Random Editorial Sidenote: Look, I'm the first to admit that I don't know anything about Phil Spector, or trials, or how "the law" works, but, judging strictly from the pics of him I've seen, I'm 100% sure he's guilty of whatever he's being accused of. In the book Blink, Malcolm Gladwell extolls the virtues of going with your gut instinct and my gut instinct is that I probably shouldn't be on a jury. Yet I digress...

One other thing: I just literally made a baby cry by looking at her and smiling and waving. Although the mother assured me "she tends to do this with boys" I can't help but feel like this doesn't bode well for my future. Lesson: Avoid eye contact with children?

Words: 2116
Feelings: Wanderlust, Confusion about what exactly Wanderlust is, Alertness due to an unsolicited espresso, Nausea (see espresso)

I'm sorry, I don't want to spend the whole time writing about this, but I literally had to get up and move seats to avoid the terrified stare of this little girl, whose name i've learned is Sienna. She cries every time I look up from my computer. I even went as far as going into the bathroom and looking in the mirror to see if I had something on my face, which I did, but wiping it off hasn't seemed to help.

Sins: Superbia (pride), an urge to write the word Avarice again, Gluttony (the re-mix featuring Avocado)

Fears: That something definitely happened in my childhood to explain why I'm putting off writing the big scenes, that the protagonist is kind of a whiner, that I induce crying in random children.

Thoughts: I'm back, friends. Sooo f-ing back. After a shaky start to the day, I ripped through 1400 words by lunch and rewarded myself by drinking just under half a bottle of grenadine with  my BBQ Chicken Salad (captialized for emphasis). The word count was good, but it was mostly back story, adding scenes here and there, as, again, I managed to avoid writing a controversial, climatic, potentially life changing scene. What is my problem? Brandie, one of my friends who works at my dad's club, seems to feel that it's because I spend most of my time "looking up Raven-Symone Pearman pics on Google images" and "giving children night terrors" but I strenuously object to that interpretation. First of all, I desperately needed to change the background on my computer and second, I think my main problem is I just need to get over the paralyzing fear that I'll choke on such an important, vital scene and just write it, dammit.
    I'm sorry, I didn't mean to swear at you. It's all this grenadine.
    Anyway, post lunch it was a slower go, and at one point I did fall asleep with my head on the table as "Kiss from a Rose" by Seal was piped in over the sound system, but I still got my words. I may remain 700 and some odd words behind, but, like George Michael assured us, you've got to have faith.

Until tomorrow, when I attempt to write all 2000 words lying down.

Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now,

Star,
Ship

PS- Pictured Below: A clearly innocent Phil Spector during a failed attempt to pick his nose and the natural reaction children seem to have when I enter a room.

Words: 1743
Feelings: Boredom, Nausea, A Sense that Something Cool is Happening Somewhere on the Internet and I'm Missing It
Sins: Gluttony, Sloth
Fears: Three pages don't make any sense, might have changed one of main character's last names mid-way through book without realizing, don't understand why one character is always clapping in every scene he's in. Sense that I don't really know what i'm writing about.

Thoughts: Do you know how many words 2000 is? Apparently I don't. Tried to break up the day into 4 sessions of 500 words. Made perfect sense. First two went pretty quickly. A few pages of dialogue? No problem. I am a dialogue writer. I kill dialogue. But then just as the dialogue was being slayed, the well went dry. Not my dad's well at his house, because, as he informed me, "we don't have a well, we get our water from the Colorado River like the rest of SoCal". (editor's note: he didn't actually say SoCal. but don't you wish he did?) So not an actual well. The writing well. Oh wait, I think that's a pun. And i wasn't even going for one. Lesson: you can't turn off genius.

Need a change of venue. Go outside. The air outside is choice. Keep telling myself, You are a writer. You write things. You write well. Keep thinking: this is a pretty place for a writer to write. Think about that for thirty minutes in the choice SoCal air. Don't write much.

My dad bought a case of Arrowhead mountain spring waters. Allegedly, Arrowhead has been making water since 1894. I smell bullshit, but can't think of a way to fact check it sitting outside. Despite their lies, I take down 16 of them. And pee < 11 times. At least my (um, kidneys? small intestine (s)? bladder?) is working. Quit writing, go inside and read Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris. It's a first novel about work. It's good. And funny. Not exactly helping my confidence.

Try to write post-dinner. Doesn't work out. Shouldn't drink two Italian beers at dinner. Or ever. Fall asleep with computer on my lap, in the middle of a particularly intense scene, 250 words from my goal.

