Marty's Action Blog!

With Friends Like This, Who Needs Giant Dancing Cows or Body Cavity Searches?

2012-01-23T09:58:00.001-05:00

It happens more often than I care to admit.

People stop me on the street and say, "Wow. Do you really live the life of unbridled excess and hedonistic debauchery that you describe on your blog?"

To which, I am forced to reply, "You bet."

Because, otherwise, how could you explain this?

You cannot explain this.

Face it. You're jealous.

You see me and you think, "Wow. That guy is so lucky. He gets to go to the food court at a mall and play the djembe drum while a giant cow in a tie-dye shirt hops around."

And you are correct.

And, while it is not technically my job, it is as close to a job as I have at times. As an author/illustrator/back-up drummer, my life is a thrilling, non-stop adventure of thrilling, non-stop adventures.

Let us take, for example, last Thursday, a fairly typical day in my life:

6:10 a.m. Slap vigorously and impotently at alarm clock for several seconds. Attempt to convince Kerri to get up and put the kids on the bus for school. Fail. Get up. Get kids on the bus.

7:20 a.m. Drink coffee while sitting on the couch, reading over the manuscript of the chapter book I'm working on. Decide that the insane, brainwashed squirrel sub-plot may be a bit esoteric for fourth grade readers. Substitute mushroom fart sub-plot. Laugh until coffee spits over my computer keyboard. Lament the fact that, at 40, even the thought of farts still makes me laugh out loud.

9:30 a.m. Answer some emails. Arrange two school visits. Update my calendar. Do some boring business stuff. Lament the fact that I am doing business stuff and not writing about farts. Laugh out loud, because I thought about farts.

10:00 a.m. Answer phone. Hope it is a telemarketer because I am dying to try to convince one that he has just called a murder crime scene and, as a result, is now a prime suspect. It is my buddy Steve. Try to convince him that he has just called a murder crime scene. Fail. Resort to telling him about the fart scene I wrote in the book. Steve pities me and laughs in a patronizing way because he doesn't want to hurt my feelings. Steve tells me that he is playing some music at the food court at the mall at 1:00 and invites me to join him. Ask Kerri, and she gives me permission to go out and play. Then she gives me a list of things to pick up at the mall, "since I'll be there anyway." Curse life. Curse the mall.

11:30 a.m. Make a delicious lunch.

11:45 a.m. Eat delicious lunch, though deliciousness is dulled by the thought that I will be digesting it at the mall. Curse mall again.

12:00 Leave for mall, second only to Wal-Mart for places I never go. Continue cursing mall. Also curse Wal-Mart simply for existing.

12:15 p.m. Pass NH Women's Correctional Facility en route to mall. Rubber-neck to make sure that there are no exciting prison breaks underway. Spot sheriff's van in rear-view mirror. Stop rubber-necking.

12:15:30 p.m. Notice that sheriff's van has lights on. Pull over to let it pass.

12:15:40 p.m. Sheriff's van pulls over behind me.

12:15:42 p.m. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Loudly. Curse mall while I'm at it. Also Wal-Mart.

12:17 p.m. Watch as two sheriffs exit their van and walk warily up to my extremely threatening 1993 Toyota Camry. Become extremely nervous as one sheriff posts himself at my passenger window, while the second approaches my window and says, "License and registration."

12:17:30 p.m. In state of extreme nervousness, hand sheriff my Visa debit card as I lean over to get registration.

12:18 p.m. Laugh in lighthearted way as sheriff returns Visa with witty comment, "I don't take Visa."

12:19 p.m. Attempt to exit vehicle when sheriff explains that I do not have a rear license plate. Am told in a firm manner to, "Remain in my vehicle." Remain in vehicle. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Quietly.

12:19:30 p.m. Wonder who stole my license plate while sheriffs return to their van and chat about me with headquarters.

12:22 p.m. Watch as both sheriffs once again flank my vehicle. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Silently. Prepare for extremely unpleasant body cavity search. Listen politely as sheriff explains that I should report my plate missing to my local police department. Thank sheriff for not searching my cavities.

12:45 p.m. Arrive late for show with Steve.

12:46 p.m. Walk into mall food court and experience chaos and pandemonium in toddler play area, where we will be playing. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. In my head.

12:46:30 p.m. Attempt to weasel out of show by feigning own death. Fail.

1:00 p.m. With no idea of what songs we will be playing or what I will be doing, we begin show.

1:01 p.m. 18 month old kid begins rooting through my backpack as I play song. Smiling mother watches child poke through my belongings.

1:06 p.m. Toddlers begin to dance and twirl to Steve's hypnotic grooves. They spin and jump and slam into each other as all the parents sit along the periphery, texting people who are not at the mall.

The audience gets a rare chance to be close enough to step on the performer's toes.

1:07 p.m. Same 18 month old finds my car keys. Mother smiles contentedly and tell girl, "Good job." I think that this kid may have stolen my license plates. Check my pocket. Wallet is still there.

1:16 p.m. Steve tells audience that we will now play a song that I have never even heard before. I do not even bat an eye, because Steve does this to me all the time and I am a professional.

1:18 p.m. 18 month old kid begins collecting spare change from my backpack. Mother says, "Good job!"

1:35 p.m. Gurt, the giant tie-dye clad cow appears and crowd of toddlers is absolutely terrified. I am terrified, as well, but I wear a brave face.

I know Gurt will not harm me, but still, I am fearful.

1:37 p.m. 18 month old has now taken my camera and is taking pictures. Mother says, "Remember to watch the composition, sweetie."

Toddlers are generally fairly lousy photographers. This is just awful.

1:40 p.m. Toddlers begin getting braver about giant, dancing cow in their midst. Steve reminds audience that Gurt does not need to be milked.

"Please don't milk Gurt!"

1:45 p.m. We play final song. Gurt goes away. Young audience members are sad to see Gurt leave and wander disconsolately back to their texting parents, who are completely unaware that a show has occurred.

1:46 p.m. Steve asks me if I'd like to join him for a post-show cocktail at a chain restaurant in the mall.

1:46:03 p.m. Steve and I are considering the many choices of libations available.

2:45 p.m. I begin to see poor judgement in my decision to partake of a cocktail before attempting to drive home with no license plates on my vehicle. Curse mall.

2:50 p.m. Ask mall security guard if he might have string or a zip tie so I can put my front plate on the rear of my car. Am told that they are forbidden, by their lawyers, to supply motorists with anything, lest the supplied item fail in some deadly manner, rendering them liable. Curse mall security guards.

2:50:15 p.m. Steve makes hilarious, snarky comment about security guard and his daily meeting with his lawyers.

2:55 p.m. Despite the security guard's reluctance to help, I have gathered the necessary supplies from my car and have managed to secure my license plate using a small length of speaker wire and my pen knife.

3:30 p.m. Arrive home safely.

3:32 p.m. Phone police to report stolen license plate. Give them a description of the 18 month old at the mall. Demand an immediate arrest.

4:00 p.m. Spend the rest of the afternoon drawing pictures for chapter book.

6:00 p.m. Tasty dinner. Then more drawing.

9:30 p.m. Go to bed.

6:10 a.m. Wake up. Await the day's phone call.

Ginger Martinis and Sandwich-Making Monkeys

2012-01-13T10:59:00.004-05:00

Some of my nearest and dearest friends will likely be shocked to hear this, but I just beat a monkey in a competition for a prestigious, major award.

Roosevelt Avenue Elementary School in North Attleboro, MA has named me:

"Most Interesting Primate Visitor to Our School This Year. So Far..."

The competition was incredibly stiff.

It seems that the last enrichment program they had was a helper monkey who could, "make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and loofah your feet until they're as soft as a baby's bottom."

Obviously, this put me under tremendous pressure for my entire 3 day visit. I'd hate to hear comments like, "That author guy was okay, but the sandwiches he made weren't as good as the ones that monkey made. And look at the third-rate job he did on my feet. They aren't nearly as soft as a baby's bottom."

So you can no doubt imagine how excited I was when I heard the news. I prepared a long and rambling acceptance speech, but I couldn't find a team of trained monkeys to type it for me, so I just gave up.

"Welcome Mr. Kelley." Do you see anything about Welcome Mr. Monkey? No. Because I won. Ha ha on you, Mr. Monkey.

My host for the visit, Gretchen, was helpful beyond description, earning her an award that I have just created in her honor:

"First School Host to Buy Me a Cocktail. Ever."

I am hopeful that it will become a prestigious and eagerly sought after award in its own right, with school hosts vying for titles like "Second School Host to Buy Me a Cocktail." and "Third School Host to Buy Me a Cocktail."

I can conceive of a day when schools all over the country have entire fund-raising events dedicated to raising money to buy me exotic drinks with many colorful umbrellas and towering, architectural wonders of fruit garnishes spilling from their rims.

As it was - and I feel very compelled to point this out - Gretchen did not actually use any school funds at all to buy me a drink. She used her own funds.

That's probably because the PTA money at her school is earmarked exclusively for hiring a team of loofah-wielding monkeys to sit in the teachers' lounge and rub the teachers' feet while the kids are out at recess. If that fundraiser goes well, they'll be adding a team of sandwich-making monkeys, too.

This is exactly how public education works. Trust me.

Gretchen was also instrumental in seeing that I was comfortably situated in a hotel where I would be unlikely to run into a SWAT team. "You might want to avoid The Pineapple Inn," she suggested, "They tend to have frequent police raids."

Instead, I checked in at The Holiday Inn and realized immediately that I should have packed more carefully. It wasn't like my trip to Washington D.C. when I failed to pack any clean socks or undies, but it had potential to turn out that badly.

I was faced with 3 days and 3 nights of being unable to wash my hands.

But how do I wash my hands?

Still, even though there was no hand soap, there were also no SWAT team raids, so I suppose it all balanced out somehow.

The staff and students at the school were wonderful and fun and I really had a great time. On the first day, a couple volunteers modeled for me and then even posed for pictures. Please note that I simply ooze maturity, making bunny ears behind the kids' heads.

Gretchen arranged a book signing one evening and it was a roaring success.

People actually stood in line to buy my books and talk to me. I felt all famous.

Many of the kids opted, for some reason, to get their pictures taken with me.

Obviously, I am a role model.

Now, thanks to me, these kids are making bunny ears in photos.

That's why I won that award and the monkey didn't.

Because I am a role model and he is simply a monkey with crazy ninja-like loofah skills.

Are they loofahing people's feet because of that monkey?

I didn't think so.

Over the next two days, I got to spend time in each classroom, working with the kids on writing projects.

These girls are working on a drawing of me, trapped inside a ginormous birthday cake. They'll use their picture as a writing prompt to write the greatest story in human history: The story of me, trapped in a ginormous birthday cake.

These kids are asking me if I can loofah their feet and make them a sandwich. When I refuse, they are upset.

On my final night in North Attleboro, Gretchen directed me to India, a local, and aptly named, Indian food restaurant. I would have gone simply for some spicy curry, but when she told me that they also had a belly dancer and served ginger martinis, I found it difficult to resist getting 3 meals a day there.

Even their take-out was all fancy. It really classed up my hotel room, even if I couldn't wash my hands before I ate.

And now that I think about it, I feel that I must bequeath another award to Roosevelt Ave. School:

"Most Fun Residency I Have Done in 2012. So Far..."

"So Far" because the next school might have a belly dancing monkey that can make a ginger martini.

Another Year of Asthetic Monstrosities. Now, Featuring Nachos and Miracles!

2012-01-09T10:19:00.005-05:00

On the plus side, there were nachos.
And Mexican dip.
And empanadas.
And beans and rice.
And Mexican mac & cheese.
And rich, aromatic gas produced by the Mexican food.

And, possibly a stunning miracle.

On the down side, there was this.

And this.

Last Friday, several of my boldest and most self-destructive friends gathered at our house to engage in a yearly ritual of self-induced suffering. The Gift Swap of Horror. Click on that link if you are feeling a desperate urge to learn the history of this sacred event. (The link takes you to another blog post, but it also has pictures, so it's really not a good way to escape the horror.)

The Gift Swap of Horror has developed and changed only slightly over the years. It has reduced friends to tears. It has made others laugh until they lost control of their sphincters. It has cost me some dear friends; though, in retrospect, that might also have been directly related to the loss of sphincter control.

This year, we gladly welcomed new friends to The Swap.

Ryan and Nichole.
See how happy they look?

That's because they hadn't received their gift yet.

We, the original members of this happy crew who have been swapping gifts and causing each other to suffer for more than a decade, love it when new people join our swap.

Because new people don't get it.

We warn them; oh yes we do. But still, they don't get it.
We tell them all about the swap, explaining in graphic detail gifts from past swaps that were so horrible that to describe them here would cause you permanent mental harm.
And still these people want to play.
And they come to the swap sniggering slyly and chuckling about the gift they have brought, never suspecting that when the gifts are actually exchanged, they will be reduced to sobbing, helpless shadows of their former selves.

The new people tend to bring a gift that, at worst, might be described as "sort of tacky".
And they leave with a four foot poster of Elvis shellacked onto a cross-section of pine tree.

My friends Jay and Cris come to mind as perfect examples. Jay and Cris are both smart and fun and have excellent taste in everything. They thought our swap would be fun. We warned them against it.

"Jay. Cris," we plead. "We really like you guys. Save yourselves! Don't do it! It will ruin your lives!"

We say things like that to make them extra curious. Just to make sure they play. Because we know that they will suffer greatly. And when you play The Swap, you want people to suffer.

Jay and Cris ignored us and showed up at The Swap with a small soap dispenser that, while ugly, somewhat paled in comparison to the horrifying 2 foot tall light-up ceramic witch head that they went home with. I cannot even attach a picture, because it was so ugly, it did not show up on film.

Jay and Cris told us later that Cris spent much of their ride back home to North Carolina sobbing and weeping and lamenting the fact that she had ever met us.

The suffering of newbies is an integral part of the game, however, as it toughens them and makes them hungry for revenge. Jay and Cris, for example showed up the next year driving a pick up truck with the entire bed shrouded in a tarp.

Everyone watching their arrival wept with fear. Then they got out of the truck carrying a tiny gift bag. And we laughed. "They didn't learn," we whispered amongst ourselves.

Kerri and I drew their names that year and Jay handed us the tiny gift bag.

"Ha, ha," I chuckled, reaching into the bag. "We all thought that your gift was taking up the whole back of the pick up. Boy, were we scared for a minute."

"I'll bet," Jay said, smiling brightly as I removed a photograph of 6 hideous purple, teal, and black velour dining room chairs from the bag. "The chairs are in the back of the truck. You want some help getting them in the house?"

And thus, they were avenged.

And this year, Ryan and Nichole stepped into the fray and, much to our bitter disappointment, proved themselves worthy of playing.

Julie, one of the old timers, suggested that newbies, on their first swap, be made to receive a gift without giving one. The executive council of elders held a high level secret meeting on the subject and decided that it was cruel and unusual and we really liked the idea.

Eventually, it was decided that newbie gifts were a sought after commodity and we would only be hurting ourselves by not letting them contribute.

The night was a festive combination of events. It was a The Gift Swap. It was also my wife Kerri's birthday. Plus, everybody brought Mexican food so guests could go home with a horrible gift and horrible gas. It added a festive olfactory element to The Swap.

Once everyone had eaten and we had sung "Happy Birthday" to Kerri a half dozen times, because she hates being sung to, it was time for the gifts.

First, some before pictures.


Ben and Ann. Happy (but nervous).

Tim and Katie. Happy (but equally nervous).

Scott and Julie (Julie offering a silent prayer for mercy from The Swap gods).

Caleb, Rayla, Alex, and Tori. (Couldn't care less about the pain the adults are inflicting on one another).

Kerri and me (putting up a false show of carefree bravado–inside, we are weeping).

The gifts, guarded by Caleb, lest, thought their collective powers of evil, they should try to escape.

And then The Swap began.

Ryan and Nichole, being newbies, were allowed to go first. They were delighted with their gift, brought by Tim and Katie.

Seeing one small corner of her gift, Nichole searches futilely for a barf bucket.

Another show of false bravado.

Behold its awe-inspiring beauty.

Nichole and Ryan were deeply awed by the transcendent beauty of their gift, a gilded, three dimensional scene of the last supper, backed with a mirror so you can always see your own look of horror when gazing upon it. In fact, their real gift didn't come until a day or so after The Swap.
Ryan and Nichole are serious mountain climbing enthusiasts (nuts). They had attempted to bag their last 4,000 footer twice before The Swap, failing both times.

After The Swap, they successfully summited Owl's Head.

Coincidence?

I think not.

They just couldn't wait to return home and continue staring at their gift.

Scott is speechless with joy. Julie, however, has much to say about their new little friend. None of it printable here.

Next up, Julie and Scott unwrapped their gift, brought by Ben and Ann. The sad-eyed embroidered bird will most certainly warm their hearts on the coldest January days.

Just before Katie burst into tears, fearing for her safety.

Tim and Katie were next. Their gift, thoughtfully supplied by Julie and Scott, was charming and creepy in equal measure.

Katie uses her gift to hide her tears of anguish.

A bargain at 50 cents.

His expression seems to say, "At night, I will come to life and kill you."

These delightful, hand made faces, framed under plastic wrap to keep them fresh, will likely come to life at night and steal Tim and Katie's souls.

Or their wallets.

Or both.

Ben and Ann were next, with our gift. They were giddy with anticipation.

Until they saw the turquoise ceramic kangaroo who will be sharing their home with them until next year.

Ann is considering using it as a decorative toilet paper holder next to the toilet.
Ben is considering using it as a toilet.

Kerri and I were next. We were delighted to have drawn Ryan and Nichole's names. Because they were the newbies. Until we unwrapped their gift.

Kerri briefly loses control of her face upon witnessing the horror of The Pink Rooster.
On the couch, Victoria is obviously delighted with our new house guest.

The giant, metal pink rooster will no doubt soon be like a member of the family. A member that we hate and never want to see again.

Despite the obvious love the kangaroo showed for the rooster, Ben and Ann refused to take the rooster, choosing instead to sunder these two loving hearts.

And then the night was over. With Mexican food percolating in our guts, we said goodbye to one another. Everyone went home to find a suitable place to display his new gift and to seek relief from the Mexican fiesta.

Ben likely found relief in the kangaroo.

Ryan and Nichole have proved themselves worthy of The Swap. And that means that next year, we need fresh meat.

Anybody want to play?

Holiday Hospital Trip and The Return of the Toddler Mosh Pit - Part 1

2011-12-12T10:00:00.002-05:00

Once again, my good friend, Steve Blunt, has shown me what it's like to be a real life, honest-to-goodness monster of rock. Or, at least, what it's like to be a real life, honest-to-goodness guy pretending to be a monster of rock.

We have been booked at a few events lately where the headlining act was Santa Claus. It's somewhat akin to being booked as the opening act for Lady Gaga or something. Sure–you're there–and you're playing; but nobody actually came to see you.

Our first Christmas gig of the year was the annual bacchanal at St. Joesph's Hospital in Nashua. We've done Christmas shows there in the past and they've always gone very well. This year, perhaps in response to how well they've gone in the past, the organizer decided to scale up.

A lot.

In the past, Steve and I have been sequestered in a sort of community room in the basement of the hospital, somewhere between the morgue and the kitchen. To locate the room, you were required to take an elevator to the basement and follow a twisting, winding series of subterranean corridors for several miles. I suspect that the difficulty of finding the room was merely an effort to limit the number of thronging fans who normally swarm to our shows.

Despite the myriad obstacles thrown in their way, there was always a decent crowd. But the rabid fans never got out of control. The proximity of the morgue and the ever-present fetor of industrial strength cream of mushroom soup worked together to keep the crowd subdued and relatively under control.

Plus, we didn't have Santa to contend with.

This year, however, everything changed. They moved the event from a small room, buried deeply in the bowels of the hospital to the large, spacious lobby of the hospital. There were gifts, a giant Christmas tree, crafts, ballerinas, toys, games, candy, snacks, face painting, and us: two sweaty guys at the back of the lobby singing some Christmas tunes.

For a magical few hours, the hospital lobby was transformed from a quiet space populated by tear-streaked people, sadly contemplating whatever calamity had brought them to the hospital to a glorious winter wonderland of Christmas joy, populated by tear-streaked people, sadly contemplating whatever calamity had brought them to the hospital and a couple hundred howling, sugar-fueled kids.

And Santa.

When we arrived at the hospital, we were immediately confronted with the very real problem of where to set up our stuff. The clusters of tear streaked people all over the place limited our options. We were shipped off to the far end of the lobby, near the gift shop.

"Don't block that door," we were told, "It's a fire exit and needs to be kept clear. And don't stand too close to the gift shop door, because people will be going in and out. And keep this pathway clear. And don't run cords or cables where people can trip over them. We don't want anybody getting hurt."

I couldn't understand that. It was a hospital, after all. You'd think they'd be used to injured people.

Steve immediately went into deep thought mode where he carefully contemplated every possible variable of every possible arrangement of our equipment. I helped by strewing cables, cords and microphones in all directions saying, "Right here is fine. Seriously. Let's just set up."

We eventually settled on a spot directly in front of the gift shop, but not blocking the fire exits and not too close to the gift shop door. After setting up the equipment, Steve decided that we were, in fact, too close to the gift shop door and he was risking bodily harm by overly enthusiastic shoppers who might plow him over on their way into the gift shop.

So we relocated. We moved much of the sturdy lobby furniture, displaced a few weeping visitors, and set up our equipment in a spot 15 feet from where we had been. "I'm not sure I like this angle," Steve said, after we were all set up. He was testing the wind and mentally calculating all the acoustical challenges that that this new location would offer. "Let's try moving down that way about ten more feet."

So we relocated. Again. We moved the furniture again, displaced the same weeping visitors that we had displaced before, and set up our equipment in another spot. We were settling into our new location when the doors behind us–which were NOT the fire exit or the gift shop doors, I must add–swung open and an officious looking hospital staffer appeared. She gave us a bewildered look and said, "There's going to be a gurney coming through here."

Steve and I have played in many places and in many situations, some more challenging than others. We are seasoned veterans capable of handling nearly any situation with professionalism. Despite that, neither of us wished to be midway through a happy Christmas song, in front of a crowd of happy, dancing children, and have doors burst open directly behind us to admit a gurney, festively adorned with a badly injured accident victim, trailing IV bottles, spewing bodily fluids, and followed by a phalanx of tear-streaked people.

We picked up our equipment and, once again, moved it. This time, to exactly the same spot we had been in originally. "Yes," Steve said, "I really think that this is the best possible location."

After lugging all that equipment around, Steve and I were both disheveled and sweaty by the time we were scheduled to perform. Our sweat-soaked armpits and festive holiday aromas added immeasurably to the delightful atmosphere of holiday merriment.

Steve turned on the speakers and we were ready to start. He leaned over to me just before switching on his microphone. "I guess we should have figured out what we were going to play, huh?"
He laughed and strummed his guitar. His voice echoed through the hospital lobby. "Hey, everybody! Merry Christmas!"
"SANTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" screamed the hundreds of sugar-fueled children who had congregated in the lobby while we were lugging equipment.
They descended upon us in a tidal wave of writhing, candy cane-smeared bodies.

"I'm Steve Blunt and this is..."
"WHERE IS SANTA?!?" they screamed as one voice.
"My buddy Marty Kell..."
"WE WANT SANTA!!!!!"

