Beaverzilla vs. The Sweat Bunny. Oh, and a Moose.

I'm delighted with this recent change of attitude in my hiking wife, Julie. She used to dread (or at least be concerned to the point of distraction about) the fact that I wrote about all our hikes together and then posted my blasphemous lies on my blog for two or three people to read.

But no longer. On this, our first hike of the season, she was pointing out things that I should take pictures of to include in my blog. Naturally, I assumed that she had finally overcome her fear of my poisoned pen and was embracing that fact that there was absolutely nothing she could do about what I write.

 I realize, as I write this, that I may have interpreted Julie's motives incorrectly.

None of the things that she suggested I photograph were her.

As proof, I offer these pictures, suggested by Julie:

This is not Julie.

This is not Julie, either.

So now I'm thinking that Julie was merely redirecting my attention so she will not appear in my writing or pictures in any compromising way.

It did not work. Because here is a picture of her, helplessly lost and about to be consumed by Beaverzilla:

Nice try, Julie.

And, in fairness, it is not entirely true that we were helplessly lost. Merely re-checking our coordinates carefully because none of the surroundings looked even remotely familiar and we had no idea where we were.

But the looming threat of Beaverzilla was very real.

Our first hike of the season was a leisurely stroll to the summit of Mt. Passaconaway, conveniently located far, far, far away from wherever you happen to be.

A tantalizing view of the summit, which never seemed to get any closer, no matter how much we walked.

Julie chose this as the destination of the day because its height (4,043') makes it one of the lowest of the 4,000 footers that she is determined to conquer. She thought we should start the year off easily and work our way up to higher, more challenging peaks.

Like Mt. Everest.

And the hike did start off easily, a mere stroll through the woods for several miles, which, in retrospect, should have set off more alarm bells in my head. The thing about a hike is, you have to get to the top of the mountain. That's the whole point. And if the first 4 miles of your 5 mile ascent are flat and level, then it should be obvious that the last mile will be nearly vertical and extremely painful.

Like this.

Or this.

And it was.

But before we got to the vertical part, we had to slog through Beaverzilla's territory.

And here, I am forced to admit that I do not have a picture to include, in spite of the fact that Julie specifically suggested that I take one. Our path to the summit ran along the ridge of a very well constructed beaver dam. Imagine (since there is no photograph) a bucolic, idyllic little pond, bordered on one side by hundreds and hundreds of baseball bat-sized sticks, all sharpened to deadly, razor-sharp points and laid in place by the slavering, rabid teeth of a beaver.

Now, imagine the pain, infection, and lingering death you would suffer if you slipped and punctured your foot on one of those sharpened sticks, glistening with foaming globs of bacteria-laden beaver drool.

So that's why I don't have a picture to show you, okay? I was way too concerned with not catching a deadly case of Beaver Fever.

After we traversed the deadly dam of doom and despair, we continued along our merry way, blissfully unaware of the fact that were likely being stalked by the hideous creature of the woods, Beaverzilla. We never actually saw Beaverzilla and, frankly had never even considered the existence of Beaverzilla before seeing the tree it had evidently chewed down.

Sign of the Beaverzilla.

While there is nothing in the picture to give you a sense of scale, I can personally assure you that I took this picture from atop a high hill, from about a half mile away. The tree is roughly 750,000 feet in diameter. I'm estimating, of course, because when we saw that, we raced wildly away through the woods to escape Beaverzilla.

We ran the nearly vertical last mile to the top of the mountain so we could stop and have lunch on one of the two scenic vistas available for hikers' lunching pleasure. When I took off my pack, Julie screamed a horrible scream and fell back a few paces, pointing in wide-eyed horror at the mark of the beast that had appeared on my back.

Mark of the Sweat Bunny.

The dreaded Sweat Bunny of the Whites had marked me as its own and I was powerless to resist. To further enhance the frightening atmosphere, nature provided some frightening atmosphere. As soon as my Sweat Bunny was revealed, a bank of ominous Zombie Fog™ rolled in to make everything look spooky and completely obscure our view.

Here comes the Zombie Fog™.

There goes the view.

We decided to take one last picture of ourselves before the fog transformed us into hideous, twisted creatures of the forest.

Pre-mutation.

Julie was the first to breathe in the steamy Zombie Fog™ and was instantly transformed into a moose.

