The use (and misuse) of Mary Sues and self-inserts is the
subject of my blog tour post today . Thanks to author Jana Denardo, who’s
hosting me over at LiveJournal:
Mary Sue and the Fanfiction of Doom
Fact checking claims on jobs, medicare
NBC fact checks Dem jobs, Medicare claims:
http://nbcpolitics.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/09/05/13690187-dems-twist-jobs-numbers-and-gop-medicare-ideas?lite
http://nbcpolitics.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/09/05/13690187-dems-twist-jobs-numbers-and-gop-medicare-ideas?lite
That Was One Giant Man, Taking That Step
SLIGHTLY
OFF THE MARK
“I’m gonna go up there
someday.” The young man crouched in his parents’ backyard, squinting into the
eyepiece of a telescope.
His mother followed his
gaze, up to the bright globe hovering over their back yard. “To the Moon?”
“Sure. It’s 1962, Ma --
they’re sending up rockets and such. And I’m a pilot -- who’d be better for flying
that far than a pilot?”
She shook her head, still
looking toward the Moon, her mouth downturned. “As if your life wasn’t
dangerous enough, you want to go out into space. Sometimes I don’t think we
raised you with a lick of sense.”
He grinned, and enveloped
his mother in a hug. Neither was much of a talker, but they understood each
other. “I’ll bring you back a Moon rock.
Or cheese.”
“Just bring me back
yourself.” She turned away from the gray orb, back toward the comforts of her
home and the things she knew and understood. How things had changed since her
son was born: World Wars, Cold Wars, rockets into space, that crazy interstate
highway idea. And her little boy flying around in jet fighters, fending off the
Red Menace.
“That’s gotta be the first
step, Ma. You’ve seen the movies -- we’re destined to go out into space,
someday, explore the stars. We’re headed up a ladder, and the Moon is the first
rung.”
“Well.” At the door she
turned back, to see her son standing there in his uniform, still staring up.
Maybe he’d be safer in a spacesuit, after all. “If you’re going to do all that,
you need to keep your strength up. You get in here and eat your supper before
it gets cold, Neil Armstrong.”
Neil’s smile seemed to say
that no matter what he accomplished, his mother would always be his mother.
#
I wrote that for a writer’s group a few
years ago, trying to capture what it must have been like for a young man about
to push the edge of technology, to become a true pioneer. I don’t know if any
moment like that ever happened (the real Armstrong was already married at that
point), but if so, it would have happened just a couple of hours drive from
where I grew up, and from where I marveled at his accomplishments as a kid.
1962 was the year I was born: the
year Neil Armstrong’s daughter died of pneumonia, the year Armstrong was chosen
as a pilot for a military space plane, and the year he sent in his application
to be one of the “New Nine” NASA astronauts.
I was four years old when Armstrong
went up on Gemini 8, six when he was
almost killed while flying a lunar lander simulator. Two days after my seventh
birthday Apollo 11 lifted off, and my
earliest memory is staring at the grainy black and white TV footage as Neil
Armstrong becoming the first human being to step foot on our Moon.
Like many kids of the time, I was
all about space exploration. I had a full Apollo rocket assembly (a toy with a
capsule that would pop off and fly into the air); a plastic lunar lander;
models of, among other things, a Soviet Soyuz capsule and assorted other
rockets and spaceships; and, of course, astronaut action figures. Vietnam,
Nixonian politics, and the Cold War could have been in another universe for all
I cared, but I inhaled any information I could get about space exploration.
Naturally I wanted to be an
astronaut myself, but it turns out they have to be good with math.
I’m not sure it’s possible to
overstate the impact the first Moon landing had on the world. 450 million radio
listeners heard Neil Armstrong proclaim he’d just made a giant leap for
mankind. 93% of American households with TVs tuned in to the mission, making it
the most watched program ever at the time.
The President was waiting to greet them
personally when they splashed down. (I remember my teacher dragging a portable
TV into our classroom so we could watch a splashdown live, although I don’t
recall if it was Apollo 11 or a
different flight.) The astronauts rode in ticker tape parades, were on stamps
and coins, and got a visit with the Queen of England.
So when I say Neil Armstrong was a
Big Deal, understand that I’m not doing that over-exaggeration thing that’s
become far too common with the most minor celebrities. And when I say Neil
Armstrong was a hero, realize just how high the stakes were: In today’s
risk-averse world, the whole thing never would have happened.
