"Storm Chaser" raffled in Lions Club Easter basket

I donated two copies of Storm Chaser to the Albion Lions Easter raffle, where they'll be just part of two very large Easter baskets.  The Albion Lions return all proceeds from their fund raisers to the community, and have assisted us at the Albion Fire Department many times; last years raffle proceeds were presented to "The Studio", an Albion kids Christian club, and the baskets contained gifts valued at $450 plus.  They're still collecting items for this years baskets, which will be at the Albion banks on March 5th ... Please support the Albion Lions Club, and all they do!




ALBION LIONS CLUB
Easter Basket Raffle

WIN one of two Family Baskets filled with gifts from area merchants”

An Easter Gift

for the Whole Family’

PURCHASE TICKETS at Albion

Campbell & Fetter and Community State Banks, from any Albion Lions Club Member or call 343-1859 or 564-8160


>>> $1 EACH or *6 FOR $5 <<<

Drawing held – April 7th at 10 am
Albion Volunteer Fire Dept.
During

‘Breakfast with the Easter Bunny’

NEED NOT BE PRESENT TO WIN
260-564-8160

Speak of the Devil: Unbearable Cuteness

Speak of the Devil: Unbearable Cuteness: Just look at that face. You would do just about anything that kitten asked you to do. Am I right? Of course I am. And that is precisely th...

It's madness, I tell ya

We have every kind of precipitation there is to have in the last 24 hours, with the possible exception of hail. Rain, freezing rain, sleet, heavy wet snow, fine snow, flurries, snow squalls, snow showers, blowing snow ...

You'd think March madness had started already.

Chimney Demolition ... The Plan, or: Doomed to Failure


SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK



            Over the summer I demolished my home’s chimney, as a result of the earlier discovery that the chimney was trying to demolish itself. Many people, when faced with such a chore, will bring in various power equipment, up to and including such things as portable generators and air compressors, and maybe a lift to get them up to the top safely.

            I did it with a hammer.

            The bricks about halfway down my chimney started deteriorating not long after I bought my house, which as nearly as I can determine was built in 1879 by two drunk teenagers and a trained monkey. The monkey did good work … for a monkey. I had the chimney patched at the same time a new rubber roofing was put over my kitchen twenty years ago, and they both held up longer than expected.

            But over last winter the roof started leaking again, and when I went out in the spring (I don’t go outside during winter; instead I send a robot who looks like me) I discovered a hole the size of my head all the way through the bricks to the liner. I’m not talking a normal head, either: I’m talking a big head, like the swelled one I got after my book was published but before I realized I still had to work for a living.

            Chimney experts – graduates of the Indiana School of Understanding Chimneys, or I-SUC – informed me it would cost more to fix the chimney than it was worth, something I’d already figured out for myself. They didn’t mention how much trouble it would be to vent my furnace and water heater a different way … that’s a whole other expensive story.

            Faced with a chimney that could go over any which way in the next strong wind, and with election season promising many strong winds in 2012, I searched my heart and my wallet, and decided to take it down myself.

            Okay, say it all together. Ready:

            “What could possibly go wrong?”

            Well, the thing was literally falling apart; how hard could it be to help it along? I determined to save what bricks I could for use later, possibly in a fire pit or an Occupy Wall Street protest. Then I armed myself with a hammer, chisel, and crowbar. My intention: To pry out each individual brick, saving them and doing a controlled demolition to prevent property damage.

            Stop laughing; it seemed like a reasonable plan.

            I put my 20 foot extension ladder against the flat roof, then hauled up a roof ladder borrowed from a retired fire truck. These ladders have hooks on them, and I was able to slide it up to secure over the top peak on my two story house. That put me about thirty feet in the air, although after I crossed the flat roof, climbed the short peak, clambered across the second pitched room, and got to the roof ladder near the edge, I discovered the obvious: it was a lot higher from that position.

            I don’t need to add, this all happened during a heat wave.

            At the top of my chimney was a cap, made of slabs of concrete much heavier than a single brick. Truth in advertising: I had already experienced all this up to that point, having been called to many chimney fires over the years. At least this one wasn’t puffing smoke in my face.

