A married person suffering an estrangement due to mistaken judgment, emerges happily from a serious engagement.

Just Paying the Bills

By Heath Gordon

It was a tall pile of bills. And Rory had a short bank account. It was two in the morning and the scent of stir fry still lingered in the air. An air conditioner hummed next to his ear sounded like money being chopped up by rusty fan blades.

The chair seemed harder than ever as he leaned back in it. How could he tell his wife that they were flat broke? Her neice’s birthday was coming up and she wanted to spoil her, but that just couldn’t happen. Not this year, anyway.

Rory went to his desk, pulled away some pads of paper, a box of pens that mostly didn’t work and a stapler from the bottom drawer and removed a pack of cigarettes. Outside on his front porch, he lit one up and contemplated the soft spring air.

His wife slept soundly so he started walking around the block. The cement was dirty. He passed another man, walking his dog.

And Rory ducked into the 24 hour convenience store. It was bright in there. He didn’t really know what he was doing there, it might just be that buying something might help him feel a little dignity. All he had in his wallet was a one dollar bill. So he bought a lottery ticket with it. It was worth a shot.

The silver flaked under his fingernail and his heart raced when the first spot showed an acorn. Only 3 more. The next one was also an acorn. Even closer. But his heart sank when the third spot was a mule.

Rory turned to throw the crumpled lottery ticket into the trash and found himself face to face with a gun. “Don’t fucking move.”

There was a man in front of him, seedy eyes peering through a ski mask. Rory dropped the lottery ticket on the floor, put his hands up.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Rory’s legs didn’t want to obey him, but he sidestepped anyway, almost knocking over a display of sunglasses. The man rushed to the window. “Money, bag, now.”

This part of the ordeal was a blur to Rory. This was a nice neighborhood. This store had never been robbed as far as he could remember. He couldn’t believe it was happening here.

The man carried the plastic bag out of the store and Rory breathed a sigh of relief. But the man tripped on the curb on the other side of the road, tripped and shot himself in the head.

Rory immediately ran to the scene and, without thinking, reached down and grabbed the plastic bag. Before the attendant could come out of the store, he threw it into the bushes.

He knelt down next to him at a respectful distance.

“I called the police,” said the attendant, running out of the door.

“Some kid ran away with the money. He went that way,” Rory pointed away from his house.

The interview with the police went flawlessly. They didn’t search the area and, as far as Rory could tell, he was in the clear. Now he just had to get it.

By Tyler Cowen

Tyler Cowen has been reviewing ethnic restaurants in the DC Metro area since before I was forced to learn how to write cursive. His chapter on eating well in his first book (“Discover Your Inner Economist”) I thought would be enough. But “An Economist Gets Lunch” is without a doubt one of the best no-nonsense guides to eating and food that I have ever read.

Over-thinking it doesn’t even begin to describe what’s going on here (in a good way). The first chapter tries to answer the question, ‘Why does American food suck so bad?’ A couple hints: It’s not what Michael Pollan says, it may or may not have had something to do with Prohibition and it’s your kids’ fault.

But therein lies the scope of this book. It’s a macroscopic look at an industry that, more than any others in the modern world, is almost exclusively governed by free market economic conditions.

And at the same time he focuses intently one one region of the world (Mexico/Central America) or even one cuisine (barbeque).

You will find yourself getting answers to questions you may have been asking your entire life, but never knew it.

Why is it that French food is almost always better in other countries? How and where should you eat in Tokyo? In fact, what is the most efficient way to get to your desired restaurant in Tokyo? Of course these are questions that we may not necessarily need the answers to, but are still interesting to think about.

If you are very serious about ‘eating green’ I would strongly recommend reading this book. Do you really think that eating locally is the best way to save the world? Would it surprise you that this is a very shortsighted thought and runs against the best use of land and transportation efficiency?

When I picked this book up, I was genuinely curious about how much mileage Cowen was going to get out of, “eat Korean food at strip malls.” If you do not have a radically improved sense for all the factors at play leading to tasty treats hitting your tongue after you’ve gone through it, then you may need to reread this book.

Heck you might even have to get a second copy. The last 50 pages are an encyclopedia of eating best practices around the world. Throw it in your to-go bag.

For those of you who live in the DC metro area, and you like not spending too much money on good food, this, along with his ethnic dining guide, is indispensable. His advice on reading Yelp reviews is one of the hidden gems of this book. If you are even remotely interested in food beyond a means of sustinence, “An Economist Gets Lunch” should be at the top of your pile.

A person in love, engaging in a difficult enterprise when promised a reward for high achievement pays a grim penalty in an unfortunate undertaking.

Love. Glorious Love.

