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.

AM I FINALLY FAMOUS?

So.
Wanna hear something really cool?
Seriously super cool?
You do, don't you?
Okay.
You might want to sit down for this.
If you are sitting down, stand up and sit down again.
Really. Do it.
It's that cool.

It's official. I'm going to be a presenter at the Keene State Children's Literature Festival next year.
How cool is that?
(Answer: Super Rockin' Cool!)

Every year David White puts together an incredible festival with presentations from some of the best known authors and illustrators in the world: Caldecott winners; Newbery Award winners; and other various hotshots who have won big awards. So why was I chosen to be a presenter, you ask?

I have no idea.

But that's not the point. The point is, I was!

Yippie-Ding!

Other presenters next year will be : Susan Cooper, Paul B. Janeczko, Chris Raschka, and Jeanette Winter.

At the risk of sounding like a pathetic sycophant, I have dreamed of presenting at this festival ever since I attended my first one a dozen years ago. Now I have that chance!

Mark your calendar for October 30th next year. In fact, go out and get a tattoo on your forehead with that date on it. While you're at it, get my name and a picture of me tattooed there, too.

And because I'm so excited about this, I'll make a special offer. Anyone who shows up at the Literature Festival next year with a genuine, real-life Marty Kelley tattoo (no, scrawling my name across your ankle in magic marker does not count, smart guy; I'm talking about a real tattoo) will get a free autographed set of my books and a free copy of each of my future books. If your tattoo is cool enough, I'll put you in one of my books.

Come on. You know you want to.

So go. Now. Get a rockin' Marty Kelley tattoo and then go register for the festival.

I'll be looking for you.



Ahhh, and, in case you were wondering, the owl painting up top was donated to the Keene State Literature Festival's owl collection. It's hanging as part of a permanent collection of owls donated by some of the greatest illustrators in the world. Like me!

Now they are Famous

Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!
As announced in a much awaited previous post, the winners of the "Gee Your Hair Looks Terrific, Marty Kelley Contest" were Oliver and Olivia.
That was a very odd coincidence, I must say.
They have both fulfilled their sacred duties and sent pictures of themselves with the books they won.
Oliver already had a copy of The Messiest Desk, so chose to donate his copy to his school library. See how happy that librarian is?
Olivia got to keep her copy and now she is famous AND has a free copy of my book.
What could be better?
Keep your eyes peeled for a new contest whenever I can think of one.

Fail 2.0

Yesterday was a thrilling day filled with music, laughter, tasty food, and unimaginable personal humiliation.

Steve and I were busy with two performances. Our first gig was at St. Joseph's Hospital in Nashua. The hospital has occasional community outreach programs to let people know that you don't need to wait until you are desperately ill and coughing up internal organs to come to the hospital. You can come for some family fun, too.

After the hospital show, Steve had to grab some milk at the store. True fact: Even Rock & Roll superstars like Steve Blunt like a tall glass of milk now and then. As we were exiting the grocery store, we passed a beautiful young lady entering the store. She saw me and her eyes lit up and she stopped and gave me an effusive greeting. "Hey! How are you?" she asked. Steve was very impressed that I was being greeted by such a lovely young lady.

I totally panicked. I didn't recognize her and I mentally scrambled for a few desperate seconds trying to place her and not wind up looking completely foolish. I failed.

I feel that I must offer some feeble excuses and explanations for what happened next.

Excuse #1 - I was with Steve, at an unfamiliar grocery store in Nashua. I was out of my element.

Excuse #2 - When I'm with Steve, we tend to talk a lot about visits and performances we have done. From that mindset, I assumed that she was a teacher at one of the many schools I have visited. It happens on rare occasions that people will come up to me in public places and say hi, explaining that I had visited their school. It's always flattering, but I visit a lot of school. Try as I might, I can't remember everyone.

Excuse #3 - I am a dork.

She continued to chat amiably and comfortably for a few more gut wrenching seconds. When it finally became clear to me that I was not going to be able to figure out who she was in time to save any shred of self-respect, I broke down and said, "I'm so sorry. You're going to have to help me out. Where do I know you from?"

She stared at me, aghast. She cocked a hip to one side and gave me an incredulous look. "You've got to be kidding," she said, "I'm related to you."

Excuse #4 - It has been quite some time since I've seen my cousin, Christine.

So, the beautiful young lady was my cousin. I got it then, and I feel the need to emphasize the excuses I put forth before. I had not seen her in some time. I have been old and ugly for a long time, but these kids grow up and change and, doggonit, it's hard to recognize them sometimes.
She was not in her usual habitat (so, really, as she was not in a place where I expected to see her, she should have worn a name tag that said "Hello, I'm Marty's cousin, Christine.")