Julie is transformed into a Zombie Moose.

I told her that I wasn't buying her ice cream if she was a moose, so she fought the Zombie Fog™ and willed herself back into her original form.

Post-Moose Julie.

Sadly, she transformed into Julie With A Giant Tree Poking Out Of Her Chest. But it was better than a moose.

The trip back down the mountain was quite a bit faster than the way up. Our usual incentive for a speedy descent is a huge ice cream cone at the end of the hike. Generally, that is enough for me. On this hike, however, nature saw fit to test our speed and resolve by sending along a few rumbles of thunder to hurry us along.

Julie has a pathological fear of thunderstorms that occur when she is perched precariously atop a mountain. She spent the hike down devising many ingenious methods of emergency descent, most of which involved killing me and using my lifeless corpse as some sort of ghoulish, Jeffrey Dahmer-esque bob-sled.  I explained that if I was dead, I would not be buying her ice cream. She explained that when she killed me, she would take my wallet and buy her own ice cream.

I had no good counter-argument for that, but her plans were cut short by the thudding roar of a helicopter flying low overhead. It passed over us several times and I tried to convince Julie that it was a team of body-guards I had hired to protect me from her during our hikes. I'm not sure that she believed me, but at least she didn't try to use me as a bob-sled.

We managed to get down off the mountain without incident and without any actual Beaverzilla sightings.

Now if I could just get this Mark of the Sweat Bunny stain out of my shirt.

You Wanna See My Kazoo?

The thing about performing in front of large groups of children is that there is always the chance that something can go wrong. And, if it goes wrong, live, in front of 300 elementary school children, it can only go wrong in a spectacular fashion.

I have written occasionally about my thrilling musical adventures with my buddy, the children's music super-star, Steve Blunt. Yesterday, we finished up a two-day, four-school tour, doing concerts to kick off town summer reading programs. Our shows are generally somewhat structured, with lots of flexibility so Steve can lean over mid-show and whisper, "You've never heard this song before, but just play along. You'll be fine."

And I'm cool with that.

At one of our shows on this particular venture, he didn't even waste time giving me a heads-up, choosing, rather, to whip out his jaw-harp, start plucking out a tune, and look over at me, mid-way through, as if to say, "What the heck? Why aren't you playing along on this song that you've never heard and can't identify?"

And I was cool with that.

Steve, in fact, is not generally the variable in our shows. Steve, mathematically, is more of a constant with minor variations. It's the kids that are variables.

So very, very variable.

As Steve and I honked our way through our repertoire, we came to the thrilling part of one song where there is a key change. Being essentially a drummer, I have no idea what a key change actually is. I know that during that song, I must switch harmonicas about 3/4 of the way through the song.

And I'm cool with that.

I do not question it. I just know that if I switch harmonicas at the correct time, the song will not sound like crap. I can't explain it. It simply is.

And, yes, I am cool with that, too.

So I switched harmonicas, as I was supposed to and without warning, a kindergarten girl in the front row started pointing frantically toward my crotch, yelling, "I see his kazoo! I see his kazoo!"

I was wearing shorts. She was sitting on the floor directly in front of me.

I was very, very not cool with that.

She kept yelling and pointing, "I see his kazoo! I see his kazoo!"

It took me a heart-stopping second or so to realize that she was talking about the harmonica on my lap.  She had seen me slip one harmonica up to my mouth and slide the other one onto my lap and she evidently thought I was up to something sneaky and perfidious. She felt it was her duty to let the world know.

I made the tragic mistake of looking Steveward at that point. He was working hard to contain the barking howls of laughter that were exploding inside him. I worked hard to do the same, but failed tragically. I did not–despite what you might hear from Steve–actually swallow my harmonica because I started laughing so hard mid-song.

And no, I didn't swallow my kazoo, either, smart-guy.

But I'm definitely not wearing those Daisy Duke shorts to any more of our performances.






 

Another Brush with Fame

I don't pay attention to when the Red Sox are playing.
Because I couldn't care less.

Unless I'm trying to drive into Boston to see Jenny Lawson speak at a great little bookstore in Brookline. Because Fenway Park squats–like an angry, belligerent, green monster–in a direct line between my home and the bookstore. Generally, I am content to let baseball fans do their thing. But last night, their thing meant that I was stuck in miles of crawling traffic through Boston, a city whose drivers are known for their kind, considerate style.