There was every reason to believe
Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, and maybe even command module pilot Michael
Collins, would never see Earth again. It was a huge technological challenge,
and the planners were rushed by the fact that it was also a race. (A Soviet
probe malfunctioned and crashed on the Moon just after Armstrong and Aldrin
finished the first Moon walk.) A speech had been prepared for President Nixon
to give if the Apollo 11 crew ended
up stranded.
When the astronauts got ready to
leave, they discovered the switch that would arm the one and only main engine
for liftoff had broken off. They used a felt-tip pen to replace it. Only the
pen kept them from dying on the Moon.
So, yeah. I’m a bit gutted by his
death, as my British friends would say. Neil Armstrong was my first real-life
hero. I hadn’t had many heroes at all, to that point: Mr. Spock of Star Trek, maybe, and assorted
characters from TV shows and comic books. But Armstrong was real. A flesh and
blood daredevil, a man who grabbed death by the hood and kicked its butt.
He didn’t seek fame, didn’t get
stupid with bling or childish behavior, didn’t lever his celebrity for personal
gain. By all accounts he was brave and humble; a risk taker, but not obnoxious
about it; a pioneer, but aware he was only human.
Neil Armstrong was more than a hero:
He was the kind of man they just don’t seem to make anymore. Just as the
universe became bigger and more accessible with him, the world seems a smaller,
duller place without him. Rest in peace, Neil. Once more you go into unknown
territory – may your engines always fire, and your compass always be true.
Bookcase, assemble
If there's one thing I learned today, it's that the biggest challenge
that will ever face a relationship is assembling furniture together.
This is especially true when the woman is feeling sickly and the man
just had a tooth drilled.
How I Spent My Summer Medication
SLIGHTLY OFF THE
MARK
Note:
All of the events recorded here really happened, as currently being vetted by
the Guinness Book of World Records (“worst vacation ever”); however, the order
and exact date have been changed, due to author laziness in not recording them.
Day
One: Took three full weeks of vacation this summer! I need it: The only job
that sees more horror than an emergency dispatcher is Joe Biden’s press
secretary.
Day
Two: Stopped at the doctor’s office to double check on the abdominal pain
I’ve been having for the last three months. What? I’m a guy.
Day
Two, evening: What the heck’s diverticulitis? Well, a little bottle of
antibiotics won’t interfere with my vacation. The doc wants me to get a
colonoscopy, so I study up on the procedure with Dave Barry’s humor column and
Jeff Foxworthy’s standup routine.
Maybe living with the pain’s not so bad.
Day
Three: Emily’s endometriosis seems to be acting up, although the pain isn’t
in the same place as before. I make jokes about us both having abdominal pain,
and conditions that end with “is”. It’s a competition! She’s also been coughing
since she started taking allergy medicine. There’s irony.
Day
Four: Chiropractor appointments for both of us. It’s nice to do things as a
couple. Later we sit on the couch with ice packs as a couple and watch Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Great
musical score, but the pace puts us to sleep. We’ll start our real vacation
tomorrow.
Day
Five: Emily gives up several pints of various fluids to the doctor, while I
joke that my work’s clinic has become a daily destination. Later we go to the
drive-in movies, but bellyaches bother us both. At least we didn’t have to sit
through an odd numbered Star Trek
movie.
Day
Six: Emily hurts too much to go camping. That’s very bad. My ex-Scout wife
lives to do outdoorsy stuff, but we can only manage to build a backyard fire
pit out of old chimney bricks. One shows an indentation from my head.
Day
Seven: We spend Sunday talking about what we should be doing on our
vacation.
Day Eight: The OB/GYN
pokes and prods – Emily, not me – with an increasing look of concern. He should
be concerned: If he causes her much more pain she’s going to send him to a
plastic surgeon. He makes sure we’re sitting down before declaring she may have
a hernia.
WTF? For you old timers, that means
“huh?”
Day
Nine: Emily’s pre-scheduled appointment with a dental surgeon is entirely
unconnected to all the rest … we assume. He explains that her one remaining
wisdom tooth is buried deeper than a congressman’s soul and is cuddling with a
major nerve, and if it isn’t bothering her we should probably just leave it
alone. We paid $99 for this suggestion of inactivity. On the brighter side, she
has two cavities.
