jiggling the handle

Consuming…
“Poetry”
The usual meds

I was working on a blog entry about my personal seer, Madam Strabismus, but Hymie O’Phil put an end to that.

Aware of my obsession with on-line writing contests, Hymie pointed me to poetry.com, where, in addition to a Poetry Contest with a monthly prize of $1,000 and a yearly bonanza of $10K, some rather infectious daily contests are also held: Poetry in Motion and a Haiku Contest. As contagious as the flu, they appear similarly capable of keeping large numbers of people from work.

Poetry in Motion is patterned after magnetic poetry--where the challenge is to arrange a small palette of word magnets into a poetic masterpiece on the refrigerator. The contest is turbocharged by a java applet that effectively simulates the experience. (Everything but the kitchen frig.) The winner gets a $100 gift certificate.

For the Haiku Contest, a photo is provided for inspiration. The daily prize for this contest is—get this—a mouse pad imprinted with the winning haiku! (For those of you who slept through grades K-12, haiku is a Japanese verse form consisting of 3 lines having 5-7-5 syllables respectively.)

Winners for both contests are decided by the following quirky yet pragmatic method:

A random time is generated,
21 entries received closest to that time are selected,
The one judged best by a panel of editors is declared the winner.

How could I resist the Haiku Contest: a short form writing contest, no entry fee, winners picked somewhat at random, a mouse pad as prize!

So primed, I meditated on today’s haiku mandala:

and came up with the following:

Sleek and luminous
Ninety feet below the waves
It’s Nessie all right

The idea of doing humorous haikus has been swimming in my head for a while—at least since I read about Burma Shave ads on line last week (Google it yourself). I hereby dub the form: Ha!ku. (Get it? HA! ku.)

I submitted the above ha!ku™ at 2:38:21 PM sharp as the lesser of the following evils:

Saturn’s moon Titan
Filmed by the cameraman from
The Blair Witch Project

Ethereal arc
Streaking ‘twixt feathered blackness
Goddamn glaucoma

Banderas’ sword drawn
Parries with furious grace
Flubs mark of Zorro

After done butchering the form, I stumbled on this hilarious entry by Michael Bordonaro of Rhode Island from YESTERDAY’s contest:

Must rescue Olive
from Barnacle Bill's sailors
I needs me spinach

Avast!

Consuming…
Fond memories of Johnny
The usual meds

The media frenzy has begun. The lights have been turned on in the VFW hall and the NPR van is out front.

Although I wasn’t invited to the Chicville Creative Writing Contest nuptials, I managed to get my hands on a bootleg tape of the rehearsal. I can thus file another installment in my series of reviews about high society as seen through the eyes of a literary poseur.

From the tape, I can report the Chicville wedding is shaping up to be a classy affair, if not in danger of trumping Trump.

The tape opens with the flower girls (Poetry winners) frolicking down the aisle like woodland nymphs strewing their poetic poesies. Curiously, one “girl” is a 60 year old black woman (picture the Oracle from The Matrix). The other was completely obscured thanks to technical difficulties with the tape.

The maid of honor and best man (Essay winners) gave spectacular performances. The maid’s dress caught fire and had to be doused with bottles of seltzer. The best man, waxing philosophical, delivered an inspired toast (if somewhat inappropriate for the occasion) about his dead friend and an unnatural predilection for scarlet tanagers. (I think he was making a point about marriage being akin to suicide.) During this part of the festivities, my mind couldn’t help but wander to metaphorical visions of my ponderously philosophical entry going up in flames.

The happy couple (Fiction winners) was (were) undeniably handsome. The bride, like her maid of honor, was hot. Her low cut satin gown accented her charms. A veil, flowing with casual grace, was held in place by a comb that looked like a giant tick. My eye detected one minor flaw: there appeared to be a button missing from the back of her gown. The groom looked distinguished, if somewhat uncomfortable and morose, in Vietnam era fatigues—a bit reminiscent of The Loner in this poignant tale.

Since I’ve seen the tape, I may not attend the ceremony. Rather, I’m focusing on how I can wrestle that press pass from the NPR correspondent so I can crash the reception.

In other Jiggling State of the Union news:

I can’t believe it wasn’t Buttah! My Clint Eastwood vignettes didn’t pass mustard with the Letterman lackey. I’m now dreading the results of the Heinz Say Something Ketchuppy Contest. But enough about condiments… Back to weddings…

The Letterman contest theme this week is Top Ten Things Overheard at Donald Trump’s Wedding. I’ve already filed my report on that. I challenge Joan Rivers to do better!