As I sat in traffic, wishing a painful, bowel-emptying, sixth-inning case of Fenway Frank Poisoning upon every driver who cut me off and saluted me with one finger, I grew more and more anxious about arriving at the bookstore in time to hear Jenny speak.

Because I had a gift for her.

Because I am trying get her to write a review of my upcoming chapter book.

(Go buy it now!)

So I am bribing her.

I finally managed to find a parking spot a mere 3/4 mile from the bookstore. I parked and began running up the street, fighting against the swarms of people headed toward Fenway Park. I did happen to notice the dozens of available parking spaces located 100 yards from the bookstore as I careened around the corner and into the front door of the store, where I found myself at the tail-end of a long line of people snaking through a doorway toward the downstairs chamber where they hold author events.

This would, of course, be a great place for a detailed description of that sacred room, complete with meticulous detail, rich, vivid imagery, and sparkling wit. But I have no idea what it looked like because the room was full and they didn't let me in despite my pathetic wailing and crying and cursing.

While I stood there amidst a throng of disappointed customers, considering whether or not I should just go get a seat at the ball park in order to more fully appreciate my misery, a quiet, tinny voice crackled over the store's intercom: "We'll be starting our reading with Jenny Lawson in about 10 minutes. If you're upstairs, that totally sucks for you. Maybe there are still some crappy bleacher seats at Fenway, losers."

No.

Actually, the voice from the box informed us that they would be piping the reading through the store's speaker system, so we could listen from the comfort of the crowded aisles.

Which wound up being more awesome than I could have hoped for.

I desperately clawed my way over several orphans and wheelchair-bound old ladies to secure second place in the line for book-signings.

From there, I was treated to the double pleasure of listening to Jenny give her delightful, profanity-filled talk and, at the same time, watch the faces of all the unsuspecting people who were at the bookstore for some purpose other than to hear Jenny speak.

Like the guy who stood aghast in the center of the store, his face a mask of horror and disbelief as the disembodied voice twinkling through the air spoke glibly of Mickey Mouse-shaped tampons at Disney World.

Or the couple who both slapped their hands over their child's ears when that same voice described an episode of explosive diarrhea being used as a possible deterrent to being raped by a cat. (I'm paraphrasing, of course.)

Many of them raced out of the store, wondering what was wrong with the long line of people in the store, howling with laughter at the horrifying, deranged stories pouring from the speakers.

After she spoke, Jenny came upstairs to sign books. She was delightful and lovely and charming and I prostrated myself at her feet and bequeathed my humble, unworthy gift upon her.

It's a picture of The Bloggess Fairy, accompanied by a poem about her that uses many, many very offensive words. So I blurred it out in this picture. So if you are my children reading this, don't even bother trying to read the poem. Because I win. Ha.

And, if she didn't like it, she's a very decent actress. She asked if she could post it on her blog and I swooned a bit, but I think I said yes before I collapsed to the floor.

Then she left it out on the table so the rest of the people in line could use it as a coaster for their drinks when they had their visits with her.

If this bribe actually works for a book review, I sincerely hope that she doesn't include any of the words I used in the poem. Because then I won't be able to let my kids read my book.

You're Allergic to WHAT?!? (with disgusting medical-grade pictures!)

I'd have to say that it all started with the new pool and the mysterious, magical green water that we filled it with.

We have been saving our pennies for several years in order to buy a nice pool.  I have found out the hard way that pools scavenged from the local dump tend to be not everything that one desires in the way of summertime enjoyment. They tend to leak and collapse at inopportune moments. Like when you're languidly floating around in them, drinking a delicious rum-based beverage of immeasurable joy, listening to Bob Marley singing about three little birds. The sun is shining on your gently smiling face. There isn't anything in the world but you, your drink, and Mr. Marley. And, it appears, a grave structural flaw in your pool. And then, you're sprawled across your soggy lawn, wondering what happened to your drink.

If you ever find yourself in this position, refrain from the real, and very understandable, urge to salvage your drink by slurping up the pool water that is slowly disappearing into the grass beneath you. The chlorine and the ants will give even the best drink a slightly off flavor.

I speak from experience, people.