So, properly humiliated, I introduced her to Steve - who, I might mention, thought this amazing social gaffe on my part was one of the funniest things he's ever seen - and we chatted for a few more minutes and went our separate ways.

Steve and I drove off to his house where we ate sandwiches and contemplated what a total bozo I am and whether Christine might ever be able to forgive me. The sandwiches were tasty, but the forgiveness is still somewhat up in the air.

Our next big show for the day was at WERS, the radio station at Emerson College in Boston. with the taste of sandwich and humiliation still in my mouth, we drove down to the studios and started setting up.

Last year, Steve invited me to perform on the same radio show and it was a lot of fun. We were to be on the air for about 15 minutes, during which we would play a few songs and shamelessly promote our music, books, and upcoming events. While we were setting up and doing sound checks, one of the students who run the station came up to me with a paper and a pen. "You've got to read this and sign it, please," he said.

It was a sort of contract, assuring the station that I would not use any foul language while on the air. Considering that we were on a family show called "The Playground", and cutting loose with a barrage of obscenity would be a sure invitation to commercial and professional suicide, the contract seemed somewhat superfluous.

My favorite part of the contract was that fact that it not only warned against foul language, it provided dozens and dozens of specific examples of unacceptable vocabulary. The scope and specificity of the list was breathtaking. As a result, the contract I was was signing to prevent me from using obscenities, was full of more foul language than any printed document I have ever seen in my life. It had words, phrases, and combinations of words and phrases so exotic that they seemed to be a foreign language at times. It was really a good read and I should have asked for a copy, but I didn't think of it in time.

After we had assured the lawyers that we had no intention of filling the airwaves with naughty words, the host of the show, Andy, came into the studio and we went on the air. We chatted for a few minutes then went into our first song. Steve, I have mentioned in previous posts, likes to keep me on my toes by adding new songs to our sets mid-show and changing songs during performances. Things were rolling smoothly during our first song, Steve was strumming and singing, and I was banging on the djembe drum. As we neared the end of the song, Steve evidently decided that things were too easy for me and I was having too much fun. He made the executive decision to change the ending of the song. As a result, he suddenly stopped playing while my drumming continued for a measure or two until I realized that the song had ended.
"Hey, nice ending, there, Marty." Steve pointed out.

I was sad that I had signed the language contract then, because it had given me much verbal ammunition that I could have fired at Steve at that point. "Ha. Ha." I laughed, "I was having so much fun, I didn't want it to end."

After the show, we scorched our digestive tracts with some delicious Indian food and made our way homeward. Our next gig together is also in Boston. We'll be at the Read and Romp on November 14th. If you see us, come up and say hello.

If you are related to me or are someone I should know, please wear a nametag.

Listen TONIGHT!!

My buddy Steve Blunt invited me down to Boston tonight. We're going to play a few songs on WERS (88.9 fm) at 6:00.
You should listen because there is always the thrilling possibility that I'll goof up a song live on the radio.

Stay tuned!

And the winners are...

Yeah. So the teeming millions I was hoping might swarm the bookstores to compliment my hair did not materialize. In fact, of all the people who did come, only one knew the secret phrase. One other lucky contestant sent in an absentee compliment so effusive that I couldn't resist.
Seriously. That's a lot of work.
So I've decided that there will be two winners.

Oddly, they are Oliver and Olivia. What are the chances?

Thanks for playing. Your books are on the way.

Remember - now you need to send pictures of the winners gloating and reveling in their glory.

And now a word from our sponsor: ME.

You know that extra cash you have lying around in great heaping piles all over your house? It's a pain.
I know that.
And I want to help.
If you have always wondered what you or a loved one would look like as a famous piece of art, here's your chance to find out. I'll be happy to do one of these drawings in exchange for some of that messy, ugly cash that's cluttering up your house. These can be hung neatly on the wall, so you won't even trip over them. They can also be used as gifts for loved ones or very fancy place mats.
I do pencil and watercolor portraits. There are lots of examples on my website. You can contact me for more information or to get in line for one of these.

This drawing is my pal Soup. She hasn't even seen the real drawing, but just knowing that the drawing exists makes her a much happier person.*


*I have no idea if this is true. I'll check with Soupy and let you know.

AUTHOR FAIL!!

It finally happened.

I failed. Big time.

Look closely at the post just before this one. You will notice that it says I will be at Gibson's Books in Concord for a book signing at 3:00 pm. On my calendar in my studio, it says I will be there at 3:00 pm. On our calendar in the kitchen, it says I will be there at 3:00 pm.

