Some Terrifying Lulu Action

You long time, hard-core Marty Kelley groupies out there–and I'm sure there are millions of you–may remember that for quite some time on my real website (not this fake Marty Kelley knock-off site you are looking at now), there was a picture of a Marty Kelley scarecrow displayed for some time.

Before I continue, I'd like to point out that I have managed to use my first and last names three separate times in the first sentence of this posting. That may be a new record.

Anyhow, librarian Sue Demanche was the evil mastermind behind the Marty Kelley (4!) scarecrow and now she has outdone herself, creating a horrifyingly realistic, life-sized statue of such osculating audacity that it must be named...

Auntie Lulu.

The mascot to my website (Click here if you missed the last link...) has brought terror to the hearts of thousands of visitors to my website (there's another chance...) beckoning them in and daring them to kiss her mustachioed candy-colored lips of doom.

Now Sue has taken this digital threat and brought it to life. The life sized Auntie Lulu doll was posed outside the doors to her library like a sleepless sentry in need of a kiss. Along with her dimpled arms and 250% polyester dress, Auntie Lulu came complete with pinned on wax lips that demanded kissing. Those oh-so-kissable lips also had a tendency to fall off at random times throughout the day, adding carpet lint to her lips for some exciting tactile textures during that kiss.

I begged and cried and whimpered in a very manly way, but there was no escape. I was forced to kiss Auntie Lulu.

It was actually far less pleasant than you may have expected.

Sue's attention to detail was stunning. In this picture, you have a clear view of the extremely fashionable Mr. PotatoHead earrings that she used to compliment Auntie Lulu's dress and really bring out the green in her eyes.

After I recovered from the shock and horror of meeting–and kissing–Auntie Lulu (actually, I don't think I'll ever fully recover) Sue was kind enough to let me rinse my mouth out with the rice crispy treats and fruit that she brought for breakfast. It was quite possibly the most perfect breakfast I have ever eaten.

Sue also has a real, genuine, honest-to-goodness rowboat in her library.

You will notice that Auntie Lulu is NOT in the rowboat. But, you never know where she might turn up next.
Hey.
What's that behind you?
With the Mr. PotatoHead earrings?

LOOK OUT!!!

Chuck! Chuck! Chuck!

And, as if a tasty lunch and wonderful day getting lost in Holderness weren't enough, I had yet another opportunity to get lost driving to Portsmouth Tuesday night to see Chuck Palahniuk.

I'm happy to report that, due to excellent directions provided by Stephanie Finnegan at the school, I did not fall victim to the pervasive idea among the staff there that there is actually no way to get from Holderness to Portsmouth.
 
There is a way.

It just takes a really, really long time to do it.

But I made it, thank you very much.

I met my friends Katie and Steve (yes, I only hang out with people who have their own web sites) at The Friendly Toast, a delightful restaurant full of tacky souvenirs from days gone by and waiters and waitresses who have more ink tattooed on each of their arms, legs, and necks than I have used in a lifetime of professional illustration.

They serve excellent onion rings, too. Much better than those served at their sister restaurant, The Unfriendly Toast.

As an odd sort of coincidence, we all ordered falafel wraps and deep-fried something-or-other.
We gagged down our food and raced over to the South Church where the great Chuck was to address the thronging masses.

I feel a need to explain at this point that I am going to refer to him as Chuck, not because we are old pals or anything. Simply because it's much easier to type than Palahniuk.

This particular book event–and it was an event–was organized by the River Run Bookstore, an excellent independent bookstore in Portsmouth that, for some reason, didn't ask me to come sign copies of my most recent book, but maybe will have me come in the future, as I am posting this delightful praise of their excellent, superlative, really swell store.

I'll keep you posted on how that turns out...

So the bookstore held this Chuckstravaganza at the South Church because they figured that all the people who would want to see Chuck wouldn't fit in the store. With a ticket priced at $25 (but including a signed hardcover copy of his latest book, priced at $24.95) there were still over 400 people who came. These people know a bargain when they see it!
A five cent ticket?
I'm in!!

A brief introduction, in case you are unaware of the greatness which is Chuck. He is the author of Fight Club, Choke, Invisible Monsters, Haunted and many other books so profoundly disturbing and amazing and funny and horrifying that I can't actually think of  good way to end this sentence.

Haunted, for one example, is a novel of short stories including the infamous story, Guts, a tale so unimaginably horrifying in its excruciating detail, that it is reported that nearly 50 people have fainted while listening to Chuck do readings of it.

So, needless to say, I was very excited for the opportunity to listen to him speak, and possibly to pass out and sustain some sort of traumatic head injury as I toppled to the floor.

Katie, Steve, and I, due in large part to Katie's burning need to arrive several hours before the event was scheduled to start, were hanging around in the rockin' front row seats we had scored. The owner of River Run Books announced that there were signed copies of some of Chuck's previous books for sale at the back of the church.

I strolled back and purchased one book. I eyeballed another, but didn't purchase it. Back at my seat, I decided that I did, in fact, want that other book, but when I went back to get it, they had sold out. It was a bleak, black moment for me.

I wandered downstairs to go to the bathroom, an activity I find comforting in those bleak, black moments. When I was headed back upstairs to rejoin Steve and Katie and wallow in my misery at having missed a chance to get a signed copy of Haunted, I saw a large table, liberally spread with copies of Chuck's books. Among them, Haunted, with it's super cool glow-in-the-dark cover.

I sauntered over to see if I might purchase one. A friendly lady from the bookstore said that Sure, I could buy one, but Chuck couldn't personalize it because I didn't have one of the magical tickets that allowed me an opportunity to meet Chuck before the event and get my book personalized.
It was only then that I noticed Chuck himself standing there signing books.

No problem. I purchased my book and was prepared to merely bask in his reflected glory from a respectful distance when Chuck looked at me and held out his hand. "Hey. Let me personalize that for you," he said.

I may possibly have squealed a very manly little squeal of joy and I most certainly did a very manly little tippy-toe dance of elation.

And let me add that it's a good thing I had just used the bathroom, too.

