Walking The Course

I have always loved horses, and history. Combining the two, I became a carriage driver. As a carriage driver, I give historical tours. Even when I'm not driving carriage, I give historical tours. Ask my family; I'm sure it annoys them.

So when I was informed by a co-worker that the Utah Heritage Foundation would be giving tours of the buildings at Exchange Place I jumped at the opportunity to go, even if it meant operating the rest of the day on only four hours of sleep.

I met my friend and fellow carriage driver, MBA, downtown and we proceeded to pester the guides with obscure questions throughout the tour. The buildings are beautiful, and while the architecture is mirrored in the twin buildings, they are fraternal rather than identical. I know this because the first question I asked, before the tour even began, was "Why is there a buffalo head on the Newhouse building but not on the Boston building?"

The answer was, "I have no idea."

Obviously we were off to a successful start. But after that the tour was wonderful, except for the part where MBA tried to get me to look down the stairwell from the 11th floor.

Side note: I do not like heights. I'm quite content to stay no higher than the 3rd floor at a hotel. Taking those glass elevators makes me clench my fists and stop breathing. The idea of going on that glass bottom walk way that goes out over the Grand Canyon…well, we're not even going to talk about the puckering that ignites. But MBA took a Zipline through a rainforest, because people convinced her it would be cool. I would have to be drunk to the point of unconsciousness to do that, and still I'd prefer hacking my way across land with a machete, fending off poop slinging monkeys and millipedes the size of my arm, to zooming across the sky wearing an epic-wedgie inducing thong on a cable engineered and installed by people with remedial education.

In other words, it squicks me out.

Anyway, back on topic; the tour was informative and now if I take people down Main Street as far as the 400 South block, I can talk about the Newhouse, Boston, and Exchange Club buildings with some degree of accuracy.

And while I cannot tell you why there is a buffalo head on the Newhouse building I can tell you why there are lion heads on both: it was a symbol of industry.

The Newhouse Building:

The beautiful marble stairs in the Newhouse building. Utah has no native marble, so this was imported from Georgia. The marble is only on the first level because Samuel Newhouse ran out of money. But at least the lobby looks nice!

The stairs in the Boston building were tile and terrazzo.

I'm okay with looking UP a stairwell, but declined when invited to take the same photo looking down.

The lion was a symbol for industry. Both buildings have this detail around the top.

The style of the buildings are the same but some of the decorative details differ.

The building has a mail chute that runs the height of the building. All the mail ends up in this post box at the bottom. I forgot to inquire if it is still in use.























The Exchange Club was like a men's club/gym for the employees of the stock and banking businesses.

The Birds, Without Bees

I love educating people. I'd be a teacher if it wasn't for the fact that I intensely dislike other people's children. But I've been known to spend long units of time blathering on about horses, food, the weather, Southern Utah's Red Rock country…well, you get the picture.

So it was no surprise that while taking some teenagers around Temple Square I stopped to show them a well known resident. Salt Lake City is home to a nesting pair of
Peregrine Falcons. In my family we do some casual bird watching so I'm familiar with numerous breeds. Plus being that I work outside pretty much next to the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, where the birds have a nesting box, I've seen them and their offspring swooping around downtown. On this particular evening I came around the corner from North Temple onto State Street and happened to notice one of the falcons perched on the top of the front corner of the apartment building across the street. Stopping the carriage opposite the building I pointed the bird out to the occupants and said,

"It's sitting up there, possibly waiting for an unsuspecting bird to fly by, then it will dive down and make a meal out of it."

Because in theory that's the type of behavior they should be doing.

As we're watching the Peregrine, another bird flies into the vicinity.

"Maybe it'll attack that bird," I tell them.

The second bird flaps over, and lands next to the Peregrine. Then we all watch as it hops on the first bird's back, has its way with it, then flies off.

Wham. Bam. Thank you ma'am.

Silence ensues.

Crap, did that really just happen? Did I just expose these kids to Bird Porn? There's gonna be a phone call, I'm sure.

As they say, timing is everything.

You can watch the nesting pair of falcons from the comfort of your computer. That works well for me, because I'm not a big fan of heights.

http://wildlife.utah.gov/peregrine/

One More For The Road

Don't you just hate it when you run past a blog you follow and it's same old crap as was there the last time you visited?

Yeah, me too.

<-- Insert eyeroll here

The problem as I see it is this: I haven't really been driving carriage much lately, and with the exception of having my horse, Dreamer's, teeth floated a few weeks back, not much equine related has been going on.

