayed doing anything about it for quite some time, probably to their consternation. Eventually, in December 2009, I ordered a frame and a few necessary parts online and Dirk built a great bicycle. Best of all, the shifters were in the brake levers! Oh, so easy . . .

I set a goal of riding 3000 miles on the bicycle in calendar year 2010. I am known for choosing out-of-this-world goals, often of a physical nature. Yes, I had been a regular runner for ten years, but there was no indication that I would be interested in riding regularly enough to reach 3000 miles. But I did it anyway. The daily average, to reach 3000, would be 8.11 miles.

January 1: 10.86. January 2: 13.36. Two days in and I already had 7 excess miles. This was going to be easy! Then I didn't ride for six days and I was 41 miles behind.

Oops.

By the end of April I had ridden 61% of the days and had kept up the 8.11 average. I was on my way to 3000, and feeling completely unimpressed with my effort. If I could reach 3000 miles with barely breaking a sweat, what was the point? Something had to be done, so I changed the goal to 4000 miles, which left my eight months to ride 3000 miles. Sometimes I am my own worst enemy.

Several things changed, though. May weather is much nicer than the dreary winter months. Plus the school year was winding down and so I would be called for fewer substitute teaching jobs. I aimed to go out each and every day on the bicycle, even if for only three or five miles, and I did. The first day I skipped after May 1 was June 4, Kristin's birthday. Then I was sick in late June and skipped two more. The next day I missed was September 21, a day I spend riding the motorcycle from Prescott, Arizona, to San Jose, California, after visiting daughter Kate. Seven hundred miles in fifteen hours; I figured I could take the day off.

But I had just concluded 89 days in a row on the bicycle, a surefire way to bulk up on miles. Even traveling to Las Vegas, staying there for a couple of days, and spending four days in Prescott, I didn't miss a day. Even after my beautiful Dirk-built bicycle was stolen from the garage some time on August 30 and I had to revert to the old, heavy blue bicycle (before buying a new Cannondale on November 14) for two and a half months.

After missing September 21, the only other day I didn't ride for the rest of the year (for the rest of the year) was October 16, when I participated in an Amazing Race-style footrace with friend Kurtis . . . which we won, by the way. Rode every day in November, every day in December, rain or shine, or rain. Since May 1 I had only skipped five days, a near 98% success rate. Which no doubt made it that much easier to reach, and exceed, the goal.

The final tally was 4623 miles. High month: July, 582 miles. Closed out the year with 76 days in a row.

A silly goal, a valiant effort, a number of roadblocks, and a patient family. That's the recipe for success, people.

No year resolutions

There is a backlash against the new year resolution industry. Enough people have shown that the hastily made resolution has virtually no chance of success. It is too easy to proclaim a plan of exercising more, drinking less, or not shooting backyard wildlife. If there is no true commitment, failure is certain. Especially when there is no follow up, either. Perhaps if people were called before Congress in mid-February to report on the success (or not) of their resolutions there might be more lasting results.

Instead we get drunk (and then resolve to drink less) before promising to exercise more (while downing a third slice of new year's cake) and digging through the hall closet for gun and ammo.

More and more people are mocking the resolution business. I might be right now, if you look closely. I've read of people poking fun and making promises to drink and eat more and exercise less. At least that way they'll meet with success. Other people refuse to make resolutions altogether. Whatever comes of their year will happen spontaneously. Which sounds like a perfect recipe for failure and/or disaster. If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.

I just realized I've always hated that saying.

I don't resolve to do anything for this newly arrived new year. I have plans to do some running. I'd also like to avoid as much work as possible, so resolving to run could be problematic if I decide that running is adding to my workload. I could make a new year's resolution to survive the next twelve months, but that is not entirely within my control. Accidents happen, after all, and sometimes backyard neighbors are aiming at a crow or squirrel and mistakenly shoot someone.

That someone could be me. And just think: if I had a job I'd be there instead of at home getting peppered with buckshot by the guy next door. I should resolve to move to a safer neighborhood, but that would be like a dog chasing its own tail. A neverending quest for satisfaction.

There is no such thing as "safety." It is a cruel and random universe, which is probably why new year's resolutions fail. Let this be the beginning of the "no year resolution."

Just say no. But don't resolve to say no.