I shook his hand and when someone there laughed about my "Life Is Adequate" shirt, I explained that I am a children's author and the shirt was a joke from one of my books. I told Chuck that I hoped people that read my books would grow up to read his.

He replied that he hoped the people who read his books would grow up at all.

I skipped upstairs to gloat and brag about my personalized book and the fact that Chuck had shaken my hand. Katie tried to touch my hand, no doubt in an effort to swipe some of the precious Chucklocules still clinging to it. She did not succeed.

After that, the rest of the night could have consisted of Chuck clipping his toenails in front of us and I would have been satisfied. He did not clip his toenails, however. He came out on stage and spoke for awhile, noting to us, as an aside, that he had used some particularly foul language in a church and was planning on using much, much more. He read us a brand-new, not-yet-published story. He had contests where people raced to blow up giant, inflatable Academy Awards in a desperate effort to win–of all things–giant inflatable turkeys. And he answered questions from the audience.

If you were lucky enough to get your question answered, you also got an inflatable turkey.

It was lots of fun and, to be honest, I was jealous. I love the book events that I have done, but I have never had a chance to make people get brain hemorrhages racing to inflate things in an effort to win more things to inflate.

Maybe after my next book.

Cell Phones and Tasty Sandwiches

I've returned safely from the snowy reaches of the great white north and have been doing even more traveling around.
Monday, I was in the delightfully named Center Sandwich with Duncan McDougal, the big cheese in charge of the Children's Literacy Foundation. I have been working with CLiF for several years, visiting schools that typically could not afford to bring in an author without CLiF's generous help.

CLiF also sponsors rural libraries, awarding grants of $2,000 for the librarians to pick out whatever books they want for their libraries. The book donations are made at a big ceremony at the local public school to try to encourage the schools and libraries to find ways to help each other support literacy in the community.

I watched Duncan work his magic and hold a large group of kids spellbound as he told them about the wonders of reading and got them very excited about the books their library was receiving. I'll be doing the presentations at a school at the end of the month. I only hope I do half as well as Duncan did.

Tuesday, I went back up north, this time to get terribly, terribly lost on my way to the Holderness Central School. I had actually driven through Holderness on Monday, so I figured I was all set with the directions and made much of the drive with my eyes closed, just to show off.

I got my directions from Google Maps. (No, I don't have a GPS. I don't have a cell phone, either. While we're at it, I still don't have a Facebook page or a working TV. You have to cope with this. Not me. I'm perfectly content.)

The directions would have been perfect had my destination been the Ashland Central School. I was looking for the Holderness Central School, however. Undaunted, I drove on thinking, "Hey, I was just here yesterday. I'm pretty sure I saw this school on my drive,"

It turns out, I had not seen that school on my drive. After driving farther and farther from anything that looked like a school, I began to get a bit panicky. When I saw the sign that said Welcome to Mexico, I stopped a very helpful guy on a mountain bike and asked him for directions. His response, "Whooo, boy. You're REALLY lost" did surprisingly little to calm my nerves.

This is the point of the story where my friends all jump in and say, "See? If you had a cell phone, you could have called the school." This is true. But here is the amazing part - I was still able to call the school. I found an old fashioned device called a pay phone. It is a slightly more sophisticated means of communication than smoke signals or carrier pigeons, which I am thinking about employing in the future.

Through the delicate art of excessive, reckless speeding, I arrived at the school in time to start my first presentation right on schedule.

It was a delightful day in Holderness. The kids and teachers were loads of fun. They even did enough research about me to know that I would rather eat a plateful of toenails than the average school lunch. So, rather than Sloppy Joes and Tater Tots, I was treated to a gourmet lunch of tasty sandwiches, excellent salads, and delicious desserts. I will be driving to Holderness for lunch every day from now on, and, though the lunch was exceptional, I do expect there to be a larger wine list offered in the future.

They were celebrating Literacy Week (which is way more fun than Advanced Concepts in Math Week) and many of the classes had decorated their doors with pictures from favorite books. I was flattered to see that several classes had chosen my books. There was a three dimensional desk from The Messiest Desk (complete with three - count 'em, three! pairs of undies). There was a complete rewrite of Twelve Terrible Things, changing it to Twelve Terrific Things. It was very funny and clever, though I'm not sure I approve of all the happiness it portrayed. There were lots and lots of new rules for The Rules, and some great artwork and ideas from my other books, as well.

Most frightening of all was a giant, bigger than life picture of Auntie Lulu from my website covering the entire doorway to the library. I almost wet my pants laughing when I saw it.

Please take a moment to notice the last picture. The one of the kid in the red shirt. It's a new rule: Put the toilet seat down. The artist in this case took the time to make the water yellow and dotted with little McNuggets of poop. That's the sort of attention to detail that separates good art from great art. Nice work!!

It's always very flattering to be made to feel so welcomed in a school. At a school like the one in Holderness, I will be walking down the hall and will hear whispers of "Hey! That's Martykelley!"

It's always one word. Martykelley. Like Cher or something. When I walk through the halls I hear "Hi Martykelley. Hi Martykelley. Hi Martykelley. Hi Martykelley. Hi Martykelley."
And the occasional "Hey! Look! Martykelley is going into the bathroom."

I'll try to remember to put the seat down when I'm finished...

On the Road Again

This is the scenic view from out our hotel window in Littleton, NH.

April 28.

10 inches of snow and falling.

I was scheduled to visit Lakeway Elementary today and tomorrow. After some panicky last minute phone calls yesterday, it was decided that we should reschedule for Thursday and Friday in case the weather should be bad.
Like, you know, in case we get a freak end-of-the-season snowstorm or something.

So now we have an extra day here in Littleton with little to do but lounge about by the pool and relax in the hot tub. We had to drag ourselves out for tasty Mexican food last night, too. Tonight might be Thai.

Will my suffering never end?

The Steve & Marty Smackdown!!!

Do you know what us famous rock and roll stars do after a big show?

Usually, this sort of information is top secret, but I'll let you in on it because I like you.