And, contrary to public opinion, that is what the whole "Slave Driver" name is about.

We did get one more "Rental Cat" (also known as a Foster). His name is Opi and he's older, a male and foreign (Siamese). He's not as dog friendly as Zita was, but that whole Dog/Cat relationship bordered on very weird anyway.

Opi will be the last foster for either a while, or ever. My mother is coming to live with us, so the whole cat operation is coming to an end. Which is okay with Mr. Slave Driver, because although he is not totally opposed to cats, he is not exactly enamored with the smell of their litter box.

I've been writing my newest work-in-progress; It's a romantic comedy called Another You. Here's the first part of the synopsis/elevator pitch:

Gun shy after two failed marriages, Sammie Fallon finally meets a man who's intelligent, handsome, loyal, energetic, hard working and attentive to her moods. She thinks he's great; her friends all like him, and if it wasn't for one tiny thing, he'd be perfect for her:

She suspects he might be the reincarnation of her dead dog.

Jack McCune was a player, always making time with the girls but never getting emotionally invested. When a tragic accident almost kills Jack, and takes the life of a girl he was dating, he realizes he didn’t even bother to learn her last name. Wracked with survivors guilt, and able to being a new lease on life, Jack vows to find the girl of his dreams and become a devoted, loving companion.

I've also been dinking around with my website. I bought my domain last year but haven't had a chance to find a host and put it online. So if you have a minute go over to LisaDeon.com and let me know what you think. It's still rough around the edges, but that's what DIY gets. And don't bother clicking on the "My Alter Ego" link. It'll just bring you right back here.

And if one more person buys a copy of my short, Splitting The Difference, I'll actually get paid. Not enough to buy that RV I covet, but I get a footlong from Subway.

Blasphemy And Other Avocations

Living in an area with a high concentration of Christians whose religion is only slightly less restrictive than the Amish faith, it was refreshing to be surrounded by people celebrating the Hindu holiday of, well, Holi Day.

Lathmar Holi, also known as the "Festival of Color," has been going on in other parts of the world for around 5000 years. But according to the coverage presented by our local Fox affiliate, the Lotus Temple in Spanish Fork, Utah is the only place where the Festival of Colors is celebrated in the United States.

Too bad for the rest of you non-Utah people because it was awesome.

This was our first excursion, the Kid and I. I'd passed the Hari Krishna Temple last fall on our way to Moab, and it's a beautiful building.

Situated on a hill surrounded by farmland, cars were parked on the side of the main road for miles. With my penchant for being early, we got a great spot across the street and only paid $5 to park. Being from Chicago, I can tell you that $5 to park in the middle of some dude's cow pasture is a hella deal.

So that was a win, and we didn't have to wait in line very long to buy the colored chalk-like powder you throw in the air, and at people, and on stuff… And sometimes you just rub it in someone's hair. And the powder is also scented, which is good, because if most of the other people were like us, they also eschewed their daily shower until they got home, knowing they'd be covered. What we didn't know was how hard it would be to breathe while the throwing is going on and next year we will make sure we do the following:

Wear a bandanna and sunglasses.

White and black clothes bring out the brightness of the colors.

Cover your camera in plastic wrap.

Bring someone you love.

In other news, Zita, the most recent foster cat, found her forever home this weekend with a friend of mine. We met while volunteering for Sundance, share the same initials, and worked on a movie together a few years back. She saw the kitty on Facebook, decided to visit her at an adoption event, and fell in love. She is both pleased and astonished at Zita's tenacious personality and is happy to be able to give her a forever home. However, our big fluffy white dog Luna, who thought the cat was her pet, has been searching for Zita for two days now.

But she'll get over it.

My short, Splitting The Difference is available from Amazon.com and everyone who purchases a copy between now and December 2012 gets a free Mayan Calendar!*

*Not really. Have you any idea how much shipping would be? Those puppies are made of stone. Plus if you liked it you wouldn't be able to get another one for 2013 because the World's supposed to end.

Monkeys Need Not Apply

I love gadgets. I get that from my dad. He loved gadgets with a passion that was only surpassed by his affection for watching TV. And if you combined Television with gadgets, he was in Heaven. While other families had to make do with watching a show and then using their brains to remember things about it, we had a VCR. Less fortunate families were stuck cooking with something as archaic as fire. We had a microwave. And I cannot even recall the amount of remote controllers we cycled through in a decade.