After we explained that neither of us was, technically speaking, Santa, we still managed to retain quite a large crowd of kids. Steve has a dedicated and passionate fanbase. Not as dedicated and passionate as Santa's fanbase, but darned close.

We began playing and the response was overwhelming. Kids were twirling, dancing, running, jumping, diving, and spinning. During my college days, I attended many, many hardcore and heavy metal concerts with swirling, sweaty, angry mosh pits that were like visions from hell. Every single mosh pit in my vast experience paled in comparison to the fervent activity in the hospital lobby that afternoon.

Candy + Santa + Music = Mayhem On A Scale Never Seen Before In the History of Mankind

I thoroughly enjoyed myself and at a few points during the show, Steve had to physically restrain me from trying some stagediving into the crowd.

"They're small and weak," he said as I climbed onto my chair, preparing to dive, "You'll kill them."
"But there are so many of them," I answered, "I think this will work."

He talked me down and we continued playing.

Despite all the chaos and music and jingle bells, there were some people who didn't seem to understand that there was actually a show taking place. At one point, mid-song, as I was honking away on the harmonica, a lady walked up to me and held out one of my books, for sale on a nearby table. "Can I pay you for this now?" she asked, rooting through her purse.

She was quickly washed away by the swirling maelstrom of toddler bodies that was raging through the lobby.

A few minutes later, just as we finished really winding the kids up into a frothing frenzy, Steve announced that I was going to read a story to the kids.

Steve enjoys doing this to me, I believe.

Because toddlers who have been loaded up on candy and who have been dancing like howling dervishes are known to be especially receptive to sitting quietly while some guy reads a book to them.

Amazingly, they did sit, much to Steve's disappointment, I'm sure. It was possibly from sheer exhaustion, but I was not in a position to question motives, only results. I was about half way through the book when a kid rose from the crowd and began clambering his way through the kids seated on the floor, waving one of my books over his head. His voice rang out loud and clear.

"Excuse me? Excuse me? I have your book. I brought it from home. Will you sign this for me?"

I quietly explained that it wasn't actually the best time for me to sign a book, as there were 150 twitching, barely seated toddlers staring at me.

He turned, hung his head and was quickly subsumed by the quagmire of kids carpeting the floor.

We played a few more songs and finished our set just as the doors at the side of our stage area swung open and a gurney came wheeling out. I'm not sure who was more surprised at that point: the audience of sweaty, dancing children crowded into the lobby or the unfortunate, inadequately covered old lady strapped to the gurney and moaning discordantly.

"Merry Christmas!" Steve sang into the microphone, as the kids screamed and ran away, "And to all a good night."

Coming Next: Christmas Concert #2

The Elizabeth Yates Award Ceremony - An Afternoon of Tasty Cookies and Boogers

2011-11-21T10:41:00.002-05:00

"I just think that you like hearing yourself say 'booger' and 'fart', and 'underpants' in public."

That was Kerri's general assessment of the talk I gave yesterday at the Concord Public Library.

"Well, duh," I replied, "I think they gave me the award because I write about farts and boogers."

"And underpants," added my daughter, Victoria.

It is true that I may have stressed the fart and booger motif a bit more than was absolutely necessary yesterday after I was awarded the Elizabeth Yates Award. It's an award given annually to a person who inspires children to read. When Karen Landsman called me a few weeks ago to tell me I had won the award, she specifically mentioned the appeal that my books have for boys. This is a delicate way of saying that I write about disgusting things.

Naturally, when she told me that I should plan on talking for about 20 minutes, I took it upon myself to elaborate on all that is gross. I assumed that this was the entire point of the afternoon.

"I'm pretty sure the library trustees didn't need to hear about puking and eating boogers," Kerri said. "At least, not a dozen times."

"It wasn't a dozen," my son, Alex said, "No more than 10."

But the entire afternoon wasn't devoted exclusively to farts, vomit, and poop.

There were snacks to go along with it.

But, and this was sheer brilliance on the part of the organizers, before they could have snacks, people had to listen to everyone talk. Including me.

There were a variety of speakers, all effusive and eloquent.

They spoke intelligently and eloquently.

They talked about me in ways that made me sound like a real, actual writer. It made me blush.

They made kissy faces at me.

And, after all those wonderful speakers, I began speaking and really brought the tone of the entire event down.

I did wear a tie, however, and there wasn't even a dead body in the room.

Some of my friends in attendance were visibly displeased at this point. There was evidently some slight problem with the invitations that were sent out. This was the official invite.

But, somehow, all the ones I emailed to my friends arrived looking like this:

Obviously an egregious error occurred in transmission and I'll be speaking about this to whoever is in charge of the internet.

I talked and talked and talked while the audience dreamed of cookies, cider, and munchkins, tantalizingly in sight, but just out of their reach.
Karen Landsman presented me with a certificate and a plaque and, as part of the ceremony, asked me to hang the plaque up on the wall.

This was thrilling for the audience.

And it only took me about 15 minutes to find the little hook thing and get it hung.

After I finally managed to hang it, Karen thanked everyone for coming and freed them to eat snacks.
My father-in-Law used the opportunity to fix the plaque that I had just hung. It wasn't up to his exacting standards.

Once people were free to eat, much of the hostility cleared from the air.
There was music provided by the very talented 14 year old, Madeline.

And, in a brazen, flagrant violation of the rules, we feasted in the library.

It was a fun afternoon for me because I got to talk and talk and talk and nobody could interrupt me or tell me to put a sock in it. I got snacks, a certificate, and was surrounded by family and good friends. My pals, Laura and Amy even brought gifts and cards from their students at Sandown Central School. You may recall that this is the same school where a kindergartener asked me if she could have my underpants.

Despite the fact that none of the library trustees asked for my underpants, it was a great afternoon. I'm flattered and humbled to have been given the Elizabeth Yates Award and I'll do my best to carry out the duties entrusted to me by writing about boogers even more.

More Mountain Climbing. More Suffering. More Pain. And No Ice Cream.

2011-10-10T10:24:00.008-04:00

Let me get this out there right away.
The ONLY reason I go on these ridiculous hikes with Julie is because we ALWAYS get ice cream after the hike.
ALWAYS.
(Are you reading this, Julie? ALWAYS!!!)
So when we finally braved the treacherous and outrageously difficult dual summits of Mt. Flume and Mt. Liberty last Friday, I cannot be blamed for expecting to be rewarded with an ice cream sundae the size of a 1959 Buick.
Julie insisted that she would rather have iced coffee.
Clearly, she had gone insane. There is no other explanation.
I even have photographic proof from our pre-hike photo.

All hike and no ice cream makes Julie CRAZY.

As so often happens, I failed to see the warning signs until it was way too late.
Adding to my case for Julie's advanced state of craziness is the simple fact that we climbed these mountains at all.

Mt. Liberty and Mt. Flume are described in the guidebook like this:

"Oh, the humanity. What are you thinking? DON'T, under any circumstances, EVER climb these mountains. You will regret it. Why don't you just go out and get some ice cream and SAY that you hiked them. Nobody will ever know."

But rather than following the guidebook's sensible advice, we headed off into the chilly morning air to climb two mountains and suffer needlessly. And without ice cream.

The hike began with a mile of walking along a paved bike path, just to reach the trailhead. We chatted of this and that, marveling at the fact that it could possibly be so cold here in the White Mountains of New Hampshire in October. Who would have guessed?

We turned off the pavement, into the woods and began a leisurely stroll through the woods. A leisurely stroll designed exclusively to lull us into a false sense of safety and well-being before the mountain could roar up and give us both a dope-slap.

We traipsed merrily along in the woods and soon began to get warm and decided to shed some of the hundreds of layers we had worn for the trip. At a trail junction, Julie took off her vest and the pants that she had brilliantly worn over her shorts.

I, less brilliantly, had worn some very fashionable spandex pants (pictures not included) under my regular pants. Removing them required removal of my pants first, followed by a tricky balancing act while trying to slide the spandex off and not step onto the cold wet ground. When I was about half-way through the ordeal, another hiker came striding into view from the foggy, misty woods.

I had chosen to simply change in the middle of the path, as there was obviously nobody else around for miles except Julie and she was busy looking at maps or engaging in some other useless activity. I tugged at my spandex pants, trying desperately to yank them back up so I could get my regular pants up. A simple over-balance sent me hopping across the path on one foot with my pants around my knees, directly in front of the approaching hiker.

"Nice morning," I said, assuming a nonchalant pose and smiling suavely.
"Warms up fast, doesn't it?" he asked, striding away quickly and disappearing into the misty shroud of the forest.

Julie is happy because SHE wasn't the one hopping around on one foot in her undies when the other hiker passed us.

I managed to get myself changed without any serious personal injury or charges of indecent exposure, and we started out once again, headed for the foot of the Mt. Flume slide, now a mere 2.6 miles away.

I should probably explain that a slide, when hiking, is not a delightful piece of playground equipment designed to bring joy to all who use it. A slide is a horrible slash of rock that runs nearly vertically up the side of a mountain. It is designed to kill you in painful and spectacular ways, but only after causing you unimaginable amounts of pain and suffering.

The day was warming up even more and, rather than risking more indecent exposure charges, Julie used the opportunity to take a refreshing dip in the icy mountain stream.

Nothing says "hypothermia" like a cold, wet foot at the beginning of a hike.

After her swim, we decided that a snack might be in order.

I'd like to point out that eating is an integral part of any real hike and that near the end of every single hike, the talk revolves exclusively around food. We typically each bring an assortment of goodies and share them.

Julie brought along some trail mix and commented, "I got this kind because it was cheap."

A brief view at its contents explained why it was so cheap.

"Oh my god. Is that a dehydrated heart?" I cried when Julie pulled this hideous lump from the trail mix, "Because if it is, you can have it."

Closer inspection revealed that is was actually a dried, salted strawberry, which is exactly as delicious as it sounds.

Julie attempts to eat The Strawberry of Doom and Despair

Once she tastes it, Julie can no longer remember happiness.

With a cold foot and the foul, salty taste of dehydrated strawberry scorched onto her tongue, Julie suggested that we start off again before things could get worse. As if in answer to her suggestion, we almost immediately lost the trail and wandered aimlessly in the woods for a few minutes, lamenting the fact that we were going to die with the taste of salty strawberries in our mouths.

We eventually found the trail again and walked for a few months before catching our first glimpse of the fabled Mt. Flume Slide.


The slide, before it gets steep. This is the trail up the mountain.

"Hey, Julie. It's been fun. I'll be going home now," I said, turning and heading back toward the car. I took off my pack to get a drink before heading home. I leaned against a tree and was rewarded with the most miraculous sight in nature:

New Hampshire's rare Toasted Marshmallow Tree

Close-up of the toasted marshmallow. They look much better than they taste.

Julie didn't like them, either. Foodwise, it was a disappointing day for her. And destined to get worse.

Enchanted by what other wonders might possibly await us at the top of the mountain, I reluctantly agreed to continue the climb, which got significantly steeper.

0.8 miles doesn't sound like far, I admit, but when it is made of slippery, wet rock jutting directly into the sky, it takes on a new sort of meaning.

Julie somehow managed to tune out my constant whimpering and whining and complaining and we found ourselves at another trail junction.

0.1 miles to LUNCH!

I am jubilant at the thought that we will soon be eating.

We finally crested the hill that opened onto the summit and were rewarded with some glorious views.

I am not actually scenery, I realize that.

We settled in for lunch and this was the view while we ate.

We will discuss my pathological fear of heights in much more depth in the following paragraphs.

After lunch, we trudged onward toward the summit of Mt. Liberty, visible in the top right of that picture of my foot. It was a mere 1.2 miles away and after the climb up the slide, we felt like we were floating. It was a lovely, deeply wooded hike that opened onto a rocky, barren summit, inhabited by a french guy who did not budge from his spot at the summit marker.

Julie poses with the immovable french guy.

A word about hiking etiquette: Everyone who climbs mountains, likes to touch the summit markers hammered into the rock. It's silly, but we do it. It makes the entire ordeal worthwhile just to touch that piece of metal. It gives you a sense of accomplishment.

"I hiked a ba-jillion miles over slippery, wet, steep rocks. I have blisters, aches and pains, poison ivy, altitude sickness, dehydration, hypothermia, and vertigo, but I got to touch that marker."

So when you do finally reach that marker, it is very poor form to squat there and eat your lunch hovering over it so nobody else can get near it without climbing around you. Yes, I'm talking to you, random french guy!

I would also like to take this opportunity to discuss the sphincter-puckering drop you see in the photo behind Julie. There are times, when hiking, when a drop appears very impressive, but actually glides gently away from the summit. This was not one of those. The drop behind Julie is exactly as terrifying as it appears to be. A rock-studded plummet to certain, splattery death.

"Go out there," Julie coaxed, "I'll take your picture."

You will notice that there are no pictures of me on that summit. I was clinging desperately to the craggy granite, explaining to Julie that I am terrified of heights.

"This probably isn't the best time to be letting me know that," Julie said, "And, anyways, it's not that bad."

"I have almost wet myself climbing a step ladder," I told her, "This is like a million step ladders piled on top of one another."

"You wet yourself?" Julie asked, missing the point entirely.

"I said 'almost'," I explained, "Just like I almost got to the summit of this mountain."

"Come on," she pleaded, prying my fingers from the rock. The french guy sat back and watched impassively.

Julie succeeded in prying my fingers from the stone and getting me out onto the exposed summit. There is no picture of the event because I was shaking so badly that I appeared only as a slight blur in the picture.

I did not wet myself.

Much.

And I managed to snap one picture of the view from the summit before I got all woozy.

And then I changed my pants and we headed down the mountain.

We passed a small but impressive pile of animal poop that I had to photograph simply because of its startling similarity to the dehydrated strawberries that Julie packed. The poor creature that left this had obviously been feasting on the strawberries thrown away by other hikers who had bought the same cheap trail mix Julie did.

Seriously. Where do these flies come from? We're over 4,000 feet in the air! Come to think of it, where did the poop come from? Probably the french guy.

It was a long walk down, but with very little chance of being dashed to bits on jagged rocks. The path wound through the woods, leading us slowly and painfully down the mountain toward the ice cream that I still assumed we would be eating. If you imagine a steep, irregular staircase made of slippery, round, loose rocks that leads sharply downward for 4 miles, you'll have a good idea of what the descent was like.

We were at the point in any hike where talk gravitates to the subject of food and stays there permanently. Things were going splendidly and we drifted easily from food group to food group. I explained my theory of carbohydrates to Julie (your brain uses glucose as fuel; carbs make glucose; therefore, carbs make you smarter). We were passing the time pleasantly until we get around to the inevitable subject of ice cream. And Julie said that she'd rather have iced coffee.

And the world shimmered and faded to black.

I have no recollection of the rest of the hike, shrouded as I was in the bleak hopelessness of a hike without ice cream. I suppose that we did make it down safely, as I have a picture that suggests a happy ending.

Notice, please, that Julie no longer looks insane.

My smile is fake. A thin veneer of joy slapped over a bottomless pit of hopelessness and despair and sore feet.

Next time, I'm packing ice cream to eat on the summit. And some dehydrated strawberries for Julie.

Crunchy Socks, Subway Fires, and Dehydrated Space Monkeys

2011-09-29T10:31:00.000-04:00

Dehydrated Space Monkey. I call him Kirk.

There's really no other way to start this blog entry. In fact, I'm considering starting everything I ever write from now on with a dehydrated space monkey. Surely, if it's good enough for the venerable Smithsonian Museum, it is good enough for me.

And you.

Our second day in Washington was spent walking endlessly around the city, enjoying the wonderful sights and lamenting the fact that my socks were all crunchy. It seems indelicate to mention, and I suspect that I am opening myself up to cheap potshots from my friends, but my undies were on the crunchy side as well.

You may remember, from our last episode, I had traveled to Washington D.C. with my family to attend the National Book Festival. Upon arrival, I found that I had failed to pack a single pair of clean undies or socks and was forced to wash my one set of each in the sink and dry them with the hair dryer conveniently supplied by the hotel for just such a purpose.

The downside, if you can even imagine a downside to such a system, is that the hand soap–or possibly inadequate rinsing–left my socks and undies more crunchy than I normally care for them to be. After reading about this predicament, my friend Melissa suggested that I might have purchased new socks and undies in Washington, thus alleviating my suffering. Melissa is a real-life, professional, full-time editor and should know better. If I had bought new socks and undies, I would have had nothing to write about.

Except Kirk, the Dehydrated Space Monkey.

Which, really, might have been enough now that I think about it.

So we spent our second day in Washington wandering through the truly spectacular Smithsonian Museums. Our first stop was at the Air and Space Museum, home to, among other things:

Kirk, the Dehydrated Space Monkey. Again.

I would love to tell you all about this monkey; who he was, why he is dehydrated and propped up on display, what he is thinking about; but I cannot. As soon as I saw him, I fell into paroxysms of laughter so volcanic, that I almost passed out.

I have an annual tradition of swapping horrible gifts with friends and I'd like to take this opportunity to warn ALL my friends that if the Smithsonian ever has a yard sale, you are all in BIG trouble.

Our wanderings carried us to the mock up of the space station where my imagination was captivated by the amazing possibilities of the waste collection system.

I can only tell you that it is a vast improvement over some of the more primitive models they had on display.

Say Cheese!

There was also a nifty, but completely useless thermal imaging camera on display, merrily bombarding our delicate, defenseless, touristy bodies with nuclear radiation. You will notice the cold, black spot where my heart should be. That space is there because I was unable to purchase Kirk, the Dehydrated Space Monkey. That empty void shall remain there until I am able to have Kirk for my very own.

Our next stop was the Museum of American History. On the way, we passed many tourists posing for odd, awkward photos of themselves.

I took a picture of a guy taking a picture of a lady taking a picture of a guy. I win.

The Museum of American History is wonderful and amazing and blah, blah, blah. You can see the actual Star Spangled Banner (it is huge) or Ladybird Johnson's Inaugural Ball Gown (it is the ugliest thing in history and I am negotiating its purchase for use in the gift swap with my friends), or, if you are very patient, you can see the rare and elusive, Guy Posing Behind A Stuffed Buffalo And Fanning the Air Like The Buffalo Farted.

This guy actually asked Kerri to take his picture posing with a buffalo butt. He stood there fanning the air and wrinkling up his nose and had Kerri take at least a half dozen pictures of him, because it took him a few tries to find the perfect pose. I was too late to actually photograph him fanning himself because I was across the hall, photographing some Chinese girls who wanted their photo taken with a genuine museum guard. They actually got this guard to dance after this picture was taken. I have no idea how, but they did.

Feeling a need to get in on some of the hilarious photo action, Kerri took this brilliant picture of the kids and me looking through a hole. HA HA HA!

Aren't we clever?

Now you know what I look like when looking through a circle.

After we had absorbed all the culture, history, and Dehydrated Space Monkeys we could tolerate, we began the long walk back to Union Station where the hotel shuttle would pick us up and return us to the hotel. There were a few stops along the way as we had already walked 2.6 million miles and were weary.

I used the break as an opportunity to practice my serious look. I will use this as an author photo if I ever write a book that is not about boogers.

We slogged along until we arrived at Union Station. Once there, we were greeted by what appeared to be the entire Washington D.C. fire department and hoards of happy, patient commuters who had been evacuated from the subway because it was, in the words of an official on the scene, "On fire."

Smoke was billowing up from the grates in the ground so, naturally, I grabbed the camera and strolled over to the subway entrance to get a few shots.

Some of the firefighters objected to my presence and expressed the opinion that I might want to relocate myself.

Kerri suggested, for the first time, that I restrict my picture taking to photos of random strangers that we don't know, posing awkwardly in front of national monuments.

But before I could take any pictures of the happy, patient people, displaced from their evening commute, the shuttle came and whisked us away to the hotel for our last night in Washington.

I spent the long drive home pondering how best to word the letter I'm going to write to the Smithsonian, asking about purchasing Kirk.

Mr. Kelley Goes To Washington. His Socks Do Not. (Washington Travel Journal, Day 1)

2011-09-27T14:11:00.003-04:00

First, I just want to say that it was an honest mistake.
I had a lot on my mind.
I was busy.
I was distracted.
That's why I forgot to pack clean socks and undies for my 4 day trip to Washington D.C.
I have found that washing socks and undies in the sink with hand soap is an effective way to get them clean, but hanging them on coat hangers, suspended over the air conditioning unit is NOT an effective way to dry them.

I had much better results with a hair dryer. Socks can simply be slipped over the business end of a hair dryer. After a few minutes, they are dry and, as an added bonus, the process infuses the entire hotel room with the delicate scent of burning fabric. Undies, especially boxers, are somewhat more problematic due to their unwieldy shape, but with patience, they can also be dried with a hair dryer.

Other than the whole undies/socks thing, we had a lovely time on our trip to Washington. We arrived Friday afternoon, just in time for me to shower quickly, change into clean clothes (except for those undies and socks) and race off to a reception at the Library of Congress. Getting into an "invitation only" reception was one of the perks of being chosen as the author to represent New Hampshire at the 2011 National Book Festival.

The other perks were, of course, the opportunity to learn how to blow dry socks, and the opportunity to discover how sweaty you can get running from Union Station to the National Mall in freshly dried socks. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After the reception, which Kerri and the kids drove me to, I wandered around near the Capitol Building, searching for a cab to take me back to my hotel. My recent adventure in New York had lead me to believe that 9 out of every 10 cars in a city are taxis. Not so in Washington. I wandered aimlessly to and fro, attracting the attention of the very highly strung police officers who stand guard at every street corner. When I finally managed to flag down a taxi, I gave the driver the address.

"Where?" he asked.

I repeated the address.

"Never heard o dat street, man. Get out."

"What?" I asked.

He slammed on the brakes. "I never heard o day street. Out my cab."

So I began my weary walk around the city, searching for a cab that might deliver me to the hotel. I got directions from a friendly police officer and was at least able to trudge in the proper direction until I finally managed to flag down a cab that delivered me to the hotel an the gourmet $50 pizza that Kerri had ordered in my absence.

Anyone who has ever met me will readily agree that:

1. I am a food snob.
2. I object, in the strongest possible fashion, to paying $50 for a pizza.

In fairness to Kerri, it was actually three "gourmet" pizzas, a bottle of Sprite and a plastic bag for $50. The plastic bag that the soda came in, our only souvenir from the trip, was itemized at $0.05 on the receipt.

The pizzas did not live up to their price tags and I'd prefer never to think about them again.

Instead, I will think about the festival itself, a literary bacchanal with many, many authors and many, many, many attendees, all seeking the same thing.

Free stuff.

I had been warned about this. Each state sent an envoy from the state library to show off the fact that people in their state could read. At least, I assume that's why they were there. They armed their representatives with free stuff to give to people. I really have no idea why the states felt obligated to give stuff away, but as it was in the name of literacy, I was all for it. Plus, I got some free stuff for myself.

"People will come through the pavilion," I was told by several librarians, "and they will grab anything that isn't nailed to the table. If you have a cell phone, DON'T put it on the table. They will take it."

The representatives from New Hampshire, in a bold effort to show just how cool we are, had color changing pencils to give away. "The kids will be all right," I was told, "but watch the adults."

Kids generally limited themselves to taking one or two pencils. And, even though they were asked politely to just take one, adults typically scooped up 10-20 pencils at a grab.

"Could you please just take one pencil?" the librarians asked politely.