So, a couple years ago, we upgraded to one of those ring-top pools purchased from that recognized dealer of pool-related excellence, Toys-R-Us. The box, covered with pictures of happy families, frolicking in the crystal clear water of their new pools, promised that the entire thing could be installed in minutes.

I mixed my rum-based beverage of immeasurable joy and opened the box, which failed to mention that you can also measure the age of the universe in minutes if you are so inclined.

Minutes stretched into hours which stretched into days. The ice cubes melted in my drink. My children stood by in their bathing suits, helping me along by asking every 30 seconds if the pool was ready yet. They clearly thought that I was hogging all the fun as I spent 3 days in the blistering sun, digging up our lawn and wheeling in hundreds of pounds of sand so we could have a somewhat level place to put the pool. It was fun, of course, but not as much fun as I made it look like.

I was thrilled to discover that after digging up the grass, leveling it off, and hauling in all the sand, the pool itself did actually unroll and inflate in just a few minutes. Then, with our weak and impoverished well, it took another week to fill it up enough for the filter to work.

Which it didn't.

So we bought a bigger, better, faster, shinier filter that cost more than the entire pool.

Then the pool popped.

So we started saving and finally bought a brand-new, real pool with a real filter and had it installed by real pool installer guys complete with butt cracks hanging out of their pants so you know they're official.

This is not the disgusting picture I mentioned in the title. That's coming up later. This is a bonus disgusting picture.        You're welcome.

But before the installers could work their magic, the dump truck fairy had to deliver 10 tons of stone dust to my home.

No, actually, I'm not exaggerating.

And, as an added bonus, when the installers were finished, there were 5 tons left over. Anybody need some stone dust? Bring a wheelbarrow and a shovel.

So the pool went up and it got filled with three giant tanker trucks full of water. This was exciting to watch. See how excited I am?

The water had a delightful greenish cast to it that made the entire pool look like a magical mermaid swimming grotto, where mermaids splash and play in the tropical sun.

Or a nasty stagnant swamp, if you lack imagination like some people in my family whom I am married to.

But, through the magic of chemical enhancement, the water cleared up overnight.

And the kids, who were vibrating with excitement, jumped into the pool.

Tori's pink floaty pony popped 2 seconds after this picture was taken.

Alex wished it was just a popped pony for him.

You will notice how happy Tori looks. She looked much less happy two minutes later when her pink, inflatable pony suffered a tragic blow-out, rendering him useless. You might also notice the look of unbridled horror on Alex's face. That look was mirrored on all our faces just a few short minutes later when Alex emerged from the pool looking like this.

This is the disgusting picture I was talking about.

And this is another bonus one. See how good I am to you people?

I almost spilled my drink, but because of past experience, I now use a sippy cup for all my rum-based beverages of immeasurable joy.

These hideous hives covered much of his torso and, naturally, we were deeply concerned.

What if whatever horrible disease he had contracted had contaminated the sparkling clean pool water, ruining it for the rest of us?

The hives disappeared a few minutes after they appeared. Seeking a scientific explanation for what was going on, we tossed Alex back in the pool. Because that's how scientists work, I believe. A result must be repeatable. And it was. The hideous hives reappeared.

And I still didn't spill my drink.

Because I had finished it by then.

We spent two days trying to figure out what was happening. Nobody else was reacting to the water like that. Mostly, the rest of us were reacting by splashing and swimming and playing and assuring Alex that he really wasn't missing much because the pool wasn't actually even that much fun, really.

In between swims, I spent many hours poring over medical sites on the internet, a habit I do not recommend to anyone for any reason. You start looking for information on hives and suddenly you find yourself diagnosing it as a rare flesh-eating bacteria that will totally ruin the pool for everyone.

Also, I do not recommend that you do any sort of image search for full body hives if you have a tasty beverage in your mouth. Or if you ever want to eat again.

I searched and searched until I found something that perfectly matched Alex's symptoms:

Cold Urticaria

He is allergic to cold.

Go ahead. Look it up.

A carefully performed in-home medical procedure (a phrase I have never used in reference to myself before) involving an ice cube and Alex's extreme discomfort for 5 minutes reproduced the hives brilliantly in the exact spot where the ice cube had been.

A trip to the doctor the next day confirmed the results.

"Gonna be a long summer for you, buddy," the nurse said to him.

"Can I have the cool new pool float that mom bought you?" I asked.