Blips on my Writer radar screen continue to come from blog site interest from Googlers! Now, in addition to hits on “scriptography” and “Kohler toilets,” I’ve gotten hits on “diphthongs for kids,” “fondoo,” “restroom icons,” “designer clogs,” and “eel costumes.” I’ll be closely monitoring this situation to identify other underserved markets. Who knows, maybe a business leasing eel costumes is where the money's at?

Now I need to get samples of my short story and novel up on this blog site … and literary movers and shakers to take a look. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match…

Consuming…
Neal Stephenson’s The Confusion
My pride
The usual meds

Once again, I’m not the bride. Nor a bridesmaid.

Not sure I even made the wedding.

Found out yesterday, through some tactical web surfing, I didn’t rate a seat at the head table at the annual Chicville Creative Writing Contest. The piece I submitted to the Short Fiction section last October was passed over--like the tofu on rice cake appetizers.

Gifts on the registry included regional exposure and music CDs--all the tools needed to start a literary life!

Marriage being what it is (at least for now), only two parties could be recognized. I’ll probably never know if my pitch barely missed or ended up like my photo at the on-line dating services--tacked to the office bulletin board with a big "L" tattooed across the forehead.

My piece was intended as a parable about the great divides in society today: the USA versus Terrorists (and the rest of the world), Reds versus Blues, Haves versus Have Nots. A subject that, pre-election, was prominently on my mind--and, I hoped, on the mind of the judge.

In rereading it, I’m struck by its starkness and density. May have tried to pack too much into a page and a half? (Much like my humor writing come to think of it.)

So here I now sit smiling, clapping politely, brushing away a furtive tear. I’m happy for the bride and her entourage, and am looking forward to hearing the vows. I wish them and their literary bedfellows a long and fruitful life together.

Maybe I can catch the bouquet?

Tragically, the limericks I submitted to the Poetry section (some of these) also failed to hit. Now that hurts. Damn meteorological snobs!

On a positive note, this week’s submissions to the Letterman Top Ten Contest were pure gold! Buttah! The bouquet is in my radar space. Going for a lock. Beep ... beep ... beep.

Consuming…
Tom Shales & James Andrew Miller’s Live From New York (An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live)
Megabytes of JPEG storage
The usual meds

It’s been barely a month and a half since this blog left dry dock to ply the frothy meme pool and I must again apologize for a long period of inactivity.

Fortunately, site accesses continued at their usual tepid level. So I didn’t worry about letting anyone down. (Instapundit, BoingBoing, and even Adam Felber haven’t deigned to link here yet.) Much to my delight, however, the jiggling archives provided an oasis for thirsty Googlers in search of information about “bovine castration,” “Kohler toilets,” “wang chung,” and “scriptography.” I trust I was able to provide some relief to my fellow mariners. Water water everywhere!

So what’s my excuse this time for not staying at the helm—and so closely on the heels of the TampXmas in Frigia break? Is it: (a) Spinnaker’s busted? (b) I’m running out of ideas? (c) Have more important things to do? (d) I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?

Nope.

Merely on a family outing to a land of warm temperatures, meandering tannin-soaked rivers, towering cypress trees swathed in Spanish moss, and a bonanza of world-renowned overpriced theme parks. In short—an escape from my fantasy world to the hard realities of a Florida vacation.

Now that I’ve caught up (somewhat) on bills, mail, and photo uploads (see the Pixorama at the bottom of this page), I can get back to the fantasy “business” while also confidently proclaiming: Reality ain’t so bad!

Here's the worst I can recount from the backwaters of the Little Withlacoochee:

*****

Rabid Pixie walks out back door of vacation house, drops Mickey Mouse hand on deck, and starts off to wreak pain and destruction elsewhere.

JW (lounging in deck chair overlooking the river with book in hand): “TT buddy, please pick up your Mickey Mouse hand before the dog gets it.”

TT: “It’s not mine. It’s JJ’s.”

JW: “I don’t care whose it is. You put it there. Please pick it up before the dog eats it.”

TT: (silence)

JW: “TT, I hear the dog coming. Get it now!”

TT: (silence)

Cujo lumbers up. Eyes $17* Mickey Mouse hand.

*Actually, the set of two hands cost $17. That makes one hand $8.50. About $2.15 per finger.

JW (getting up quickly from chair, but not so quickly to startle the dog): “Nice doggie. Come here boy.”

Dog continues to direct interest toward Mickey’s digits.

JW: “Come here dammit.”

Dog alternates glances between JW and prop. Lopes over and sniffs it.

JW: “Get away from that toy you $%# damn dog.”