Question to Ponder: Does imagining Amy Smart's character in the movie Varsity Blues every time I write dialogue for a girl help or hurt my book?

Either way, need to step it up.

Breathe....Just Breathe,

Anna,
Nalick

PS- Pictured Below: The Wishing Well my father doesn't have.

Hello friends.

I have done some things in my life. Accomplished goals, questioned authority, set up Ikea bookshelves with minimal help from the directions. You know, things. But, now, over the next two weeks, I'm attempting to take on the most formidable challenge of my career. After several hours of negotiations and several empty, yet emphatic, promises, I managed to convince my father to allow me to hole up in his San Diego home with the singular purpose of finishing a draft of my novel.

The problem, of course, aside from actually having to do it, is that I only have two weeks to get it done, mostly because I need to go back to Boston and make money to pay off the Nesting Doll debts I incurred in Prague but also because my father can't quite imagine a positive scenario involving myself and him in the same place for more than three days.

"And besides," he said, during our talk. "I've never seen you do anything out here other than sit in the hot tub reading Teen Vogue."

Fair point, father. But, alas, that was the old, unfocused Kevin, the Kevin who hadn't seen six million stray cats eating Turkish Delights in Istanbul, the Kevin who didn't know how to say, "If it pleases the vendor, I'm perfectly happy without butter and mayonaise on my fried cheese sandwich" in Czech, the Kevin who wasn't perpetually startled whenever his cell phone vibrated.

The Kevin who didn't refer to himself in third person.

And so now, without any further adieu, I encourage you to join me on my quest. 2,000 words a day. 14 days. 28,000 more words. 72 run-on sentences. 8 jumping conflicts. 32 pages of dream sequence. 4 empty bottles of grenadine. It's going to be simultaneously terrible, awesome, alarming and inspring. So--for the next 14 days-- I'm going to be keeping a daily journal of my thoughts, ideas, fantasies, myths, homespun sayings, and progress during what I'm calling, "the push to finish a terrible incoherent draft of a novel" or "Mission Semi-Impossible: SoCal Edition".

I'd like to take this opportunity to pre-emptively apologize for whatever I write in the next two weeks. And feel free to drop lines of encouragment, advice, insults, questions, or profane haiku's whenever you want. Chances are good I'll be on the computer. Crying.

Don't Stop Believing,

KA

Introductory Sidenote: I am back in the United States, the land of freedom and patriotism and cars with automatic transmissions. There have been showers with good water pressure, washers AND dryers, and, inevitably, colors that don't run. If you can't tell, I'm very happy about this.

So I was killing time in the Boston Mag editorial office, stealing office supplies, waiting to talk to my editor so I can start paying off the massive debt I've accumulated purchasing Nesting Dolls in Prague, when I got to talking with one of my friends at the magazine. I'll take you into the scene just after I complimented him on his latest piece.
"--was pretty frickin' good, man. Nice work." (That was me)
He nodded thanks and then looked around conspiratorially and beckoned me to come closer. I leaned in.
"Dude, to be honest, I had like six hilarious jokes in there in the original draft, but they all got cut during editing."
"Oh man," i said, shaking my head for emphasis and trying to whistle. "I've been there."
"Yeah," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I just wish one of these times they'd cut me loose and keep the good shit I'm throwin' in there. Because it would kill. Absolutely kill!"
"What're ya gonna do, man?" I said rhetorically, because that's what you say at that point. "Freakin' editors."

The scene I just replayed for you is not a new scene or something out of the ordinary. What it is is pretty much the only conversation that I ever have with other mag writers following the publication of one of their pieces. First, you say you liked the piece. Then they, affecting a gruff manner, nod curtly and mumble some thanks before saying...pretty much exactly what I showed you above.

This is the world of a magazine writer. Your first draft is (inevitably) always the most "fresh" and "pure" and "original" vision you have, and with each passing draft, you believe the energy and juju is sucked out of your work so then by the time it passes on to press it looks just like any other piece in the magazine and your "voice" has been stifled and you are going to "quit" and find a place where they value "the creative process" and "unbridled talent" and will pay for the "root canal" that you know you "need".

It's become such a common thing to bitch about your creativity being girded by the editors that even when you don't think it happened, it's almost less awkward if you just complain, anyway.