            From then on the surprises started.

            I put the chisel in one hand and experimentally tapped it with the hammer, trying to loosen the mortar under the cap. Nothing. No surprise: I hit it harder. Nothing. While clinging to the chimney, with the rungs of a ladder keeping me from sliding off the roof, I hit the chisel as hard as I could.

            It put a tiny dent in the mortar. The mortar was, in fact, still has hard and strong as the same year the chimney went up. Not only that, but there at the top the bricks were so solid and whole that I suspect everything above the level of the pitched roof was newer than the rest of the chimney. Unfortunately that wouldn’t help, as it only made for one big solid hunk that could crash through my roof when the stuff below it finally collapsed.

            It took me all day to get just the top cap off.

            You’re no doubt wondering what I planned to do with the bricks once I loosened them. Thirty feet in the air, remember? Well, my solution was brilliant and without flaw: On the ground about fifteen feet behind my extension ladder was a pile of brush, thanks to my constantly shedding bushes and trees. I would throw the bricks onto that pile, which would help cushion their impact and keep them from bouncing into the neighbor’s yard. So, once I got that first capstone loosened, it was a fairly simple task to stand on the edge of the roof and completely forget how much heavier the capstone was than a brick.

            The capstone didn’t arc. It dropped.

            BAM!

            Dogs howled. People a mile away paused, their hands hovering over 911. Seismographs registered in Missouri. My neighbors shook their head and went on about their business.

            I was left staring at my now lopsided ladder, which took the impact on its lowest rung with such force that one of the beams bent in.

            That’s when I started laughing. Because, really, what else was I to do?

            Next week: Demolition Part 2: The Fall.

Finishing a novel is a marathon, not a sprint


I’m 36,000 words into the Storm Chaser sequel, and maybe ¾ of the way into the story. It’s a little sketchy at the moment: I need to add more description, internal thoughts and other things, which means at this point I’ll probably be close to 50,000 words in the second draft. Right now I’m enjoying the characters and blazing through the plot.

Meanwhile, time’s running out! For the rest of February, the e-book version of Storm Chaser is half off at my publisher's website:


It’s been a bad month for getting much writing done, but I’m plugging away at it.

Happy Chief Executive Day!

So, has everyone got their President’s Day decorations up? We have our President’s tree, with a little ornament of each President’s bust (their heads – get your mind out of the gutter. Well, except for Clinton’s). We’re dressing up as our favorite Presidents (I’m Benjamin Harrison, Emily’s Franklin Pierce), and of course we’re going to wait at the door and, when children come in their costumes (we usually get a lot of Lincolns), we’ll put little copies of the Constitution in their moneybags.

Then we’ll have our big President’s Day dinner, which consists, of course, of turkey and ham.