Yesterday, Steve and I had a show in Laconia. As usual, we rocked our rear-ends off. After all that hard work, we got some dinner (to resuscitate our rear ends) and drove over to the Plymouth Senior Citizen Center to catch a professional wrestling match.

Yeah.

That's what we did. We went to watch sweaty guys and––I'm very happy to add––sweaty girls, step on each other's throats.

I feel the need here, for some reason, to add that this not what we usually do after our rock-n-roll extravaganzas. Usually, of course, we are simply chauffeured around town in our matching solid gold  limousines with the plush, thick shag carpet interiors and the fuzzy dice swinging from the diamond studded rear view mirrors. More often than not, I roll around in the waist deep piles of hundred dollar bills I fill my limo with. Honestly, I have no idea what Steve does in his because, of course, we have tinted windows.

Last night, however, was different. Steve's nephew, Christopher, is a film maker of sorts and for reasons too mind-bogglingly complex to explain here without a thorough grounding in theoretical quantum physics, he is making a film that includes scenes of him acting like a professional wrestler.

To that end, he spoke with Lobster Man, of whom you are no doubt familiar. Lobster Man is, of course, a professional wrestler and his neck is larger around than my waist. After pizza. So, in case he is reading, I'd also like to add that Lobster Man totally rocks. And he is my favorite crustacean.  And please don't eat me.

Lobster Man gave Christopher permission to film a fake wrestling match at the gigantic, headline making, epic, world championship match that was being held at the Senior Center in Plymouth, NH. This was, provided, of course, that he did not make a mockery of professional wrestling in any way.

Christopher's  portrayal of a wrestler named The Culk was poignant, earnest and Oscar-worthy. It brought a tear to my eye, as I'm sure it did to the dozens of senior citizens screaming in the Senior Center. Many of whom were obviously out for a night of sweaty mayhem.

When the real matches started, and the wrestlers gave us their all–grunting, sweating, slapping each other and tossing each other across the ring. Their flamboyant costumes and gracefully choreographed ballets of mayhem lead Steve to lean over to me and ask, "Is this what my nephew was not supposed to make a mockery of?"

And, indeed, it was.

Steve and I are currently considering ways to incorporate elements of professional wrestling into our shows. Besides our famous toddler mosh pit, I mean.

For now, I'm busy sewing sequins on my undies. Our next show will really rock.

More Fan Art

I got this picture from Alexia at a recent school visit.

 She's a totally amazing artist. See if you can find her in this picture of kids at her school.

Incredible, isn't it?

Who Am I?

I always start my author visits by asking the kids if they know who I am and what I do.
Today, reading to a kindergarten class, I asked if they knew what my job was.

One kid raised his hand and asked, "Are you the janitor?"

Maybe I should start dressing better?

Home and Gone Again

In case any of you have been losing sleep over the fact that I appear to be perpetually still in New Jersey; fear not. I returned home safely last week.

Sadly, that fate was not shared by my pillow and some of my clothes.
While I was in New Jersey, I got an email from my lovely wife explaining that my lovely son had been taken to the lovely hospital for lung x-rays. He had a lovely case of pneumonia.

This, I freely admit, upset me a bit.

I woke up very early the next day (like 3:30 early) and decided to just hit the road and get home. It seemed a wiser option than sitting in my hotel room, staring at the ceiling and listening to the roar of the traffic racing by.

I staggered blearily around my hotel room, showered, packed up my stuff and ran a large armload of my belongings out to my car. While there, I saw something shiny and got distracted.
"Ooooh coffee!"

I wandered over to the Dunkin Donuts, conveniently located in the scenic parking lot of my hotel, and entered its sacred coffee-infused walls. The clerk behind the counter was Indian and didn't seem to have a firm grasp on conversational English yet.

"Do you have vanilla coffee made?" I asked, seeking a whimsical, flavor-filled change in my coffee drinking experiences.

The clerk looked at me, obviously not understanding the question.

"Baniya?" he asked.

"Vanilla," I nodded, "Yes, do you have any vanilla coffee?"

He stared for a moment longer and then his face broke out into a radiant smile.

"Ahhh!" he said, "Medium french baniya, cream sugar!"

"That's it!" I cried, marveling at his psychic ability to penetrate my unkempt exterior and discern my innermost desires.

He handed me my coffee and I made my way back toward my car, marveling at the fact that he had learned English based entirely on the Dunkin Donuts menu items and how the majority of customers preferred them.

I was impressed. Thrust into the streets of Calcutta or Agra or Bombay, I doubted that I would have fared as well as he had.

I hopped into my car and sped off into the night, completely forgetting about the second load of belongings that sat in my hotel room, gathering up toxic levels of hotel carpet stink that I'm certain will render my pillow unusable for several washings.

I arrived home to find Alex doing better. My joy at that news was tempered slightly by the fact that I only then realized that I had forgotten all my stuff in New Jersey.

A quick call to the hotel confirmed that they would be delighted to do absolutely nothing to help me get my stuff back.

"Uhhh, I'd have to talk to the manager about sending it back to you, but I don't really think that's gonna happen."

Thanks Motel 6!

I sent a rather panicky and completely humiliating email to Cindy, the lady who had arranged my visit to New Jersey, asking her if she could possibly go to the hotel and grab my pillow–the one with the dirty socks and undies stuffed in the pillow case–and mail it up to me.

She agreed to undertake this odious task and I will forever be in her debt.

For the past week, I have been visiting schools from Massachusetts to the White Mountains. It's been fun, but exhausting. Every school is different and I never know what to expect when I arrive. This keeps me on my toes and in a perpetual state of near paranoid alertness.

At Fuller Meadow School, I was treated to delicious lunches (Candi, the coordinator, had read my blog entry asking that I not be served Sloppy Joes and Tater Tots) and, as if that weren't enough, she sent me home with two half gallons of delicious ice cream from the ice cream stand across the street.

My trip to Campton Elementary, way up north in New Hampshire began with a presentation to the 7th and 8th graders who, I was warned, might try to kill me and eat me.