The thing is, the book signing was at 10:00 this morning, while I was busy watching my son's soccer team lose.

I got home to a slightly urgent sounding message from Deb, the event coordinator at Gibson's saying that she hoped I was on my way.

Only, I wasn't.

Of course, the only option available to me was to panic. I did that brilliantly.

I called Deb and explained that I was a bonehead. She did not argue the point, but was so polite and gracious that it made me feel even worse. She said that there were books that people had bought, eagerly anticipating that I would sign them, thus making them worthy of hawking on EBay. She asked if I had some time next week to stop by and sign the books.

45 minutes later, I was at Gibson's signing books and apologizing excessively and effusively. Deb was still unfailingly polite. I'd like to tell myself that it was only a thin veneer of politeness and the fact that she was at work that kept her from twisting my head off, but I don't believe that. She is just a genuinely nice person, and I am a dope.

I brought along a framed original painting from Winter Woes for the store as a small gift of apology, but I still feel like a chump.

To make the whole thing worse, this was slated to be an event with myself and another author and another illustrator. When we originally set the date, we agreed on a date and time after a flurry of emails. Deb contacted me a few days later and said that she was looking at my website and it appeared that I was already booked someplace else on the date and time we had agreed to.

Um. Yeah. Bonehead.

So we all had to scramble and reschedule, because I goofed.

And then, after all that, I didn't even show up.

So. You know... I have another book signing at the Toadstool in Milford on October 17th at 4:00. Or is it 10:00?

(Note to self - it is 4:00)

I'll try to be there.

Win Some of My Stuff

I'm trying something new.
Something devious.
Something nefarious and underhanded and duplicitous.

Perhaps my thesaurus got the better of me there. I am going to try something new, however.

I have a couple book signings looming in the immediate future. I will be at Gibson's Books in Concord, NH on Saturday Oct. 10th at 3:00 pm and at the Toadstool Bookstore in Milford, NH on Saturday Oct. 17th at 4:00 pm.
I would dearly love for them to be incredibly well attended and to that end I am offering up an opportunity to win some of my personal stuff.

Not personal like underpants. That's nasty and, most likely, illegal.

What I had in mind was a chance to win one of my books. I'm going to make this really easy, but it's only available to you, lucky readers of my blog. I suppose you need to reap some sort of benefit from slogging through all these words I splash about up here.

So here's the deal: My Contest. My Rules.

To win a copy of one of my books or a CD (your choice) you must:

1. Come to one of the booksignings mentioned above.
2. See me at the book signing and announce, in a clear and ringing voice, "Gee, your hair looks terrific, Marty Kelley."
3. Give me your name and address (so I can mail you the book or CD if you win).
4. Promise to send me a picture of you, with your prize, that I can post here so that everyone will be really jealous of you and you can make your friends think you're famous or something.

That's it.

Good luck.

Now I Must Be Wicked Famous

This is a very short one. Just wanted to place the biggest link ever made to a great article that Sarah Earle wrote about me in last Sunday's Concord Monitor.
Thanks Sarah!

Come Give Me Your Money

I can't think of a better way for you to spend your Saturday than by swinging by The Toadstool Bookshop in Keene to visit me tomorrow afternoon.

I'll be signing copies of my books and you can buy dozens of copies and re-sell them on E Bay and make a fortune. I ask only that if you do, in fact, make a fortune, you remember me and buy me some cookies or a new car something.

I'll be there at 2:00. You'll recognize me because I will be the only guy not getting in trouble for writing in books.

Come on down. And don't forget those cookies...

Am I Wicked Famous Yet?

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to spend my 12th wedding anniversary with another woman.

But not just any woman - I spent it with Becky Rule: The Moose of Humor and a live TV audience who came to see me be interviewed by Becky for The NH Author's Series at UNH. Becky is a wonderfully funny and entertaining host and she made the whole experience much less frightening than it could have been. She and her daughter even recommended a great restaurant that I could take my wife to after the taping. It was called Dante's or Diablo's or Chez Satan or some vaguely threatening sounding place. It sounded good, but we wound up getting chinese take-out at home. (I'm a romantic fool like that.)

While the day was thrilling and exciting in spite of the fact that I had to wear make-up, I can't say the whole process went flawlessly.

A post I put up the other day mentioned Tracey Lauder, the ASSISTANT DEAN FOR LIBRARY ADMINISTRATION AT UNH.

Yes, a title like that deserves all capitals. She should get to wear a cape, too.

What you are not aware of is the fact that in my original post, in a brilliant display of typing and editing prowess, I spelled her name wrong. She called me and very delicately let me know about the mistake and I corrected it.