True Love Trumps Romance


SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            This week – being Valentine’s Week – I must pay tribute to those who’ve fallen in love with questionable taste: people who choose to be with the crazed, the obsessive, the workaholic, and the occasionally moronic.
            In other words, I’d like to pay tribute to my fiancée.
            We met on a writer’s website, one of those places where geeks and nerds escape jocks, haters, yuppies, and the establishment, otherwise known as real life. You couldn’t see who you were messaging (which may explain why she fell for me), and based on my writing style she originally thought I was female. I choose to take that as a compliment.
 If anyone there made a pass, it would be with such sexy lines as, “So … what are you typing with?”
            “A Mac.”
            “Oooooohhhh…. Talk Apple to me.”
             You’ve heard of the May-December romance? Ours is an April-December romance. (March is illegal.) I no longer bother correcting salespeople who call her my daughter, although I haven’t yet given in to the urge to let them believe that for awhile, then start making out with her. These are the things humor writers think are funny.
            Because of our age difference I’m very close to being on the same emotional level as she is, although she has me beat on both overall maturity and intelligence. You might think she’s part of my midlife crisis, but I’ve yet to buy a sports car or get hair plugs; and she’s clearly not gold-digging, as my entire fortune consists of a collection of wheat-head pennies and a Johnny West action figure (both in fair to poor condition).
            So it must be love. And in honor of Valentine’s Day, that tribute to pink and chocolate, I’d like to tell everyone just what I love about my Emily:
            I love the fact that she doesn’t always have to get girly: She can be up and ready to head out the door in twenty minutes, no need for a bucket of makeup or a shelf full of powered devices that look like they belong in a torture chamber.
            I love the way she slaps me oh-so gently on the back of the head whenever my verbal stream of consciousness gets out of control.
            I love the fact that she loves knowledge, and that we can sit together and watch a PBS documentary without either of us saying, “Huh? I don’t get it.”
            I love the way she doesn’t seem to mind when I break into song (at least, not when I do it in private); she just smiles and turns up the stereo volume on her noise-cancelling headphones.
            I love how all the sports channels on TV could have gone off the air two years ago, and no one in the house would notice.
            I love how we can be walking on a trail in the park one moment, and the next moment be climbing a brush-covered hill that no one’s stepped foot in for decades, just to see what’s on the other side.
            I love how she tries to keep me healthy just for my sake, but doesn’t stay mad for long when she catches me cheating with a Snicker’s bar or Moose Tracks ice cream. When she asks for ice cream herself, I know it’s time to tread carefully, because she’s having a bad day.
            I love how she encourages my writing by throwing small household items at me until I sit down at the keyboard. Although, really, I think she enjoys the throwing a bit too much.
            I love how she taught me snakes have personalities. Her snake is both cowardly and curious, and doesn’t like wearing Santa hats.
            I love how concerned she gets whenever she hears a loud falling noise in the house and isn’t certain where I am, and I love how good she is with first aid. On a related note, I love the concerned look she gets whenever I open the tool box.
            I love how she didn’t protest when I headed to the roof to demolish my chimney, even after I accidentally smashed the ladder. She knows I have my stubborn moments. Did I mention she’s good with first aid?
            I love how we both like the same TV shows, and how we sit down together to devour our limited diet of science fiction, fantasy, and silly sitcoms.
            I love how she makes me put money in the pun jar all the time, but doesn’t actually try to make me stop punning. We should have vacation money saved up in no time.
            I love how books are just as important to her as they are to me – and how they’re usually the same books.
            I love how she’s interested in everything (except sports and politics).
            I love how she calls me “Mustache”. As nicknames go, it beats “Hey Stupid”.
            If none of that is seems too terribly romantic, well … what it is, is love. Romance is a great thing, but it’s not sustainable; you can’t be romantic all the time. True love? That’s the everyday items, the little things – the stuff they don’t write songs about.
            And since I have her – I have it.