Adults, as a rule, are terrified of 7th and 8th graders. Mostly with good reason, I imagine. But my visit with them was delightful. They were fun and enthusiastic and did not throw rocks at me or try to eat me. What's funny is that I gave almost exactly the same presentation that I normally do for 4th graders. It went very well, as did the rest of the day.

The only slight glitch in the day was the last presentation I gave to the Kindergarten, first, and second grades. It appeared that some poor child was suffering from some sort of gastro-intestinal distress and kept farting throughout my presentation. The child had the uncanny ability to time his farts to whenever I paused for dramatic effect.

"And then..." I paused, savoring the magical moment of silence. And when I opened my mouth to continue...

"FFAAAAAAARRRRRRRT!"

It was very amusing for everyone.

Tomorrow I head off to Portland, Maine for three days of school visits. I'm looking forward to this trip a lot because my good friend Amy lives up there and she claims to possess knowledge of the whereabouts of an excellent Thai restaurant.

And I know that, as I have yet to get my pillow back from New Jersey, there is no way I can leave it at the hotel this time.

Still In NJ

Today I spent the day talking at a few hundred kids at Beeler Elementary here in New Jersey. It was great fun and I'm delighted to report that I was not fed Sloppy Joes or Tater Tots. That fact alone makes the drive to NJ worthwhile.

I got to enjoy a brief bout of rock start status at the school, where the kids had obviously been well prepared for my visit. They passed me in the halls and I heard whispers of "That's MartyKelley. Hee Hee Hee" And, yes, the MartyKelley is all one word there. I'm not sure why, but when I visit a school, the kids always refer to me as MartyKelley. Not Marty. Not Mr. Kelley. MartyKelley. Like Cher or something, I guess.


The PE teacher, Becky Jenkins, even went as far as to incorporate pictures from my books in her annual Jump Rope for Heart theme.

Hey, Becky, be on the lookout for a thick envelope from my lawyer!

(kidding, kidding, kidding.)

Is that cool, or what?

(answer: Yes, it is cool. Very cool.) It's very flattering to be made to feel like a big, famous hot-shot or something.

I'm returning to the school for one more presentation tonight. I'm sure it will be great. I found a great looking little Mexican restaurant that I'll hit before I go back. I can't forsee any possible downside to eating pounds and pounds of beans before a long public speaking gig.

Then, I get to spend the first 6 hours of my birthday tomorrow driving home in the morning. (Feel free to send gifts, cash or pizza.)

The March Book Tour

Woo Hoo!
March madness has begun in earnest in the high stakes world of picture books.
March is busy for me.
Very busy.
School across the nation celebrate Read Across America by bringing authors to their schools and feeding them Sloppy Joes and Tater Tots.*

* If I come to your school; don't even think about it. Save them for the next author, please.

This March involves a lot more traveling than I usually do. Traveling, as you are no doubt aware, is one of the greatest ways to leave home and sleep in strange beds surrounded by unusual sounds, unfamiliar sights, and occasional unpleasant odors.

As I write this, I am in a hotel room in New Jersey pondering deeply why the non-smoking room I got should contain an upside down ashtray with a "No Smoking" sticker stuck to the bottom of it. It sort of tells you "No Smoking (but if you do, here's a convenient ash tray)".

When I asked the helpful fellow at the front desk about this odd choice of furnishings, he shrugged his shoulders and grunted a slightly feral "unh-nuh". I got the same response when I asked about the distance to the next town over.

It seemed wisest to cut my losses, and besides, not knowing about the ashtray will give me something to think about while I am staring at the ceiling tonight listening to the roar of traffic howling past the hotel.

My real, actual home is on a very quiet, some might say bucolic, back road in the outskirts of New Hampshire. Two cars passing our house in 10 minutes is a major traffic event. So I find myself unable to properly adjust to situations like my dinner tonight. I am planning on going out to a fabulous, nationally known establishment that serves the latest in cutting edge pizza cuisine.

In fact, I can see the restaurant from my hotel room. If it weren't for all the exhaust fumes, I could probably smell the pizza. The problem is, I don't know how I'm going to get there.
There is certainly no safe way to cross the six lanes of furious traffic that is whizzing by. And even if I managed such a daring feat, I'd most certainly spill my drink on the way back to the hotel.

So I have to drive there.
500 yards away.

To make my dinner plans more interesting, there are no turns allowed from the roaring highway of doom I am on, so I may well have to drive for several miles to simply get my pizza.

I need to be safe about this, because I am scheduled to visit a school tomorrow morning and I'd hate to get lost on my way across the street and spend the next several days wandering aimlessly up and down the highways of New Jersey, looking for my pizza.

If you do see a hungry looking guy with out of state plates, toss a piece of pizza my way, okay?

Tell Me Again How This Is MY Fault...

The other day, I was working in the studio and without warning, my daughter jumped through the door yelling "YEEEEAAAAARGH!"

She had spent the previous 20 minutes hidden away in the bathroom painting herself up to look like a terrifying pirate.
I know, the first question that you have is, "Where did you get that Sock Monkey in the picture?"

Seriously. Pay attention. I'm talking about my daughter here.

She painted scars around her nose (it had been reattached after a sword fight).  There is a similar scar around the circumference of her neck, indicating
1. A really, really good ship's doctor.
2. A need for more practice with the swords.

When these events occur, my wife turns to me and says, "This is your fault, you know. She doesn't get this from me."

Which, I suppose, is true enough.

Both of my kids are prone to these sorts of eccentricities. My daughter much more so, however. When she was born, I was thrilled that I had a daughter that I could horrify. I had planned to drive her to school dances in my undies. I had planned on showing embarrassing baby pictures to friends. I had many, many plans.

But this is how things turned out.

YEEEEAAAAARGH!

That Terrifying Author Came to our School and Scarred Me For Life!

As I  have mentioned before (56 trillion times at last count), I visit a lot of schools to talk about writing books. I have also mentioned before (also 56 trillion times, I just recounted) that my brother is of the opinion that I spend more time talking about what I do than actually doing what I do.
Usually, I talk about writing. Now,  I'm going to turn the tables a bit and write about talking about writing.
You might need to read that last sentence again. I know I did.