So you can imagine my bitter disappointment as an adult that all the things my generation was promised back in the 60's (cities springing up on the moon where we live in big oxygen filled domes; self cleaning houses, flying cars and personal robots to do all the drudge work; a cure for the common cold, etc) have not yet come to fruition. The closest thing we have to a self cleaning house and robots, besides hoards of illegal immigrants doing menial work for low pay and no benefits, is the Roomba robotic vacuum. And the only reason why I have not run right out and bought one is I'm sure the dog hair in my house would kill it pretty damn quick. If I did get a Roomba I'd also have to get a little monkey to pluck the gobs of hair out of it every ten minutes, and monkeys, according to Mr. Slave Driver, make nasty pets. The pet monkey he knew sat on top of his friend's television, masturbated, and flung crap at house guests.

If I want to see that, I'll watch MTV.

Okay, back to the topic of gadgets: Besides having a Kindle, which is a high tech reading device, I recently purchased a low tech reading device called a Book Hugger. My friend and fellow writer Clancy Metzger and I saw this demonstrated by the inventor, Paul,

at the
Tucson Festival of Books and decided it was a "Must Have."

Clancy and I both purchased Book Huggers, because we liked the idea of having something else hold our books for us. In my case it's because, as everyone should have figured out by now, I'm really lazy. And I like to read while I eat. Sometimes propping a book up across the TV remote or using the remote to keep the book open to the pages I'm reading (both low tech uses for a high tech object, essentially using a remote as a rock) doesn’t work out so well. Plus then Mr. Slave Driver, who likes to watch TV while he eats, cannot randomly change channels every 2.3 seconds. Because I'm using the remote for a purpose it was not designed for.

Enter the Book Hugger.

What this device does is hold your book, making reading almost hands free.

When I initially showed my people the Book Hugger they mocked me and said soon I'd develop tiny, useless Tyrannosaurus Rex arms, good for not much more than wobbling around, scaring off crows in a cornfield.

But then I showed them how you can prop it on its side and read in bed and they were impressed. Plus it has a light, and extends. Eventually they became sullen and wished I'd bought one for them, since I was on an out of town trip and am expected to bring gifts upon my return.


I really like this product, and not in a Facebook "Like" way, which only gives you the one option. It's a useful tool. You still have to turn the pages, unless you own a monkey, in which case you can train your monkey to turn the pages for you. That is, when he's not pleasuring himself with the zeal of Charlie Sheen or flinging crap at people from atop your television set.

Book Hugger. Get one. And the light. Buy one of those too.

*Do not get a monkey.

On another note, I only need to sell 1,096,632 more copies of my short story, Splitting The Difference, in order to buy that $329,000.00 RV I covet. And only another seven copies to get paid! So tell your friends, it's available through Amazon.com.

*Monkey option not available through Hugabook.com

Cats And Dogs, Living In Sin

Our foster cat, Zita, has been here a little over a week now, and, well, things are not quite right…

When we disclosed to the director of the foster cat program that having a more dog friendly cat might be better for the cat, we were thinking about how miserable poor Wednesday was. Because of her dog induced anxiety, she limited herself to the basement, and although she craved human/cat interaction, she only got it when someone went downstairs to spend quality time with her. But even around people she could be skittish and shy.

Enter Zita.

At twice the poundage of Wednesday, she began her reign of feline dictatorship subtlety, and with panache. At first, she feigned submission, crouching down and flattening her ears while Luna motorboated her repeatedly.

Luna is a sweet dog, but she's about as gentle as elephant strip-searching a peanut vendor.

After pointedly ignoring Luna's shoving her around, looking for who knows what, Zita finally had enough and began to school Luna in the fine art of diplomacy. A small bite, here, a grabbing of the muzzle there, until finally Luna got a scratch on her nose, and quit her harassment.

And that's about as close as we’ve gotten here to détente.

Here is a photographic play-by-play of the events:

Zita is just hanging around on the coffee table minding her own business...

First come the sneak...

Then comes the nose poke.

Then we have the wrestling.

And the in your face antaginism.

Then...

And finally, a truce in the hallway.

Shamefull, I know.



And at least when the foster cat stands up for herself, I don’t have to get in the middle of it.