The person would look the librarian in the eye, drop one of the 20 pencils back on the table, and throw the rest into her bag before running off into the crowd.

I suggested a metal yardstick to whack fingers with, and even offered to do the whacking, but my suggestions were ignored. My job, technically, was to merely stand around and be eye candy, something I am vastly experienced at. I was the author from New Hampshire, after all.

People wandered through the pavilion, traveling from state to state with a map of the US clutched in their sweaty, pencil filled hands. Each state had a sticker or a stamp that they would place on the map. Once you got all 50 states, you received the grand prize, a warm sense of satisfaction and a map with 50 stickers on it.

People raced from state to state in a fevered state of near frenzy to get the coveted stamps or stickers. I was conscripted into helping out with the stamping and took it upon myself to make sure people had an opportunity to slow down and enjoy the process. When they shoved their maps in my face and waved them back and forth, I put my stamp down and smiled.

"Hi," I'd say. "Having a good time this morning?"

"STAMP!"

"Yup," I'd respond, "I can't believe the crowds, can you? Amazing that this many people are..."

"STAMP!"

"Interested in books. I'm Marty Kelley, the featured author from..."

"STAMP!!!"

"New Hampshire. Do you need a stamp from New Hampshire?"

"STAMP!!!!!!"

"I've got the stamp right here," I'd say, picking it up and waving it tantalizingly, "Can you find New Hampshire on that map you've got?"

The person would scan the map frantically and jab at any state that started with an N.

"Nope. That's Nevada," I'd say, "New Hampshire is a bit more toward the eastern side."

The person would then flip the map over, looking–I assume–for China. Then he would flip it back and jab randomly again.

"You're getting closer, but that's New Jersey."

Another jab.

"New York. Getting warmer."

The person would then let fly with an agonized howl and I would smile and gently stamp a New Hampshire stamp on his map. He would then plow to the other end of the table, grab a fistful of color-changing pencils and race off into the crowd.

Notice how happy the children are after they get to meet a real, live author.

I had a wonderful time and actually met lots of very cool teachers and librarians who were there for more than the free pencils.

Some states had bookmarks.

After a few hours, I bade a fond farewell to Ann, Michael, and Kelly, the brave souls guarding New Hampshire's strategic pencil reserves, and set off with my family to wander around Washington D.C. and soak up all the historic wonder of our country.

As we wandered through the National Mall, we passed a "Legalize Medical Marijuana" rally that had drawn exactly one attendee. The organizers probably should take a hint from the librarians and start giving away free stuff.

We forced our way through the Medical Marijuana crowd and gazed in awe upon the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I can only assume that budget cuts are responsible for its current condition.

Likewise the state of security in the area.

When we arrived at the Lincoln Memorial where I noticed that visitors don't actually want pictures of the famous monuments. They want pictures of themselves, in front of famous monuments. This was to be a pervasive theme on our trip.

I found taking these pictures to be immensely satisfying. My family, especially my daughter, were unamused by this, however.

We eventually tired of all our wandering, made our way back to the hotel and stewed ourselves in the pool before heading to bed to rest up for another day of adventure and photographs of random strangers that lay ahead.

Sorry, Mom. I've Been A Little Busy.

2011-09-20T14:04:00.002-04:00

I recently received the following email:

"I think you should rename your Blog....Marty Kelley's Sort of Active Blog. It hasn't seen any action for a long time!"

It was from my mother.

While it's reassuring to know that there are people (or at least a person; even if it is my mother) who feel that life isn't worth living without regular updates from me, there are times when I can't be as vigilant as I need to be about maintaining my blog. I never suspected that anyone would be suffering withdrawal symptoms after a few days without regular updates. (I know it doesn't say anything about withdrawal symptoms in the email; it's implied. I hope.)

I considered several responses, including:

1. So go write your own blog.
2. I've been updating it daily. Your internet must be broken.*
3. I'm so sorry to have missed updating my blog. I do sincerely appreciate your patronage and will be working to correct the situation as quickly as possible. Please forgive me for any inconvenience this lapse may have cause you, and I do look forward to your readership in the future.

*This one might actually work.

I also considered hiring a ghost writer, but for some strange reason, nobody was interested in slaving away over a keyboard for several hours a day for free.

The simple fact, dear readers (and Mom), is that I've been really, really busy.

I just sold a chapter book to Holiday House and have been hard at work on revisions. My writing career, up to this point, has consisted entirely of picture books. They are certainly not without their difficulties, but at least they're short. A few pages, maybe.

But now I'm looking at an 80 page manuscript with over 23,000 words in it, including a glossary because some of the 23,000 words are "prestidigitation", "sartorial", "pinguid" and "mephitic".

That's a lot of revising. To make it more exciting, I'm not just revising it by myself anymore. Now I am under the dictatorial, tyrannical rule of my evil overlord of an editor, Sylvie.

(Note to Sylvie, please get a more evil and tyrannical sounding name. Like "Tyrannicon" or "Evilicious".) Any readers with suggestions for more evil names, please comment on this post.

Actually, Sylvie, lives up to her non-evil sounding name. She's been great to work with and has offered a lot of suggestions that have improved the book immensely.

Some of the revisions were simple:
"You forgot a period here."
"Could you add a bit more detail here?"

Some were a bit more complicated:
"Do you think you could possibly rewrite the entire book in the first person instead of the third person?"*
"I'm not sure I know why these characters are friends. Can you give some reasons that they would hang around together? But work it into the story-line. Don't just drop it in."
"We need to get that 12 page Glossary down to about 5 pages."*
"Could you please rewrite the entire book in Mandarin?"**

*True revision.
**This is a big, fat lie.

The work is not without its rewards, however. And, as soon as I can think of some, I'll let you know what they are.

I've also been working on the artwork for the book. I had a few problems with the first piece I created for it. Namely, that it looked like at least one of the characters had suffered a tragic, horrific gunshot wound to the face.

I tried to work it into the storyline, but it was kind of awkward. Maybe in my next book. So I had to fix up the artwork.

I've also been working on designing the CD cover for my buddy, Steve Blunt's next CD. I had trouble with that, too, as Steve is also a dictatorial, tyrannical, evil overlord of a friend with a non-evil sounding name.

The first CD cover design I sent him was "too scary".
"Remember", he reminded me, "this is for really little kids. Do you really think they need to see all those severed heads you put on the CD cover?"
"They need to learn about it sometime, Steve," was my unheeded response.

So we have this.

Hardly the terrifying, blood-spattered scene of unspeakable carnage I had originally envisioned, but that's the way it goes when you are working for The Man. The Man, in this case being Steve.

And, because that's not enough, I have been working on a series of 7 comics that will run simultaneously in 6 different magazines and must integrate characters from all 6 magazines, some of which have not been created yet. The characters, not the magazines. Confused? Me too.

And I've also been selected as the author to represent New Hampshire at the 2011 National Book Festival in Washington D.C.

It is, of course a great honor. And, if this year's poster is to be believed, I am very much looking forward to being read to by a giant reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln. Or, possibly, a giant robotic Abraham Lincoln. Either would be fine.

So, I hope you will all forgive me this recent lapse in blog updates. I will certainly try harder in the future.

If you have any further suggestions, I'll be in Washington listening to Honest Abe.

New York; New Book!

2011-09-01T09:12:00.004-04:00

I recently returned from a trip to New York City. Close observers will realize quickly that the photo above is not me in New York. It is me with Julie (my hiking wife) just before we climbed Mt. Cube in New Hampshire, which is not in New York City. I offer this picture as a point of comparison.

Please notice the expression on my face when I am out in the woods.

Look carefully and see if you can spot the subtle differences between that picture and this photo of me in New York City.

There are other differences between my real life and NYC.

1. The scenery.

View from a New Hampshire summit:

View from a NYC summit:

2. The natural wonders.

New Hampshire's rare and much sought after natural beer spring:

New York's shy and elusive Lego lion:

I went to New York City with Kerri (my real-life, non-hike wife) to meet my agent, Abi, and my editor, Sylvie.

I was meeting them because it seems that I have finally managed to sell my first chapter book.

(insert sound effect of wild applause)

In the interest of total disclosure, I have not yet signed the contract so there is still the extremely slight but very real possibility that this will totally tank, but I think not. And I hope not.

I wrote about this book on my blog a long time ago. You can go back and read it or skip ahead for a brief, yet thrilling, summary.

Briefly, here is what happened:

Many years ago, I sent a picture book manuscript to Abi, my editor at Tricycle.

Abi did not like my book.

She suggested that it might make a good chapter book if I could bulk it up a bit. Like, you know, bring it up from 800 words to... oh... I don't know... 23,000 words.

So I did.

But she didn't like that either.

So I did another one.

And she liked it.

So, I sat waiting for her to send me a contract.

But she had to take it to meetings and convince other people that it was a good book.

So I waited.

And waited.

And then Random House bought Tricycle.

And everyone was very excited.

And I waited.

And waited.

And then Random House shut Tricycle down.

And people were not so excited about that.

Especially Abi, my editor, who, in addition to the crippling blow of not being able to edit my book, no longer had a job.

I had my manuscript back.

I sent it to Holiday House and heard from Sylvie, an omnipotent editor who said she liked it.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, Abi became an agent and, after eventually getting sick of my constant pleading, whining, begging, and wheedling, said that she would represent me.

So, armed with Abi's ridiculous ninja-like agent powers, we have hammered out a deal to finally bring my chapter book to the masses.

The book itself is sort of like Charlotte's Web, except that it has no pig, no spider, no farm, no animals, and is actually about a dorky boy and his two dorky friends who try to start a boy-band to win the school competition. But other than that, it is almost a complete rip-off of Charlotte's Web.

Sylvie, the editor extraordinaire, has contributed many very helpful ideas to the development of the book including changing it to be a first-person story.

My previous experiences in publishing have all been with picture books, which have a very low word count. Editing and revising an 800 word story can be slightly time-consuming, but completely rewriting a 23,000 word book is slightly more time consuming.

I was very happy to have her input on the book, however–no matter how much I cried as I rewrote it again and again and again.

So when, in the midst of a flurry of emails about contract negotiations, which included phrases like

"Notwithstanding the foregoing, should, during the term of this Agreement"...

There was mention of meeting for breakfast, I took notice.

"I like breakfast," I thought, "I should get in on this!"

The fine print, that the breakfast in question would take place in New York City, did not fully dawn on me until I had committed to it.

So Kerri and I packed the kids away in a closet and spent a delightful 36 hours in Manhattan at a hotel that was, if the description on their website was to be believed, "Nestled in a quiet, residential neighborhood."

This is the view out of our hotel window:

I suppose that everything is relative and it was quiet compared to a Slayer concert. During low level nuclear testing.

We spent the first day wandering around Manhattan, enjoying the many splendid sights that await a couple of slack-jawed yokels visiting the big city.

We gaped at the ceiling in the NY Public Library (in which we were unable to locate a single book):

We enjoyed the view from the top of The Empire State Building and learned that this big pole thing on the top was designed as a docking site for blimps. True fact.

We saw surly teen-aged kids who did not want their pictures to be taken:

We saw parents of those kids who probably wish that this picture had not been taken:

We saw the Police Department Riot Squad arrive for some festivities (we did not bother to stick around and discover what the festivities in question were):

And we saw some things that utterly mystified us:

If anyone can explain what a "Disco Nap" is , or why anyone might be willing to shell out $2/minute for it, I would very much like to know.

We also went to Times Square where people from all over the world gather together to watch 100 foot TV ads for hours at a time:

We eventually staggered back to our quiet, residential hotel in mid-town Manhattan and dropped off to a restful slumber, lulled to sleep by the relaxing sirens, horns, and random shouts that danced in the still night air.

The next morning, we went off to meet and eat with Abi and Sylvie, the two most powerful people in the publishing world.

It was a delightful breakfast, made even more delightful by the fact that Holiday House paid for it. Sylvie and Abi were both charming, intelligent, and lovely and I would say that even if my future earnings didn't depend so much on their continued interest in my work.

To my lasting chagrin, I completely forgot to get a picture of the three of us together. I suspect that it wouldn't have worked out even if I had remembered. I have a sneaky suspicion that Abi's slick ninja powers make it so she doesn't even show up on film.

Sylvie then took us on a tour of the Holiday House offices, where I met the staff and saw lots of amazing artwork by some of my favorite illustrators. I'm humbled and excited to be on a list with Trina Schart Hyman, Edward Gorey, and James Ransome.

Maybe when I finish the artwork for this book, it will hang with those wonderful pieces. If it does, I'll celebrate by having another breakfast with Abi and Sylvie. But next time it will be in New Hampshire. Maybe I'll take them out to that beer fountain in the woods.
And after that, we can all take a Disco Nap.

True Confessions and Sore Feet

2011-08-18T10:35:00.003-04:00

So, the rumors that have been flying around are true.
I cheated on my wife.

With this guy.

Ben. The other man.

But not my real wife. I cheated on my hiking wife, Julie.
I'm sorry, Julie. I truly am. And I hope that, in time, the hurt will heal and you and I will one day be able to move past this and go hiking again. Like maybe next Friday? I have Monday free, too. Let me know.

Yesterday's hike with Ben, who has been my best friend since we were 10 years old, started, as so many hikes seem to, at an unpleasantly early hour.

Ben arrived at my house at 6:00 a.m. and, after a cup of coffee, we headed up north to spend the day tripping over the roots, rocks, and small children that litter the trails of The White Mountains. Our destination was called Falling Waters Trail and encompassed not one, not two, but three mountain summits. Our friend Ryan suggested this hike as a "very nice hike".

I think that Ryan does not actually like us very much.

While it was, undoubtedly "a very nice hike", it was also "a very long hike" that begins with "a very long drive". The drive up north was actually quite pleasant. Ben and I have been friends for so long that we always have lots to talk about, but even if we didn't, long silences are never uncomfortable.

There was little chance for silence on our ride, however. Early in the trip, Ben had pulled his iPod out of his pocket and plugged it into the stereo so we could listen to some music. The music and conversation was then punctuated by Ben's iPod alarm going off. He fiddled with the iPod and conversation resumed. Then the alarm went off again. And again. And again. Every 5 minutes, Ben's alarm reminded us that it was 5 minutes later. He fiddled and fooled with it. "I've turned off everything on it!" he cried, "There's nothing left to make any noise at all! Was one of my kids messing with this as a joke?!"

Ben and I have both worked as teachers and are well practiced in tuning out annoying noises, however. We continued on our way, Ben cursing his iPod every 5 minutes. When we finally arrived at the trailhead and turned off the car and the iPod, the alarm went off one final time. Ben reached into his pocket and removed his cellphone. He pressed a button on the phone and the alarm stopped. "Hunh. I guess it wasn't my iPod."

We were still happy, in spite of Ben's alarm mishap; but that's because we hadn't started hiking yet. A brief stop at the trailhead bathrooms was made even briefer by the toxic cloud of death that hung about the buildings. We opted for more rustic facilities along the trail and we were off.

The trail starts with a delightful stroll along a heavily wooded path before turning a corner where a guy with an ax appears out of nowhere.
I'm not saying that Ben and I screamed like little girls, but I'd just like to state, for the record, that nowhere in any of the guide books was this guy with the ax mentioned. It's just not something that you expect to see on this sort of hike and it may have startled us a bit. But, I repeat, we did not scream like little girls.

It turns out that, as far as we know, the guy was not a homicidal maniac. Or at least if he was, he was not wielding the ax in that capacity. They were deep in the middle of major trail maintenance, so we would occasionally round corners and discover scenes that look like they belonged on the cover of romance novels. Or in a Diet Coke commercial.

"Oh. Who's the sweaty, shirtless fellow leaning on his shovel along that sun-dappled path deep in the woods?"

And then somebody opens a cool, refreshing Diet Coke and everyone is suddenly dancing around in a spray of cool, refreshing mountain spring water.

But it wasn't a Diet Coke commercial. And nobody was dancing around in sprays of cool, refreshing mountain spring water, despite the fact that Falling Waters Trail is the most appropriately named thing on the face of the planet. There was water falling everywhere. The place was silly with waterfalls.

Wow! A waterfall!

Ooh. Look! A waterfall.

More of a watertrickle, but okay.

Hey! Another waterfall!

Okay. We get the point.

Lots of waterfalls. Not many sweaty construction guys prancing about in the water. And for that, we were truly thankful. Because we had enough sweat of our own. Ben developed a delightful pattern of sweat across his front that began to resemble a smiling face.

Sadly, it had lost some of its smiling cheerfulness by the time I took a picture of it. I believed that Ben's sweat may be revealing secret messages to us, but I simply couldn't decode them.

We eventually made it to the summit of the first mountain, Little Haystack, and Ben had an opportunity to change his shirt. It is unfortunate, however, that he had managed to sweat all the way through his backpack and on to his clean shirt.

I, of course, was still clean, dry, and shower-fresh. And I don't think that Ben has any photos that will prove otherwise. Because he killed the battery in his iPod trying to shut off the alarm a hundred times.

We wound our way along the ridge line for a mile and a quarter, drinking in the breath-taking views and breathing in the breath-taking stink that we were creating.

We made our way to the final summit where we were greeted with the majestic, awe-inspiring view that we had hiked so far to witness: a random kid on the top of a mountain playing a hand-held video game.

We ate lunch and surveyed our surroundings, ignoring the kid with the video game.

The sight of a plane soaring hundreds of yards below us and our car, six-thousand miles away did little to dampen our spirits because Ben's wife, Ann had packed cookies for both of us and they gave us a reason to live. (And, yes, I swear, that little speck in the photo is really, seriously, honestly a plane.)

We headed off down the mountain toward Greenleaf Hut, one of the many AMC facilities that punctuate the mountains, offering $100/night bunks and, no matter how hot it is outside, bowls of nourishing, hot soup.

We passed on the lodging and the hot soup, opting instead to refill our water bottles and make room for more water by taking advantage of the hut's composting toilets.

I don't wish to dwell on the scatological elements of our hike, but I must mention that the toilets at the huts are composting toilets and, while standing at it and making use of it, I was aware of an unexpected and unsettling cool breeze blowing up from the depths and into my face, exactly the part of my body where I would least wish such a breeze to go.

The signs posted in the bathroom offered an explanation, describing the methods by which the toilet works, including "a circulator vent fan that moves the air upward and out through the top of the toilet". This was, evidently, an achievement that they were proud of. It seemed, at least, a certain way to guarantee that nobody makes an extended stay in the bathroom.

Freshly watered, we headed off again toward the car, trailing behind us our own personal combination of delightful odors, now enhanced by the auxiliary back-up stink blown on to us by the hut's composting toilet fans.

The trip down was full of spectacular views and unexpected oddities. We saw the natural terrarium rock:

(I am reluctantly forced to point out its resemblance to a toilet seat, an unfortunate theme that seems to be developing.)

The wily and elusive Benfoot, viewing us curiously from his den:

And our last view of the entire hike before we descended below tree-line:

A few hundred years later, we arrived at my car and, despite how tired we were, we were kept awake for the ride home by Ben's cellphone alarm chirping cheerfully at us every 5 minutes.

Learning How To Draw - Week One

2011-08-06T18:14:00.005-04:00

This is the way it was supposed to go:
The kids go camping with Kerri's parents for the week.
I take a Master's Class in portrait drawing with Tony Ryder for the week.
Kerri spends the week floating around in the pool, sipping drinks with little umbrellas in them.
I come home from class each night and join Kerri briefly in the pool before we cook a delicious meal, eat leisurely on the porch as we chat of this and that, and then spend the evening doing a bit of work in the garden, going for a walk, and updating my daily blog with all my wacky, zany adventures in Tony’s class. Then we would settle down for the night with a good book and a restful night's sleep.

But then:
Small bathroom repair job from a couple weeks ago exploded into horrifying total bathroom gut job.
Muffler dropped off my car.
My car began making a non-muffler-related strange noise and, in the course of removing a tire to look at the brakes, I sheared off one of the lug bolts that hold the tires on and noticed that my brake pads were weirdly corroded necessitating a multi-day series of repairs for me to perform in the driveway.

So, this is the way it actually went:

I went to class each day and suffered at the hands of Tony Ryder, a cruel, tyrannical artist who seeks only to emotionally abuse his students and cripple their wills to create art, thus leaving him the only artist on the planet and, therefor, in complete control of all the art in the world.
Kerri spent each day in our hot, poorly ventilated bathroom huffing paint fumes and regretting the dreadful purple paint she picked out.
We staggered into each other's presence in the evenings, gagged down some form of sustenance, flopped on the couch for an hour or two, staring off into the distance, and then dragged ourselves to bed so we could each spend the night privately contemplating the horrors that awaited us upon awakening.

About the bathroom and the car, I will likely have more to say at some distant point in time, after the paint and brake cleaner fumes have cleared from my head. Possibly sometime in the next decade.

About the class I am taking, I have much to say. First, and most importantly, I was totally lying about the teacher being a tyrannical artist, etc., etc. I only said that to Kerri, so she would feel that we had suffered equally throughout the day.

We had not.

Tony Ryder is, in addition to being one of the most amazingly talented artists alive, a really, really, really nice guy.


This is how Tony's drawings start out.

When I first saw this class advertised, I squealed with joy and did a very macho Tippy-Toe Dance of Exceeding Joy about my house. Even the price of the class (roughly the equivalent of the GNP of a mid-sized European country) did little to dampen my joy.

I spent many idle moments in the months leading up to the class imagining what a class with Tony might be like. I assumed, naturally, that he would swoop into the room wearing a cape and calf-high black boots. In his gloved hands, I imagined a riding crop, used to redirect students whose line quality may be sub-standard.

Frankly, this was not a situation I was looking forward to, but there is no personal growth without some suffering. Minor suffering, of course.

On the first day of class, I wandered into the small art supply store housed on the ground floor of the building where class was to be held. I asked the mild-mannered clerk where the classrooms were. He lead me through a rear door and was even kind enough to push the elevator button for me, lest I strain my finger before class.

This is the result, 9 seconds later. Kidding. This is a 5 day demo.

I thanked him and soon found the classroom. I was milling around with the other students awaiting Tony's imminent arrival when the clerk from the art store quietly slipped into the room and introduced himself as Tony Ryder.

Tony did not, as he might have been entitled to do, wear a cape. He did not require us to refer to him as: The Great and Powerful Anthony Ryder, Lord Over All He Surveys. We were not required to genuflect or even avert our gaze from his.

He began class by announcing, “Okay. It’s 9:30 and 45 seconds. Let’s get going.”

Every minute of this class costs me just over 36 cents, so I appreciate his punctuality. I’m still debating whether I should approach the registrar’s office for a refund for that missing 45 seconds.

Each day was structured so that Tony would do a demonstration in the morning, allowing us to witness the graceful perfection of every mark he puts on the paper, and giving each of the students the opportunity to silently reconsider alternate careers that do not, in any way, involve art.

He is soft-spoken and extremely self-deprecating, most likely so that students, upon witnessing his mad, crazy ninja drawing skills, do not hurl themselves out the nearest window in a fit of overwhelming, jealousy-driven despair.

He is quick to offer compliments and has yet to bring forth the riding crop.

I asked him if I might be able to bring in some of my work to have him cast his learned eye over it. He deigned that I may.

I was so nervous that I lost sleep the night before bringing my work in to show him.

Because I am a dork.