I have been visiting schools, acting like some famous hot-shot authorstrator* for almost a dozen years now. I try to change my presentation  every year to keep things interesting for schools that hire me time and time again. It would be tough to present with a row of snoring teachers lined up against the back wall.

The one constant I have always kept in my presentations is the part where I have a kid from the audience come up and model for me so I can draw him. This drawing demonstration has always been very popular with both adults and kids and it gives me the occasional opportunity to see a child traumatized irreparably. It also gives the audience the occasional opportunity to see me get traumatized irreparably and even more spectacularly than the kids.

The drawing demonstration has evolved over the years. I used to simply read my book, The Rules, then have the kids share their own rules that weren't in the book. This part of the process remains, as it allows me to collect new rules for a possible sequel.
After listening to the rules, I used to simply choose one rule that I liked, have that kid come up and draw him.

That worked until a kid stood in front of me on the stage and ate a hideous gooey strand of snot that she picked out of her nose. Her rule, I might mention, was "Don't pick your nose and eat it." It made me realize that I seemed to have a knack for picking kids that probably shouldn't be given uncensored access to an audience. So I started asking the teachers to choose the kid for me.

That worked until I had a kid throw a shoe at me. The teachers dutifully listened to the rules then selected "Don't throw shoes at people" as a winning rule. The kid came up and assumed a good shoe throwing posture, complete with shoe in hand. He posed and I drew. I drew and drew and drew as the kid threatened to throw his show at me. I assumed the kid was really getting into his role.
Until the shoe bounced off my head.

That got my attention. When I looked up at the kid, he was crying hysterically because his classmates had been laughing at him.

So I started warning kids that people would laugh at them and they would feel ridiculous. That worked until the kid came up, saw several classes of kids looking at him, grabbed the front of his pants and screamed "I gotta go to the bathroom!" He ran from the room and I never saw him again.

I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that the drawing demonstration is–by far–the most popular part of my presentations.

Today I was at a school and I listened to rules and gave my warnings and had the teachers pick a victim for me. When he was picked, this first grader ran up, jumped on to a stool I had placed next to me, fell off and landed on his head on the floor.
First graders found this very, very entertaining.
I suffered a series of tiny, but very real anxiety attacks.
Since first graders bounce, he was unharmed but unfortunately, he remained unconvinced of his own mortality. Since I always watch my models closely for early warnings of flying shoes, I had an excellent view of him as he bounced and twitched and tipped the stool in a dizzying display of acrobatic skill and death-defying bravado. It was thrilling and terrifying and I was still able to draw despite my morbid visions of the reams of paperwork that would lay before me if he fell off and injured himself.
We both survived the ordeal, but it was a close one.

I'm considering wrapping the kids in bubble wrap before they come up to model.

It would probably be really, really hard to draw, though.





*Authorstrator - A word I stole from a kid at Washington Elementary. It is brilliant and I intend to describe myself as that from now on.

Bring On The Lawsuit!

I'm not scared!
So, I really do love those Life Is Good shirts. As a sort of homage to their ubiquitousness, I put a parody of one of their mugs in my most recent book, The Messiest Desk.

As so often happens with the things I do, I amused the heck out of myself with my wit.
I decided to create some shirts with my new logo. Because, you know, life isn't ALWAYS good...

I sent my kids to school wearing the shirts today. I figure if there's any legal trouble, they'll catch it, not me.  I'll just say I don't know where they got the shirts.

The "www.martykelley.com" printed across the back?

Who knows...

Now On The Air - MarTV

You devoted, passionate followers have no doubt already noticed the cute little box that has appeared at the side of my blog.
That is the gigantic multimedia extravaganza I promised in an earlier post. I tried, for a few days, to have a player embedded right here in the blog, but it seemed to have only sporadic results. So, I offer this new, improved link directly to NH Public Television's delightful page full of me.

There, you can enjoy the giddy spectacle of me looking nervous and uncomfortable in front of lots of people and TV cameras.

I'm going to recommend that you make a big batch of popcorn, invite all your friends over and gather around the computer to witness real, actual streaming video of me on TV, being interviewed by the world renowned Rebecca Rule.


It's well worth the admission cost. In fact, I'll offer a full money back guarantee if you aren't completely satisfied with your free viewing experience.

As a side note of utmost importance: There is one point in the show where I refer to "a teacher in Salisbury" who submerged me in the swirling ocean of Author Visits I occasionally find myself drowning in.
That same teacher emailed me yesterday to remind me that he does, in fact, have a name.
I know this. I probably was aware of it during the taping of the show, too, but I was busy trying not to piddle myself with anxiety, so the subtleties of details like names escaped me briefly.
Now that I have returned to my senses and am not in imminent danger of soiling myself, his name is Bruce Johnson. In addition to being a really swell guy, he is the author of some swell reading books for adults and kids. Check him out here.

Tell him that "an author in New Boston" sent you.

Happy, Smiling Kids

Just a quick one here. This is my most recent portrait, my lovely daughter Victoria.

She's almost always that smiley and happy.

On an unrelated note, I am busy working on some serious high-tech, super-colossal, amazing awesomeness for the blog.

Stay tuned.

But if you hear a big explosion somewhere in the distance,  run.

And keep running.

A new year of pain, suffering and happy love-spewing unicorns.

This year, my suffering will be legendary. 

In order to fully explain my suffering, I must tell you about my honeymoon.

My beautiful wife (Kerri) and her beautiful husband (me) went to the beautiful White Mountains to behold their beautiful beauty. When we had beheld all the beauty we could possibly tolerate, we opted for something slightly different. Something to counteract the overdose of beauty we had subjected ourselves to.

Imagine our joy then, when we discovered, nestled amid the majestic mountains, a tiny shop like nothing we had ever seen before. FiFi's Clutter Shop.

FiFi's was home to the most amazing collection of eyesores the world has ever seen. So dense was the collective ugliness of its offerings, I am surprised that the building didn't form its own ugly black hole and suck itself into some alternate dimension.