But what's most interesting about this phenomenon is not that editors are always party poopers and the sort of people whose only source of humor is making obscure literary puns at dinner parties ("I hope the meat was cooked (pause for effect) Thoreau-ly!!!!") but that almost 90% of the time, we're totally wrong.

My first drafts are almost always bad. I say almost because some of them are damn near Nobel Prize worthy, but usually they have no large cohesive, big picture point, embarrassing grammatical issues and they sometimes can go for the joke in places where no joke should ever, ever go. (Which is why i have a sign on the wall above my desk that reads "Don't try to be funny, just tell the story. Forced humor= kill yourself!!!")

Yes, a lot of the times in that process of editing, jokes I've made or clever turns of phrase are forced out for the greater good of making something publishable, but we as writers can sometimes not only not see the forest for the trees, but we can't even see any of the other trees. Which is to say: I will be so focused on losing one of my jokes that I can't even focus on anything else, and I spend upwards of an hour thinking exclusively about how I can save that joke because it desperately needs to be saved, and I'll never be able to think of anything that funny again, and I will complain to everyone in a thirty foot radius and only other writers will even acknowledge me, strictly because they know that at some point they will do the same thing.

Now I know this isn't productive and that editors have the mostly thankless job of keeping us writers looking like we actually know how to write, in a way that conforms to the standards and practices of the magazine in question, and I know that 95% of the time, the final draft is actually the best possible version of the piece, with all things considered. But if we couldn't bitch, if we weren't allowed to whine, and give the impression that we could always create something much, much better if just given the proper opportunity and the right amount of words, then what would we strive for?

We always have to believe that we could do better and that next time will be the time when we really show everyone, when we blow everyone away and start taking home the National Magazine Awards and turning down invitations to go to karaoke night with Ken Follett and the chick who wrote The Lovely Bones because we need motivation, we need to believe that we're always just about to peak, but never really get there.

And, trust me, I will get there. If not next time, then, you know,definitely the one after that...probably.

In the next episode, Kevin finds out that toll booths in America don't take Czech crowns and makes the prescient prediction that newcomer E. Annie Proulx is about to blow up.

100% Pure Love,

KA

Introductory sidenote: In this blog entry, every word that I either had to look up because I didn't know how to spell it or because I didn't really know the definition, I've decided to put in bold. This will probably never happen again, so appreciate the brief foray into my ignorance revealed.

As I've previously mentioned, I've done a lot of reading on this trip. Much of this can be blamed on the fact that I barely speak English well, and know no other language except "terrible, awkward, indecipherable" French (the quotes being the Big Cat's, who, I feel the need to insecurely point out, is no linguist himself), so I spend much of my time in Prague with my head down avoiding eye contact with the hundreds of people in Wenceslas Square trying to hand me pamphlets or escort me to seedy strip clubs ("What's matter? You don't like women, hot, hot, hot?").

Anyway, I just finished the book Glamorama by Brett Easton Ellis. The reason I bought the book was guilt, as I've never read anything by him, but, for whatever reason, whenever he comes up I inevitably tell people that I've read American Psycho because I've positioned myself as "the dude who always reads the book before seeing the movies", which, if you think about it, isn't that cool of a position to seek. Nevertheless in dutifully sticking to that role, I usually give the opinion that it's better than the movie but it was "f*cking weird" and "surreal" but totally "skewering" of "the 80s", a decade in which I have no credence to make an opinion mainly because I remember only one year, 1989, since I, at eight, was finally allowed to watch Alf and the Golden Girls (brief editorial sidenote: Blanche was totally a slut, but kind of hot?).

On top of that, in a few of my MFA workshops, people have been like, "Oh you totally skirted your style from Easton Ellis." And I'll say, "You can't use the word skirt like that." and they'll say, "Yeah, I can." and an entirely different semantics argument will take place. But the point I keep aimlessly circling and circling around is this: I needed to see what the deal was. And so I read the book. And I kind of don't understand it.

For those of you who haven't read it or don't care, let me briefly synopsize: Victor Ward is a model and It boy in mid 90s NYC who opens nightclubs and has killer abs and lots of sex with his supermodel GF and some other chick. Everything in the first part of the book is about the "scene", what's cool, who was there, what's trendy, etc, and Easton Ellis does a ridiculous job of capturing this world, making me think he had to spend a good deal of time "researching" it, to be able to render it so effectively. Everyone pops Xanax, and Klonopin and does coke and wears Gucci and Prada and eats sashimi and knows Christian Bale and Chris O'Donnell. Which really hit home for me, obviously, because--take away Christian Bale--and that's pretty much exactly like my life.