By: Heath Gordon

“Mom! My new name is Aiko.”

“You know I’m not going to call you that, now get rid of that doll.”

“Her name is Hoshiko, it means child of the stars.”

“I don’t care, she doesn’t belong at the dinner table.”

“She belongs everywhere I belong.”

Bodey “Aiko” Gustofsen squinted his eyes. He must be stoic. He must not bow down in the face of these aggressors. But when his gaze shifted to the 5“ 1′ pliable mass of silicone putty with eyes that showed a depth that no one, especially not his parents, could understand, he faltered and let his guard down.

“Mark help me out here!” Good, mother was losing her cool. Aiko was in charge of his emotions. He would prevail.

His father even looked exasperated. “Bodey-”

“Aiko!”

“Aiko, you can’t bring it to the table.”

“Her.”

“It’s not living.”

“To you it’s not.”

Aikos father glared. Under his father’s uncompromising stare, Aiko buckled and began to weep. He jumped down off of his chair, threw Hoshiko over his shoulder and limped his way into the bedroom.

“They will never approve of our love,” he said, in between sobs.

So we must get rid of them.

“What are you talking about? Are you saying we should run away together?”

No, I mean that you must get rid of them.

Aiko’s eyes widened. “I understand.” He must dispatch his parents. With honor. He walked over to his desk, bowed, and grabbed the katana and wakezashi off of their stand on his desk. Tucking the smaller one into his belt he shuffled back out into the kitchen, interrupting his parents in the middle of a heated argument. He held the katana in his palms, outstretched, offering it to his father.

“Father we must duel. I am offering you the katana. I have taken my wakezashi. This is the only way to make it right.”

There was a long pause. “Son what in the hell are you talking about.”

“I am challenging you to single combat. You have dishonored my love, now I must reclaim my honor.”

Aiko’s father rose and grabbed the plastic sword out of his son’s hand and threw it across the kitchen. It clattered across the linoleum. “I’ve had enough of this shit.”

Quick as lightning. Silent as the wind. Aiko reached for his sword. But his father was faster and punched him in the jaw. Aiko found himself on the floor. His face was numb for a second and then the pain exploded. He could barely breath, but still managed to weep openly. Dishonor.

The next day Aiko was put on a bus to a camp in Arizona. Hoshiko’s life ended honorably, cut into pieces by a kitchen knife and then burned in a trashcan in the backyard.

But Aiko did not know this. And it was only the love of Hoshiko that kept his spirits up as the other boys yelled at him and made fun of him for his pale pasty skin.

Another Trick For Creating ‘Real’ Characters

Last week we discussed one method for creating distinct characters. This is a completely different way to think about it.

One of the tricks that Matt Groening uses to make sure he has distinct characters is to make them have a distinct outline. Think about any Simpson’s character. They all look very different. There are a couple special episodes where they make fun of that actually.

Well you can’t actually see any of the characters in your story. And, if you’re writing in Limited POV, you only get to peer inside the brain of one of your characters.

So you’ve got to create distinct dialogue. This isn’t like Huckleberry Finn where you could probably decipher who is speaking based off of how the dialect is written.

It means that if you should isolate a piece of dialogue, it should be easily attributable to a character.

Now here’s a caveat: Don’t go overboard. But the way you should be doing this is with the careful use of subtext.

When a character (or even you) says something, there are two things going on. There’s the thing we are saying (text) and there’s the thing that we want (subtext). When I ask my girlfriend if there’s anything she wants for dinner I’m really saying “I’m too lazy to decide. I’m willing to not cook if it means I have to do the dishes.”

When you’re talking to a friend’s ex-girlfriend and she asks how you’re doing she’s actually saying “Start talking so you might actually mention my boyfriend.”

Yes, subtext is all about context. If you’re aware of the context, and the dialogue you are examining isn’t about bringing a character closer to the thing that he or she wants, then you may want to retool it.

Subtext is probably the hardest part of writing to nail.

It goes without saying, but if you’re doing multiple POV writing (this is tough and I’m going to go out on a limb and say that if you’re reading advice from me, you’re underqualified) the inner monologue of a character should follow this rule.

The best example I can come up with off of the top of my head (and this book is probably the best example for just about anything you ever wanted to learn about writing) is “Confederacy of Dunces.” Every single one of those characters is deeply unique and it shows in their dialogue.

Just some food for thought. If you feel like you need to flesh out your writing, this may be one way to do it.

Image

There were smoking lounges in the Hindenburg.

Stop the Madness: A Plea for Grammar Laxity.

What happens when you let children choose their own diets? <-seriously this is awesome

James Patterson

Yeah you read that right, I read a James Patterson novel. He’s the highest paid writer in the world for a reason. Every year he publishes a beach-themed thriller. This is one of them.