Then, I made a tragic mistake. About 20 minutes before he was going to check out my work, I slid up next to him and began some idle chatter about my long distant art school days. I mentioned the first drawing teacher I ever had and referred to him, if I recall correctly, as “a vicious bastard”. This teacher seemed to get his twisted jollies by eviscerating students during class critiques. Helpful comments like, “Whose piece of crap drawing is this?” and “This sucks because…” did little to help my already fragile artistic self-confidence.

I realized as soon as this amusing anecdote was out of my mouth that I had done myself in as far as an honest critique from Tony was concerned. I had just whined and moaned about a vicious art teacher from 20 years ago and now I was asking Tony to please give me his honest opinion. Tony probably thought I’d crumple up in a ball and wet myself if he said anything bad.

“”I’m much tougher now,” I promised, “Please. Give it to me straight. What do you think?”

He looked at the pieces I had brought in and contemplated them for a moment. Time stopped briefly as he opened his moth to deliver his verdict. My heart pounded. My face sweat. I think my lips even sweat. My hands shook and trembled. And then he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Your work sucks because…”

Not really, of course.

He said he thought my work was great and that he really liked the way I draw hair.

I offered to give him lessons on drawing hair for 36 cents per minute. He politely declined.

Maybe I’ll try dropping my price next week.

Pass the Soap, Please.

2011-07-20T20:14:00.003-04:00

So, what I need to know is: What is the proper greeting when you are outside behind your house naked and showering off with the hose and the electric meter reader lady walks around the side of the house to read the electrical meter?*

It was a very hot day. Should I have offered to hose her off? Should I have nodded my head casually continued indiscreetly soaping myself?

Was shrieking and running away a socially appropriate response? For both of us?

I ask because I am in the middle of what I like to refer to as A Twenty Minute Job.

A few weeks ago, a peculiar odor began wafting through the bathroom.

I fully understand that you will need to interject many, many thoughtful and hilarious comments at this point so here is plenty of space for you to do just that: ( )

The problem is that the smell was not one of a scatological origin. It was a musty, funky sort of odor. And it was coming from under the tub.

Our tub is, if the truth is to be known, the only reason that Kerri wanted to buy our house at all. The bathroom was the only room in the house that had been updated since the mid-seventies and it looked wonderful in comparison to the faux-wood paneling that covered every surface in every other room of the house . The bathroom had a big, tiled whirlpool tub, a shiny tile floor, and was the one room in the entire house that actually had a closet. Kerri was delighted.

It was unfortunate that the whirlpool tub sounded like a submerged lawnmower when you turned it on, depriving the bather of the quiet, relaxing experience she may have been seeking in the tub. It was also unfortunate that the shiny floor tiles were terrifyingly slick and slippery when they got wet. And the closet door doesn't ever stay closed.

And now there was this smell.

Some of the tiles covering the outside of the tub had come loose and I suspected that water had found its way in and began a vigorous campaign of populating the bathroom with mold. My solution was A Twenty Minute Job.

"I will pull the tiles off, replace the wood underneath them with cement board, and re-tile the front of the tub."

To be fair to myself, I would like to point out that I only counted pulling off the tiles as A Twenty Minute Job. I knew the rest of it might take a few hours. Maybe a day. But I had the tiles already. All I needed was cement board, grout, and tile adhesive. So the whole job was going to cost about $40. And take a day.

And now, faced with this, I wonder if the electric meter reader lady and I might be able to come to some sort of understanding.

There was a bit of mold there. And the wooden supports around the tub were soaked. And when I was prying the tiles on the front of the tub off, all the nice shiny, slippery tiles on the floor started popping off. A bit of homeowner wisdom for you all, courtesy of me: Don't attach bathroom tiles to regular wallboard or plywood. The person who buys your house will hate you. Even if it's your mother who buys your house. She will hate you. Tiles don't go on wallboard or plywood. Remember that. Always.
The one good point here was that the previous owners' incredibly incompetent installation job made removal much easier than it should have been. But I still hate them.

So now, my $40 one day job has turned into a complete removal of the tub, the floor, the tiles and sheetrock walls in the tub surround and, because Kerri is my wife and must be obeyed, new light fixtures.

This week I've been busy with the destruction of the bathroom. Next week a kind gentleman will arrive to install our new, acrylic, tile-free, humongous shower stall. We will no longer have a tub. But, the shower will be big enough to accommodate us and nearly all of our friends at the same time. I'm not inviting you over for a group shower, mind you, I'm just making the point that it's a freakin' huge shower.

All I'll have to do after the nice man comes is paint the bathroom, change the light fixtures, install the new subfloor, put down the vinyl flooring, paint and reinstall the baseboards, and convince that meter reading lady to announce herself a bit more loudly before she comes into the back yard next time.

All that should take me about twenty minutes.

* Yes, I was naked in the yard because the shower was dismantled. Also, because really, why NOT be naked in your back yard?
Your back yard.
Please do not come over here to be naked in my back yard.
The meter lady would probably think that was weird.

You Might Want To Stay Away From Me. Far, Far Away.

2011-07-04T17:05:00.003-04:00

I realize now that my previous post (When Will The Hurting Stop?) was obviously some sort of cryptic foreshadowing to the delightful bout of Lyme Disease I've recently contracted.

My previous post was about an 11 mile hike. I assumed that the pain I was feeling was a direct result of allowing Julie to drag me through the woods. Turns out, that was only part of it.

The rest of the pain, as well as the fatigue, muscle cramping chills, dizzying fevers, and general feeling of overall poopiness are a result of a tiny little tick bite. I am trying to find a valid way to blame Julie for this, but the timing/incubation period simply won't cooperate with my wishes.

I started feeling pretty lousy on Saturday, the day after the hike. I thought I might be getting the flu. So, naturally, I hung around in our blow up pool and drank fermented beverages in an effort to restore myself to peak operating condition. Saturday night I had chills so badly that I went to lay on the couch so my shivering wouldn't wake Kerri up.

Then, on Sunday, Kerri noticed this decorative rash adding a warm splash of color to my otherwise pale hip.

"Um... I think you may have Lyme Disease," she suggested.

I was actually relieved. In the wee hours of the night, my imagination had extrapolated my burgeoning sickness to include: EEE, Spinal Meningitis, and Leprosy.

I called the fine folks at Ask-A-Nurse, whom I cannot say enough about, and they advised me to haul myself to the local Urgent Care Facility. After a 65 minute wait, the doctor popped into the room for–I am not exaggerating–60 seconds. That included introductions, a few quick questions, and the quickest, most cursory exam I have ever had.

"Um... I think you may have Lyme Disease," he announced as he disappeared through the door.

I sat in the exam room for another 10 minutes, awaiting his return. A nurse came in to draw some blood.

"Will the doctor be coming back in?" I asked.

"Nope. He's all done with you." she answered.

So I walked away with a prescription for some heavy duty antibiotics and a hefty medical bill.

All was well until about 11:30 last night when the chills started up again so badly I feared that I was going to chip my teeth. I took out the thermometer and got a reading of 104.7 in one ear and 105.3 in the other. Those numbers are fine if you are an FM radio station. If you are a human, it means that things are not going well for you.

Once again, I called Ask-A-Nurse.

"My temperature is about 105. Should I be dead?" I asked.

"Well, not dead, but probably not as perky as you seem to be," she answered.

She suggested that I go purchase a more reliable oral thermometer.

"Now?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so," she said.

"It's midnight on a Sunday night," I reminded her helpfully, "Plus, also, I live in the boonies where things shut down for the night at about 5 pm on a late day.

"You might have to drive for this," she said, "But you really need to get an accurate reading. If your temperature is really that high, you need to be in the hospital."

So Kerri and I had the pleasure of a midnight drive through Manchester to locate an all night pharmacy. When we finally did, my temperature on the new thermometer was 100.4. But then at home, the new one and the old one gave me the same readings. But at least I wasn't afraid that I was going to burst into flames in my sleep anymore. So I spent the Fourth of July Sleeping like this.

I'm not posting this to get sympathy, though any sympathy you'd like to send to Kerri will be greatly appreciated. I am not a low-maintenance sick person.

I'm posting this as a warning. I've been wondering if there isn't some cosmic sort of retribution being levied against my closest friends and me.

Witness:

Julie nearly drained of blood by black flies on a recent hike.

My daughter, Tori. The same hike.

Ben's back after The Warrior Dash.

Julie's thigh after The Warrior Dash.

I'm not trying to scare you all off. I'm just thinking that you might want to keep your distance from me until this all clears up.

Who knows what might happen to you otherwise...

When Will The Hurting Stop?

2011-07-02T12:03:00.003-04:00

The first problem came in the email. "I'll be at your house at 5:30."

The problem being that it references 5:30 A.M.

In the morning.

While I should be sleeping. While everyone should be sleeping.

The second, third, and fourth problems are that Julie, my alleged good friend, has decided that we will be hiking not one, not two, but three mountains. On the same hike.

There is a limit to the amount of pain and suffering and early rising that the human body can withstand. Julie seems intent on finding out what my limit is and possibly pushing me past it; if only slightly. Slightly past the limit, however, is all it will take when the hike in question includes warnings in the guidebooks like, "The ascent up the north slide is strenuous and, in inclement weather, can prove quite dangerous. The slopes are steep and you will most certainly plummet to an unpleasant death if you take one wrong step."

Or something like that.

It also goes on to warn that the descent is "The most terrifying, bowel-loosening vertical drop you have ever witnessed. The entire trail down the south face is composed exclusively of loose, bowling ball sized rocks that will dislodge and slide down the hill at the slightest provocation. The best you can hope for is that you will not kill any other hikers as your battered, lifeless body bounces down the rocky slope toward the woods far, far below."

I'm paraphrasing, of course.

So it was with a song on my lips and joy in my heart when Julie arrived at my house yesterday morning and I hopped in her car and we headed north to my certain destruction. Of course, the fact that I am writing this does spoil the ending a bit, as you are no doubt aware that I didn't die.

I just feel like I did.

The trail is one that Julie refers to as a lollipop loop. A lollipop trail merely describes a trail that follows a straight line, then does a loop, returning to the straight line which you follow back to the starting point. The name, however, evokes images of sweetness and happiness and brings to mind scenes of carefree children skipping about in a sunny meadow without a care in the world. Butterflies and flowers speckle the tall, swaying grass and everything is as wonderful as it could possibly be. None of that is true. And, I’ll get to those disgusting butterflies later.

The trail description in the book did little to dissuade us of this bucolic image of serenity. It describe a gentle three mile stroll along a well maintained dirt road before you leave the road and venture off into the barren, tortuous rock-scape that is the north side of the Tripyramids.

We pulled into the parking lot, and were both immediately struck by the fact that there was not another vehicle there. It was a parking lot big enough to rival that of a large chain store, but were were alone. To smarter people, that would have served as a clue.

A sign of impending doom, suffering, and despair.

But not for us! Oh, no. We were ready to hike. To explore the wilderness. To see nature as nature was intended to be seen. Experienced. Smelled. Tasted. Lived!

This is how happy we were when we started.

Or something like that. We strolled the three miles up the dirt trail and, by the time we reached the turn where we were to begin the actual Tripyramid Trail, we had been lulled into such a sense of complacency that the sight of the towering slabs of rock, jutting heavenward in front of us was like a punch in the kidneys.

We remained happy until we saw the first little climb.

I may have cried a little bit right then. And Julie was gracious enough to point out that was doing a lot of sighing on this particular hike. I assured her that the sighs were merely gentle expressions of boundless internal joy and delight. In fact, they were muted squeaks of boundless internal horror and terror.

We scaled the endless granite slabs, searching for handholds and trying very hard not to envision the human scab that we would be transformed into with one wrong step. Adding to the excitement was the fact that it had recently rained and the rocks, in addition to being steep, craggy, and pointy, were very slippery.

Please note sheer drop off of doom behind Julie.

View from the top of the first slide. Not in photo: Me weeping like a baby.

And covered with slugs. I realize that most people, when confronted with the dual trials of plummeting to a splattery death or accidentally grabbing a slug with your hand, would consider the splattery death to be the worst by far. I have long held the belief that slugs are the most horrible things in the universe; sent to this earth for the sole purpose of making me want to sprout extra mouths and vomit myself to death.

So the slugs added an extra thrill to the climb.

A few days later, we finally arrived at what we believed to be the top of the most strenuous part of the climb. As it turns out, we were mistaken. It was only the end of the part that we could see. The rest of the perilous ascent was merely shrouded by pine trees.

A few days after that we finally arrived at the first summit, demarcated only by the fact that everything after that sloped downhill. The guidebook described the saddles between the three summits as gentle, strolling paths through the something, something, blah, blah, blah. And, for the most part it was.

The first summit.

Each summit, oddly, was exactly 40 feet lower than the previous one. Julie tried to explain her theory that, as each summit was lower, even when we were going uphill toward the next summit, we were really going downhill. Julie Hiking Physics is a special branch of science understood by very few people in the universe. I am sad to report that I am not one of the privileged few.

Second Summit. Notice how chipper and happy Julie looks.

I am also chipper and happy.

Third summit. Isn't this fun?

We made our way over the three summits and then reached the final descent that lead back into the wooded wilderness stretching out as far as we could see in every direction. It was then that my finely tuned instinct for self-preservation kicked in and I pleaded with Julie to call for a helicopter to come and rescue me. “No cell reception,” she said. But do you know what? She never even looked at her phone.

I spent a few serene moments hyperventilating and surveying the majestic landscape that surrounded us. “What mountain is that over there?” I asked in order to distract myself from the fact that I would soon be reduced to little more than a greasy smear across a few hundred feet of granite.

“Tecumseh,” Julie answered without hesitation.

That’s the thing about her. She always answers without hesitation, in a tone of absolute conviction. The problem is that 50% of the time, she has no idea what she’s talking about. I am aware of this. She is aware of this. As a result, I am dubious of everything she tells me with relation to the outdoors. The problem is, 50% of the time she is absolutely correct. She makes it difficult to discern between “Truth” and “Truth As Julie Sees It”. Her working theory is that if I know that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but I still ask her; she’s going to answer me.

My doubt all stems from The Gray Jay Incident, which I wrote about some time ago.

The thrilling descent.

Eventually, after I had asked her to identify every mountain in our field of view and I ran out of any other possible excuses to postpone the decent, we began the climb down the south slide. Slide is another poorly chosen word used by outdoorsey types of people. A slide is a little playground toy that whisks you safely to the ground from a reasonable height. A slide, when hiking, is an exposed scar of jagged rock that can, should you step incorrectly, whisk you to the rock covered ground hundreds of feet below. The difference is not subtle.

The car is a mere 4 miles out of the top frame of this picture. Easy!

We did manage to safely maneuver down the slope, only occasionally sending deadly showers of rock down on to one another.

Slippery when wet.

Reaching the bottom, all that remained was a leisurely stroll three miles back to the parking lot. In theory, this should have been easy and, if the guidebook is to be believed, fun.

In practice, it was a horrible ordeal, made far, far worse by my constant whining and complaining. We slogged along the path, dragging our sore, swollen feet and cursing the fact that we didn’t bring jet-packs.

Out death march was punctuated by occasional swarms of butterflies, clustered in great, fluttering heaps on the road.

“Butterflies eat poop,” Julie explained.

Obviously, I did not believe her. This was clearly nonsense.

“Butterflies are symbols of innocence, freedom, and joy,” I told her, “They are dancing, shimmering creatures of magic, like unicorns and fairies and creepy garden gnomes. Butterflies eat pollen and moonbeams and sip dewdrops and nectar. They flutter gently onto the pink cheeks of young children and kiss them.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, pointing to the festering pile of dog crap that the butterflies vacated as we came near them. “You want them kissing your face now?”

We finally arrived at the car, almost exactly seven hours after we had left it. My feet and my faith in the magical properties of butterflies ruined.

There were the cars of a few other fools in the parking lot as we pulled away.

But they were still hiking and we were going out for ice cream, which I planned on enjoying to an extent that was probably not normal.

We arrived at the ice cream stand, ordered, and sat down with weary sighs to refresh our souls with ice cream.

And everything was fine until a butterfly fluttered onto my Mocha Madness cone.

Warriors with Dirty Undies.

2011-06-27T09:34:00.003-04:00

Today, I found myself, once again, in my backyard hosing out my underpants.

It comes from keeping company with an evil, sadistic cadre of lunatics.

Evil, sadistic friends.

We are scary, right? Me, Ben, and Tim. Ben and Tim win the coolest beard/hair combo. Ever.

It all started many months ago when my buddy, Tim posted a link on Facebook about an event called The Warrior Dash. I clicked on it and was taken to a website depicting muddy people diving over flaming lakes, scaling towering walls of wrecked cars, and horking down turkey legs the size of a small child, washed down with paint-bucket-sized beers. All these images were set to a rousing heavy metal-ish soundtrack to make them seem epic and fun and exciting.

And it did seem epic and fun and exciting.

To watch.

From a distance.

To participate in such an event would likely mean–in no particular order–pain, suffering, gastro-intestinal distress, death, projectile vomiting, and more death–all the hallmarks of jogging. For this was not merely an obstacle course followed by beer and brontosaurs legs. This was a 3 mile run, punctuated by obstacles.

I will voluntarily run only under the following conditions:

1. Being chased by knife-wielding maniac.
2. Being chased by gun-wielding maniac.
3. Being chased by knife-and-gun-wielding maniac.

In any other situation, I prefer to walk, bike, saunter, drive, sashay, trot, gallop, or–depending on the occasion–dance, as a means of personal locomotion.

I believe that I made some caustic comment on Tim’s link. Something clever, along the lines of, “Are you nuts? Dry heaves are for suckers.”

And then, much to my amazement and horror, many of of my real, actual friends–friends I have know and loved for years–started posting comments like, “Yeah!” “I’m in!” “Let’s do this!”

I grew sadder and more despondent each day, seeing friend after friend fall victim to the terrific peer pressure. I knew it was only a matter of time before I cracked and joined them. I am weak.

My personal breaking point was when my friend Julie, whom I have hiked with on many occasions, lost her mind and joined this muddy death march. “Someone must watch over this poor, lost soul.” I told myself.

Plus, maybe I could convince her to stay with me as I feebly drag myself through the mud, toward the finish line and the freakishly large turkey legs that awaited us.

So, I forked over $50, signed my life away on a waiver, and joined my friends for a day of soul-shattering pain and misery.

It was decided that we should all meet at Tim’s house and caravan down to the event together. My suspicion was that this was merely a method of keeping people (like me) from chickening out at the last second. To assure that we got there in time to park, take the shuttle to the event, and register, it was further decided that we should leave Tim’s house by 8:00

In the morning.

On a Sunday.

This was, by far, the most grueling trial of the entire day. I awakened early, dragged my innocent wife and children out of bed, and headed off to my destruction.

We arrived at the emergency back-up off-site parking, conveniently located about 350 miles away from the actual event. We boarded a charted luxury school bus and, along with a few thousand equally foolhardy goons, headed off to the race.

One important element of the event, besides the beer, is the pageantry. People dress up in outlandish costumes in order to disguise the fact that they are suicidally depressed about the fact that they are about to run through 3 miles of ankle-deep mud.

The breadth and scope of the costumes was amazing. Nuns, hot dogs, gorillas, more vikings than you could count, assorted super heroes, villains, nerds, punks, and anthing else you could possibly imagine. All crammed onto a school bus, racing down I-495 on a Sunday morning. I can only imagine the other drivers, upon seeing the bus and its occupants, immediately racing to the church of their choice and praying that their children never have to go to THAT school.

When we finally disembarked, we were lead to the first officially sanctioned obstacle of the day: The Waiver Forms of Untold Suffering. They stated that we were about to, of our own volition, run through a deadly landscape of toxic water, biologically active mud, treacherous obstacles, insane participants, and, possibly, knife-and-gun-wielding maniacs.

And if we contracted some incurable disease, or fell to our deaths, or got trampled into a human jelly as a result, we agreed that it was our own stupid fault.
After which, we were ready for the actual race which, really, was nothing compared to the Signing of the Waiver.

We lined up at the starting gate along with 600 or so other fools, and awaited the thrilling blast of fire that signaled the beginning of another wave. There were waves each half hour throughout the day. The spacing was, no doubt, intended to make sure that there was enough time to cook the turkey legs in between each race.

We whooped and hollered and raced up the gentle 70 degree slope that was the beginning of the race. With 600 other people crammed onto the track, it quickly became obvious that racing was not the correct term. We sauntered up the track, strolling languidly up the scenic hill, marveling at the sweaty wall of humanity that encircled us.

A leisurely stroll up the hill with 600 of our closest friends.

Soon, we summited the hill and were set free to slip and slide in the mud as we attempted to actually race through the woods. With the single exception of The One Old Guy Who Was Trying To Prove Something, the other racers were considerate, friendly, and careful. If someone slipped and fell (and nearly everyone did) others would stop and offer assistance, or, at the very least, offer kind words of sympathy like, “Dude. That sucks.”

Everyone except The One Old Guy Who Was Trying To Prove Something. He raced full speed down every slope and up every incline, slipping and sliding, wildly out of control, his arms windmilling, taking out dozens of other participants in each of his countless, spectacular falls.

No matter how our pace altered throughout the race, it seemed that we were shadowed by this bane to humanity. There were many loud suggestions (by me) that he be tied up and placed in the path as a bonus obstacle, but to the best of my knowledge, nobody acted on that suggestion.

Early in the race, Ben took a heavy lead and we didn’t see him again for quite some time. I stayed with Julie and Tim and throughout the race, we marveled at Ben’s endurance and speed. “Wow! He really must be doing great!”

I’m sad to report that many of the obstacles did not appear quite as daunting in person as they had online. Perhaps it was the absence of the heavy metal-ish music in the background, but I was underwhelmed with the Bunch Of Tires Dangling From Ropes obstacle.

To provide a more authentically difficult event for each other, Tim, Julie, and I heaved the tires at one another, but it was futile.

We continued slogging through the mud, over the barricades, under the barbed wire (which was framed with 2x4’s for our protection) and finally caught up with Ben at the climbing wall. It seems that poor Ben was under the impression that he had fallen behind us and was running at this superhuman pace to try to catch up with us. All the while, we were many hundreds of miles behind him.

The climbing wall was a 15 foot monument to suffering with ropes dangling from the top of it. The idea was that you grab the rope, scale the wall, and do not fall to your death. In theory, it was simple. In practice, when you are tired, the wall and ropes are enrobed in slippery mud, and there is a steady stream of fellow dashers eagerly awaiting a turn, the challenge is multiplied a bit.

We all eventually managed to get over it, even those of us with pathological fears of heights. And then, reunited, we linked arms and skipped joyously to the flaming logs that we were to hurdle.

One more climbing wall later, we stood at the crest of the mud slide, a slippery slope that mirrored the same hill we had started the race on. We tried waiting for a clear opportunity so we could all safely jump onto the hill together, but there was no such chance. We simply hurled ourselves on to the hill and proceeded to have mud injected at high velocity into every available crack, crevice, and orifice on our bodies.

Mud Slide Colonic - Ben, Tim, and me half way down - Julie awaiting her turn at the top.

With the exception of the sand, the grass, the rocks, and the other people, it was extremely enjoyable. Until we stopped at the bottom and the big guy that I never even saw coming slammed his knee into my cheek. After a quick check to make sure all my teeth were still intact and a brief apology to the lady whose rear-end I had slammed my face into, we were headed for the finish line.