Day
Ten: Apparently I’m dehydrated, because the nurse blows two of my veins – a
phrase I find disconcerting. I almost make a joke about her optometrist, but
she’s still aiming a needle at my arm. For the rest of vacation I’ll carry a
bruise the approximate shape, color, and size of the Mars rover crater.
Day
Eleven: Emily’s cavities get drilled, I have a routine cleaning. The family
that stays together … what do you mean, I have a filling, too? And just one?
She “wins”.
Later that day I stop eating. It’s
not my idea: Apparently a colonoscopy involves two days of preparation for a
twenty minute procedure.
Day
Twelve: I take six doses of laxative. Emily mixes Gatorade and another,
powdered laxative into a fifty-five gallon drum, which I have to drink in six
ounce increments over the space of three hours. Then I can sleep until my
appointment the next day. Hah. There’ll be no sleep tonight.
Day
Thirteen: I’ve never worn one of those hospital gowns before. They’re
flimsy, impossible to figure out, don’t cover enough, and are probably
expensive, so I promptly dub mine “Obamacover”. Having had much experience with
medical facilities, I prefer the other side of the cot.
I sleep through the procedure,
including Emily dressing me and my daughter driving me home. Easiest day of the
week. The doctor has removed a polyp near the site of my diverticulosis, a
sentence I refuse to examine more closely.
Day
Fourteen: We’re exhausted. We’ve done nothing, gone nowhere, and
accomplished nothing, but we’re exhausted.
Day Fifteen: It’s now
Emily’s turn to fast. She’s to have a CAT scan, which prompts all sorts of
feline related jokes. It’s just a matter of time before she clobbers me, but at
least the hospital already has my information.
Day Sixteen: Emily’s chest
hurts. Huh. It’s where she had some odd pain as a child, only this time I’m
determined someone will figure out what it is.
Day Seventeen: We meet with
the surgeon, who explains he will not be operating because, according to
Emily’s CAT scan, she has absolutely no problems in her abdomen or pelvis.
We’re back to square one. It’s like playing Monopoly for two weeks, only to
land on a Chance card that tells you to start over again from scratch.
Day Eighteen: I try to think
of some last minute fun thing to do, but it hurts Emily to ride in the car and
I think I’m getting a sinus infection … and I’m having some after-effects from
the colonoscopy. We’re having a Staycation.
Day Nineteen: Another poking
and prodding session, by an old doctor who seems interested in actually finding
out what’s wrong. He thinks Emily has an injury to the cartilage around her
sternum – thus the chest pain – probably made worse again by her recent
coughing. It’s called Tietze’s syndrome. No, seriously. Recovery is a slow
process: My wife, who normally loves nothing more than to get out into the
wilderness all summer, is pretty much stuck at home. I offer to let her hit me,
but she declines. Maybe I’ll start making puns again until she unleashes some
stress-relieving injury.
Day Twenty: We schedule
another appointment with the girl parts doctor about her abdomen. I’m going to
threaten him, or bride him. Probably threaten, as we’ve plowed through our
health savings account for the year.
Day Twenty-one: I insist to
Emily that tomorrow we’re going to go out and do something fun and vacation-like.
She points out that I have to go back to work tonight.
After all those needles, it’s the first
time in three weeks that I cry.
fire tragedy in Albion
Tragedy in Albion this morning, with a woman dead and her family homeless after a mobile home fire. Here’s the story and video from Fort Wayne’s WANE TV (that’s me seen briefly, in my position as the fire department public information officer).
http://www.wane.com/dpp/news/one-dies-in-mobile-home-fire-in-albion
WordWranglers: What do you love to write?
WordWranglers: What do you love to write?: You know, I love writing romance. Even more, I love writing (and reading!) women’s fiction. The fact that I’m published in romantic fict...
My stab at poetry ... about writing
Today my blog tour steps into the world of April Morone, where I discuss an art form that mystifies so many, and even take a stab at it myself: poetry. Poetry about the writing life, even. I make no guarantees.
http://aprilmorone.wordpress.com/2012/08/24/mark-hunter-a-unique-and-humourous-writer-i-admire/
http://aprilmorone.wordpress.com/2012/08/24/mark-hunter-a-unique-and-humourous-writer-i-admire/
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