True Love Trumps Romance


SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            This week – being Valentine’s Week – I must pay tribute to those who’ve fallen in love with questionable taste: people who choose to be with the crazed, the obsessive, the workaholic, and the occasionally moronic.
            In other words, I’d like to pay tribute to my fiancée.
            We met on a writer’s website, one of those places where geeks and nerds escape jocks, haters, yuppies, and the establishment, otherwise known as real life. You couldn’t see who you were messaging (which may explain why she fell for me), and based on my writing style she originally thought I was female. I choose to take that as a compliment.
 If anyone there made a pass, it would be with such sexy lines as, “So … what are you typing with?”
            “A Mac.”
            “Oooooohhhh…. Talk Apple to me.”
             You’ve heard of the May-December romance? Ours is an April-December romance. (March is illegal.) I no longer bother correcting salespeople who call her my daughter, although I haven’t yet given in to the urge to let them believe that for awhile, then start making out with her. These are the things humor writers think are funny.
            Because of our age difference I’m very close to being on the same emotional level as she is, although she has me beat on both overall maturity and intelligence. You might think she’s part of my midlife crisis, but I’ve yet to buy a sports car or get hair plugs; and she’s clearly not gold-digging, as my entire fortune consists of a collection of wheat-head pennies and a Johnny West action figure (both in fair to poor condition).
            So it must be love. And in honor of Valentine’s Day, that tribute to pink and chocolate, I’d like to tell everyone just what I love about my Emily:
            I love the fact that she doesn’t always have to get girly: She can be up and ready to head out the door in twenty minutes, no need for a bucket of makeup or a shelf full of powered devices that look like they belong in a torture chamber.
            I love the way she slaps me oh-so gently on the back of the head whenever my verbal stream of consciousness gets out of control.
            I love the fact that she loves knowledge, and that we can sit together and watch a PBS documentary without either of us saying, “Huh? I don’t get it.”
            I love the way she doesn’t seem to mind when I break into song (at least, not when I do it in private); she just smiles and turns up the stereo volume on her noise-cancelling headphones.
            I love how all the sports channels on TV could have gone off the air two years ago, and no one in the house would notice.
            I love how we can be walking on a trail in the park one moment, and the next moment be climbing a brush-covered hill that no one’s stepped foot in for decades, just to see what’s on the other side.
            I love how she tries to keep me healthy just for my sake, but doesn’t stay mad for long when she catches me cheating with a Snicker’s bar or Moose Tracks ice cream. When she asks for ice cream herself, I know it’s time to tread carefully, because she’s having a bad day.
            I love how she encourages my writing by throwing small household items at me until I sit down at the keyboard. Although, really, I think she enjoys the throwing a bit too much.
            I love how she taught me snakes have personalities. Her snake is both cowardly and curious, and doesn’t like wearing Santa hats.
            I love how concerned she gets whenever she hears a loud falling noise in the house and isn’t certain where I am, and I love how good she is with first aid. On a related note, I love the concerned look she gets whenever I open the tool box.
            I love how she didn’t protest when I headed to the roof to demolish my chimney, even after I accidentally smashed the ladder. She knows I have my stubborn moments. Did I mention she’s good with first aid?
            I love how we both like the same TV shows, and how we sit down together to devour our limited diet of science fiction, fantasy, and silly sitcoms.
            I love how she makes me put money in the pun jar all the time, but doesn’t actually try to make me stop punning. We should have vacation money saved up in no time.
            I love how books are just as important to her as they are to me – and how they’re usually the same books.
            I love how she’s interested in everything (except sports and politics).
            I love how she calls me “Mustache”. As nicknames go, it beats “Hey Stupid”.
            If none of that is seems too terribly romantic, well … what it is, is love. Romance is a great thing, but it’s not sustainable; you can’t be romantic all the time. True love? That’s the everyday items, the little things – the stuff they don’t write songs about.
            And since I have her – I have it.

Press release for Storm Chaser sale, My Funny Valentine ranking

The e-book version of a local author’s debut novel has been selected by his publisher as one of fourteen romance related stories offered for half price this month in celebration of Valentine’s Day.

Storm Chaser, a romantic comedy that follows the adventures of a cop and a disaster photographer in northeast Indiana, is available for $3.50 from Whiskey Creek Press as a PDF or HTML e-book, readable on almost all e-readers and computers. Anyone can place an order or read a sample chapter and a review by going here:




The author, Mark R. Hunter, is also a contributor to the humor compilation My Funny Valentine, which in advance of the holiday reached a notable high note on the Amazon.com humor book rankings: It hit #16 for e-books and #15 for print books. Hunter’s humor column, Slightly Off The Mark, appears weekly in the local newspapers Albion New Era, Churubusco News, and Northwest News.

My Funny Valentine can be ordered on Amazon:


Or from the publisher at:


Hunter’s website is:


Print copies of My Funny Valentine are also available at the Albion New Era office and at Just Off the Square Antiques and Collectibles, on East Main Street in Albion.

Speak of the Devil: Darth Vader Is A Whiny Crybaby

Speak of the Devil: Darth Vader Is A Whiny Crybaby: "Luke, I am your father. And your mother was a Queen from Naboo, though for some reason they elected queens on that planet. Oh, and when I ...

Underwear Meme Goes Overboard

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK



            Do you know what “meme” is?

            Me neither, so I looked it up on that paragon of accuracy, Wikipedia. Turns out it’s a shortened version of “mimeme”, an ancient Greek word meaning something imitated, or to imitate, or in this case maybe to irritate. The concept propagated through the web, often in the form of a question and answer quiz you’re supposed to fill out, then pass along to all your friends.

            I was sent an underwear meme.