I limped over the finish line with Julie; Ben and Tim having been trapped in another wave of runners slightly behind us.

Happy Warriors with Bananas. Julie, me, Ben, and Tim.

Happier Warriors with Beer.

More Bananas.

We scraped what mud we could out of our eyes and staggered over to the rinsing area where snow making machines had been set up to blast water at us. The problem with this set up was that if you were near the back of the crowd, you were merely pelted with other racer’s dirty rinse water. If you did manage to get to the front of the crowd, the water spray was so powerful that it was like having your face sandblasted with ice.

Jet spray of pain and suffering.

We hobbled on to the bus that was to take us back to our cars, and headed back to Tim’s house for swimming and beverages. It seemed that, since this entire day was essentially his fault, it was only fitting that we mess up his house with our muddy, bruised bodies.

Ben had the most impressive looking injury of the day.

Julie had the dirtiest ears.

The biggest question of the evening was, “What are we going to dress up as next year?”

You'll Have To Talk To My Agent About That

2011-06-19T09:52:00.002-04:00

For many, many years, I have operated as an independent, sad, lonely writer and illustrator of children's books.

I wrote my books, sent them off to publishers, and collected the many, many rejection letters that I used as cocktail napkins at the rejection parties that I used to host for myself.

But those bleak days days of rejection are over.

Now, I have an agent.

An agent is a person–typically a ferocious, heavily armed, lunatic with crazy Ninja skills, and secret mind-control powers–who, in exchange for a meager 20% of every penny you ever make for the rest of your life, will undertake the odious task of selling your books to publishers for you.

Now, when I get rejection slips, my agent will buy the cocktails.

At least, I assume that's how it works. I'll have to double check the contract's fine print.

I'm sad to have to report that my agent, Abi Samoun of the newly formed Red Fox Literary Agency, is neither ferocious, nor a lunatic. And, as far as I am aware, she is also completely unarmed; though her crazy Ninja skills are well known and widely feared in the publishing industry.

I am delighted to be working with her.

Abi was, until its recent closing, a hot-shot editor at Tricycle Press. I first met her after sending her a manuscript for a book I had written called, "Childhood Trauma #4: Give Auntie Lulu A Kiss". She called me and explained that Tricycle was not interested in my book. But she had another idea. How would I like to do a book that was full of childhood traumas?

I swooned and was immediately smitten with this deeply twisted editor. I spent the next few days in close conference with my wife, Kerri. We huddled on the back porch making lists and lists of bad things that could happen to kids.

"What are you two doing?" our children would ask.
"Making lists of all the awful things that could happen to you," I would cheerily call back.

Those were a quiet few days at our household.

Eventually, the list was complete, some initial sketches were sent, and Abi convinced her boss to buy and publish my book, Twelve Terrible Things.

I have no idea how she did it, but anyone who can convince a children's book publisher to publish a book that is nothing but two page spreads of horrible things happening to children, is a person to be reckoned with.

The book went on to earn a starred review in School Library Journal and a wonderful write-up by Lemony Snicket in The New York Times. It was also pulled off the shelves of several public libraries for being "unsuitable for children".

When Random House bought Tricycle Press, everyone at Tricycle was very excited. When Random House subsequently closed down Tricycle Press a few months later, some of the giddy excitement waned.

Abi, rather than being crushed by the wheels of Evil Corporate America, dusted herself off (I assume that she was dusty, but I have no proof of this), squared her shoulders (again, I am assuming this is what she did), and started her own literary agency.

Using her secret mind-control powers, Abi has gathered some of the greatest, most dazzling talent in the known universe and formed a group of writers and illustrators so amazingly wonderful that other literary agencies whimper and tremble with fear at the merest mention of Red Fox Literary.

Abi will also, unbeknownst to her, be able to get me out of any unpleasant task.

Kerri: Marty, will you please give me a hand with the dishes?
Me: I'll have to speak with my agent about that.

I can see no possible downside to this.

Unless Kerri gets herself an agent.

Dumpster Yardsale From Beyond The Grave - A Eulogy for Uncle Ray

2011-06-14T15:23:00.002-04:00

My Uncle Ray died last week.

From what anyone can determine, he was at a subway station in Boston, fell on the stairs somehow, and suffered a fatal brain injury. He never regained consciousness and might have died alone had a nurse at Tufts Medical Center not done some extra investigating to locate family.

That's the thing about Ray. He was a mystery.

Ray lived alone in a low-income, government-subsidized apartment. His quirky mental make-up allowed him to live in government-subsidized housing, while simultaneously decrying any sort of welfare system. Loudly and often.

"These illegal immigrants come over here illegally and then expect the government to pay for their housing!" Ray would shout.

"Ray, the government helps pay for your housing, too," someone might helpfully point out to him.

"But I have a job!" he would counter.

"Some of those immigrants have two or three jobs, Ray," someone might also point out.

"And some of them don't have any jobs at all," he would answer. And then he would walk into the kitchen and celebrate his linguistic victory with a half gallon of ice cream.

Ray’s unique mental wiring left him entirely unencumbered by concern for the nuances and mores of etiquette. Inviting Ray to any sort of social event was a sure-fire way to create a lifelong memory.

Music too loud at a wedding?

That’s Ray with six inches of wadded up napkin sticking out of each ear.

“I didn’t come here to listen to this noise,” he would complain, “They should be playing Rudy Vallee!”

Crying baby in a restaurant?

Ray to the rescue!

"Will someone shut that brat up?" he would bellow. “Where are the parents of that thing? Why haven’t they covered its mouth with duct tape?”

None of us are without flaws. Ray's flaws were just louder than other peoples'.

And yet, in spite of his eccentricities, Ray was one of the kindest people I have ever known. For all his bluster and bluff, there was nothing he wouldn't do to help someone out.

My Great Uncle Eliot had a long history of renting a bedroom, for $5/week (meals included), to members of the family who needed some transitional housing while they worked or went to school in Boston. My mother and several cousins enjoyed Eliot’s hospitality and generosity over the years. I stayed with Eliot during my first year at art school. Ray's transitional stay with Eliot lasted for a few decades. Ray was devoted to Eliot and he worked hard to make life more comfortable to anyone staying in the house with them.

While I was living with them, Ray would often bring home "treasures" to surprise and delight Eliot and me.

"Look!" Ray would bellow, marching through the door, "I found this 8-track player lying on the sidewalk! Now we can listen to all those 8-tracks I found at that church flea market last winter!"
And we would be subjected to many, long hours of “Lawrence Welk’s Polka Parade” at ear-shattering levels. Ray would lean back in the perfectly good Naugahyde recliner he had dragged out of a dumpster, close his eyes, and revel in the golden, musical sounds filling the house. I would cower in the kitchen, close my eyes, and wish for deafness. Eliot was nearly deaf and therefore immune to the noise. He would sit in his armchair, smiling contentedly and contemplating the infinite.

Ray would also occasionally surprise us with a quart of ice cream or a box of doughnuts. Many of those treats did not come from a dumpster or a flea market or the sidewalk.

I hope.

Even after he moved into his own apartment, Ray always felt the need to bring home whatever shiny baubles, trinkets, and knick-knacks captured his attention. His deep love of treasure hunting lead to the greatest Dumpster Yard Sale that the city of Lowell has ever witnessed.

My mother called me after Ray died and asked if I would be willing to help her and my Aunt Esther clean out Ray's apartment.

"Bring gloves," she recommended.

I brought 3 pairs. Just in case.

Arriving at Ray's apartment building, I was greeted at the door by the Smokin' Old Ladies Welcoming Committee. They lined the benches beside the door, their wrinkled, bewhiskered faces barely visible behind an acrid cloud of cigarette smoke. They cackled merrily as I approached the door. From somewhere deep within the billowing cloud of smoke, The Gatekeeper pointed a remote control at the doors and pressed a gnarled, arthritic finger to the button. The doors swung open before me like the gates of some great and mysterious fortress.

A fortress that reeked of stale smoke and commercial grade air freshening products. Every resident in Ray's building, with the exception of Ray himself, smoked like a Chinese toy factory.

I finally managed to find Ray’s apartment and, opening the door, was greeted with, "Why in the world would anyone need this many pens?"

Indeed, this was to be a pervasive theme throughout the afternoon.

Several family members had been conscripted to help clean out Ray’s apartment. We waded through the the innumerable treasures that Ray had collected over the years. He seemed to have a preference for stereo equipment, writing implements, and–being a very pious man–bibles and rosary beads.

I believe that my cousin Karen, at one point, mentioned that she had found at least 50 bibles. Before lunch. There were enough rosary beads scattered throughout his apartment to make a New Orleans Mardi Gras party look drab and lifeless by comparison.

We began hauling boxes of Ray’s treasures down to the dumpster and soon it was filled well beyond its capacity.

That's when the fun began.

Load after load was hauled out of the apartment. We arranged things in an enticing manner around the dumpster. Word spread quickly throughout the building.

The Gatekeeper of The Smokin' Old Ladies Welcoming Committee warned me, "Hey! You leave that stuff there and people are gonna TAKE it!"

"They're welcome to it," I answered cheerily, "In fact, can I interest any of you delightful ladies in this 800 watt portable CD player or a few hundred 'Sing Along with Mitch' 8-tracks? How about 65,000 pens? Thirteen dozen #2 pencils?"

They were not interested. The Smokin' Old Ladies were tough customers; even declining my cousin Kathy’s sweet offers of 22 almost-new bags of egg noodles. The rest of the building’s residents were not so difficult to please, however.

Soon, people were swarming around the dumpster and, some, seeking to get the jump on the competition, met us en route to pick items off the hand trucks we were pushing.

It may have gotten ugly at the dumpster if Kathy hadn’t charmed a resident into helping out by offering him several dozen strings of giant rosary beads. With the beads draped around his neck like some twisted mockery of Mr. T, he assumed the role of Dumpster Yard Sale Manager and attended to the myriad details that we simply didn't have time for. Without his invaluable assistance, we certainly wouldn't have done half the business that we did.

He advertised the sale by calling out to passers-by, "HEY! Come check it out! Someone passed away. You KNOW that's the only time there's really good stuff like THIS! Hey, Pedro! Wasn't you lookin' for a new microwave? We got one here!"

He saw to the orderly conduct of the customers. "Hey, Showanda. Put that clock down, honey. I'm saving that for Jung Hwa. You can have this other clock. The one that plays music every hour. No. That one is saved for Pedro. Don't make me ask you to leave."

He displayed the products with an artist’s eye for detail. "You guys got any shelves up there in that apartment? Well, bring 'em down. I'll put all these beer mugs out on the shelves. Make 'em look nice. Then people will take ‘em."

Those beer mugs were one of the many surprises that awaited us in Ray’s apartment. For a lifelong tea-teetotaler, Ray had an impressive collection of beer mugs, including one with the slogan, "Beer Drinkers Make Better Lovers" another with the provocative word, "Sexy" stenciled across it in the shape of pursed, red lips, and a giant mug, tastefully outfitted with a bell on the handle, presumably to signal to your wife that you were in need of more beer.

My cousin, Jim suggested that a mug like that would bring about the end of even the happiest marriage.
And, although Ray was never married, we also found several baby-name books inexplicably squirreled in among his belongings.

After several hours of grunting Ray's accumulated belongings away, our previously brisk business at the yard sale began to slump. Whatever people didn’t take, we were going to have to haul away.
So we pulled out the big guns.

Ray's mighty collection of fedora hats was an instant hit with the entire neighborhood. People flocked to the Dumpster Yard Sale clamoring for some of Ray’s fashionable haberdashery.

"Hey! Whoa! One to a customer!" bellowed The Manager as people groped and clawed for one of the hats. Everybody in the neighborhood seemed to be wearing one. Even the guy in the sweatpants and yarn slippers who swaggered into the toxic cloud encircling The Smokin’ Old Ladies, his new hat tipped at a jaunty angle on his head.

"What the hell is that ugly thing on your head?" The Gatekeeper barked at him.

"It's my new hat," he bragged, striking a pose of awesome manliness.

The fedoras rekindled business enough so that there was very little left by the dumpster at the end of the day.

Ray's lifetime of collected treasures had spread joy far and wide.

"You know what Ray would say if he knew all these immigrants were getting his stuff?" Jim laughed as we hauled out the final load of the day.

We howled with laughter. Ray would have foamed at the mouth, spouting off about a welfare state, quoting Rush Limbaugh, and generally making a fuss. But I truly believe that deep down, Ray would have been happy to know that, in death, as in life, he made lots of people happy.

Foreign Foods in Far Off Lands

2011-05-25T09:57:00.000-04:00

I suppose that Vermont doesn't really count as a far-off land.
An eggplant calzone probably doesn't really even count as foreign food either, but a post titled "Eggplant Calzone in Vermont" simply didn't have the right ring to it.

Part of my job as an author and illustrator is to visit schools and talk to kids about writing and illustrating books. I enjoy this part of my job immensely as it gives me the dual pleasures of being able to visit lots of different places and pay my mortgage.

I don't write about too many of my school visits, but that's simply because so few of them involve eggplant calzones or the coveted Green Slime Ribbon.

Yesterday's visit to Central Elementary School in Bellow's Falls, Vermont included both.

Kate Kane, the wonderful librarian who arranged my visit, lured me westward with promises of eggplant calzone for lunch. I was unaware, however, that I would have to pass a series of tests before being allowed that lunch.

The Connecticut River, the moat-like border that keeps Vermont from invading New Hampshire, was my first test. Sybil, the annoying voice who yells at me from my GPS, tried to convince me to drive across a bridge that was no longer there. I did manage to find a non-aquatic crossing point and was allowed to enter Vermont. Sybil was irate and refused to speak to me for the rest of the ride. I managed to find the school without her.

That challenge surmounted, I was next tested with finding a parking spot at the school where–to be delicate–parking is at a premium. When eggplant calzones are involved, there is no challenge I will not meet. I found a parking spot and strode triumphantly into the school. Ms. Kane greeted me enthusiastically.

"Where is my eggplant calzone?" I demanded.

She smiled, ignored my demand, and took me on a tour of the school. It was enough to wipe all thoughts off eggplant from my mind. Everywhere we went, children gaped and stared and whispered, "That's Martykelley!" "Is that Martykelley?" "Hey! Look! Martykelley!"

It made me feel all famous and stuff.

Ms. Kane had obviously done her work getting the kids ready for my visit.

My tour included many points of interest, such as the bulletin board rebutting my book, Summer Stinks.

And, although the kids did manage to come up with some compelling arguments, I still do not agree with them. Summer still stinks.

Next on the tour was the wall covered with messy desks drawings.

There were some truly inspired pieces of art displayed here.

I was flattered and humbled by how much effort and hard work had obviously gone into preparing for this visit.

"So where is my eggplant calzone?" I asked again.

Ms. Kane smiled and presented me with my next challenge: "You must judge the messy desk pictures. It was a contest to create the messiest desk. The winners will be awarded the coveted 'Green Slime Ribbon' award."

I strolled up and down the hall, my mind weighted with this heavy responsibility. It was a very hard decision, but I was eventually able to choose three favorites.

I chose Wyatt's because he included, among the detritus in his desk, a bottle of "Stress Reliever". This kid is obviously a future teacher.

Carver's desk had a brilliant attention to detail that I couldn't help but admire. The scope of junk he included in the desk was awe-inspiring.

And, lastly, Andy's desk went straight to the heart of humor. He didn't bother with subtlety. His desk was filled entirely with underpants of every imaginable cut and style. He also included the caption, "Now which one is my underwear?" implying that there are undies from many people in that desk.

"I have judged the desks, Ms. Kane," I cried, "Now where is my eggplant calzone?"

"It's only 8:15, Martykelley," she answered, "You have presentations to do now. And, we have one more contest for you to judge."

There had been an ongoing Martykelley trivia contest at the school last week. Every student who correctly answered every daily trivia question about me was entered into a drawing to win a free, autographed book by... ME!

Some kids, I was told, had spent many, many hours studying for the Martykelley trivia questions, poring over my website for hours each night. I am hoping that I will soon become a part of the regular curriculum in Vermont schools.

My part in this contest was relatively easy. I merely had to draw the winning name from a basket.

After drawing the name, I gave my first three presentations, the thought of my eggplant calzone looming large in my mind throughout. At the end of the third presentation, my mouth was watering and my stomach was gurgling. But the fourth graders were not returning to their classes. "Go away!" I wailed, "I want my lunch!"

But the fourth graders had other things in mind.

Music.

They had created an amazing song to share with me. They had taken the Super Cool Punk Rock Version of Summer Stinks and rewritten it to accompany their bulletin board rebuttal of my book.

Their version, Summer is Stupendous, was incredible. They rewrote the entire song and recorded it and it was amazing. I'm sure that they will all grow to become famous rock stars and I will be jealous. You can check out their website and click on a link to hear the song here. (Because I can't figure out how to post the song on my blog...) It was excellent enough to make me forget about lunch.

Briefly.

When they returned to their rooms, I threw myself at Ms. Kane's feet. "Now may I please have my eggplant calzone?" I begged.

"You may," she answered, "But you will have to eat it... IN THE CAFETERIA WITH THE STUDENTS!!!"

There is no obstacle I will not conquer for an eggplant calzone, but surely, this would be my greatest test.

A lunchroom full of kids eating is, at its best, not the most relaxing place to enjoy a quiet lunch.

I timidly opened the doors, clutching my precious, well-earned lunch, and was greeted with a thunderous "IT'S MARTYKELLEY!!!!!! SIT WITH US!SIT WITH US!SIT WITH US!SIT WITH US!SIT WITH US!SIT WITH US!SIT WITH US!"

Ms. Kane cleverly blocked the exit and I made my way to a table to eat.

I enjoyed myself immensely at lunch, primarily because I was able to taunt the kids with my delicious lunch.

"Oh," I'd say, "How are your canned beans? Because my eggplant calzone is DELICIOUS!!"

We chatted of this and that, the primary topic of conversation seeing to be "How old are you?" Many of the kids were kind enough to inform me that I am much, much older than their parents.

And too soon, lunch was over. I had managed, through great personal willpower, to reserve one last hunk of calzone for later. I returned to the library for my last presentation.

When my day was through, I packed up and thanked Ms. Kane for a wonderful day. I grabbed my stuff and tucked the eggplant calzone away safely so I could enjoy it when I returned home.

The calzone's delicate scent wafted through the car and gave me the strength to carry on even when Sybil, my evil GPS, tried once again to send me plunging into the river.

I finally arrived home and while I was telling Kerri about my amazing day in Vermont, she ate my leftover calzone.

A New Portrait

2011-05-17T20:48:00.000-04:00

This one is 12" x 9". Pencil and chalk on toned paper. I have another photo on the easel, ready to go. Tori walked into my studio, looked at it and said, "Whoa. That's going to be HARD."

So it may be a while before you see the next one...

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 8 - Home again!

2011-05-13T17:03:00.002-04:00

You know when people tell you not, under any circumstances ever to do a certain thing?

And then you do it?

We did that today.

“Never,” we were warned, “Never, ever, EVER, under any circumstances, should you take I-95 through New York City.”

We were told this by innumerable people, all of whom had learned from hard experience and were eager to help us avoid a similar fate.

I am reminded of a similar situation on another vacation when we were warned about a visit to a local tourist attraction called Six Gun City.

We didn’t listen then, and we didn’t listen now.

At Six Gun City, our punishment for failing to listen was a full day of crappy rides. Our punishment today was much more severe.

We were headed home today and, fearing whatever calamity would surely befall the car next, we were eager to get home as quickly as possible. We decided, against all the advice we had ever been given on the matter, to travel the most direct route–through NYC–rather than spend an extra half hour driving around the city on the Tappan Zee bridge.

“We’ll get to see Washington D.C. and NYC,” we cheerily told the kids.
“Isn’t this the way that everybody said not to go?” Tori asked.
“Yes. But it’s Sunday, so the traffic shouldn’t be bad today,” I answered in my omniscient father voice.

And I still think that if there hadn’t been a Yankees game and a bike race happening in New York, the traffic wouldn’t have been quite as bad as it was.

We zipped through Washington D.C. The fleeting glimpse of the Capitol Building was not as spiritually fulfilling as the kids had anticipated. The densely packed 2 lane highway we traveled left little time for me to sightsee, as I was preoccupied with not driving off the road.

New York, however, afforded me, as the operator of the vehicle, plenty of time to sightsee. We spent much of our time in and around the city, parked on the highway, leisurely surveying the decaying tenements that lined the road and breathing the heady clouds of exhaust fumes that swirled around us.

I suspect that those same exhaust fumes were 100% responsible for my calm, relaxed state of mind as we crawled, inch by inch, toward the Washington Bridge, where my suffering could develop into full-blown rage and panic..

I have never handled dense, aggressive traffic well. We live in a small town where one blinking, yellow light serves as the entire traffic infrastructure. When suddenly confronted with 12 lanes of homicidal drivers squeezing through toll booths and then cramming into two lanes, I am not at my best.

I managed, through deep, exhaust filled breaths, to remain calm until the toll booth one lane over from us suddenly changed its light from green to red. The 20+ cars already lined up there suddenly had to make other arrangements. Mostly, they decided to get in front of me. I wasn’t keen on the set-up and explained to the other drivers, in word and in gesture, that they should consider other plans.

We did eventually get through the toll booth and were then free to race along at a brisk, invigorating 2 or 3 mph for the next hour or so.

Traffic was oddly clumped in places for the entire ride through New York and Connecticut, but our choices were limited at that point.

We were treated to one delightful moment of nostalgia when, getting gas in Connecticut, we found ourselves at the same gas station where I had purchased brake fluid on the first day of our trip.

And then, after a mere 11 hours in the car, our vacation was over. We returned home safely, suffering only numb butts and the loss of a few hundred thousand brain cells due to inhaling so much exhaust. As long as I still remember how to replace a muffler, I’m sure everything will be fine.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 7 - Nausea, Horror, and More Waffles!

2011-05-11T09:46:00.001-04:00

Guess what! More waffles for breakfast!
And then, after waffles, we risked becoming social outcasts for the entire southern half of the country by skipping the Richmond NASCAR race and heading off to King’s Dominion Amusement Park so my children could drag me onto terrifying rides that were designed with the sole purpose of making me wish I was back on the highway with no brakes where things seemed safe.

The park was large and loud and smelled like equal parts cotton candy, corn dogs, sweat, and fear. It was everything an amusement park should be.

First we had to rush to The Dominator so we could wait in line. We stood in line for about 5 minutes before a warning type of horn blew and a recorded announcement ordered everyone to leave the area because they were “testing the ride”. Not wishing to tempt fate too far, we went off in search of other thrills.
We soon found them; pushing ourselves to the limits of human endurance by waiting 80 minutes in line for The Volcano, a ride that lasts about 45 seconds and, in that time, can reduce you to a quivering pile of human jelly. It begins by going from 0 to a bajilliondy miles per hour in an eighth of a second, then it whisks you up a vertical run and out the top of a stone volcano, upside down. Then it really gets exciting. But I think I successfully suppressed most of it, so I don’t care to go into it again.