I won’t digress into an analysis of this book, but there is one thing to always keep in mind about James Patterson. His first job was as an ad executive. He is literally the guy that came up with “I’m a Toys ‘R’ Us Kid.” So he is obviously a man to be trusted.

Ned Kelly (if you’re familiar with Australian culture, this guy is a notorious outlaw) is from Boston, but lives in Palm Beach. He’s dating some really rich lady and wants to make some money to impress her. So some friends approach him, they’re going to steal some arts and he’s going to get a cut. He’s like, yeah.

But when it all goes down, something goes horribly wrong! The art has already been stolen. Also all of his friends are dead.

Suddenly the FBI is hot on his trail. They think he did it.

But then a n00b agent, who’s really just an art expert, is taken hostage by him. The crazy thing is (and I seriously mean crazy) she believes him that he didn’t do it. Will they fall in love? Yes. Yes they will.

If there’s one thing that this book had going for it, it’s that I could not put it down. The thing is 400 pages long with 111 chapters. That means the average ‘chapter’ is 3.6 pages. The plot was always moving and there are rarely good stopping points.

That having been said the whole thing was ludicrous. At one point Ned Kelly jumps an opening drawbridge on a motorcycle. Compelling stuff.

The dialogue is worse than anything from a Lifetime made for TV movie.

I can’t even imagine somebody paying $25 for a hardcover version of this. But yet there are people who do. They buy every single one.

My official recommendation is to at least try it once. If you have the attention span of a typical post-MTV mind, you might find the fast plots, quick cuts and vapid characters comforting.

You might even come out better for it. Imagine eating gray hamburger for a week and then you get to go back to steak. Steak with caramelized onions and avocados. Oh man, and it has curly fries. Curly fries are awesome. And you’re eating it at one of those places where all the waiters are weiring black shirts that are tucked in. Okay lunch time.

A benevolent person seeking to save a person who is accused of transgression emerges from a trying ordeal with sorely garnered wisdom.

Bon Weekend!

POCKET WATCH
by John E. Poole

George was far too drunk for this. The lump in his throat fell to the pit of his stomach and seemed to feed on the assorted spirits within. The empty pocket which he was still needlessly searching through should have contained a wallet. But there was no wallet to be had. He closed his eyes and could almost see it laying on his bedside table with that smug look inanimate objects get when you grossly misuse them. “Oh shit,” he thought he whispered. A shady character a few stools down gave a single loud chuckle, seemingly at the mere use of profanity.

Hank the Bartender appeared from what George would later insist was midair. “Wha’d ya say? You cashin’ out, buddy?” He was a spritely little jerk with immaculate hair and tattoos that required intricate explanations. He was in that age range George despised, still young enough to be a know-it-all but also old enough for it to start actually convincing people.

George pulled his hand from his still empty pocket. “Err… Not quite yet.” He stifled any further elaborations with a quick gulp of his final cocktail. He saw the lone chuckler down the bar unknowingly sip his beer in unison. George hated when that happened.

“Well just give me a yell, dude.” Hank shuffled off to help a cluster of regulars who had just walked in the front while George glanced around for the nearest exit. He was less than surprised to find himself dead center at the bar, equidistant from a front door people were still piling in through, and a back patio on which Eric the Bouncer could be seen smoking. No viable exit and the worst possible seat in the house because he wanted to be close to a jukebox he didn’t even get a chance to look through.

While he sat pondering the ramifications of wearing headphones at a bar, he slowly became aware that the stranger from down the bar had drunkenly sauntered up beside him, leaving his half empty beer where he had been sitting. The man spoke as soon as George noticed him.

“Hi. My name is– call me Bob,” he said, and he gave George a smile like he’d just let him in on a joke.

“OK, Bob. I’m George.”

“George!” yelled Bob. Hearing his own name so loud and clear sent a fresh pang of guilt into the pit of George’s stomach. “Now there’s a name!”

“Yep. There it is.” George took a fresh gulp to keep more words at bay and placed his drink back down on a damp coaster. Bob gave a quick glance around, then leaned in close enough for his breath to add a twist of Budweiser to the conversation.

“George, you look like a betting man to me.”
“Well I’ll try to work on that, Bob.”
“Since I plan to be a very rich man in the not-too-distant future, I’d like to make a little wager with you.”
“Well Bob, I don’t really have any–”

Hank materialized. “Another round for you guys?”

“Nope,” said Bob. “Ask me again in five.”

“Sure thing,” said Hank, and he was gone.