            Seems a bit personal? Well, that’s the nature of memes. Many are designed so people who become friends online get to know more personal details about each other, just as they would if they became friends in real life and, say, sat around talking about their underwear. ‘Cause that’s what my friends always sat around doing.

            “Say, you try them new Fruit of the Looms?”

            “Yep, they seemed a bit binding.”

            No, I never took it easy around the poker table, drinking beer and discussing undies. Not only did I have no desire to, but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing my friends want to hear. In fact, I was going to fill the meme out as if written by one of my novel characters, which I thought would be more interesting and less embarrassing; not to mention the idea that the more a writer knows about their characters, the better he can write them in a story.

            I’m not sure I buy that on an underwear basis.

            Still, it only seems fair: My friends were being up front about underneath, so shouldn’t I? So here, for the first time: All about my underwear. Make the kids turn away.

What do you call your underwear/undergarments? Do you have any commonly used nicknames for them?

In a word, no. What, people nickname their underwear?

“Yeah, let me put on Slim Jim and I’ll be right there.”

“Honey, have you seen Eddie Elastic?”

I don’t think so. I call my underwear … underwear.

Have you ever had that supposedly common dream of being in a crowded place in only your underwear?

Sadly, yes. Speaking as a person who rarely wears shorts and has been made fun of for not removing my shoes in my own home, I can tell you I wouldn’t be thrilled to run around publicly in my tightie whities, or even my Pink Power Rangers pajamas. (What? She was my favorite.)

My dream usually involves not only being in my underwear, but walking around school in my underwear, unable to find my classroom or books, and realizing I’m late for a class I didn’t prepare for. There’s often some falling involved, too.

In other words, my dreams aren’t all that much fun.

What is the worst thing you can think of to make underwear out of?

Poison ivy laced steel wool. I find the fact that I can imagine that to be extremely disturbing.

If you were a pair of panties, what color would you be?

Um … red from embarrassment? Or pink, I guess, since that’s my general skin color. Guess what – these questions get stranger, as tends to happen with memes.

Hm … why do they call panties a “pair”, but bras singular?

Have you ever thrown your underwear at a rock star or other celebrity? If so, which one(s)? If not, which one(s) would you throw your underwear at, given the opportunity?

Former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright. Have you seen her? Wowzers … sexy thang. I’d be very surprised if Bill Clinton never hit that.

Yeah … no. I’ve never understood the point of celebrity crushes to begin with, although I do admit to having something of a man crush on talk show host Craig Ferguson and his stirring Scottish brogue. (And Sean Connery, come to think of it … definitely the accent.)

I understand the possibility that some male celebrities may appreciate the underwear toss, assuming they don’t get knocked over by a girdle or a pair of granny panties. However, I can’t imagine any female celebrity being impressed by some guy hurtling his boxers onto a stage, which would most likely cause her to hurl. And not her underwear.

You’re out of clean underwear. What do you do?

I always keep an emergency stash of older underwear in the back of the drawer, just in case. No, I do not go commando. I only saw the movie There’s Something About Mary once, but it left an indelible impression on me, and I always keep a layer of cloth between any zipper and my … self. If you haven’t seen the movie, you can probably guess by context what I’m talking about.

Are you old enough to remember Underroos? If so, did you have any?

Underroos, for the uninitiated, were underwear that had the pattern of superhero costumes on them. You could be Batman, Superman, or if you were a girl, Wonder Women. Or if you were a boy too, I guess, but then you’d face the possibility of your parents sending you into therapy. I never had them, but I now own a fetching Batman … never mind.

I just Googled “Underoos”. Note to self: Tighten up that adult filter setting.

If you could have any message printed on your underwear, what would it be?

“Have you seen my classroom? Can I borrow your notes?”

How many bloggers does it take to put panties on a goat?

Um … huh?

There’s always one last weird, unrelated question tacked onto these memes, just to make people do a double take. I’m not sure how PETA feels about forcing animals into tightie whities, but the goat’s bound to be displeased.

By the way, the actual number of bloggers it takes is 42. It may seem like a lot, but bloggers are generally an out of shape bunch, and the goats can get very displeased.

Maybe they should try boxers.