(part of The Volcano)

It was delightful, and as soon as my legs stopped shaking, we raced to yet another roller coaster, this one featuring things that caught on fire. I love a great big ball of fire as much as the next guy, but this was just weird. The ride stopped about half way through and you sat for a moment, listening to recorded gunfire and admiring the view of a helicopter and some gas pumps. Then, flames woofed out of a few places and we were whisked into a black tunnel for the remainder of the ride.
After that, it was Tori’s turn. She had thus far refused to go on any roller coasters, but she had her eye on a cute little number called The Crypt. There are two things I do not like. Spinning and heights. This ride managed to brilliantly incorporate both of them into something so fiendishly awful that I suspect it could actually be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.
I watched a dizzy, disoriented lady on the ride just before ours step from her seat and pitch forward to her knees, bumping her head on the metal gate in front of her. Tori chatted amiably with me as we awaited our turn. She cannot be my daughter.
I will try my best to describe its unparalleled horror. Imagine a very large swing set with only one large seat running all the way across it. maybe 40 people sit on this bench, back to back in 2 rows of 20. Then the swing starts swinging just like a big, friendly swing at the playground. Except it goes 40 feet in the air. Then it swings all the way over, upside-down. Then the bench that you are sitting on spins around, independently of the other spinning. Then it keeps spinning. Then you wish for a sudden cardiac arrest so the suffering will cease.

(The Crypt, aka the Pukilator)

The ride was the only one that had its own viewing area so spectators could gather and watch other people suffer. I’m sure it was delicious fun.
Kerri tried to take pictures, but claimed they didn’t come out too well because she was laughing too hard at the frozen terror on my face.
Then it was time for lunch!
I ate lightly, hoping that less food would led to less violent vomiting later.
We made our way back to The Dominator, which, it appeared, that they were finished testing. It was a great ride. Fast and furious, not too high, not too spinny, but wonderfully invigorating.

(The slow, relaxing part of The Dominator)

After that, Alex decided that he was ready for the big one. He had done a bit of online research (by research, I mean watching promotional videos) and was insistent that we should go on a roller coaster called The Intimidator. It’s a roller coaster based loosely on Dale Earnhardt, the race car driver.
I’m not sure what the connection is, but I must commend them on their name choice. “The Intimidator” is a much more effective name for a thrill ride than “Dale”.
“Want to go ride Dale?” seems to lack something.
The Intimidator lacked nothing.
My fear of heights is not a casual, relaxed, offhand sort of fear. It is a deep-seated, fully-bloomed pathological terror of heights.

(The first hill of The Intimidator, please note that it is too tall to fit in one picture.)

The Intimidator supplied me with a lifetime of material for nightmares that will certainly haunt me long past my death and into whatever afterlife might await me. It begins with a perilous climb to 305 feet above a cozy concrete pad. The air got a bit thin at that altitude, but I wasn’t even allowed the pleasure of passing out before our climb was over and we slipped past the summit and began a leisurely descent down an 85 degree slope at 94 miles per hour. The rest of the ride was something of a blur. I remember going really fast up and down, then turning and then turning some more and then it was over and I was able to crawl away to find a quiet place where I could lay down and whimper and cry for a few hours.
Actually, I really do enjoy roller coasters. I did not enjoy peering over the edge of my seat into the cloudy oblivion below at the crest of the hill, but the rest of the ride was a lot of fun.
We finally convinced Tori to try a roller coaster and once she did, she was hooked. She and Alex spent the rest of the afternoon racing from one coaster to the next and I was able to spend the remainder of the evening sitting quietly with Kerri, enjoying the flashbacks from The Crypt that I kept having.
As an added bonus, nothing fell off the car on the ride home.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 6

2011-05-09T09:37:00.000-04:00

After our excessive joy at finding a hotel with a pool that did not resemble human skin flake broth, we were somewhat disappointed when Tori and I both had some terrible ophthalmologic reaction to the salt solution they used to sanitize the pool.

Tori was lying on the bed crying about how badly her swollen, red eyes stung. I blindly groped my way to the car to find a store that sold eye drops at 10 p.m.

Returning to the hotel, I dosed us both with eye drops and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and hoping that I wouldn’t awaken to find that I had been stricken blind.

Kerri, in my absence, had slipped down to the front desk to alert them to the fact that their pool chemicals might be blinding customers and that many people might be reluctant to return to a hotel that permanently disabled them.

This morning, I awoke and was delighted to be able to see the Oreo cookie race car truck in the parking lot. It wasn’t the truck so much as the fact that I could see at all.

I slipped out of the room to grab some coffee from the Earthly Paradise of Eternal Breakfast downstairs. As I sat, slurping coffee and reading my book, the hotel manager (the same manager who had directed us to a delightful Italian restaurant yesterday) came and asked me if I was the person who had had a problem with the pool.

“If, by a problem, you mean that I was reduced to tears by the horrible, burning in my eyes, then yes. I am the person.” She apologized profusely and said that she would give us a free night to compensate us for any inconvenience.

“If I go swimming again tonight and it burns, can I get tomorrow night free, too?” I asked.

“I would suggest that if you swim tonight, you keep your head out of the water,” she answered.

I thanked her and zipped up to the room to share the glad tidings with my family. Awakening them from a sound sleep by shouting about a free room was, in retrospect, a poor idea. They did eventually recover and after a hearty breakfast of waffles, we headed off to Colonial Williamsburg.

Tori, at 10 years old, is enamored of ”the olden days” in a way that you normally don’t see in people who are younger than 95. She loves to read stories of colonial times, she sews her own dolls, wears a sun bonnet, and even made a sleeping cap like the kind she read about in Little House on the Prairie.

Colonial Williamsburg was a place she REALLY wanted to go. We were told by several knowledgeable friends that a visit to Colonial Williamsburg was interesting and should cost no more than the price of a new home. We were told by the same knowledgeable friends that Colonial Williamsburg is open to the public for walking around, absolutely free. Only a few buildings required tickets.

Fresh from the victory of scoring a free night at the hotel, it seemed that we might also spend a free day at Colonial Williamsburg. We wandered through the streets, feeling triumphantly brilliant, having beat the system, enjoying all the sights for free.

(The Governor's Palace)

Except for the sights that Tori really wanted to see. Like the palace. And the weaver. And the play. And the dressmaker.

While it is technically free to wander through the streets of CW, you are limited to wandering the streets and peering over hedges. They do allow everyone full, free, unfettered access to their many fine gift shoppes, but if you want to see anything besides the outside of buildings and the insides of gift shoppes, you need a ticket.

Alex and Kerri had no pressing desire to visit the dressmaker or the weaver or the palace, so they opted to wander around and drink $50 sodas. Tori and I got tickets and had a wonderful time touring the palace, visiting the copper and the weaver and the jail.

(Colonial Williamsburg's free babysitting service.)

The cooper spent lots of time explaining his craft to us and, as interesting as it was to listen to him, I was even more intrigued by how skinny he was. He was like a human skeleton. His ribs looked like those rollers that they use to display horrid hot dogs in gas stations and convenience stores. It made it hard to pay attention to his talk.

(The famous Drooling Oxen of Colonial Williamsburg.)

I learned many fascinating facts throughout the day. The most alarming was that when you were put in the stockades, your time actually locked in might be for only an hour or two, I always assumed that you were locked in for an entire day or more. But while you were locked in, the sheriff was obligated to nail your earlobes to the stock itself. To release you, he was required to cut your earlobes off. Hence the origin of the expression, “Earmarked”.

Don’t say you never learn anything reading my blog.

After a very fun day at CW, we headed back to the hotel, detouring slightly to take a ride on the Jamestown Ferry. The road between Jamestown and Scotland is bisected by a river, making driving difficult at best. Rather than choose the easy, obvious solution of building a bridge or redirecting the road, the brilliant engineers at the Virginal Department of Transportation came up with a wild, unexpected idea. A ferry. A ferry that runs 24 hours a day, every day of the year, ferrying cars across the river for free.

(The Pocahontas - used instead of a bridge in Virginia.)

We happily waited in line for the ferry and, when our turn came, drove on to the boat (we were on The Pocahontas). We spent 15 minutes tootling across the river, enjoying some delightful scenery. There was an upper deck that was accessible via a stairway. It was a bit treacherous going upstairs because you had to step over all the DOT employees who were sprawled out across the “NO SITTING ON STAIRS!!” warning painted on every step.

We enjoyed our trip so much that when we disembarked, we got right back in line for a return trip.

It was getting late and we were all hungry. We found a terrific little Mediterranean restaurant and enjoyed many kinds of kebabs and rices.

The soft scents of lemon and oregano wafted through the car on the ride back to the hotel. I was smiling contentedly, reliving the dinner in my mind.

My joyous revels ended abruptly when the muffler dropped off the car.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 5

2011-05-07T08:54:00.002-04:00

Today began with more waffles and more of the ceaseless news coverage of The Royal Wedding, an event that, in my mind, cannot possibly compare with the spectacle and the drama of The Natural Bridge’s 15 kinds of hot dogs.

After a surfeit of waffley goodness, we packed up the car and headed off across the state to Richmond. We politely asked Sybil, our GPS, to find a route that avoided highways and we were pleasantly rewarded with a 3 hour trip through some of the most beautiful, winding countryside I have ever seen. It was lush and green and hilly.

What has frequently surprised me on this trip is how high the speed limits are in Virginia. Our route today had a posted speed limit of 55 mph, but the winding, curving, twisting road terrified me at 40 mph. I had to pull over several times to let other drivers zip past us on onward toward oblivion.

We eventually arrived in Richmond and found the hotel. It was about 10 minutes away from Richmond International Speedway where, it appears, there will be a huge NASCAR race on Saturday. I’m glad we have other plans, because I’m reluctant to join the throngs of people who have set up chairs along the side of the road so they can sit in the baking sun, holding up homemade signs that say “Need Tickets”.

(Many, many Porta-Potties are available for the NASCAR fans at Richmond Speedway)

It was heartbreaking to pass a father and son, dressed in matching tank tops, seated along 6 lanes of heavy traffic, begging for tickets. Especially since it was the middle of a school day.

More upsetting than red-necks in tank tops begging for race tickets was the realization that we really didn’t need to come on this trip.

The outskirts of Richmond looked no different than the outskirts of Boston or San Diego or Denver. They are entirely homogenous and indistinguishable. Chain restaurants, fast food, and gas stations squatting along six lanes of traffic is the norm all across the country. There are slight regional differences, but is there really a big thrill in seeing a Hardees versus a Burger King on every corner?

This unpleasant phenomenon is precisely why I revel and delight in small, outlandish tourist attractions like The Natural Bridge Garden of Earthly Delights. There is nothing like it on the entire planet. Little tourist traps go out of their way to do everything they can to get you to unbelt some money and the results–while sometimes tragic, like the Wax Museum–are always sincere and memorable.

They are unique, and I love them for that.

Our hotel, while not unique, and most definitely a chain, is the one place I deviate from my rigid “No Chains” rule. Judging by the squalid horror of many of the hotels we passed along our way, I’m okay with this slight variation from my self-imposed exile from Homogenous Nirvana.

(You know it's a good hotel if the Oreo Racing Team stays there!)

After settling in, we took a ride through Richmond, because 3 hours in the car just wasn’t enough for us! My hope was to find a nice spot downtown and get out, stroll around, and find a great place to grab some dinner.

My plans were foiled by the fact that there is no downtown and we most certainly did not find many places where we felt like getting out and going for a leisurely stroll. Several neighborhoods we passed through inspired us to hunch down in the car, lock our doors and find the speediest escape route.

Of Richmond, I can say only this, based on my 45 minutes spent in its borders: Avoid it.
I’m sorry, Richmond, but whatever shining delights you may hide, they are outweighed by the depressed, dilapidated street scenes you presented to us at each new corner and around each new bend.

My thoughts on Richmond were echoed by the waitress at dinner tonight. We were talking with her about our trip through the city and she gasped. “You went INTO Richmond City? Oh, dear, God. Well, at least you were there during the day. Whatever you do, don’t go back there at night.”

The warning was kind, but entirely unnecessary.

We finished our dinner and returned to the hotel to swim. It seems that race fans are not terribly interested in swimming. We had the pool to ourselves and played a boisterous game of Marco Polo. We had a wonderful time splashing and laughing in the warm, clear water.

It wasn’t until we returned to our room that the screaming and crying started.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 4

2011-05-05T22:05:00.000-04:00

Last night was a non-stop thrill ride of street noise, temperature extremes, and cramped combat for valuable bed real estate on a too small mattress. So, really, anything that came after last night should have been marvelous by comparison. Odd how things don’t always turn out like you might expect.

We began the day with yet another all you can stomach breakfast spectacular. This one was tended to by two women. The elder of the two spent most of her time sitting at a table, gabbing with the maintenance guy and coughing into the damp rag that she used to half-heartedly swipe at any spilled milk on the counter. The younger girl stood around, scowling at texts that she continually received and picking her teeth with her finger. A finger, I realized, that she was also using to arrange the bagels and pastries.

The kids again enjoyed the waffles.

Our plan for today was to hit a local geological wonder called The Natural Bridge, then, time permitting, maybe go to a nearby zoo and gawk at the animals and wonder how their breakfast was.

The internet changed our plans somewhat. Reviews for the zoo we were considering included entries like, “For the love of God, do not go here.” and “The animals are crammed in cement boxes. I’m ashamed that my money helped support this horrible cruelty.”

So, we decided to simply make a day out of The Natural Bridge Entertainment and Shopping Complex of Endless Joy. It actually wound up being a good idea, because with all the gift shops we were forced to exit through, we had little time left for anything else.

Our tickets included admission to The Natural Bridge, The Nature Trail, The Indian Village, The Toy Museum, The Wax Museum, The Wax Museum Factory Tour, and The Natural Bridge Caverns.

Overwhelmed by our seemingly limitless opportunities, we began our day at The Toy Museum, located conveniently directly on the way to The Natural Bridge.

The Toy Museum was a delightfully whimsical trash heap of dusty, dilapidated displays. Your tour begins with this subtle suggestion that touching the displays will result in immediate, high-tech death.

This threat may be responsible for the cleaning crew's reluctance to dust any of the displays or to even replace any of the figures which have toppled over the years.

I spent most of my time in the museum waiting to see some child unwittingly touch a GI Joe doll and then stare in mute horror as the giant death rays dropped from the ceiling and vaporized him. I guess the threat worked, however, as nobody was vaporized.

Many of the displays showed historically accurate reenactments of famous battles. Like the Battle of Gettysburg, as fought between Smurfs and Playmobil knights.

We wandered, awe-struck, through the seemingly endless display cases of junk. Music from a local pop music station blared from a tinny overhead speaker, enhancing the mood and making me seriously consider self-destruction as an appealing alternative. All I had to do was touch a display...

After we had seen all the terrifying dolls, nightmarish clowns, and chewed up He-Man figures we could tolerate, we exited through the dark, deserted gift shop.

It was so dark and deserted that I refused to believe it was actually the gift shop. Kerri had to drag me back to the sign that said, “Gift Shop. Ring bell for service. Area is monitored by closed circuit security cameras. Shoplifters will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Thanks for coming!”

We slipped outside and shook the odor of stagnant decay from our clothes before heading down the path that lead to The Natural Bridge. The path ran along a beautiful, cascading waterfall and ended at the snack bar “With 15 Kinds of Hot Dogs!!!!!” and “The Natural Bridge’s Famous Nacho Chips and Cheez!!!!!”

Somehow, we escaped the siren song of cheez and wandered toward the bridge. The Natural Bridge is absolutely stunning. Vaulting walls of carved rock soar skyward in an amazing display of geological architecture. We spent quite a bit of time wandering around under the bridge, craning our necks to view the majestic, scarred rock.

You can see what are alleged to be George Washington’s initials carved into the rock. Our first president was, evidently, also a vandal.

I was even more enthralled with the natural stone Buddha I saw in the rocks. This far below the Bible Belt, however, Buddha gets no mention.

We followed the footpath along the river for about three-fourths of a mile. stopping to check out Lace Falls, a beautiful, serene waterfall that tumbles slowly over the corrugated rocks that line the river bed.

We also took time to see the Indian village, but the lack of spicy, curried delicacies saddened me and I had to leave.

Despite our collective hunger, we somehow managed to once again avoid the tempting Natural Bridge Cheez in favor of a short drive to The Pink Cadillac Diner where authentic, tattooed, pierced waitresses–just like the one’s from the 1950’s–served us our food.

Our drive back to The Natural Bridge Entertainment Complex of Sorrow and Despair was briefly interrupted by a detour to Foamhenge, a mysterious full sized replica of Stonehenge, made entirely of styofoam.

Time, the elements, and vandals have eroded the styrofoam so that the entire area is covered with a thin, swirling layer of tiny pellets of styrofoam. The terrible environmental impact of the sculpture is dwarfed, however, by the very real threat that its creator may be lurking in the bushes nearby.

We raced back to our car and returned to the safety of The Natural Bridge Touris Trap Extravaganza. Next up were The Natural Bridge Caverns, “The Deepest Caverns in Town!”

When our tour began, the guide arrived and immediately captured our attention with his introduction, “Th’ nex toah bouttah b’gn so anyone gutta ticket, y’all line up ovah heah now an’ we git goin.”

It was all said in one breath and at the level of a low mumble.

The guide hurried us hrough the caverns, occasionally flitting his flashlight across some alleged point of interest for a half a second and mumbling, “Dis heah wheah th’ firsplorer of th’ caverns git stuck fo bouttah daynahaff till he gut rescued.”

Trying to decipher his authentic, redneck mumblings added a delightful thrill to the tour, which Alex had already pronounced, “Weak.”

The weakness of the caverns paled in comparison to the absolute and total weakness of The Wax Museum. The various tableaus presented at the museum all depicted some aspect of the history of The Natural Bridge. It was a history lesson that was brought to life by the dedicated artists and craftspeople who managed to make every person they depicted look like a horribly mutated Bill Cosby–a Bill Cosby affected by extra chromosomes, leprosy, and mange.

The self-guided factory tour showed us the painstaking processes involved in making all these likenesses of Bill Cosby. We all agreed that our favorite part of the tour was the cheery, red Exit sign that heralded our release.

We raced back to the hotel so the kids could once again frolic and play in the pool and Kerri could once again scramble to find us yet another hotel for tomorrow.

Another quick overview of online reviews had again changed our plans. Reviews for the hotel we had planned on staying in had a marked tendency to dwell on the unpleasant fact that the hotel is apparently built five feet from some very busy railroad tracks.

Comments like, “I was really tired, so I didn’t find all the trains rumbling by nearly as disturbing as some reviewers did” seemed somewhat mild compared to the spicier “The pool needs to be condemned by the heath department” and “The entire hotel shakes every time a train passes by. All night long.”

Kerri did manage to find a new place near Richmond. When I told the kids about the change of plans, they both hugged and thanked me.

“Will there be Make-Your-Own-Waffles at the next hotel?” Alex asked.

We honked down a hasty dinner of pizza and raced back, once again, to The Natural Bridge All Encompassing Diversion to view a spectacle billed as “The Drama of Creation” wherein, according to the promotional literature, The Natural Bridge is bathed in a brilliant explosion of multi-colored lights, choreographed to music and a narrative describing the creation of the bridge.

“So we’re leaving the pool and going all the way back there to watch them shine lights on the bridge and play some music?” Tori asked.

It sounded less appealing when worded that way, but our only real option was to risk contracting Dengue Fever or cholera by hanging around in the human skin chowder of the hotel hot tub.

So we raced back to The Natural Bridge Complex of Forbidden Pleasures and found an empty parking lot.

“Oh Boy!” I cried, “We get a private show!”

“Yeah. Because everybody else in the whole world is doing something that doesn’t suck,” Alex muttered.

But we will never know. I ran into the building where the clerk, busy polishing the death ray protecting the toy museum, told me that the show was out of order. “It’ll be up again by Friday,” she said.

“We’ll be gone by then,” I whined.

“Mhmmm,” she muttered, “Well, thanks for coming.”

Both kids were cheering wildly as we drove back to the hotel.

So I sent them to bed.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 3

2011-05-04T08:26:00.001-04:00

The problem with the reservations was the amusement park. We arranged our trip so we could make a sort of U shape through Virginia. We planned on entering on the western side, heading south and east and ending up at the beach for a couple days. Everything was fine until Kerri found a great deal for amusement park tickets for the middle of the week. King’s Dominion promised thrills, excitement, and absolutely NO REFUNDS for any reason ever.
Even if the park happens to be closed when you are in Virginia.
Which it is.

Actually, they are open one day that we will be here.
Saturday.
The day we will be at the beach.
Several hundred million miles from King’s Dominion and its twisty, turny fun.
So, rather than lose the money that Kerri spent on the absolutely non-refundable-for-any-reason tickets, we have rearranged our schedule.
Now, we’re going to spend two nights in Lexington and three nights in Doswell, right next to King’s Dominion and Richmond.
No beach.

Today, after waffles, we packed up and headed off to Skyline Drive, a beautiful 105 mile road across the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I stopped by the front desk to double check my directions and there was a lady in front of me doing exactly the same thing.

“What’s the best way to get to Skyline Drive?” she asked the desk clerk.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” the clerk answered.
“Isn’t it like a half an hour from here?” asked the incredulous woman.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Let me check.”

The clerk ducked behind the desk for some time. Just when I thought that she had effected a stealthy escape, she popped back up holding a large binder full of pre-printed Google maps.

She looked over two maps thoughtfully before offering one of them to the lady in front of me. “Looks like this one will get you to Skyline Drive.” Then she held out the other map. “So will this one.”

“Which one would you recommend?” the lady asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” the clerk answered. She looked at the maps again. “Looks like this one will take you over the mountains through Luray,” she said, pointing to the first map, “And this one will just get you there on the highway.”
“Will the way through the mountains be all hilly and twisty?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” the clerk answered, “But since it’s through the mountains, I expect it will be hilly and twisty.”
“I think I’ll take the map for the highway. We were on a hilly road yesterday and it made us all carsick.”

Avoiding the hilly road to get to a 105 mile mountain pass seemed a bit shortsighted and I predicted spectacular carsickness on a grand scale for this family. I tried to get a peek at her vehicle so I could look for them on our drive today, but she raced away too quickly.

I confirmed our directions and we set off. We opted for the hilly, twisty road as a sort of appetizer for Skyline Drive.

It was a beautiful ride. We got on Skyline Drive about 30 miles along the way, but since the speed limit was 35 and the views were spectacular, the 75 miles we were on the road took us almost four and a half hours.

We stopped at many scenic overlooks to enjoy the scenic scenery.

(Scenic scenery.)

We crossed the Appalachian Trail more than once and were spared the olfactory ordeal of actually coming within smelling distance of any thru-hikers.

(Hiding from smelly thru-hikers.)

After Skyline Drive, we finished our drive along The Blue Ridge Parkway instead of hopping on the interstate. It probably added an extra hour to our drive, but although my rear-end is sore, my eyes are happy. It was another gorgeous drive through the mountains.

(More scenic scenery.)

The timing of the drive today meant that we missed lunch, so we arrived in Lexington hungry. We checked in at the hotel, a Country Inn & Suites, and went out in search of dinner.

After dinner, we returned to the hotel so the kids could swim. The only reason they wanted to come on this vacation in the first place is because we booked hotels with pools.

The lobby of this hotel is brown. I mention this because my mother is a frequent traveler and has developed an odd theory about travel. Brown lobbies are an unmistakable, irrefutable sign of a lousy hotel. If she goes into a hotel to book a room and the lobby is brown, she turns around and leaves.