“Here’s my proposition,” said Bob. “If I can guess how much money you have in your pockets within ten dollars, I get it all. But if I’m wrong, you get all the cash in MY pockets and… what the hell let’s say I’ll owe you a round.”

George’s mind was suddenly racing. Surely this was somehow his golden ticket to skipping out on his tab. If this guy guessed anything over ten dollars George was home free. Then again, if Bob had already gathered that George had no money, Bob would win out for sure. But why would he make such a prize if he knew George was broke? Is he just that drunk? And what happens if BOB doesn’t have any cash either? Wouldn’t that just be perfect? George was far too drunk for this.

“I have to ask you, Bob. What would posess you to make such a strange bet?”
“What can I say, George? I guess I’m just not too worried about money right now.” They heard the back door swing open and looked to see Eric the Bouncer barreling back inside.

George thought for another brief moment, took one final sip of his drink and turned to Bob. “How about if I can guess how much is in YOUR pocket, you just pay my tab? And if I’M wrong, I’ll give you everything I’ve got, and… what the hell let’s say you can have my car.”

Bob let out the same punctuated laugh he had earlier. “OK, smart guy. Lay it on me then.”

George stood up from his stool and looked Bob over. He studied his clothes, his shoes and his watch. He looked at how he carried himself, the way he spoke and the way he acted. He took it all in with a visible concentration. Finally after considering all the factors, he looked straight into Bob’s eyes and yelled, “Eric, this guy’s got a GUN, he’s gonna ROB THE PLACE!!”

Bob jumped up from his stool and froze in place looking more like a deer in headlights than any deer ever could, as Eric charged for him fist first. In a matter of moments, Eric had Bob pinned down to the floor in the middle of a circle of onlookers as he searched Bob’s pockets. From the front right pocket he brought out a set of keys, a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. From the front left pocket he pulled a loaded pistol with no serial numbers.

Bob lay whimpering beneath Eric the Bouncer. “How,” asked Bob. “How did he know?” Eric looked up to ask just in time to see George through the gathering crowd. He was running out of the back door with Bob’s unfinished beer in his hand.

Pick Your Friends

By Heath Gordon

On his 10^th birthday, Geoffrey was told that he could go down to the local SPCA and could pick out any cat or kitten he wanted. Underneath a pile of ravaged wrapping paper Geoffrey almost slipped and fell he was so excited. He was almost willing to skip eating his birthday cake to go get a new pal.

When the candles were out and he was starting to get grumpy from all of the cake and candy and punch they all piled into a car.

His chubby hands left dirty smears on the windows as the family turned into the hot parking lot. Geoffrey didn’t so much like the inside of the building. It smelled funny and most of the cats were sad. He wandered around. This was going to be a tough choice.

His father wouldn’t stop sneezing and his mother kept pointing out all the cats he might like to take home.

But back in the corner was a momma cat with its full litter of kittens. One was up front, experiencing a big world for the first time, two were tumbling around, to the annoyance of the clearly exhausted mother, three were napping and one was in the back corner.

Geoffrey stood in front of the cage, silently.

“Do you like those kitties?” asked his mother.

He nodded.

She called over one of the volunteer in her clean green polo shirt and opened the cage. She reached in and went to pick up the one in front. “No, please,” said Geoffrey. “I want the one in back.”

The volunteer hesitated and then reached back. That was a cat that clearly didn’t want to be picked up. And, although it gave a feeble hiss, it was quickly placed in Geoffrey’s outstretched arms. It wriggled and hissed and generally sunk its claws into Geoffrey’s sweatshirt. “I want this one.”

“Are you sure you don’t want that cute one up front?” she asked, thinking of her furniture.

“No, this one. He needs a friend.”

His mother couldn’t argue with that logic, after all why else was she getting her son a kitten? So after her husband signed the check and all the paperwork they were out the door with a brand new member of the family.

On the ride home Geoffrey dangled his finger into the carrier and his father almost swerved off the road when he yelled after the kitten slashed him with her sharp little claws.

Inside the house it immediately ran behind a sofa and only came out at night.

This was to be its (Scratches) way of living. To stay out of sight for the better part of the day, only emerging to nip at wayward toes, claw at an unsuspecting napper or stay underfoot when groceries were being carried.

By his 11^th birthday, Geoffrey hated that cat, especially after it had peed on its shoes. Sometimes he would leave the front door open just in case the cat might make a break for it. Even when he went away to college, every time he phoned home, his parents had another story of a broken bowl, ruined furniture or a bitter house guest.

So now Geoffrey has learned his lesson and makes friends with friendly people.

And, I’ll tell you what, I could buy a heck of a lot of pork rinds with it.

Thanks everybody who’s been cheering me on. Hope this is a good start.