Warning: Flagrant self promotion ahead:
My short, Splitting the Difference, is available for download at
Amazon.com in Kindle format. If you don’t have a Kindle, you can download a free Kindle app for iPhone/iPad/iTouch or PC here. I'm working in getting the short up on Smashwords. I am kind of lazy, but you should know that by now.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Our last foster cat, Wednesday, was of slight build and timid but loving disposition. And while she craved the attention of the humans in the household, she shriveled, hid and snarled at the canine members. Her demeanor at adoption events was similar to a convict awaiting execution, and at one event she did so poorly the volunteers covered her cage with a towel because she hissed at anyone who looked in her direction.

Not exactly the type of behavior one hopes their foster cat displays in public. It kind of puts a damper on the whole "Looking for a cute, cuddly kitty to adopt" thing.

Eventually Wednesday found a new home with a person who was dogless, and we went about our busy schedules in December and January. During dinner at Fudruckers the other night I received a text from the director of the No More Homeless Pets in Utah foster cat program. She advised me that there was a cat available to foster that loved dogs. Was I interested?

We discussed it during our meal and decided that yes, indeed we could manage another foster now that things had settled down and I arranged to collect the cat the next morning.

I picked up a female tabby named Zita who was very friendly and only cried once on the way home in the crate. After our arrival I put her in the "panic room."

We have a special room in the house where we store an old waterbed and keep the foster cats. This is for their own protection. It's a room with a baby gate in the doorway that allows the cat easy access to its food and water but limits the presence of dogs who only want to maraud and pillage, gobbling down the cat food, then raping and disemboweling the cat toys. I'm not going into detail about what atrocities they manage with the litter box, but bobbing for apples comes to mind.

So the gate is up to allow the cat to dive into the room when taking cover is the best course of action. And with the waterbed, and a few other things we have stored in the room, it's easy to lose track of a kitty because there are fabulous little nooks and crannies for a cat to hide in, on, and under. When we foster a cat we're required make the cat wear a break-away cat collar with an I.D. tag on it. Last time I had Wednesday's name engraved on it and the person who adopted her kept the collar. This time I got a generic tag that says, "Foster Cat; Scan my tag" engraved on a purple heart and attached to a pink collar. A pink collar with a bell. Those little tiny bells that they put on cat collars to warn birds that a cat is about to turn them into a McNugget.

And therein lies the amusement. Because while I was attaching the I.D. tag to the collar, and Zita was tucked safely away in the cat room, the two dogs, hearing the bell tinkle, went apeshit looking for a cat in the kitchen. Because of the bell.

Anyway, for your consideration, Zita, a spayed female tabby approximately two years old, is available. Look for her at an adoption event soon!

(I'll put up a link as soon as NMHPU adds her to Petfinder.)

Life, The Universe, and BYU

I attended the 29th annual Life, The Universe, and Everything conference at Brigham Young University last week. It's geared towards Science Fiction and Fantasy writers, but as those non-romance writers who have attended some of the Utah RWA chapter's events can attest, there are many things a writer can learn that are valid across the genre board. Plus it was only an hour from my house and a paltry $20. So, what's not to like.

Some of the workshops were geared towards beginners. (What's a query letter? What does an agent do?) I have no problems with sitting in on beginner workshops because it gives me a chance to rest my brain. While my brain is in neutral I watch cartoons in my head, which is my happy place. Since I had my netbook and internet access, when I got bored of my head-cartoon re-runs I watched some You Tube videos. One of my favorites is about a Mini Horse named Cupcake. I love the song that goes with the video.

(Warning: catchy song that will give you an earworm and also make you want to run to the bakery and get a dozen cupcakes. And adopt a miniature horse. Do not do either on the spur of the moment! Both options have consequences.)



Cupcake The Herdmaster*


I also admit to searching eBay for a Hari-Kari swords during one of my darker, more bored to death moments. But my compatriots lured me away from ritual suicide with the promise of wine at the end of the tunnel.

I also skipped some of the presentations because I'm not religious in any way, shape or form and do not figure much religion into my writing. A class on Mormons and the Paranormal or Using the Scriptures as a Basis for Fiction are too chocked full of potential triggers for me to spiral down into paroxysm of donkey-like braying that it is best for all involved if I abstain.