The pool area in our brown lobbied hotel is dark and somewhat disreputable looking. If the hotel has a bad section of town, the pool is it. Sitting in the dim, moribund lighting sapped my will to live and I had to leave the area lest I become terminally depressed and cast myself into the pool’s turbid depths.
The kids would have been happy to splash around in the murky pool all night, although Tori expressed a fear that there may be a crocodile hiding in the deep end.
“It’s 4 feet deep and I can’t see the bottom,” she whispered to me.
Whispering was unnecessary. For some odd reason, we were the only people at the pool.

I’ll be sure to check the lobby color of the next place we stay in.

Virginia Travel Journal - Day 2 - April 25, 2011

2011-05-03T17:11:00.001-04:00

Today began with an all you can possibly gag down breakfast buffet of industrial strength, commercial grade food-like substances. Alex and Tori were both greatly enamored of the “Make Your Own Waffle” attraction featured in the hotel feedlot.

I waded my way through some coffee and even rashly attempted a waffle before setting off in search of an auto parts store for more brake fluid and some brake cleaner. It seems that having a car that stops on demand will be desirable when driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I eventually found what I needed and got busy making the hotel seem even more attractive by jacking my car up and fixing the brakes in the parking lot. An angry, sweaty guy doing auto repair in the lot can’t help but class up any hotel.

After I was sure that the car would stop, we packed up and headed off to spend the day underground exploring the caverns that all of Virginia seems to be built upon.

We began at Shenandoah Caverns (“The Only Caverns in Virginia with an Elevator!”), part of a sprawling entertainment complex so tacky that it made me tingle with joy. Our guide through the caverns–Cleatus or Cooter or Jeb, or whatever his name was–seemed intent only on getting through the caverns as quickly as possible. Early in the tour he asked a visitor what time it was.

“11:30.”

“Well, that ‘splains it,” he drawled, “If’n I was at school now, ‘steada here, I’d be at lunch.”

I don’t know what that explained exactly and I really had no desire to probe the matter any more deeply.

We saw some very cool rock formations including the Bacon Formation. Sadly, it looked much better than the waffle I had eaten at breakfast.

(Bacon rock!)

As we wound our way through the incredibly beautiful caverns, the guide snapped off the lights in each room as soon as we left it, no doubt in an effort to remind us that this was his lunch time. He seemed to hesitate at one intersection.

“Usually we go that way next,” he said, indicating one passageway, “But shoot, I been doin’ this here tour for like two and a half years. It’s boring. I think I’m gonna mix up a little today.”

He then ushered us down the other passageway.

Throughout the tour, Kerri was pursued by a slightly creepy guy in sweat pants who was insistent upon telling her about his experiences climbing through the sewers of New York City in his youth. He seemed to find some parallel between the sewer systems of New York and a network of stunningly beautiful natural caverns in rural Virginia. If that parallel exists, I have been grievously misinformed about New York’s sewers.

When our tour ended and we finally released the guide so he could have his lunch, we slipped over to the other attractions included in our ticket price. Main Street Parade USA was a sprawling warehouse of parade floats “From ACTUAL Parades!!”

(creepiest parade float ever.)

We wandered around for a bit and then went to The Yellow Barn, which did not have a motto or a slogan, but I will happily supply one for free. “Lots of cheap, Chinese crap for sale at unreasonably high prices!”

We slipped away for lunch before heading off to Luray Caverns, alleged to be the largest caverns in the eastern half of the country.

What these caverns lacked in elevator service, they made up for in sheer volume of people crammed into the caverns. The caverns were breathtakingly gorgeous. They went on and on, each room opening into another, even more amazing spectacle. We went on a 1.4 mile stroll through the most gorgeous rock formations I have ever seen. They were even more beautiful than I can possibly imagine New York’s sewers to be.

We meandered through the caverns, listening to the self-guided tour and allowing hundreds of people to race past us. They all seemed to be in a terrible hurry to get to the gift shop so they could buy a souvenir from the caverns they barely saw. They raced from point to point along the path, listening to the self-guided tour headsets at ear-battering decibels.

“Did you hear that?” a wife would yell to her husband.
“What?” he would yell back.
“It says that the formations grow one cubic inch every hundred and twenty years!” she would yell.
“I’m not at that part yet!” he would yell back.
I saw one lady ask one of the many guides posted throughout the caverns, “How many more rooms are there until we can go to the gift shop?”
“A lot,” he answered.
And she seemed disappointed.

The only person who didn’t seem to go whizzing past us was one old man, tastefully bedecked for a day of caving in a three piece suit. He pottered along near us, seeming to match his pace to ours solely for the purpose of irritating me. He struck up random conversations with everyone he passed. He began a few conversations with me, but the tour headphones gave me an excellent cover for pretending that I did not hear him.

(Me ignoring the creepy old guy.)

He eventually gave up on me and turned to another man nearby. “The air seems remarkable pure down here,” he observed. Then he chuckled and added, “But I just polluted it a bit.”
We ran a little then.
In the caverns, we saw some amazing sights. My favorite was Dream Lake, a shallow pond so still and smooth that it gave an amazing illusion of depth by reflecting the stalactites above it.

(the stalagmites on the bottom are actually reflections of stalactites!)

There was also a small pool that served as a wishing well. Our audio tour explained that it was nearly six feet deep, but typically it was filled with up to four feet of coins. Last year–because whenever people see water, they feel compelled to throw coins in it–they shoveled over $50,000 from the well and donated it to charity. I’m considering installing one of them in my front yard.
Or applying as a charity.
After the caverns, we exited through the Olde Tyme Gift Shoppe and managed, somehow, to resist buying the ubiquitous polished rocks that seem to be a staple of every gift shop in the world.
We went across the street to the Historical Museum. It was sadly devoid of people, most of them were busy to buy huge foam hats at the Gift Shoppe cross the street.
The museum had some fascinating displays, including an actual Civil War field shower so amazingly complicated I realized that the south lost the war because they were too busy trying to figure out how to set up their showers.
There were also old clothes, ice skates, weapons, and, perhaps most exciting of all, a dog-powered butter churner. For real.
And then there was another Gift Shoppe. Sadly, they did not sell replica dog-powered butter churners, but I asked to be put on the waiting list should they every start production again.
Satisfied with our subterranean exploits for the day, we headed back to the hotel so the kids could swim and Kerri could spend the rest of the evening scrambling to change all our hotel reservations for the rest of the trip.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 1

2011-05-02T10:52:00.000-04:00

Day 1 - April 24, 2011

We made it all the way to the southern part of Connecticut before the brake light came on. The sphincter-puckering terror caused by that merry, twinkling, little light was actually helpful, as my bladder had been dangerously full for some time.
We managed to get to a rest area without incident (automotive or scatological) and I hopped out to inspect the car. There was a wet, arcing spray of brake fluid splashed in a delightful rainbow across the wheel well.

Anticipating that our vacation to Virginia would entail butt-numbing amounts of driving, I had the brilliant foresight to do a bit of necessary work on the car last week. I had changed the oil and replaced a sticky front brake caliper. Evidently, I had failed to properly retighten the brake line.

The jack was conveniently buried under everything we had packed. The delight of unpacking everything was enhanced by the steady stream of slack-jawed gawkers who stopped to watch the spectacle of me unpacking everything we owned and jacking up the front wheel of the car to remove the tire.

Several passers-by offered helpful, inspirational comments like, “Oh, my. What a shame.” and “Whoa. Dude. That totally sucks.”

While I appreciated their kind words, they did little to actually elevate my mood and bring me good cheer.

To humanity’s credit, two people did, in fact offer to help. Evidently their winningness to be of assistance did not extend to trading vehicles with us or even chauffeuring us around the eastern seaboard for the next eight days, so I was forced to continue working on the car.

I was eventually able, through the combined disciplines of Patience and Profanity, to staunch the flow of fluid using the rusty pair of slip-joint pliers that I had seen fit to outfit the car with in case of emergency.

We piled our belongings back into the car and, with the show over, the crowd parted and allowed us to begin a frantic search for someplace where we would be able to buy brake fluid on Easter Sunday.

Although the highway had seemed crowded with gas stations up until this point, we spent a slightly tense 30 minutes searching the rural back roads of Connecticut before finding an open gas station. I bought a quart of brake fluid and the clerk asked if I wanted a bag.

“No,” I answered.
“Oh. Dumping it in here?” she asked, “That sucks. Happy Easter!”

A mere six hours later, we pulled into the hotel parking lot–sore, hungry, and tired. We were immediately faced with yet another Easter-based problem.

Food.

I would rather eat a bowl of toenail clippings than eat at a fast-food chain, so our choices were somewhat limited. I did manage to locate a Chinese restaurant that was open and I ordered a lavish, opulent feast. The food was delicious and we enjoyed the meal despite the fact that I neglected to get plates, forks, or napkins, so we were forced to grab food from the containers and shovel it directly into our mouths with our hands.

After dinner, we slipped down to the pool to wash up before bed.

I spent the night tossing and turning, trying to decide what would be the easiest way to perform a brake job in the hotel parking lot in the morning.

They Used to Just Want My Autograph

2011-04-15T19:40:00.003-04:00

I must preface this by saying that I visit a LOT of schools. And I’ve been doing it for a long time.
I also used to teach kindergarten, although I only lasted two months in that position.
Between the two, I felt that I might have been in a position to say that I have seen it all and heard it all as far as kindergarten kids were concerned.
Not true, it appears.
Today, I was visiting a school and started my day with the kindergarten kids. They were delightful and charming and cute as buttons. Until I asked them if they had any questions.
I have been in this business long enough to know that asking kindergarteners for questions is a foolish proposition, destined to fail. Typically, when I ask for questions, it goes like this:

Me: Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me about writing books?
Some kid: I have a dog.
Me: That’s great. But I was…
Same kid: His name is Goober. He peed on the carpet once.
Another kid: I have a dog too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Me: I… uh… Are there any other questions?
Some other kid, jamming his finger into his mouth: Look! I have a loose tooth.
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Me: I… uh… Are there any questions. A question is something that I have to answer. Are there any questions?
The next kid: I don’t have a loose tooth because I lost it and my mom has brown hair but not really because she colors it because it’s actually gray but she doesn’t want people to know and my birthday is in winter and one time I saw a duck with one foot.
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Another kid: Me too!
Me: Thanks so much for letting me come visit your class today. I will be going now.

Then I slip out of the room and take a few deep, cleansing breaths.

I understand that this will happen and I am ready for it.

What I was not ready for today was the kindergarten girl who actually asked me a real, honest-to-goodness question.

It caught me a bit off guard.

So did the fact that her question was, “Can I have your underpants?”

(Please note: these are NOT my actual underpants.)

If nothing else, I am a professional.

I handled the situation like any seasoned professional presenter might. I laughed until I nearly wet my pants.

I’m not sure how that might have affected her desire to have my undies.

I was still hunched over, trying not to snork up a lung when one of her classmates said, “They’re probably boxers.”

And, of course, they were but this didn't seem like information that needed to be shared with them.

I’m wondering how it would work out for me if I add “Marty’s Underpants” to my book order form that I leave at schools. I’ll have to ask some of my author friends how much they charge for their undies.

If You Fry It; They Will Come

2011-03-29T08:55:00.000-04:00

Imagine, if you dare, a place where your wildest dreams can become reality.

A place where rules for normal human behavior are suspended.

A place where a man would willingly coat a McDonald's cheeseburger in pancake batter and then deep fry it.

And then eat it.

I went to that place last Saturday night and my digestive tract has almost recovered.
Kerri and I were invited to a Birthday Party/Housewarming/Fish Fry at a friends' house.
The menu, a gustatory tease that was tantalizingly hinted at, revealed, and augmented over the weeks leading up to the party, was a veritable cornucopia of deep fried delicacies so comprehensive that several guests suffered congestive heart failure simply by reading the menu.

The menu included some basic fried fare: pickles; Oreos; egg rolls; etc., but then, with many great minds working as one well lubricated unit, the food selections quickly became more exotic and thrilling. The menu quickly spiraled to dizzying heights of stunt frying and concoctions so elaborate that they boggled the imagination and made you question the limits of human ingenuity.

Appetizers? Why fry boring old french fries when you can deep fry a Cadbury Cream Egg? Or flatten out ground beef to the thickness of a tortilla chip and turn it into a Burgacho? (I predict that it will not be long before spell check is forced to recognize Burgacho as a legitimate word.)

For the main course, you might have sampled the macaroni and cheese balls, coated with bread crumbs and deep fried to a golden brown sphere of transcendent beauty and deliciousness. Or you might have sampled the wonton wrappers, stuffed with salsa and sour cream then fried into a creamy, tongue-scorching treat, the gooey center of which maintained a steady internal temperature of about a billion degrees.

Need some condiments? Deep fried mayo and hot sauce were on the menu.

Looking for some dessert? You didn't want to miss the Hot Fudge Sundae Pop-Tart dipped in Funfetti cake batter then deep fried into a culinary atrocity so profoundly horrifying that brave men wept in its presence.

When we actually arrived at the party, laden with Rice Krispie Treats (I do not recommend them fried), whipped cream (ditto), and chocolate coconut macaroons (do not even think of frying those), the smell of hot oil drifting out of the apartment and into the street was so bold, I was shocked not to find a squadron of heart surgeons waiting at the door, scalpels agleam, awaiting our departure.

And now, several days later, I have finally scrubbed the last of the lingering deep fried aroma out of my hair and can once again walk across a room without becoming lightheaded.

I'm wondering what might be on the menu next year...

New Opportunities to Make Money

2011-03-20T10:00:00.000-04:00

The first thing I need to warn you about is that if you read this blog post, you will doubtlessly become extremely jealous of me. I mean, after all, it isn't everyone who gets his face on official currency.

See?
You're jealous already, aren't you?
I had no idea that this tremendous honor had been bestowed upon me until I walked into Grinnell Elementary School in Derry last Friday to perform a rockin', reading musical extravaganza with my buddy Steve Blunt.

We had been at the school last year to do a show and before we had left, they had already booked us again for this year.

I must admit that I was a little leery of the return engagement. Not because of the school, at all. Our show at the school last year was wonderful. The kids were great. The teachers were great. It was all great. Until I went out to my car at the end of the day. Somehow, I had killed the battery. I managed to get it jump-started and, as soon as the engine was running, the brake pedal dropped to the floor and a large, slick puddle of brake fluid spread from beneath my car. The ride home was a thrilling, soul-shattering, hair-raising adventure that I have almost recovered from.

The lingering horror of that ride home swirled through my mind as I retraced my route back to Grinnell School last Friday. I was just clearing the memory away when I walked into the school and was greeted by Alicia Henderson. Alicia is the delightful lady who arranged to bring Steve and me to the school. She also arranged to have my face plastered on official school currency.

I have had the honor of visiting a lot of schools over the years. I have been flattered over and over again by the amazing projects that teachers have created based on my books. But this is the first time that I have shown up on dollar bills. Marty Dollars were awarded to students who could correctly answer the Marty Kelley Trivia Question of the Day. The questions were mostly quotes from my books that the students had to identify.

It was extremely flattering; though I wish that Alicia had contacted me for some really serious questions. Then she could have asked students some hard ones.

Q. What are the names of my duck and two chickens?
A. Duck, Chicken, The Other Chicken

Q. What is my truck's name?
A. Uncle Louie

Q. Does everything I own have a name?
A. No.

I think that if Alicia had talked to me first, she could have saved herself a lot of time. She wouldn't have had to give out a single dollar.

As it is, I may have made things difficult for her on Friday. I heard the Marty Kelley Trivia Question of the Day over the morning announcements and I'm proud to say that I knew the answer.

I happily provided the correct answer to 350+ kids during our performance. I suspect that Alicia spent the rest of the day printing up piles and piles of Marty Dollars to distribute.

By introducing that level of liquid assets into the system, I fear that I may have precipitated an economic crash to rival the recent global one.

Or, actually, probably not.

Because I discovered that, despite the fact that my picture is on it, there are few places outside of Grinnell Elementary School willing to exchange good and services for Marty Dollars.

I already warned you about the fact that you would be jealous of me. The second–and possibly more important–warning I have is about attempting to print out and spend this money anywhere.

A crucial part of any (and every) show that I do with Steve, is food. Frequently, when discussing an upcoming show, Steve will say, "We can go do the show in [obscure town I have never heard of] and then, right down the street, there's this great little place that has the best [random food item] in the world." It's an amazing gift and he is always 100% correct.

So Friday, after our show, which was a lot of fun, we set off toward Sal's Pizza for some sustenance. My car started, the brakes didn't spray fluid like a geyser and all was well with the world.

Until I slapped my Marty Dollar down on the counter and ordered. For some reason, the fine folks at Sal's were reluctant to accept Marty Dollars as legal tender and became rather insistent on the fact that I should pay with "real money".

I tried arguing the matter, but the grumbles from the line of hungry customers behind me drowned out my debating points.

Alicia has already very kindly invited us back to perform at the school next year. Perhaps she and I can work together to devise some sort of currency that I might be able to use for pizza, too.

You Can't Say @#$% on the Radio

2011-02-08T08:49:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure if this has ever happened to you, but you know when you go into a radio station to play some children's music with your buddy and one of the engineers hands you a piece of paper to sign and you read it and the paper has so many swears on it that there is very little white space left on the paper?
You know that?
It happened to me again.
Last Saturday, I was supposed to go to Boston to be on the radio with Steve Blunt and our special guests, The Spaghetti Cats (my daughter Tori and her friend Leea).
The weather, as has happened so often this winter, did not care for our plans and forced us to reschedule to Sunday night.
Super Bowl Sunday.
I, and I realize I am a minority in this, do not care for football. I do not care for sports in any form, except for a very occasional hockey game. I enjoy doing things like hiking and biking, but watching a bunch of guys chase after a ball, or hit a ball, or kick a ball, or bounce a ball holds very little interest for me.
I know, I am in the minority in this mind-set. Many of the people I know are brought to toe-curling shrieks of ecstasy by the thought of sweaty guys throwing balls to each other.
I sincerely hope that the unfortunate coincidence of us being on the radio at the same time as the Super Bowl didn't have too great a negative impact on the Super Bowl's ratings.
Those of you fortunate enough to have listened to our show were richly rewarded by that fact that you did not hear any foul language.
At all.
And there's a good reason for that.
First, the very notion of going on live radio during a children's music show and firing off a few F-bombs seems like a counter-productive move from a career building point of view.
But just in case we thought that swearing for 15 minutes on a kid's music show would be a good idea, one of the helpful engineers in the studio handed us this agreement to sign:

I have taken the liberty of spending a few dozen hours laboriously removing all the foul language from the form.
If you choose to use this altered document as a sort of x-rated Mad-Lib, then I can't stop you, but I also won't be held responsible for the results.
This is not the first time I have seen and signed this particular agreement. The first time I saw it, I laughed so hard that I got a stomache ache and had a hard time playing the harmonica.
The engineer who handed me the agreement last Sunday remembered me this time. He said, "You're the guy who thought the on-air language agreement was so funny, aren't you?"
I would have answered him if I hadn't been laughing so hard as I read it again.
The language in this agreement is awesome in its breadth and scope and stunning in its precision. The very concise nature of it make me think that there is an "incident" behind every word on it. A black radio moment when engineers, hosts, and staff stared at each other in horror and thousands of listeners rolled around on the floor laughing and screaming, "Did that guy just say @#$% on the radio?"
I scanned the agreement again, making a mental note of some of the juicier expressions.
"Do the kids have to sign this?" I joked.
The engineer scratched his head for a minute. "I don't know," he answered, "I'll go check."
He strolled out of the studio, leaving me to wonder what sort of cosmic retribution would await me should my daughter and her friend catch even the slightest glimpse of this encyclopedia of obscenity.
I am happy to report that they were not required to sign the paper and even happier to report that neither of them did any sort of swearing.
When they are ready to start swearing, however, I'll make sure that they have access to this paper so they can be sure to get the spelling and usage correct.

Yet Another New Portrait

2011-01-30T14:30:00.000-05:00

I know...
I know...
I'm like a portrait machine, huh?
This is 12" x 9", graphite and chalk on toned pastel paper.
I'm thinking it would be cool to do a bunch of portraits like this, from self-portraits posted online.
I could call it "Hey! Look At Me!"

Another Year of Low Level Animosity Directed at My Best Friends

2011-01-24T10:20:00.000-05:00

Let us begin with a picture.

It is a deceptive picture. What appears to be a happy, heart-warming scene of Christmas gift giving joy is actually the opening salvo in this year's annual Gift Swap of Horror.

It would be smart to include a brief history lesson at this point; but I did that last year and I'm not going to rewrite the whole thing. You should click here to read about the history of the Gift Swap of Horror.

Be sure to come back here though, because otherwise you'll miss out on how this year's swap included gunfire and 7 layer Mexican dip that may have only had 6 layers.

Tim and Katie, pictured above in the scant few seconds before the enormity of their fate was made clear to them, have long held an annual Laser Tag game in the week between Christmas and New Year. The invitations always point to the fact that you will have the opportunity to shoot your loved ones in a festive, jolly fashion without all the messy legal wrangling that holiday family shootings usually involve. It also gives everyone an opportunity to run around in a dark arena and work up a healthy holiday sweat while mindlessly shooting at children. It is incredibly enticing immediately after the holidays.

This year, the Laser Tag shootout was postponed a bit. Through serendipitous happenstance, we were able to shamelessly piggyback the Gift Swap of Horror on to the same day as the Laser Tag. We played Laser Tag, then we gathered for The Swap.

My wish, in retrospect, is that the order of events could have been reversed. After the Gift Swap, there was much more animosity stewing within us that could have used venting. And more importantly, after the Laser Tag, there was much more locker room aroma clinging to us that could have used venting. We masked the odor of our stinky selves with 6 or 7 Layer Mexican Dip (I couldn't get a clear layer count) and soldiered on with The Swap, however.

We are seasoned Gift Swappers, battle hardened from 13 years of bestowing unimaginable eyesores on one another. After what seemed to be a sufficient time milling around the kitchen, grazing on snacks and slurping brain-lubricating liquids, we all trudged warily into the living room where the gifts waited.

The gifts almost looked welcoming and enticing in their festive wrappings. We drew names with the solemnity due to the occasion and then the horror began in full.

First up were Tim and Katie. If you visit them at any point in the next twelve months, be sure to take a tour of their bedroom and look for this treat, which we predict will look amazing over their bed.

In fact, there is some speculation that the couple in the picture is actually Tim & Katie on their recent honeymoon.
You decide.

Ben was delighted that his gift included a convenient, beat-up carrying case so he can bring his gift with him wherever he goes.

And he most certainly WILL bring it with him wherever he goes, as soon as he figures out what the heck it is.

Not clearly visible in the picture are the three-inch, lethal steel spikes protruding at random angles from this thing. Those spikes made it clear to Ben that he had been given a most rare treat in The Swap. A wearable piece of art. He doesn't even need that carrying case.

The age of this crumbing beauty pretty much guarantees that the glittery white filaments raining down on Ben's head are asbestos.
Or lead.
Or both.

Julie and Scott were amazed and awed by the surreal beauty and transcendent, sublime loveliness of the art which will be blessing their home for the next year.

A genuine, rapturous glow shone in through the windows as they bathed in the splendor of their gift.

If they ever find the mental patient who glued all those individual beads down to create this masterpiece, I'm certain that they will prostrate themselves at his feet, thanking him endlessly for the joy he brought into their lives.