A follow up email from her just moments later thanked me for the correction and pointed out that I had also spelled the name of the library wrong (it is "Dimond", not "Diamond" and I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I spelled it correctly and the entire University of New Hampshire spells it incorrectly - please fix that) and that a link I included in the posting might not be the best one.

I was delighted to have been able to make such a wonderful first impression.

I fixed those mistakes and asked Tracey to make sure that there would be no on-air spelling test administered during the interview. While she never actually agreed to that request, imagine my shock and horror when, mid-interview, out of the blue, Becky asked me how to spell "booger". There had been much talk of boogers during the interview (I'm not sure why I tend to have that effect on conversations) but I had clearly been lead to believe that no spelling tests were to be involved.

It is fortunate that I am a professional at spelling "booger", and did so without hesitation. I was even able to supply Becky with the alternate yankee spelling "b-o-o-g-a-h".

Of course, I will be contacting my lawyer about this grievous personal affront I have suffered. As soon as I find a lawyer, that is. I'll bet one of those guys who advertise on daytime TV would be all over this.

Adding to the trials and tribulations of the whole affair was the complete absence of cheese and crackers. Becky assured me in an email that cheese and crackers were always served at these events. I emailed several friends and relations about the interview, and with the promise of free cheese and crackers, was able to lure many of them to Durham to attend the taping.

I had to face a hostile crowd of former friends and angry relatives when they found out that only cider and coffee and tea and delicious cookies were available for their grazing pleasure.

"Where are the cheese and crackers you promised?" screamed the angry mob as they ran me out of town, chasing after me with torches and pitchforks that I strongly suspect were supplied by that caterers in an attempt to divert attention from themselves.

Oh yes. They'll be hearing from my lawyer about this. I've seen these lawyers on TV and they have impressive rows of books behind them and a flashing toll-free number scrolling across the screen. That's a sure sign of brilliant legal council. I'll probably own UNH by this time next month.

Despite the spelling test and the substitution of cookies for cheese and crackers, the whole event was a lot of fun. I was delighted and honored to have been asked to attend.

I won't tell my lawyer that, of course.

Steve Tried to Kill Me!

I have written several times in previous posts about my buddy Steve Blunt.

Today he invited me to his house for a "nice little bike ride".
Those were his words.

Exactly.

I arrived at about 11 this morning and by 1 was eagerly awaiting death's sting. His "nice little bike ride" was a 25+ mile endurance test of pain, suffering, and more pain. Followed by a bit more suffering and punctuated by a little more pain. I do a lot of biking and typically 25 miles would be a long, but very manageable ride. What kills me about riding with Steve is the grueling pace he sets. He seems to operate under the misapprehension that I am some sort of biking hot-shot whose only desire is to leave other bikers in his dust. This is not true. I only do that when I'm biking with little kids, because it makes me feel like a tough guy.

Steve paces his rides to match how he imagines I ride, and I suffer for it. I spend the first 15 minutes chugging along and chatting and having a delightful time dodging the traffic through Nashua. As most of the rides I take are through the rolling, verdant pasture lined roads of rural New Boston, I find the multiple lanes of speeding traffic coursing through Nashua an energizing thrill.

There was a time, many years ago, when I was attending art school in Boston, that a favorite pastime of mine was to venture out on my bike into 5:00 rush hour traffic on Boston's main thoroughfares. That was years ago, and though I find that I don't bounce back as quickly as I used to from catastrophic collisions, there is still a tingle of a thrill when a driver roars past me, leaving a half a centimeter between me and his right front bumper.

By the time we had gone about 10 miles, I noticed that it was hard to talk to Steve, both because I was using all my available oxygen for other purposes (namely, remaining alive) and because Steve was several hundred yards ahead of me.

We slowed up a bit when we entered Beaver Brook (a delightful conservation area suspiciously devoid of beavers or brooks) and I was able to prepare for the ride back to Steve's house, which was brutal. I would not admit this at the time, but Steve threw his chain twice and I was delighted at the opportunity to stop and take a quick break while I watched him work.
I am proud to say that I made it all the way back to Steve's house without throwing up a single vital organ.

I don't consider my spleen vital.

Steve made all amends with a delicious Sangria and some tasty lunch comestibles. After lunch, Steve showed me his new didgeridoo (which he can actually play - he is amazing) and a tiny clay djembe drum that he was given as a gift. Naturally, we broke into song and his suburban Nashua neighborhood was ringing with the tribal beats of our drumming.

His daughter came home from school and said she could hear the drums from several streets away. My secret hope is that the neighbors were in fear of a takeover by some hostile native tribe. I figure that would distract them from the comical sight of me panting and heaving like an overheated buffalo in Steve's driveway.