We immediately sprang into action and spent hours shopping for souvenirs for all our friends. We were panting and breathless as we staggered out of FiFi's, struggling to carry the immeasurable ugliness we had purchased.

Needless to say, our friends were delighted with their gifts. It was their obvious thrill at receiving such wonderful treasures that gave me The Idea.

Really, it's quite simple. Every year, everyone who wants to play goes shopping to find the most awful, ugly, horrifying objet d'art he can. The rules are few and simple. It cannot cost more than $5 and it cannot pose an actual health hazard to humans or domestic animals (including children), the gift you receive must be prominently displayed in your home until the next swap. Once a date is decided on, we gather together to eat, drink, and inflict a year's worth of heartbreak, despair, and depression on one another. Names are drawn, gifts are swapped, and lives are ruined.

The best part about The Swap is when somebody new joins. This sucker typically has no idea what sort of depraved lunatics we are and thus, his contribution is invariably supremely inadequate. My friends Jay and Cris came up from North Carolina to play a few years ago. They brought a soap dispenser which would be considered slightly tacky at best.

They left with a terrifying, life size, light up witch head that would have given Charles Manson nightmares. Jay told me that Cris was weeping profusely for much of the ride back down south.

The unpleasant part about that is that typically those people will return the following year seeking vengeance. Jay and Cris came up the following year in a large pickup truck with a tarp wrapped around something huge in the back. We were seized with an unnameable horror, but they walked into the swap with a small gift bag. Kerri and I drew their name and opened the bag to reveal a fairly ugly framed picture of five fairly ugly chairs. No problem. We'd had worse. Much worse.

We laughed, telling them that we had been concerned that the cargo in the back of the truck was their contribution. As it turns out, it was. The photograph depicted the five horrid black, purple, and turquoise velvet covered chairs stacked in the back of their truck.

That was a grim year in the Kelley household.

There have also been backfires where the recipient actually enjoys the gift. Julie and Scott received a gigantic painting of an old waterwheel mill that they adore, It is still hanging prominently in their home several years later.

Last year, I myself was given a delightful light-up Jesus picture so unthinkably, exquisitely tacky that I cannot bear to remove it from my studio. Here you can see it lit and unlit. Feel free to bask in its beatific splendor for as long as you wish. I know I do.

Here are a few more selected highlights from this year's Swap:

 

Ben finds the real moth entombed in this display case strangely compelling. The fake birds and clumps of dead foliage act as a delightful counterpoint to everything that is beautiful.

Julie is nearly rendered speechless as she beholds the awesome spectacle of her light-up glass tiles with the festive Christmas bow. Her husband, Scott immediately realizes that the gift, with its Christmas trappings will be rendered even less appealing when July rolls around.

Tim enjoys his 300 pound door knocker, but wonders if there are any doors sturdy enough to support its crushing weight. This is one of those dangerous cases where the recipient may actually enjoy the gift. He will suffer greatly for that next year.

Jo-Ann contemplates the sweeping, all-encompassing horror of the oil portrait she and Ellen will display in the home they are trying to sell. Their idea to include the painting with the house as part of the sales agreement was denied by general consensus.

Here I am squealing with delight as I see the fun loving, oddly misshapen unicorn that will haunt my dreams for the next year. You can also get a slightly closer look at Ben and Ann's dead moth display near the top right of the photo.

The most grave danger of The Swap is the simple fact that you grow immune to these eyesores after a remarkably short time. Thus, when company comes, you never think to explain why there is an inflatable stool filled with flowers in your living room, or a slab of varnished plywood adorned with a glossy Elvis photo hanging above your toilet, or a gigantic wooden fork and spoon set dangling in your dining room.

So, when you come and visit and you see the unthinkable horrors on display in my home, remember, I have suffered for that art.

Suffered dearly.

I'll Be Seriously, Wicked Famous. Soon. Very Soon...

Though I will be sitting humbly in the shadow of the great and powerful BECKY RULE, the television show I taped with her in September as part of the NH Author Series is finally going to be aired. You should clear off your calendar, warm up your favorite TV seat, and start popping popcorn now. As far as I know, there is no other place in the world that you will be able to hear Beck Rule say "Boogah" with her lilting, melodious Yankee accent. In fact, if memory serves me, we spent a lot of time discussing boogahs. I'm not sure why, but that seems to happen frequently when I talk to people. It is also, as far as you know, the only time I have ever worn make up.

This once in a lifetime event will be broadcast twice on NHPTV, because, frankly, once in a lifetime simply isn't enough.

You will be able to witness this glorious spectacle on December 27th at 9 pm and  again on December 28th at 8pm. After that, it will be streaming online, dribbling across the internet for all eternity.

Of course, I'm going to recommend that you tape the show and then watch it every day thereafter, as well.  Commit it to memory, then you will be able to reenact it for everyone you meet in case they didn't see it. If they did see it, you can ask them to join you in reenacting it. It will be a delightful performance for you to share with your friends, relatives, and random strangers you meet in the street.

My suspicion is that the show will be the most watched television event in the history of the universe. Fifty years from now, you don't want to find yourself  being asked by your great grandchild, "Did you see The Event?"

And you'll have to say, "No... Um... I was... well... actually, I was watching a rerun of Spongebob Squarepants."

Then you will have to face the heartbroken disappointment welling up in the eyes of your precious grandchild as his soul is shattered into a million pieces and he loses all respect for you.

Seriously. Don't risk it.

And, by the way, as I don't actually have TV, could somebody tape it for me?

Holiday Cheer With Steve

I have mentioned in the past, the thrilling musical shows that I do with my buddy, Steve Blunt. I have also spoken warmly of Steve's whimsical habit of varying the set list mid performance. Typically, he will casually sidle up to me between songs and whisper, "I have a great idea for a song to do here. You don't know it, but just follow along. You'll get it. No problem."

This habit of his keeps my toes curled with excitement.

And by excitement, I mean soul blistering panic.