Dog chomps down on Mickey Mouse hand and takes off.

TT runs into vacation house and locks the door.

*****

Indeed, even a number of other minor missteps couldn’t beach our fair vessel: the Spirit of Reality.

So what if JW had some trouble with the finer points of keeping an outboard engine running while drifting downriver with two panicky boys? So what if the Rabid Pixie pitched his brother’s new football into the Hillsborough River? We hardly missed a beat as Cujo and his posse of pony-sized devil-dogs terrorized the family. I was unphased by the anonymous critters that repeatedly raided the trash cans despite the DEFCON 1 defense system. I scoffed at the lack of a reliable Internet connection.

And so what if two more sets of entries to the Letterman Top Ten Contest were rejected? And what of the lost opportunity of taking over Dave Barry’s humor column? (That back-stabbing Gene Weingarten (Below the Beltway) moved in during my absence!)

There’s something to be said for clear skies; 70-80 degree January temps; a spacious River Retreat with hot tub, kayaks, canoe, motor boat, media center, tournament-quality pool table, books in every room; leisure time with a loving family; smooth travel; long carefree days at theme parks, … Ahhh, reality.

Now that my brush with reality is over, I plan to redouble efforts toiling in my Writer’s fantasy world. I even vow to get back on the blog boat. But, as investment professionals point out: Past performance doesn’t guarantee future results.

Being more the optimist though, I declare: Lack of past results doesn’t guarantee future failure!

Paddle on.

From the Editor…
Belated Happy Birthday to Hymie O’Phil!

From the Editor...

Has anyone seriously considered a National Powerball Lottery as the way to save Social Security?

Consuming…
Dan Brown’s Digital Fortress
The usual meds

Dashawayall! Snubbed by the Letterman organization again.

My latest entries to the Top Ten Contest went over like lead reindeer -- plummeting from the TampXmas Eve sky in a fiery ball of red felt and tinsel.

This time the subject was Top Ten Signs You Drank Too Much at Your Holiday Party. Right up my alley! A sure thing ... so I thought.

I spent nearly a half hour working up my best material. Ran the resulting gems by a focus group, culled out the top five, and confidently sent those Big Apple-ward via web form.

But my hopes were dashered once again. And to add injury to insult, I had to wait an extra week to find I didn’t make the cut. Apparently the dedicated person running the contest went missing over the holidays while doing field research on the topic.

I’m sure if David found out, heads would roll at CBS. (Perhaps Dan Rather was somehow involved?) Not to badmouth the winning entries or the contestants who submitted them, but ... they’re all a bunch of inbred Satan-worshiping hacks with too much time on their hands. Don’t get me started on the contest judge …

I need your help. To get to the bottom of this, I’m running a triple-blinded, placebo controlled, scientificky study. You be the judge! Which of the following 15 should be in the top ten? Is the conspiracy real or imaginary?

The candidates for the Top Ten Signs You Drank Too Much at Your Holiday Party triple-blinded, placebo controlled, scientificky study are (drum roll):

a. Your hairpiece becomes a festive Christmas tree ornament
b. That's not eggnog on your dress
c. Waking up under pear tree with mouth full of feathers and very sore buttocks
d. You get a phone call from Nick Nolte saying, "Dude, you need to take it easy next year"
e. Fat bearded broad in red is lookin’ good
f. Bing Crosby tattoo seemed like good idea at the time
g. You wake up to find you announced that Bernard Kerik is your choice for Director of Homeland Security
h. Outside naked with various body parts stuck to lamppost
i. Finding the gift that Magi gave you is one that keeps on giving
j. You find out you were married to Britney Spears for 35 minutes
k. You discover there is a thin line between what you called "reindeer games" and what the judge calls "cruelty to animals"
l. Your party was a week ago and you still can't find your car
m. Everyone suddenly knows where all your tatoos are
n. You wake up in a "civil union" with Bob in accounting
o. Your Internet picture is the #1 site on Google

Let me know your ranking of these. If there’s sufficient (any) interest, I’ll post the results in a future blog.

In closing, here’s a topic for ya: Top Ten Reasons No One Should Waste Time On This Contest.

I’m now heading off to the Plug and Chug to get blitzened.

Words of the Day...

nepotism n: See Top Ten Contest Judge.

vitriol n: See above comment about "inbred Satan-worshiping hacks"

JW Quote of the Week…
“Don’t call your little brother a Stink-Faced Crackus!”

From the Editor…
Happy Birthday Juan Ho and Princess Daffodil’s English PhD Friend Who Won’t Review My Writing!