It turns out that his case is a mild one and the hives can be easily controlled with a dose of anti-histamine before he gets in the pool.

But he can't go to the drugstore by himself.

And I still want that pool float.

Marty World! Get your tickets now.

I spend a considerable amount of time sitting home, alone, staring at a computer and tapping little buttons on it.

My contention is that it is far, far better than sitting in an office with a bunch of people, staring at a computer and tapping little buttons on it. This is primarily because at home, I can be in my pajamas, something likely to cause comment at even the most casual businesses.

I generally enjoy my job immensely. There are times, however, when it eclipses even being the taste testing guy at Ben & Jerry's.

Like, when you go to a school to do an author visit and, upon walking in the front door, you are greeted with a tableau like this:

It's a magical Marty Kelley Wonderland.

This is what I saw when I walked through the doors at Inter-Lakes Elementary School in Meredith, NH on Monday.

I was so bedazzled by  the banner that it took me a moment to recognize the full scope of the amazing work of genius here. Alesia Parks and her team of magical elves had created an amazing diorama of my books.

Terrifying, 4 foot long mosquitoes from Summer Stinks.

The smiling tree and a frozen child from Fall Is Not Easy and Winter Woes.

Tricycle, boots, umbrella, helmet, and mud from Spring Goes Squish.
I must assume that the girl from the book has disappeared beneath the mud.

And, my personal favorite, the desk from The Messiest Desk, complete with child being eaten and a real, live, actual toilet plunger.

The desk even had the hamburger from the cover of The Rules.

At first, I thought that they had created an entire Marty Kelley Amusement Park and I went running through the school like a lunatic, trying to find out what sort of mascot they had created and how fast the roller coaster was.

The disappointment that they had not actually built a roller coaster was brief and short-lived, however. Because Beckie Grinavic and Jenny Stevens had created a Marty Kelley Story Walk at the local town library. A story walk is when somebody takes your book and cuts it all up into about a million little pieces and then puts it all back together along a path in the woods so a couple dozen kids can go shrieking through nature, looking for book pages hanging in decidedly unnatural places.

It was a LOT of fun.

And, since it was raining, it was sort of like a water slide, which is almost as good as a roller coaster.

The natural beauty of anywhere is enhanced by ripping my books apart, reassembling them, and hanging them all over the place.

No, the comic irony of reading this book while slogging along a wet, muddy path is not lost on me.

This is what I looked like after the walk. Except I had on a different skirt.

After we had followed the magical, literary path through the woods, and just when the kids thought that no day could ever be more wonderful, they were each allowed to run to the edge of this lake and throw in one item.

Sadly, it wasn't stipulated that the item must be inanimate and several children tried to hurl me into the water. I was lucky that they were tired from all the walking and thus were unable to lift me.

So now, as I site here on my couch, waiting for my shoes to dry, I'm thinking of ways that a school might be able to install a Marty Kelley Reading Roller Coaster.

An Awesome Book Review. Or, At Least, An Awesome Word Review.

You know how sometimes you write a book and it's like 25,000 words long and you slave over it and work on it and strive to make every single one of those 25,000 words perfect in every way?

You know that?

And then, you do something wild and reckless and crazy and you wind up getting a book review from somebody totally amazing and that person reviews exactly one of the 25,000 words that you wrote?

It probably happens to you all the time, but this is the first time it's happened to me.

I have this new book coming out in the fall. Fame, Fortune, and the Bran Muffins of Doom. It's the epic adventure of Simon and his buddies Munch and Ralph, who are trying to win the school talent show so they can collect the millions of dollars that they are certain is the first prize.  They are hindered by the fact that they are entirely without talent of any sort. And, when they do actually try to rehearse, the crazy old lady next door starts throwing her deadly bran muffins at them.

So you can see that the book shares much with the great works of literature throughout history. Namely, that it has words in it. Lots of words. Including words like "habiliments", "kinesthesia", "pinguid" and "terpsichorean". The main character, Simon,  has an exceptional vocabulary. So I have taken the time to include a glossary to help readers decipher what he's talking about.

The book is, as I type, being copy-edited and proof-read by an expert team of ninja-like trained editors with red pens the size of baseball bats.

While I wait for the excitement of the editing party to draw to a close, I decided to use my time wisely and start bugging really famous people to review the book for me.