We were hired to do a show of holiday songs at the public library in Fremont, NH last night. Steve decided to eclipse all our previous efforts at glittery musical extravagance. We scheduled a rehearsal for Wednesday at Steve's house, but the 14 inches of snow we got that day made unnecessary travel something to be avoided.

Personally, I did not find traveling for rehearsal unnecessary, but Steve is a big-time, hot-shot musician who laughs in the face of musical challenge. The musical challenge in this case, is me.

So yesterday morning, mere hours before our grand holiday gala, Steve emailed me a set list comprised exclusively of songs I have never played before.
Reading the list filled me with with a warm glow of gut-wrenching holiday horror.  When dressing for the performance, I selected stain fighting clothes specifically for the inevitable barrage of tomatoes that the audience would no doubt be armed with.

We arrived at the library early and took our time setting up so that we were left with 20 minutes for a leisurely rehearsal through 60 minutes of music I had never played, including one song on a musical instrument called "BoomWhackers". They are loads of fun and produce a delightful musical tone when you strike Steve over the head with them. The problem with the BoomWhacker song was that it required Steve and me to play actual notes together, as part of the same composition. He also decided it would add to the excitement to invite a kid from the audience to play part of the song, too.

I thought that was a brilliant idea, because when I messed up, I could blame it on the kid. Sadly, as it turned out, the kid he picked was great and left me no opportunity for blaming my mistakes on her.

We practiced as diligently as we could for 20 minutes, then opened the floodgates and let in the crowd. As they settled into their seats, we regaled them with stirring renditions of "Deck the Halls" and "Chorus of the Bells" played on jaw-harps. Really, nothing says "Merry Christmas" like two guys drooling through their jaw harps.

We then went right into Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, with me wailing away on my harmonica.
Occasionally, things go wrong in performances. I think that is actually why so many people enjoy live music. There is always the very real possibility that something will go dreadfully wrong.

Being a drummer, I am woefully ignorant about music in general.  "Me hit things." about sums up my musical aptitude. By the time we were a few measures into Rudolph, even my drum-damaged, musically impared ear could tell that something was very, very wrong.

Steve stopped playing and laughed a merry "Ho Ho Ho!" He looked over at me and I crouched to make a smaller target for the inevitable barrage of tomatoes. "I'm in the wrong key!" Steve laughed.
"Ha Ha Ha!" I laughed, wondering what the heck a key is.

I know, in theory, that songs come in different keys. I also know that when the instruments are not in the same key, they sound awful. Even worse than Hannah Montana or The Jonas Brothers.

Seriously.

So Steve made the adjustments he needed to make and we carried on. The audience was wonderfully enthusiastic and we wound up having a great time. I think the audience did, too, as I didn't get hit with a single tomato.

Holiday Decorating Tips from the Pros

Basically, the tip is:

Don't do what I do.

My attempt at showing holiday cheer, emulating Rudolph by sticking tree lights up my nose, was met with less enthusiasm from my family than I had anticipated.

To make it even worse, Kerri wouldn't touch the lights afterward and I had to finish stringing them on the tree all by myself.

No. I'm not on Facebook.

I'm not on Facebook and somehow I still manage to wake up and face each day, carry through, and do what needs to be done. I know. I know. It seems impossible, but it can be done.
Somehow, in the face of my extreme deprivation of not having a Facebook page, I am alive. I will go further and suggest that I am actually thriving.
Friends are constantly imploring me to get a Facebook page so we can stay in touch.
"We are talking right now," I will point out helpfully.
"But other people you know could find you easily," the friend will argue, making a swift tactical shift in his efforts to crumble my Facebook defenses.
"If you do a quick Google search for my name, I am the first choice. I have a web site and a blog, both of which tell people how to contact me. Easily. Plus, I'm in the phone book." I counter brilliantly.
I will then try to shift the conversation in another direction, often employing some shock and awe method designed to confuse the friend and get him thinking in some other direction.
"Hey," I will say to the friend, "Want to go visit my duck?"
"You have a duck?" the friend will say.
"Yeah. Its name is Duck. It's a brilliant name because it's descriptive, simple, and easy to remember."
"You could show people a picture of your duck on a Facebook page," the friend will say.
"Or we could just step outside and see the actual, real-life duck," I will say.
"And then you could tell people about it on your Facebook page," the friend will suggest.
This leads me to my biggest problem with Facebook: The idea that people now seem to think everything they do is worthy of announcing to the world.

No, the irony of me posting this point on a blog is not lost on me, but this is MY blog, smarty-pants.

My wife is on Facebook. So are all my friends.
So is my mother.

I've seen the updates people make:
"I'm washing the dishes!"
"It's cold out. I'm putting on a sweater."
"Mummie wuvs her wittew puppies, yesss she does..."
"I'm bored."

Frankly–and I'm sorry here, my friends–I just don't care.
I love you all, but I don't feel the need to get a written notice every time you clip your toenails or eat a cookie or break wind.

And the little things my wife gets like this:

"Some random person who went to the same elementary school as you challenges you to a squirt gun fight."

Huh?

Or the slightly more disturbing:

"Someone you took a class with in college once, but don't really remember, sent you a hug."

Keep your creepy cyber-hugs. Send me a dollar or a cookie or a gift certificate for my favorite pizza place.


Compounding the desperate situation in which I find myself–being the last human on the face of the planet not on Facebook–I further ostracize myself from members of my species by:
1. Not owning a cell phone.
2. Not watching television.
3. Never, NEVER, NEVER shopping at Wal-Mart


"But... HOW do you survive?"  my friends ask as they check the messages on their cell phone one more time, just in case someone more interesting has tried to contact them in the 8 seconds since they last checked.

I do other things. I write. I paint. I read. I draw. I bike and hike and talk.

So, if you want to be my friend, don't bother trying to add me on Facebook or sending me a cyber gift or a cyber hug or a stupid smiling kitten picture. Send me an email or a letter. Draw me a picture. Take me out for a pizza. Come visit my duck.
Just turn your cell phone off first.

Not so creepy anymore!

