Curses. Foiled Again.

You know when you think you have a really, really, really great idea?
And you don't do anything about it?
And then, a few months later you hear about someone who just became fabulously rich because of that same great idea?
Admit it. That's never really happened to you.
It's never really happened to me, either.
Except for the part about thinking that I had a really, really, really great idea.
A couple years ago, I had an idea for a book that I wanted to write.
This is not entirely unprecedented, given my career as a writer. I am prone to having many, many ideas that I think are wonderful.
Most of them wind up being less wonderful than I had originally anticipated, but that's the way it goes.

Even if I never had any more wonderful ideas, I would still have access to innumerable ideas supplied by other people. Nearly every event is seen as of a wealth of brilliant potential that I am simply wasting. Not a day goes by when there isn't some event–such as a person eating a sandwich and having a glob of jelly squirt out the backside–and the person will say, "Whoa. I'll bet you could write a book about that, huh?"

"About jelly?" I will ask.

"Well, yeah. But you'd make it all funny and crazy and stuff."

"Funny, crazy jelly?" I will ask.

"Maybe it could be a book about a dog who loves jelly."

For some reason, most of the book ideas people propose to me are about their zany friends or their dogs.

I am genuinely grateful for this input, as it relieves me entirely of the need to create anything on my own.

There are occasions, however, when, despite everyone's brilliant input, I am able to come up with an idea that I think is really, really, really great.

And, as I said, a couple years ago, I had just such an idea for a book.

And, lest I wake up a few months later, seeing my idea as the new number one  New York Times bestseller, I acted on this idea.

I spent nearly ten months, slaving away for hours every day on this brilliant opus.

I toiled and sweated and wrote and rewrote.

And when it was done, I had a staggering work of nearly 250,000 words. The average novel, by comparison is in the neighborhood of 80,000-100,000 words. So obviously, mine was not an average novel.

I was eager to share my genius with the world. I sent it to a few close friends and asked them for commentary.

One friend gave me actual, wonderful feedback.

The rest of them offered feedback like, "Um, no I haven't gotten through that yet" and "Did you just spend all your time looking through the thesaurus so you could sound like a pompous ass?"

The most concise observation came from my brother who said, "I only got through the first 30 pages or so. That was awful."

Undaunted, I carried on.

I made changes, fixed things and cut the book down to its barest elements, reducing it to a lean 242,000 words. Obviously, removing any more would mean depriving the world of my genius.

Convinced of this genius, I actually wrote a query letter to an agent, seeking representation for this book.

An agent is the person who will sell your book to a publisher for you in exchange for a mere 20% of every penny you ever earn on that book. A query letter is when you beg someone to look at your work of genius.

The agent I selected represents a few of my favorite authors and is a very serious big time hot-shot agent.

He responded to my query email within 20 minutes, saying that, since my letter was so great, he wanted to see the entire manuscript.

This is absolutely true.

So, I naturally did a tippy-toe dance of unbridled ecstasy around my home.

I sent him my slim and trim 242,000 word epic and admitted that I was still in the process of revising it, so maybe he should consider this the extended director's cut version.

A few weeks later, I heard from the agent's assistant, who loved the book, but suggested that a bit more cutting, enough to reduce the book to 80-90,000 words might be in order.

I dutifully went to work, excising pages and pages and pages of brilliant prose. Tears dribbled into my computer as favorite passages were ruthlessly cut.

I sent the revised story, now a filmy, shadowy 103,000 words.

After several months of eager anticipation, I checked on the book's status. "We're still quite interested. Other agents in the company are looking it over. Based on how well received it has been, there is a very real chance that we will represent this book."

And so I waited several more months before getting an email that said, "We would like to possibly represent this book if you are open to more editorial revisions."

After more tippy-toe dancing of ecstasy, I eagerly agreed.

I waited 5 months, but the suggested changes never arrived. After all my possible restraint was worn away, I, once again, emailed to find out what was happening. An anxious, sleepless week later, I still had no reply. So I called. A reckless and desperate move, I fully concede.