I was intrigued to find out that the presenters had to sign a contract with a non-swearing clause. I would have liked to have taken a look at such a contract; are the naughty words spelled out or only alluded to? It is three strikes you're out kind of thing or can you get a do-over? And does it count if you either apologize or say, "Oops!" after murmuring the offending word? Also, while Damn and Hell are specific (you wouldn’t "Sentence someone to heck for all eternity" as it's weak and confusing) should you get nailed for spirit as opposed to letter? Substituting "Fricking" still gets the initial idea across, although to me it's lame. And while no one dropped the "F-Bomb" the term "F-Bomb" was used. Since people can simultaneously translate "F-Bomb" or "F-Word" into its actual form, are you really accomplishing anything? Plus, it's all subjective anyway. What one person finds offensive another might find wry.

During one workshop about villains I discovered that the instructor had no idea who Hannibal Lecter was, which to me was appalling. I regret missing the lecture titled Zombies! but I had by that time behaved myself well enough during some most of the classes that I had earned several glasses of wine and wanted to reap my rewards. But my most favorite class was titled Lessons on Story from "The Hunger Games" which I enjoyed immensely. Unfortunately the presenter had only read the first book so he could not comment on my question about the love triangle conflict.

BYU, for those who are college geography impaired, is in Provo, Utah. People who live in Provo call Salt Lake City "Sin City". You don't even want to know what they call Las Vegas. When my friend and I stopped for breakfast at Village Inn the waitress asked if we wanted to start off with water, juice or hot chocolate. I had to ask for coffee, and then I had to wait for them to brew it. There was also a woman participant in the conference who brought her infant into Every. Single. Class. Many of which we had together. And her infant never failed to fuss and cry. In one class I heard a woman comment to a man sitting next to her that, "People don’t mind at all, this is Utah." This made me realize she was sitting behind me. I got up and moved. And her answer for every time the baby squawked was to pop the tot onto her breast for a meal.

No wonder we have an obesity problem in America.

Note: Shameless promotion ahead -->

My short story Splitting The Differenceis available at Amazon.com for the low low price of .99 cents. I saw a Motor Home at the RV show last weekend I really like. It's $329,000.00 so if I sell 1,096,645 more copies I can buy that puppy outright!

*Cupcake is a member of BlueStar Equiculture You should go to their website and read all about the great work they do.

Spiderman, Organ Failure, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police

I know, it makes no sense. Allow me to explain:

The Sundance Film Festival arrived and departed Utah last month. As usual the festival was accompanied by a plethora of fun filled and feckless moments;

Tina, Dena and Slave Driver stood first in line for the Awards party, trying to get in early by using lines like, "We're with the band," and "We're Elmo's stylists…" And while none of the falsehoods worked, we did enjoy making the uber-trendy fellow behind us mutter, "They're sucking out all of my energy," accompanied by an eye roll and a heavy sigh. Which just goes to show you that many moms consider themselves successful if they can not only embarrass/annoy their own child, but can accomplish the same feat with someone else's offspring. Truly, it separates the amateurs from the professionals.

There were some wonderful films. At least that's what I heard. I only saw three, (Being Elmo; Submarine; Buck) one of which I was not a fan (Note to the distributers of "Submarine": while I'm sure based on the fact that the Joe Dunthorne book was popular it seemed like a good idea to turn it into a movie, may I suggest avoiding marketing this film to parents. "Why?" ask the savvy Free Marketeers. "Because," responds Slave Driver, "as the parent of a teenager, I can get all the drama and angst I want at home. For free."

And while I loved both "Being Elmo" and "Buck", many times for me the "real" entertainment is out in the lobby of the theater, not inside where the screen is.

For example, the first Sunday of the evening tends to be pretty tame at our humble Salt Lake venue. After all, most of the beautiful people are in Park City attending premiers, parties, and collecting as much swag as they can pile onto their publicists. Several of us were standing around, waiting for Alexi to introduce our last show of the evening, when in through the doors walked three scruffy looking young guys. After tilting my head and squinting real hard, I realized one of them was Tobey McGuire. They asked if they could still get into the film, Like Crazy, (which eventually won an award.) Luckily for them, it was Sunday night in Salt Lake, the film had not generated a ton of buzz yet, and the house had not achieved critical mass. Miguel grabbed some tickets for them while I escorted the trio to available seats and Alexi made her way to the stage and introduced the film. It was fun having a "name" in the house, and without any of the hoopla and posturing normally associated with arriving celebrity.