But then during the second part, he is sent on a mission to find an ex-girlfriend by some random older man, and so he goes to Europe and all of a sudden he's caught up in a world of terrorism as masterminded by an ex male model and there are horrible scenes of torture and now, to make things weirder, he is always being filmed by a film crew, which he consults after every action in the book, which makes it sort of meta, and surreal and imagined. Confused, yet? Yeah, well, me too, and I actually read it. Even when I finished the book, as things were revealed and I thought I got it, I didn't have that "oh, i see" moment. I just went, "WTF?" and bought some Vanilla Caramel Brownie Haagen Daz.

So instead of really getting it, I'm forced to understand its value in the broader context of society. Like I get that it's about the vacuousness of such a superficial life based almost solely on what and who you're with, and maybe always having the film crew there further drives home the point that there is no real feeling going on, but, f*ck, I still don't really get it. Don't you hate that? Don't you hate when you finish a 487 page book and you still feel like you should have checked the Cliff Notes? I know it's sort of embarrassing to admit not "getting" stuff, especially in an MFA program where, if I really admitted all of the stuff I didn't get, they'd probably revoke my acceptance. But the reason I wanted to point this out--other than as a cry for help-- is because this is the game we play, not usually with popular fiction like Easton Ellis, but definitely with more literary work and especially with well known literary books.

Two blog readers, Rebekah and Rashida, both made dead on accurate and hilarious comments pertaining to this ridiculous charade on my Genuisocity post.  Rashida's was: "Personally, I like to make up my own super-vague but semi-literate sounding interpretations of any of the classics that I don't get (or didn't read and just want to fake it in snobbish company). Most of the time if you act like a street corner psychic and cater to the audience, use some big words and leave the actual meaning rather loose, most people will just nod their heads and say, "Hhmmm, I see where you're coming from," or something else that translates into, "I didn't get it either but I'm sure as h*ll not going to be the only one here not getting it!"

That, my friends, is an apt way to describe 50% of the conversations that go on in my literature classes. Now, to be fair, sometimes these conversations are interesting and well thought out, and actually leave me feeling smarter and more handsome, but a good amount of the time I will be called on with nothing to say, and start to talk having no idea where I'm going and end up concluding with something like, "But of course, (snobbish chuckle) Sherwood Anderson wasn't quite as decadent a stylist as Fitzgerald, but therein lies the beauty of his prose. Wasn't it Anderson who said, 'Few know the sweetness of twisted apples?' I think that phrase, in a nutshell, speaks for both itself and myself, simultaneously." After which I usually excuse myself, go into the bathroom, and see how long I can stay in there before my professor will notice.


Ok. This post is getting out of control. If anyone has read Glamorama and wants to take a shot, please, please enlighten me. What is going on at the end? "Who" is he, really? And do all of Easton Ellis's books end up leaving you feeling like this, despite my frustration, I kind of want to read another one. I mean, there are sex scenes.

Final note: This will be my last post from Europe. This weekend, I make my US debut for basically the first time in 2007 and I am both relieved and a little nostalgic. But it also means I'll have my own computer, with its own American!!! keyboard, and the View, and California Pizza Kitchen, and real Boars Head deli meats, and Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby and--sorry. Whew. I need to calm down. Someone get me a Xanax.

Just kidding, mom.

Join me next time when I attempt to reassimilate through watching 36 straight hours of Elizabeth Hasselbeck wardrobe changes.

Thank you for being a friend,

KA

Ok, wow. Judging from some of the comments I've received on the previous blog entry, I think there's some confusion as to what the purpose of this blog both generally and as opposed to my column, and I feel the need to clarify.

My column in WD follows my writing life. Usually (and i'll be the first to admit, sometimes I've strayed) that means giving everyone a first person view of how a young(ish) professional writer tries to take his career to the next step be it by publishing a book, getting an MFA, writing for more national magazines or losing his mind and going to Eastern Europe for three months. The idea is that people can see what I'm doing and, as I said in the first column I ever wrote for the magazine, see the big sweeping mistakes I make and try and avoid them in your own writing life.

In it, I try and talk about real things that everyone goes through: getting rejected by agents, going to writer's conferences, the pros and cons of getting an MFA, how to write a book proposal, how infuriating it can be when you don't trust your mailman, etc... Unfortunately, I don't have any tricks or super technical writing tips, as you can read in my first blog entry in the "how in the hell did you of all people get a column" portion, I, like many of you, just wrote and sent out my work and hoped for the best.Luckily for you, we do have more how to and technical advice in WD, it's just not my thing.