"I'll try to get an answer for you by the end of the day," I was told by the agent's assistant.

The end of the day came and went, but the next afternoon, there, in my inbox was an email with the cheery subject, "Hi Marty".


I took several deep breaths and clicked on the email:

Hi Marty,

I'm writing to say that unfortunately we have a very full client list and don't feel passionate enough about your project to offer notes and effectively represent you. We wish you the very best of luck in your search for representation. I apologize for the long delay in getting you a final answer. Our office was undergoing several transitions. Taste in fiction is subjective and I hope you find another agency who's opinion of your work overrides ours. 

Then I took several more deep breaths and tried not to cry.

I can't describe the disappointment of that email. Mostly because of the content, but also because of the improperly used word "who's".

I stewed and steamed and fumed and raged.

And then I got over it and carried on.

I've already got queries out to a few other agents, who seem like they may be an even better fit for me and my book.

And if that doesn't work out, I can always write another book. Maybe one about a dog who loves jelly.

Parking Lot Pizza and Rock Opera Lessons

I don't know about you, but I am unable to resist a sign like this.

I'm not talking about the delightfully juxtaposed signs indicating the location of water.

Extra confusing when it is raining, as the water is also coming from above.

I'm talking about the signs beckoning all who pass into an empty parking lot with the promise of a tasty pizza.

Who can possibly resist so tempting an offer? Not me.

I parked there in that empty parking lot in downtown Colrain, Massachusetts and waited for quite some time.

My hope, of course, was that as I sat there, a swarm of olive-skinned attendants would emerge from the mysterious pyramid thingy in the background and deliver a non-stop stream of pizza to me as I sat in my car, listening to the cool, mellow sounds of Lamb of God thundering through my car's stereo.

I waited and waited, but there was no pizza.


Because, it was Wednesday and the pizza isn't available until Thursday at 5 p.m. But I wouldn't become aware of that fact for quite some time.

It could have been a long, cold night sitting there, awaiting my pizza, but even the siren song of parking lot pizza could not lure me to sleep there. I had things to do and schools to visit.

I was in Colrain for more than the mysterious pizza lot. I was there as the Artist in Residence at Colrain Central School.

So, as chagrined as I was about it, I made the difficult decision to abandon my parking lot vigil and head to the hotel so I could get a good night's sleep before embarking on my residency.  While in residence at a school,  I strut around wearing a crown and a sparkly cape, barking orders and acting all artistic. It's loads of fun, but requires a certain amount of mental alertness; alertness I would not have if I sat in a parking lot all night, eying the mystery pyramid and waiting for pizza.

I returned to my hotel and passed an idle evening using Skype to communicate with my loving family. The communication mostly consisted of watching Alex and Victoria make faces into the computer's camera, and, as diverting and entertaining as that is, it could not make me completely forget about the pizza.

I passed a troubled night, tossing and turning and dreaming vivid, garlic-scented dreams. When I arrived at the school the next day, Mrs. Looman, the principal, greeted me and welcomed me warmly.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, still clutched in the fevered grip of the mysterious pizza lot and unable to even converse politely, "What's with that pizza sign out there in the middle of town? Why was I not given pizza when I parked there?"

Mrs. Looman explained that the sign did not actually offer the promise of free pizza for any who parked there. It was indicating where one might park if one wanted to walk across the street to Mike and Tony's Pizza.

Mike and Tony's Pizza. They will not serve you in the parking lot, despite what the sign may imply.

I passed a lovely day at the school, relieved that the mystery of the Pizza Lot had been settled. After school, I drove back to Greenfield, MA, where my hotel was, in order to pass the time until I could return to Colrain when Mike & Tony's opened at 5 p.m.

I wandered around Greenfield, past the Academy of Rock, where I was barely able to resist the urge to rush in and sign up for their PhD program in Rock Awesomeness. I didn't see any classes on how to deal with unruly groupies, so I decided against enrolling.