On the other hand, the closer we get to the end of the festival, the more intense and downright crazy-ass people become. For example, on the following Sunday, while the theaters in Park City play a lot of the award winners along with a few random screenings of festival fare, the Rose Wagner is the only other venue still showing films in the valley, besides the Sundance Resort, which is way the heck up in Provo Canyon. So where do you think all the local pass holders go? Yeah, that's right, they come to the Rose. Which is great. I mean, we love our regular, loyal, treat them like family, local pass holders. And as hard as it is for you to believe, I am actually being sincere. I get hugs from my regulars. However, the sheer number of locals that decide to show up at our theater the last day plays havoc with the ticketing system and throws all the computer generated models out the window. And what that means is:

The theater gets filled really fast and even if you arrive on time and you have a ticket, you still may not get in.

Which makes people really cranky. As you can imagine.

So on this particular day, for a movie called "Win, Win" starring Paul Giamatti, we turned a few folks away. Although unhappy, most of them were very gracious about it, having played the Sundance Shuffle before. Except for one guy. Claiming, loudly, to be a "Film Critic", he insisted that he was to be allowed to see the movie because he was a major asshat and was full of himself had interviewed Paul Giamatti. Alexi spent a long time with him, being very respectful, repeating over and over that since there was no place for him to sit, he would not be allowed into the theater. The gist of his reply was 1) he was a film critic 2) who had interviewed Paul Giamatti 3) from a foreign country 4) so we MUST LET HIM INTO THE THEATER, NOW, to see this film because 5) he had interviewed Paul Giamatti, and we had not. Plus he claimed to know the festival manager, which makes us shrug, because we too know the festival manager, and he does not make us tremble.

While listening to him rant at Alexi, I realized that the foreign country he hailed from was "Douchebagestan."* Knowing the only way to extract her from the situation, short of chewing her arm off and dragging her away, was to advise the Foreign Film Critique/ Paul Giamatti Interviewer point blank, that there was no seat available for him (I had already checked) and Alexi was done wasting spending her time explaining this to him because I needed her elsewhere.

Later, during an exchange in which I attempted to be nice (don’t snicker, I can fake it when I need to) the Film Critic proceeded to tell me that he would make sure that I would never work in the movie industry again (an industry I hadn’t realized I was employed in, being that I volunteer for the festival once a year and drive horse drawn carriage the remained of the time) and, after offering to have the sheriff escort him off the premise if he wished to make trouble, he countered with sending the Royal Canadian Mounted Police my way to arrest me.

I honestly had no idea the RCMP had jurisdiction in Utah. It just goes to prove that you can learn something new every day.

And last but not least, on the same evening, one of the other managers had to turn another patron away for a showing of a different film. Upon being advised that they were unable to attend the film, this patron told the other manager that they were in charge of the organ transplant department at a local university (I'm not telling you which one; it has a medical school, and their mascot's names rhymes with "fruits") and the manager better hope for the rest of his life that he never needed and organ transplant, because he would be denied. ** Hippocratic oath be damned!

Sigh…and eye roll.

So, I'm sure the title of this blog makes sense to you now.
I have to go, I need to hide from the Mounties while I look for a new kidney on eBay. It never hurts to hedge your bets.

*Not a real country. And although he threatened me with the RCMP I know he cannot be Canadian because all the Canadians I know are very nice. With the exception of one. But she doesn't count because I think of her more as a "Bitch" then as a "Canadian."

**Ironically, the manager who was threatened with Organ Transplant Black-Listing works for the medical school at the same university in another department. The entire exchange was witnessed by yet another university employee, and both of them planned on notifying the head of the Ethics department. Of course that doesn’t compare to being on the RCMP "Most Wanted" list…


If you've purchased my short story, "Splitting the Difference," THANK YOU! And please feel free to go back to Amazon and review it.

Coming To A Kindle Near You…

Several years ago, for Valentine's Day, I wrote a short story originally titled "Stupid Cupid." Full of promise, I sent it off to a romance magazine, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, it got all moldy and stinky on my laptop so I wrapped it in Saran wrap, stuck it in a folder, and waited some more like a good little unrepresented author.

I've done the same thing with my novel, except for the occasional attempt to entice an agent to represent my work. Then I got a Kindle for Christmas, and you know what? I love it. I downloaded The Hunger Games on Christmas morning. I liked that book so much that I downloaded the second one in the series one night after I got home from work. Upon finishing that one, I bought the final book in the series. That was at about two am. And all three times, I never left my house. Which was good, because I was wearing mt PJ's and smelled a little like horse.

And here is what I have to say about eBooks.

I love them. I love my Kindle. I love the cover with the light Mr.SD bought me. I love the fact that I don't need book marks. I enjoy having more than one book in the same compact book-like package. And apparently, I'm not the only one who likes it.