My goal with the column is to a) give you insight into what im doing as I progress in the writing world and b) hopefully entertain you while I'm doing it. I want you to laugh. I want you to realize that despite the sometimes over the top sarcasm, alarming procrastination techniques, obsession with crappy daytime television and aversion to pants, I really just want us as writers to not take ourselves so seriously and, most importantly, just write. Sure, some days it's going to be crap, some days its going to be good, and every once in a year or so, you'll get that unique turn of a phrase or spot on bit of dialogue or perfect word, and suddenly you'll understand that 'yes, this is why I keep coming back, day after day to this same stupid Starbucks, this is why I'm a writer'.

I think of the phrase that Franz Kafka says about the appeal of Prague, "This mother has claws" and I can't help but think that the phrase could just as well apply to writing. If you're a writer, you almost have no choice, writing just sinks into you and won't let go, no matter how hard you try and shake it off and do something with dental insurance and a 401K. Like my boy says, this mother has claws. Anyway, so that, in a decently sized nutshell, is what the column is (or tries to be, at least) about.

The blog, as many of the people who read my section of the Writer's Forum already know, is slightly different from the column. A blog, by definition, is a more open, less constrained area to write in, and, as I'm not working under the same limitations as the column, I try to keep an open mind about what to put in. I do try and stick to the general idea of writing, and, again, what's going on in my life, but, as you can see from the previous entries, that is loosely adhered to. It's more stream of conscious, more random, has more swears, and generally makes less sense. But I think it can be fun all the same, in a different sort of  looser way than the column. Think of it this way: if the columns like the late 50s, early 60s: more rigid, straight laced, and square, than the blog is like the late 60s, early 70s: more free flowing, random and given to wearing hemp and tie dye.

 But as I said before, I am also here for you, the reader. If you have questions, give them to me, and I will try and help you out. I'm going to change a statement I made earlier, and say that I will post answers to questions on the blog, so that they can benefit everyone. I will have specific entries focused on just answering your questions, if that would be useful. We did just start the blog a few months ago, so we'll let it adapt and change organically, but I really am happy to help and want to see everyone succeed. Not just so you can blurb me.

But again, I am the first to acknowledge, my blog is not for everyone. And being how this is a free country (well, America is...I'm not 100% sure about the Czech Republic...), and a democracy and a place where anyone and everyone is welcome to lease a car, assuming they have a down payment and good credit, I will never edit or censor the comments or opinions people have about my writing (unless of course they don't coincide with our standards of decency), even if they really, really don't like it. But, and again, the beauty of the USA comes into play, no one has to read this. Ramsey doesn't read it. I don't think my brother or my sisters read it. My mother doesn't read it. And I certainly hope my dad doesn't. So if this isn't for you, there are no hard feelings. We can still be friends and go to the mall together and split the Tour of Italy at the Olive Garden. Just please, if you do have an issue, try and be constructive, so I can learn from it. Just like in the workshop, if you just say something's bad, no one learns. But if you say, "this is bad because the protagonist spends all of his time taking IQ tests in coffee shops in Slovakia" then the person getting workshopped can look at that specific criticism and try and change.

Ok. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to turn this into a monster post. I hope that helped clarify both the difference between the column and the blog and what I'm trying to do with both. Now, seeing how it is almost 4AM in Prague, I'm going to eat a granola bar and rationalize not showering before bed. I'll see you back here in a Czech week:)

I love you all. Never change.

KA

Pictured below: The photographic manifestation of my blog. Notice the guy's not wearing any pants...coincidence?  Luck? Or yet another John Cusak like Serendipitous moment in my life?

"It's like you're always stuck in second gear,
Well, it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year.

But, I'll be there for you, when the rain starts to pour.
I'll be there for you, like I've been there before.
I'll be there for you, cause you're there for me too." --"I'll Be There for You" by the Rembrandts.


Brief aside: Ok. Now I know that my blog hasn't exactly been "weekly", in the American sense of the word "week". But, as it turns out, in the Czech Republic, a week is actually 11 days, so I'm pretty much right on time.

Being in Prague, I've learned several things. 1. Bone roasted pork knuckles aren't necessarily the best things to eat before running. 2. Avoid British stag parties at all costs. 3. Expecting to work while two of your friends are visiting is nearly impossible.