I found a tantalizing old book store where the winding, serpentine piles of books formed teetering, precarious aisles that led into the spiraling bowels of the very earth itself. I could have spent many hours in the store and, indeed, at a few points in my visit, feared that I would spend the rest of my life there if unable to find the exit.

When I finally found my way out, a freezing spittle had started falling, making the roads slippery and treacherous, but even the unbridled fury of nature could not deter me from my return trip to Colrain.

I braved the elements, skidding and sliding around hairpin curves and perilous drops from thousand foot cliffs. My white knuckles clenched the steering wheel as I forged onward into the stormy night and toward pizza.

And the next thing I knew, I was at Tony & Mike's. It seems that only the regulars were willing to brave the mad tempest raging outside, for there were very few people there, and all of them were clustered around the bar watching the less than subtle fight underway between the teenage kid cooking the pizzas and one of the owners - Mike or Tony. I didn't buy a program so I don't know who was who.

The dinner theater was fraught with intrigue as the cook was evidently convinced that MikeorTony had lied to him about something.

Dialog such as this ensued:

MikeorTony: You want me to call him and he can tell you for himself?
Kid cooking my pizza: Yeah. I do.
MikeorTony: Fine. I will.

(Telephone call is made)

MikeorTony (into phone): Will you tell [kid making pizza] that you are [mumble, mumble, mumble]

(Hands phone to kid making pizza)

[More mumbling and angry mutterings.]

It had all the making of a brilliant Italian opera. An interesting cast of characters. Incomprehensible dialog. An eager audience. Except for the fact that nobody was singing.

My pizza finally arrived and I was delighted that it was, in fact, some of the tastiest pizza that I have ever had.

I lingered over it, casually watching the continuing drama in the restaurant as it unfolded.

Although I was disappointed not to see how the scene ended, I was eventually able to break the spell and, with my leftover pizza clutched tightly in my hands, headed back out into the storm to try to return to my hotel.

"At least I'll have something to eat if I careen off the road and go over a cliff," I thought.

The next day of my residency, although lots of fun, was somewhat anti-climactic. It did not feature death-defying rides, muttered threats of mild violence, or delicious, cheesy pizza. It was just me, visiting classes and giving an afternoon workshop to a room full of teachers who were eager to be set free so they could go to Mike & Tony's.

I'd like to know how everything worked out in the opera there. I'll have to go back and see what happened when I finally enroll in that PhD. program at the Rock College.

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

It happens more often than I care to admit.

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

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

Because, otherwise, how could you explain this?

You cannot explain this.

Face it. You're jealous.

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

And you are correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please don't milk Gurt!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3:30 p.m. Arrive home safely.

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

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

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

9:30 p.m. Go to bed.

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

Ginger Martinis and Sandwich-Making Monkeys

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

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

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

The competition was incredibly stiff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is exactly how public education works. Trust me.

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

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

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

But how do I wash my hands?

 

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

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

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

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

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

Obviously, I am a role model.

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

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

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

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


I didn't think so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, possibly a stunning miracle. 

On the down side, there was this.

And this.

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

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

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

Ryan and Nichole.
See how happy they look?

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

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

Because new people don't get it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thus, they were avenged.

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

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

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

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

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

First, some before pictures.

Ben and Ann. Happy (but nervous).

Tim and Katie. Happy (but equally nervous).

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

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

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

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

And then The Swap began.

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

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

Another show of false bravado.

Behold its awe-inspiring beauty.

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

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

Coincidence?

I think not.

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

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

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

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

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

Katie uses her gift to hide her tears of anguish.

A bargain at 50 cents.

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

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

Or their wallets.

Or both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Ben likely found relief in the kangaroo.

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

Anybody want to play?

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

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

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

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

A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

And Santa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He talked me down and we continued playing.

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

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

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

Steve enjoys doing this to me, I believe.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


Coming Next: Christmas Concert #2

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

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

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

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

"And underpants," added my daughter, Victoria.

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

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

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

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

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

There were snacks to go along with it.

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

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

They spoke intelligently and eloquently.

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

They made kissy faces at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was thrilling for the audience.

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

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

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

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

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

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