Kerri and I had the terrible misfortune of drawing Ben's name this year. Ben's wife, Ann was unable to attend this year's swap. Ben claims that it was a sinus infection, but I am of the opinion that she simply didn't want to have to face whichever friend was saddled with this for the next year.

If I could offer a good description of it, I would. It is giant. It is made of some sort of cast material; possibly the same crushed asbestos that Ben's gift is made from. It weighs at least 50 pounds.
You can see for yourself how delighted I was when I unwrapped it and herniated myself lifting it.

Ben offered the suggestion that I might want to sink a giant lag bolt into a stud behind the wall for hanging. "Make sure you get it on a stud," he warned.

I'm considering hanging it outside. I may be able to turn my yard into a sort of Magellan Museum, complete with a hideous cast bust of Magellan and nothing more.

I'm certain my neighbors will love it as much as I do.

What Would You Do For $112.50?

2011-01-04T08:53:00.001-05:00

We were just sitting down to a delicious dinner (homemade soup with crunchy homemade sourdough bread, should you be curious) when the phone rang.
"Let the machine get it," I mumbled, soup dribbling down my chin and on to my lap.
Conversation ceased at the table as we listened to the answering machine, curious about who would be so bold as to interrupt our tasty dinner.
"Hey Marty. It's Steve. So, I'm wondering... What would you be willing to do for $112.50?"
I excused myself from the table, soup still dribbling from my lips, and raced to the phone.
The question really is, "What would I NOT do for $112.50?"
It was actually the precise amount, including that provocative fifty cents that intrigued me so much.
If Steve had asked "What would you do for a hundred bucks?" I probably would have finished my soup before returning his call.
But $112.50?
An amount like that warrants immediate and undivided attention.
As it turned out, Steve was inviting me to participate in a performance he had booked.
For the following afternoon.
My buddy Steve is very kind and generous about inviting me to some of the many musical extravaganzas he regularly performs. My suspicion is that he enjoys watching me squirm when, mid-performance, he turns to me and whispers, "You haven't heard this next song before because I just wrote it this morning. I haven't got all the words or the structure of the song totally worked out yet, but just play along. It'll be fine."
Steve is a hardened, grizzled veteran musician who can easily and competently operate under such conditions. I, by contrast, am a hack who occasionally plays the drums for my own personal satisfaction or to annoy my neighbors.
The gut-wrenching panic I feel during these moments on stage with Steve is generally its own reward.
But now he was offering $112.50!
With only one song in the entire set that I had never played before, the performance was much easier and less stressful than normal.
But that's because Steve was using the performance as a clever ploy.
He had asked me to arrive at his house a few hours before the performance because he had a new song that he was working on and wanted me to play the drums for him.
At the recording studio.
In two days.
A song I've never heard before? At the studio? In two days?
No problem.
We sat in Steve's living room and he went over the song, stressing the fact that it was going to have a sort of Bo Diddly kind of feel to it. Rock and roll with a chunky sort of back-beat.
No problem.
We practiced it a few times and it seemed to go well, which really should have served as a sort of early warning to me.
I dutifully arrived at the studio at the appointed hour, expecting a fun-filled afternoon of pain, suffering, and humiliation.
Possibly followed by pizza.
As it turns out, there was no pizza, but the pain, suffering, and humiliation I had expected were nothing compared to what I actually experienced.
Steve breezed into the studio and cheerily announced, "So, I've been rethinking this song and I think it may be better if we forget about the Bo Diddly thing and go with a reggae sort of feel. What do you think?"
"Did you bring Jamaican rum?" I asked.
Steve chuckled warmly and ignored my plea, evidently imagining that I was joking.
Steve played his new reggae version of the song and I tried valiantly to think of WWBMD?
What Would Bob Marley Do?
Of course, the answer to that is obvious, but was entirely out of the question.
I've never been particularly proficient at playing island beats on the drum set.
I trudged into the recording room and spent the entire afternoon proving that fact to everyone at the studio including the unprecedented tour group that wandered through the studio at the very apex of my suffering.
Seriously.
A tour group.
"What's that whimpering heap over there in the corner?" asked one of the people.
"Oh, that? That's just a drummer. He'll be fine." came the answer before the tour wandered away.
Six and a half hours after we had arrived, my 3 minutes and 30 seconds of drumming was all recorded.
I woke Steve up from where he was having a restful nap on the studio's luxurious leather couch, and we made our way homeward.
Next time, I'll think very carefully about what I might be willing to do for $112.50.
And then I'll pick up the phone anyway.

(The video is actually from a previous recording session with Steve. I couldn't bear to share the pain of this most recent one.)

Cute Little Crabs

2010-12-14T09:12:00.001-05:00

So, here's a problem.
Crabs are not cute.

See?
Not cute at all.
They are not cuddly and, frankly, unless they were incorporated into the delicious splendor of Crab Rangoon, I never gave crabs much thought.
Until a few weeks ago when I was approached by an editor at Islandport Press. She was looking for an illustrator for a book about a family of crabs who go on vacation to the beach.
Because seriously, where else would crabs go? Out for Chinese food? Not likely.
My friend, Lita Judge, passed my name along to Melissa, the editor at Islandport, suggesting, I suppose, that I seemed like the kind of guy who ate a lot of Crab Rangoon and, as a result, might be able to draw crabs very well.
The logic of it is lost on me, but somehow, my preoccupation with greasy Chinese appetizers won over the heart and mind of Melissa and I got the job.
So now I am faced with the daunting challenge of spending the next year in my studio, trying to make crabs look cute and lovable. My frequent research trips to the local Chinese food joint for Crab Rangoon have yielded little in the way of practical help in drawing crabs, but I will keep trying.
And now those snacks are tax-deductible.
My first challenge was not actually making the crabs look cute, but making the crabs work like humans. In the story, the crabs have all sorts of wacky adventures that require more of them than might be expected of your average crab. I needed to make them able to move like humans. To that end, I made the executive decision to play Darwin and evolve one set of legs off of them.
Quick marine biology lesson:
In addition to their claws, crabs have 4 sets of legs. I learned this, not from my extensive Chinese food research, but from looking at actual, unprocessed-for-consumption, crabs.
It occurred to me that eight legs would be getting in the way all the time, so I opted to create a family of rare six-legged crabs for the book.
The other immediate problem I faced–and I know this is a very species-ist, politically incorrect comment for me to make–is that crabs all look alike to me. Especially when they are looking like appetizers.
Maybe I haven't spent enough time really looking at crabs, but, if faced with a family of crabs, I would have a difficult time telling one from the other.
I assumed, perhaps rashly and selfishly, that other people might have this same trouble.
I opted to put clothes on the crabs to help readers identify which crab is which. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to make a really nice bathing suit for a crab.

I sent these initial sketches to Melissa at Islandport and her first comment was, "You know that crabs have four sets of legs, right?"
I explained that I did know that. My response, that crabs also do not typically dress up like tourists and go on family vacations, was accurate, but held no sway with her.
The crabs could wear clothes, they could use cameras, they could purchase tacky souvenirs, but they could not have only three sets of legs. In her defense, Melissa saw the humor in this, but still did not relent.
I have since come to terms with the crabs' eight-leggedness. I still haven't been able to whole-heartedly embrace them as cute and cuddly, however.
Tasty? Yes.
Cute? Not really.
Perhaps one more tax-deductable trip to the Chinese restaurant will convince me.

My Boogers and Farts Got Censored. But Not My Underpants.

2010-12-01T14:29:00.002-05:00

I was recently asked if I'd be willing to submit myself to the grueling ordeal of answering 5 questions for a regular weekly newspaper column called...
Are you ready?

5 Questions!

Of course, I was delighted to have the opportunity to expose myself (figuratively) to the many thousands of people who read the New Hampshire Sunday News.

Nancy, the reporter who writes the column, further delighted me by letting me know that she had actually read about the tattoo contest I'm running here on my blog. While she wasn't actually ready to have me inked into her skin permanently, she did tell me that an ex-boyfriend of hers has a tattoo of her, complete with horns, tail, and––most alarmingly–skis. I am still waiting for someone to get a Marty Kelley tattoo, but I have faith that it will happen some day. If not, I'll check in with Nancy's ex.

Nancy went on delighting me by sending me 5 questions which went far beyond the normal "Where do you get your ideas?" sort of interrogation that I am frequently subjected to. She wanted to get to the very heart of what I do. She understood the essence of my work. The first 4 questions were fine and entertaining and well thought out, but it was question 5 that really got me.

"Why do kids find boogers so funny?"

I've spent years picking my nose, searching for an answer to this question, waiting and waiting for some brave soul to ask. I was ready. I answered:

"It’s not just kids. I still think boogers are hilarious. I’m also a huge fan of farts and underpants. I think for kids, they get a sort of subversive thrill out of reading about things that are generally not mentioned in polite conversation. I have run into lots of people who frown on this idea of employing crude humor in children’s books. The fact is, kids love it. The books are for the kids. If they love it, they will read it. Everyone needs to read and if all it takes is a booger to get a kid to enjoy reading, I’m happy to oblige. 
And, really, let’s face it; boogers are funny."

I'm sure you'll agree that I was absolutely brilliant there. Well thought out, eloquent, intelligent, and crammed with gratuitous uses of the word "booger".

I sent it off to her, she thanked me, and we both went about our business, satisfied with a job well done.

Several weeks later, I actually saw the article, thanks to alert parents who regularly scan the police blotter looking for any mention of me. I glanced at the article and realized immediately that something was wrong.

No, it's not the picture. that's what I really look like, smart-guy. Look at the last question.
Carefully.

Do you see a problem?
No. Not the weird punctuation around the words crude humor in the question.
The boogers?
Where are the boogers?
One measly booger? Where are the farts?

And why in the world did they change my sentence to read, "I'm also a huge fan of underpants."? Without the booger/fart context, it makes me look like some kind of weirdo who gets his jollies with undies. Like I have a collection of underpants or some strange fascination with boxers or something.

I mentioned this to Nancy in an email and she explained that it was her editor's heavy hand that made me look like an underpants freak, not hers. The NH Sunday News is known for having a rather strong right-wing bias, but I strongly suspect that Republicans wear underpants, too. Sensible, navy blue ones, no doubt.

If I ever do find out who her editor is, I'll march right into his office and tell him a thing or two.

As soon as I finish arranging, dusting, and waxing my underpants collection.

Lego Marty!

2010-11-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

My son, Alex is a confirmed Lego-maniac, often disappearing for hours on end in his room to create some elaborate masterpiece of engineering.
But now he has outdone himself. The other night I was slaving away in my studio when he came in with his hands behind his back. Instinctively, I sprang from my seat, executed a perfect ninja-like dive and roll, and hid behind my trash can. He smiled and brought his hands from behind his back to reveal the most exquisite, beautiful creation I have ever witnessed.

It was me.
Made out of Legos.
He managed to capture not only my rugged good looks and outstanding sense of fashion, but the arm is fully articulated and allows the Lego-Marty to move its hand in delicate, graceful arcs, as if drawing.

It was like watching a movie of myself. Except the Lego-Marty uses its left hand to hold the pencil, a feat I have yet to master.
While Alex was sadly unable to make the Lego-Marty actually draw without some sort of manual intervention, he did have the foresight to include an easel with an attached piece of drawing paper.

I've had the Lego-Me in my studio for several days, and while it does add a certain visual charm to the ambiance of my studio, I am sad to report that it has yet to begin actually doing my work for me.
I had secretly hoped that the Lego-Me would magically come to life at night and illustrate books for me.
At the very least, I had entertained the wish that I might be able to send it to schools to do author visits for me while I lounged around in bed, sipping coffee and reading. It's not that I don't like doing school visits. I do.
I just like lounging around in bed even more.
Alex is currently hard at work on the new, improved, school-visiting, book-illustrating Lego-Marty and I'll let him out of his bedroom as soon as it's finished.

Good News; Bad News

2010-11-18T09:29:00.000-05:00

Let me tell you a story about a story.
It's a sad story about a funny story.
Kind of.
I think.
But, I'm not positive.
A long, long time ago, I wrote a book called Childhood Trauma #4, Give Auntie Lulu A Kiss. I sent it out to a few publishers and nobody was too interested.
Until I sent it to Tricycle Press.
An editor named Abi got back to me and told me that Tricycle wasn't interested, either.
"BUT!", she said, "How would you like to do an entire book of childhood traumas?"
Who could possibly say no to an offer like that?
I spent the next year and a half of my life creating the artwork for my book, Twelve Terrible Things.
This is actually the introduction to the story I wanted to tell you. Please stay tuned, here. The introduction is important.
Over the years, I have continued to send Abi my work and she has always been happy to reject it for one reason or another. That's okay. That's the way this business goes.
Eventually I sent her a book called Albert's Almost Adequate Adventure and Abi got back to me and told me that Tricycle wasn't interested.
"BUT!" she said, [do you see a theme developing here?] "How would you like to take the character of Albert and use him in a chapter book?"
Who could possibly say no to an offer like that?
I spent the next several months writing, rewriting, and rewriting again, not one, but three chapter books about a boy named Simon and his pals, Munch and Ralph.

I really enjoyed writing it and Abi seemed to enjoy reading it. I sent the first book to her almost two years ago. She made some suggestions for revisions about the characters, the plot, the excessive use of boogers and puking I had employed, and I dutifully revised.
I continued working on stories about Simon because I really, really enjoyed writing them.
While they were under consideration by Tricycle, Random House bought Tricycle.
"This will be great!" everyone suggested, "Random House has much bigger distribution!"
I waited and waited to hear back from Abi about the fate of Simon, Munch, and Ralph.
There were big changes at Tricycle but things were moving slowly for my poor book.
Abi had suggested the book to me in the first place and I really liked working with her, so I was patient.

Eventually, I decided that something needed to happen with Simon. Abi was trying to get it published, but I was tired of waiting. I told her that I was going to start sending it out to other publishers and Abi said that I had been more than fair, letting them have it exclusively for so long. She said that she was still very hopeful that it would happen soon, though.

I sent Simon out to another publisher and heard back from them after about two weeks. The editor thought it was very funny and suggested some revisions that she would like to see.

I was debating about whether this was a development I needed to tell Abi about, when she sent me an email.

Random House is shutting down Tricycle.

I was terribly disappointed to hear that. I enjoyed working with Abi and I had been waiting over two years to find out about Simon. Just as it seemed to be happening, they are being shut down by the company that just bought them. If Tricycle had bought the book, it could have just been orphaned there, I suppose. It happens.
Abi has very kindly offered to pass the manuscript on to an editor at a different imprint at Random House.

Presumably, one that isn't being shut down.

So, in spite of all the anxious waiting and the disappointment, the bright side is that the book got written and now there is a publisher interested in seeing some revisions.

Maybe they'll publish it before they go out of business, too.

Another New Portrait

2010-11-16T21:13:00.000-05:00

And, it seems I've already used this title for a post. It's a good thing that Google is here looking out for me.
This is a pencil drawing I did as a demonstration for a portrait class I'm teaching. This one took a couple of weeks. I'm still not totally convinced that it's finished, but it's pretty darned close...

And Another New One

2010-11-05T10:49:00.001-04:00

I just started this portrait of my little niece, Sarah.

My little niece who now towers over me by several inches.

This is a necessary step in my artistic development.

Many years ago, Sarah's parents, Shelly and Greg, were kind enough to let Kerri and me live with them for a few months.

In thanks, I thoughtfully bequeathed unto them a watercolor portrait of their two adorable children. It was my first watercolor portrait ever and looking at it now, I reel in the stark horror of its total awfulness.

I can only hope that this one will be much, much, much, much, much, much, much better.

We shall see.

Another New Portrait

2010-11-04T17:59:00.000-04:00

Here is a recent (like finished 2 hours ago) pencil portrait of Alex. This one took about a week and a half.

I tried a few new things here, all of which failed miserably, I'm afraid. The paper is too rough, I couldn't get nearly enough fine detail, I tried toning the paper with watercolor which, in theory, I like, but it looks a little wonky. I also tried adding white highlights and I'm not so happy with those either.

In spite of all that, it still looks like him, which is a good thing.

Keene was Keen & A Possible Tattoo

2010-11-02T08:30:00.002-04:00

First, let me apologize for that weak and fairly lame title to this post. It's early and my coffee has yet to fully kick in.

And, I'm still recovering from this past weekend at the Keene State Children's Literature Festival. It was an amazing experience being a speaker at such a prestigious event. And I'm sure that my presentation, full of references to farts and boogers, did much to enhance the overall tone of the festival.

Certainly my failed attempt at putting bunny ears on David White during a picture taking moment added to the elegant glamour of the final dinner.

Pictured above are: Me (dressed in my finest formal jeans and t-shirt), David White (The festival organizer, whose hand is prepared to give me a Vulcan Death Grip should I try one more time to give him bunny ears), Paul Janeczko (A wonderful poet and very cool guy from Maine whose last name appears to be missing some vowels or something), Jeanette Winters (who had the coolest glasses I have ever seen - I suspect that they gave her x-ray vision, but she wouldn't let me try them), Chris Raschka (A Caldecott winning illustrator from New York) and Susan Cooper (author of The Dark Is Rising Series and a very funny lady).

David works hard at organizing this Festival lining up some of the biggest names in Children's Literature to speak every year.

I still cannot fathom why he asked me to participate.

My guess is that one of his festival advisers jokingly said, "You know what this festival needs? More booger jokes. And fart jokes." And David, perhaps in a weakened condition from correcting his ten thousandth term paper, agreed and emailed me, asking me to participate.

When I did get that email from David, over a year ago, I was so excited that I did a little happy dance around my house. It is fortunate for all of us that no video footage is available of that dance. Particularly because I got the email early one morning, and was still in my Homer Simpson jammies with the big rip in the seat.

I did however, post a short video of part of my presentation. See it over there on the right side of the page? I was trying to read some of my more serious poetry about wedgies and farts and the whole darned audience kept interrupting me with raucous laughter.

The entire festival weekend was a whirlwind of dinners, socials, gallery tours, lunches, and fun. David and his husband, Ken hosted a terrific party at the Irish Cottage that they built on their property. The whiskey flowed like wine. The Guinness flowed like whiskey.

It was an amazing experience and it would have been impossible to pick out one favorite part of the weekend if it weren't for a young lady named Rachel.

Despite all the terrific things that happened and the incredible honor of being asked to speak at the festival, the greatest moment of the weekend (and possibly my entire life) happened at lunch the day of the festival.

I had mentioned during my presentation that I am offering free books for life for anyone who is willing to get a Marty Kelley tattoo (see previous posts). I suspected that if there was ever a crowd where someone might take me up on this offer, a room full of teachers, college students, and librarians would be it.

Those people know how to party.

At lunch, Rachel - dear, sweet, wonderful Rachel - eclipsed all my previous earthly delights by saying, "$40 for a tattoo in exchange for all those books? Heck Yeah! I'm in! Do I have to get it in a certain spot?"

I explained that I did want to post pictures of her tattoo on this blog, so she might consider keeping it in a PG location, though, should she decide otherwise, I may start a different blog just to share it.

Perhaps she will attend next year's conference and you will get a chance to see it for yourself.

More Art!

2010-10-27T14:37:00.001-04:00

Yay.
Very little to read here.
This is my latest portrait. It's all pencil. It's my daughter, Tori, assuming a sickeningly dreamy pose.

I was pretty happy with the drawing, though.

New York, NEW YORK!

2010-10-19T21:15:00.000-04:00

The first thing that you need to know about Corning, New York, where I am currently sitting in a hotel room, is that it is a 500 bazillion hour drive* from my home in New Hampshire.

(*estimated drive time)

You may also be interested to hear that there is an entire museum here dedicated to glass (yes, as in Corningware, Corning, NY - get it?) and there is a lovely downtown area with coffee shops, art galleries and at least a dozen stores that purport to sell "Country Crafts" or some variant thereof.

The most important thing to know about the town of Corning is that the Vegetable Samosas and the Palak Paneer at the Thali of India Restaurant are unimaginable delicious and palate damagingly spicy. I've no doubt that the lingering scent of my dinner will remain in my hotel room long after I have departed. As will the echos of my screams from its spicy deliciousness.

I was invited to Corning by The Alternative School for Math and Science, which, you may be interested to know, is an alternative school that focuses on math and science. I waltzed in and gave a few quick, snappy lessons on advanced particle physics and really wowed them.

The school is a small private middle school with a fun staff and a bunch of very nice kids. I don't often have an opportunity to visit middle school, but when I do, I mention it to friends who invariably say, "You're going to a MIDDLE SCHOOL?" as if I had just informed them that I was planning on taking a long, splashy swim through shark infested waters wearing a bacon bathing suit.

(Note: I do not own a bacon bathing suit.)

It seems that middle school kids in general scare the pants off of most adults. If they knew how much they frightened most adults, they would take over the world and probably force us all to get our hair cut like Justin Bieber or something.

In my personal experience, I have found middle school kids to be funny and very pleasant. Sure they dress weird and have bad hair and smell kind of funny, but so do I.
Especially since my pungent Indian dinner.
Did I mention already how delicious that was?

So, as expected, my time at this middle school today was delightful. And the kids–those terrifying, monstrous middle school kids–sat patiently when, about 2 seconds before my presentation, the bulb burned out in my LCD projector. They sat patiently as several staff members scrambled to find a replacement projector for me. They sat patiently as the 8 month pregnant tech-teacher quickly and efficiently switched projectors and got me up and running again.

Then, they sat patiently when, 4 minutes later, the second projector failed and we had to try yet again.

The kids didn't hoot and holler and try to steal my soul through a hole they chewed in my chest as so many of my peers seem to think middle school kids would do. They sat and chatted quietly with their friends and occasionally offered helpful advice like, "Try wiggling the cord thingie."

I assumed that they had covered electrical engineering in their science classes already, so I took their advice.

It worked.

I'm looking forward to my day at the school tomorrow, knowing that if I do have any technical problems, the kids can tell me which cord thingie I should be wiggling.

Death Defying, Spine Tingling Children's Literature Festival!!!

2010-10-14T21:05:00.001-04:00

So, as you are no doubt aware, the posts you read on this blog are listed from newest to oldest. The oldest, by the way, being a fascinating expose of me installing a new floor in the library of my old home. As an odd coincidence, I have just spent the last few days stripping and refinishing that same floor.

Coincidence?

Yeah. I suppose.

Coincidences abound today, however. Earlier this morning, I was slaving over my blog, basically groveling for people to:

1. Get a tattoo of me in order to win free books for life (mine, not yours).

2. Go to the Children's Literature Festival in Keene, NH on October 30th (plenty of free parking!).

In my post, I may have casually mentioned the indoor fireworks display I was developing as part of my presentation.

Within hours of posting that, I received a fairly ominous email attachment from someone at Keene State College.

Coincidence this time?
I'm not so sure.

The attachment on the email was called "Hold Harmless Form" and contained, among many others, the following clause:

2. FULLY UNDERSTAND that:

(a.) Participating in the Children’s Literature Festival activities involve risks and dangers of serious bodily injury, including permanent disability, paralysis and death (“Risks”);

I don't know about you, but I am simply tingling with anticipation to see what's in store for us at the festival this year. All the Festivals I have attended in the past were fun, but I can't remember a single one where I was in fear for my life.
Seriously, if I had to sign a waiver like that, you don't want to miss this festival.
Register.
Come to the festival.

Bring a helmet.