Here is the completed watercolor painting of my son, Alex. This is the end result of the eyes that I showed a few posts ago. I love doing these portraits. I think that sometimes people are surprised (shocked, astounded, aghast?) at how much I charge for these.
I'd like to take a moment to point out that this took me weeks to do. And, in fact, my prices are actually lower than many portrait artists I've seen out there.
I'd love to do more of these portraits in the future and I know you'd love a picture like this hanging on your wall. Or perhaps laminated and used as a placemat?
How cool would that be? There's more information on my website. Go check it out. You know you want to...

Or even some really scary kids.

Part of my job as a really, really famous author is to go visit schools and talk about being a really, really famous author. My brother has helpfully pointed out to me that I make more money talking about what I do than doing what I do. To extrapolate on that theme yields the result that talking about what I do is doing what I do. I don't know where that would leave the writing and the artwork, so I prefer not to wander down that dark mental alley.

Visiting schools is always a lot of fun for me. I get a chance to show people how I write my books and how I create the artwork that goes into them. Sometimes I do writing workshops with students and teachers. I love those because I get to share my passion for writing and I don't have to correct any papers after.
I also get a chance to answer questions.
That's when things get really thrilling. Especially when I visit a kindergarten class.
I usually don't have kindergarten come to my presentations, but occasionally, I will go to their classes and read a couple of books to them.
Then I ask if they have any questions.
They always do. Here are a few of my recent favorite kindergarten questions:

"I go to bed at 7,  but sometimes I eat Pop-Tarts for dinner."

"My father works in Boston."

"I love you. What's your name?"

"When is snack?"

And, my all time favorite question asked by a kindergartener:

"Do all wrestlers drive trucks?"

"You bet they do," I told him, "Big red ones. With thumping stereos and giant tires."

"Oh."

He was happy. And I presume I'll see him in the ring some day, sweating and grunting and throwing his opponent around before he drives home in his shiny, red truck.

My first job out of college, with a teaching degree clutched tightly in my hand, was as a kindergarten teacher. It was a summer program and I was able to last for almost a whole month before I teetered dangerously close to the cliff of insanity. I was obviously not built for kindergarten in large doses. I love visiting their classes now, though. Because I know that, no matter how scary those kindergarteners might be, I can visit with them, make them laugh, and then escape!

Typically, I find that things go very well with the older kids, too. Even the ones who start out being too cool to listen to a lame-o picture book writer usually have a very good time in my presentations. Possibly because I remind them frequently that they are out of class and not currently taking a math test.  That makes me look cool to them.
Either that or my shiny red truck.

Or A Horse. A really, really scary horse.

You passionate, devoted followers of my blog (I'm sure there are millions of you) know that I did a portrait of my neighbor's daughter in exchange for a really cool go-kart for my son. Actually, as a funny side note, I get lots of people coming to my blog because of the label "really cool go-kart". Imagine how disappointed those poor people must be.
"Hey!" They cry, their eyes welling with unshed tears, "This blog isn't about really cool go karts! It's not about go karts at all! I've been lied to!"

Just to keep it interesting, I think I will label this post with the  go-kart tag. It will be fun to see if they come back.

"Ah Ha!" they will say, licking their lips in anticipation of finding out about really cool go-karts, "Now we're talking... What?!? Again!?! AAAAAARRRRRRRHHHHHHGGGGGGG!"

But then they will look more closely and they will see that there is more to life than really cool go-karts. There is more to life than even lame go-karts.

There are horses!

Personally–and please don't get all up in my face about this– personally, I'm not a big horse fan. Honestly, they frighten me. Horses are big and powerful and could, should the mood strike them, stomple me to a pudding and eat me.

I have been assured by many people that horses will not eat me (nobody, I note, has assured me that horses won't stomple me into a sort of lumpy Marty-jelly). And I reply that just because it hasn't happened before in the entire history of human experience, does not mean that it won't happen now. New, unprecedented things are happening all the time. And when the first horse decides to eat its first person, I do not intend to be among those present.

Which leads me to my daughter, who loves horses and is among those at the forefront of the movement to convince me that horses are peaceful, Gandhi-like creatures who would never, even for a moment, consider eating me.

Possibly because I'm too gristly.

My daughter takes horse riding lessons from my neighbor at Toad Hill Farm and is entirely, clinically loony about horses. Something, I'm afraid we will never see eye to eye about. And speaking of eyes, have you ever seen a horse's eye? They are huge and frightening and always seem to be looking at me with an aim toward deciding just how I might taste. Perhaps with some barbecue sauce.

I have also had my parenting skills called into question about this. "So," my sharp-tongued friends will say, "You think horses are these terrifying, death-dealing monsters, yet you allow your fragile, sweet eight-year-old daughter to ride them?"

"Sure." I reply.

And why not? I'm the one that's terrified of them. Not her. If she wants to risk her life riding one of those slavering man-eating monsters of the pasture, then good for her.

To that end, the same neighbor who traded the terribly dangerous go-kart for a portrait of her daughter has also agreed to allow my daughter to pet, care for, and ride the dangerous horses that swarm over her entire farm like... like... evil swarming horses.

So that's why I had to do another portrait. At the top of the post is my most recent portrait, created in exchange for a chance for my daughter will be allowed to continue risking life and limb with these terrifying land sharks of doom.

Yee Haw!, Tori.  Have fun.

I'll be waiting at home.

Under the bed.

Ummm...Oops...

Hope you didn't already get that tattoo...

I'll be speaking at The Keene State Children's Literature Festival on OCTOBER 30th next year.

Not November 30th.

I seem to be calendar disabled lately.

If you already got my name and the wrong date tattooed on your forehead, I'll consider still giving you the free books I promised in that previous post.

We'll see.

I'll also be posting some ideas for the Marty Kelley tattoo contest very soon.

Creepy...

Just a quick posting. This is a watercolor portrait I'm starting of my son. I tried painting just the eyes first. I don't normally work that way, but it seemed like it might be fun to try. It looks really creepy with only eyes finished.

So. Yeah. That's it. Just wanted to share.