I got to Prague two weeks ago, after spending several days in Bratislava absorbing the culture and eating alone at the one, sort of Mexican restaurant in Slovakia. I keep doing this--getting homesick for something 'American' (or, I guess in this case, 'Mexican') and hoping that the Eastern European approximated facsimile of that thing will stave off said feeling. And it never, ever works out. The guacamole at 'Hacienda Mexicana' was something that a well paid food critic for a Bratislava paper might refer to as, "gross" and " possibly made with fish". But, alas, I needed to reunite with my friend and travel companion, the aforementioned Big Cat, and so I met him in Prague, where we rented an apartment for a month and both finally shaved off our travel beards.

The city is beautiful. It was one of the only European cities left basically untouched during the destruction of World War II and it is small, walkable and safe. But there are SO many tourists. SO many. See how I emphasized the word by putting on caps lock? That's how serious I am about getting across this point. And, yes, technically I am a tourist too, and yes, I guess, looking back I shouldn't have purchased an extra large velour sweatsuit with the words "Czech it Out" stitched across the front and back and, okay, fine, I probably shouldn't wear it everyday... but, seriously, how are there even any people in other European countries if they're all here posing for novelty caricature artists on the Charles Bridge and congratulating me on my hip sweatshirt purchase?

Whoa. Sorry about the anger. I just wish I hadn't "discovered" Prague five years after everyone else. (Brief snippet of convo with my father to illustrate this point: "Hey Dad." "Who is this?" "Kevin." "...?" "Your son?" "Oh, um, how's...where are you, New Mexico?" "Prague." "...Dude, that place is so 1999." "...Did you just call me dude, Dad?" "Yeah, I did. A lot has changed since you left. Anyway, I need to go. I'm watching a video I made of me swinging a Medicus 5 iron. Get me a t-shirt in Albuquerque.")

 Anyway, the first week here, I was a writing machine. I finally had a "routine" down, and a spot to go that served bagels and bottomless cups of tea, and I was working at a prolific rate, getting thing accomplished I hadn't even thought about in months. I finally finished and edited a new Writer's Digest Quiz (aptly titled: Does Your Editor Hate You?), pitched a travel story, wrote a new chapter in my novel, and started working on editing the reality celebrity short story. I was excited. My life looked brighter. Colors were more dramatic. I had even stopped noticing the intense throbbing sensations stemming from the cavities in the back of my mouth. But then it all stopped.

My friend Frank came out here for spring break from law school and my friend Stu bought a flight two days before he came and within fifteen minutes of getting a new job offer in San Francisco. And they both brought their computers, which seemed like a good idea at the time, because our apartment has Wi-Fi, and I've been spending upwards of 200 Czech crowns a day (something like 30 grand American, I think) sitting in Internet Cafes watching the "Dick in a Box" SNL skit on YouTube. Plus, my old laptop I'd shipped out here came with its computer screen smashed despite being bubble taped and in a laptop case and so I figured, well, how nice, my friends have provided me free access to put down my thoughts and get some real work done from the comfort of my own apartment. Um, right?

"Absolutely not. Don't touch my computer," Frank said, when I asked if I could type up some of the chapters I'd written down and maybe do a, you know, blog entry. "Seriously, not right now. I'm looking at famous images of New York City on the New York Times website."

"Why?"

"Because I don't have any new emails and I've already read all the articles on ESPN, obviously."

My subsequent minor temper tantrum only inflamed the situation and became a source of hilarity for all of my friends.

"Frank may I use your computer," the Big Cat would theatrically ask. "I want to re-look at some emails I just sent and think about ways I could have improved them."

"Of course. Take as long as you want. I certainly wasn't doing anything."

All of this is actually happening right now. As I type Frank is standing behind me and trying to calculate how much I owe him per minute for being able to use the computer ("I mean, you act like I won't give you competitive rates") and everyone is waiting for me to finish my work so that we can go see a "museum" or "something they don't have in Charlottesville, VA."

As anyone who has ever tried to write something coherant with a bunch of people standing around, sighing dramatically and whispering secrets behind them can attest, it's basically impossible. My productivity has tanked, I seem to be getting some sort of rash, and I can't even think of the central point of this post.

But, like Stevie Wonder said, that's what friends are for.
Right? .... Right?

Join me next time, when I attempt coherance by stealing Frank's laptop and hiding myself in the Czech movie theatre showing of Rocky Balboa, where I can finally concentrate.

P-P-Push it real good.

KA