From USA Today 1/5/2011

USA TODAY's Best-Selling Books list, to be published Thursday, will show digital's new popularity: E-book versions of the top six books outsold the print versions last week. And of the top 50, 19 had higher e-book than print sales.

Let me emphasize one sentence of that small paragraph: E-book versions of the top six books outsold the print versions last week.

Now, believe me when I tell you that I know paper books will never be obsolete. For one thing I won’t be taking my Kindle into the pool. I'm not stupid. Plus I like to drink a little while I'm floating around so sometimes gravity gets the best of me. Plus, although you can lend Kindle books to other Kindle owners, it's not quite the same as passing a paperback copy of Water For Elephants around. On the other hand, I have no idea where my copy of Water For Elephants is, which would be eliminated via Kindle lending, since they get loaned out for two weeks then come back to your account, as if by magic. And I don’t see a small herd of rainbow color unicorns thundering in my direction with little book bags around their soft and fluffy rainbow colored necks, returning my stack of Sara Gruen Flying Changes: A Novel Water for Elephants: A Novelbooks.

Anyway, all that was pretty much off the track I wanted to be on. But when I tell you the rest of it, it'll make more sense:

I got tired of waiting for someone else to publish my short story, so I published it myself. On Amazon. I know, I know: What kind of crazy ass would choose to ditch the middle man and publish their work on the biggest grossing sales site on the internet. Silly, I know. But what the hell…

The first copy I sold was to myself, because I wanted to make sure it was formatted correctly. Apparently, I goofed up the paragraph indentation, so you'll have to excuse that. Then again, if you're a frequent reader of this blog, you're used to poor spelling and typos anyway.

By the way, you do not have to own a Kindle to read it. There is a free app available for downlaod to PC's. iPhones/pods/pads and Android based phones and tablets. In other words, you don't need a Kindle to read Kindle books.

So, for your consideration, available for the low, low price of .99 cents, is my charming little short, Splitting The Difference. I hope you like it. And if you do, I'd appreciate it if you’d tell your friends.

And if you don’t, go ahead and tell your enemies.

Watch This Space...

Kindle Wireless Reading Device, Wi-Fi, Graphite, 6" Display with New E Ink Pearl Technology

This is kind of a test, but more about that later...

Once More, With Feeling

Yes, slacker. That's me.

The Christmas Carriage season went well, with the exception of a couple of nights with a lot of snow. If people paying for a totally frivolous form of entertainment can be used as an economic indicator, then things are picking up.

It's a strange occupation I have; some nights I'm so bored, cold, sore or crabby it's all I can do to not growl at the people in my carriage. Other nights we have front row seats to "Weird Shit Window On The World."

For example: I was on a ride passing North Gate and I noticed two guys unloading one of the ugliest loveseats I've ever seen out of the back of a pickup. This caught my attention only because the North Gate of Temple Square is not a typical place to unload furniture. Then they unloaded what looked to be the base of a motorized scooter. Now, being that we travel at a whopping four miles per hour, we get to see a lot of stuff, and much of it, I don’t give a second thought to. This was one of those instances, until Carriage driver Kar later mentioned the motorized loveseat zipping down the road at warp speed.




(Photos courtesy of Carriage Driver Kar)

Ok, it was warp speed for a couch. They usually don’t go from 0-7 in two minutes. They usually go from 0 to 0. At least all the ones I've ever owned.

Then, of course, there was the Barking Dog From Hell experience. A bunch of us were stopped at the light on North Temple and Main street, with traffic stack up like pre-teens waiting for the doors to open at a general admission seating Justin Bieber concert. A little dog in a car two lanes over noticed the horses and started barking, barking, barking. The owners, as usual with annoying dogs that bark continuously, thought it was cute, so they rolled down their windows. enabling the rest of us captured in traffic to enjoy the festive sounds of Sir Barksalot.

"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark."
Rest; repeat.

This continued forever.

The stoplight, by the way, for whatever reason, was not functioning properly, so we sat there for a while, and finally I yelled to the barking dog people, "Doesn’t he know any other songs?"

They looked confused.

So I demonstrated for them by barking "Jingle Bells." Behind me, Crazy Shelley joined in. We sang one chorus, then we changed to a Salsa beat. Shelley sang the words this time, and I barked in appropriate places.

At long last the light changed. But not before we taught that dog a new song.