Target number one was one of my favorite writers on the planet, Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess. (DO NOT GO AWAY RIGHT NOW! I'M NOT DONE HERE! Also, if you are a kid reading this, you probably shouldn't click on that link because she uses a lot of words that will get you sent to the principal's office if you use them. She can use them because she is an adult and people pay her big bucks to use that sort of language, so it's okay for her to use it.)

She is brilliantly funny and never fails to make me snort coffee out my nose–a tragic mistake you'd think I'd learn from.

So I decided to send her an email, asking if she would be interested in reading my book and writing a review of it. I know that she gets swamped with desperate requests like this. I know this because she has an entire page on her blog devoted to repelling requests like this.  (You might want to go to that link, but please come back, I'm almost finished. Also, there are a few more bad words there. Do not repeat them unless you are getting paid to do so.)

Basically, if you approach her with a stupid request, she will send you a picture of Wil Wheaton collating papers.

I was willing to take that risk.

I wrote to her.

Hi Jenny,

I just got a questionnaire from the marketing people at Holiday House (who are publishing my upcoming chapter book: Fame, Fortune, and The Bran Muffins of Doom).

They are looking for people who might be interested in reading it and writing a blurb that they can exploit and shamelessly use to help sell the book.

I'd love to say that it will benefit you somehow, but aside from the fact that you will get a free copy of the book (and really, not even a decent copy, just a crummy old ARC) I suspect that you are not in terribly dire need of any publicity I can offer you.

You would, of course get to read about Simon, Munch, and Ralph and contribute your thoughts to what I suspect will be the only children's book in existence that uses the words "terpsichorean" and "ballistic muffins of mass destruction". It is also the only children's book in history officially endorsed (sort of) by the punk bands Screeching Weasel, NOFX, and Psychostick.

If nothing else, I'm sure it will be a valuable addition to Hailey's library. Or you can use it as a handy coaster.

If you'd be willing to look at a copy of the book, I'd love to have the marketing gurus put you on the exclusive list of potential reviewers.

If not, I totally understand, and I will humbly accept a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper.

Take care and thanks.

Marty

And I sat back and awaited my picture of Wil.

Within 24 hours, an email appeared in my inbox. With an attachment on it.

Marty,

You are hilarious and I will forward your request to Jenny. I'm not sure
if she'll be able to review your book simply because she is so crazy busy
right now with her own book and upcoming tour but hey, it doesn't hurt to
ask right? Either way, one of us will get back with you and let you know
about the review.

In the mean time, because you are so sweet, I have attached THE PICTURE
and will wish you much success on your book.

We'll let you know soon, I promise!

Mary, Fairy Godmother
(Jenny's Assistant)

Who knew she had an assistant? And one with such wonderful taste in humor? She was charming and polite and funny, so what do I do? Sit back and wait?

Heck no! I fight back.

Dear Fairy Mary,

Thanks so much. I thought that Jenny would be unbelievably busy, but as you said, it never hurts to ask.

When I saw that there was an attachment, I assumed I had been Wheatoned. Yes. It's a verb now.

So, I will see your Wheatoning and counter with Simon, the main character from my book, drawing secret plans on paper which is bound and thus requires no collating.

Thanks again. Looking forward to hearing from you.

Marty

And she replied:

Marty!

The picture is AWESOME and I'm so forwarding it to Jenny for her to see as
well. : )

YOU.SO.ROCK!

Mary, Fairy Godmother
(Jenny's Assistant)

Please note that my name has been upgraded to include an exclamation point. I expect you all to start writing that way immediately. I also expect that you will say my name properly now. 

YELL IT!

I owe Mary eternally for giving me a name upgrade. In fact, I will return the favor and ask that you all refer to her as MARY2.0! from now on.

And then, a scant few hours later, this arrived from Jenny herself:

I've been saying no to all reviews since I'm really busy but if it's a
kids book I could probably fit it in. Can you send the arc to the address
under my advertising tab? I can't promise I'll read it soon but you can
feel free to use this quote: "This book taught me the meaning of the word
"terpsichorean". Literally. If you don't know it you should probably buy
the book. "

Seriously.  How cool is that? How hard does she rock? (answers: Really cool. Really hard.)

Now, if I can just get her to actually read the other 24,999 words in the book...

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.