The Writing-Hood

Chance Meeting In Aisle Eight

2011-11-21T07:08:00.000-08:00

I ran into an old friend at Walgreens the other day. It was while contemplating a cornucopia of stuff in the toothpaste aisle that my gaze fell on the bottom shelf. There, looking forlorn and somewhat out of place, sat a tube of Pepsodent toothpaste.

"Wow, where have YOU been all these years?" And how had such an icon of past consumer products been relegated to the bottom shelf. Along with millions of Americans in the 1950's, I wondered where the yellow went when I brushed my teeth with Pepsodent.

Then I saw the price of a dollar and understood completely my old friend's fall from marketing grace. Very popular before the mid 1950's, Pepsodent was slow to add flouride to its formula and sales fell behind highly promoted Crest and Gleem. Today Pepsodent is sold as a "value brand", often half the price of similar sizes of Crest and Colgate.

Because of the price, I wondered that my dental buddy may no longer be up to the cleaning task. It was worth a try and I've since discovered Pepsodent is as good as ever even though it now too has flouride.

On my subsequent trips to drugstores, I've engaged in a homegrown form of marketing sedition. If no one is looking, I place the Pepsodent where it belongs, on the top shelf.

Ram Dog

2011-08-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

Ram Dog

He always knew he was different

Last to be fed or let out

He perused magazines left on the sofa

Shunned at dog parks

He learned to appreciate small flowers

Lost near a farm

He saw animals with horns

Animals like him came close

Barked and turned away

He felt a connection to them

Wanted to speak

But a dusty van pulled up

Door opened and he jumped in

Glad to be different

Glad to be going home

1, 2, 3, Blink

2011-01-07T10:09:00.000-08:00

Facebook Vice-President of Operations Benji Gopal announced yesterday that tech support has finally discovered why CEO Mark Zuckerberg never blinks.

"It appears Mark has a corrupt visual cortex on his hard drive," said Gopal in a news conference at Facebook headquarters in Palo Alto, California.

Zuckerberg's inability to blink has caused many outside of Facebook to wonder if he is really human.

"I'm sure I saw a USB port behind his right ear," said CSN reporter Clive Durkin.

"That's ridiculous!" said Gopal. "Mark is as human as you or I. He will be fine once we reconfigure his autonomic nervous system and reboot."

Sad News

2010-12-01T18:28:00.000-08:00

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was considered a very smart cookie, but wasted much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife Play Dough, and three children: John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart.

The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.

The Enchanted Rock

2010-11-24T14:40:00.000-08:00

An RAF pilot crash lands into a remote northern forest. Deep in the forest, he stumbles across a strange boulder. Exhausted, he falls asleep, and wakes surrounded by a dazzling blue light. He realizes the light is coming from the rock. Finally rescued, the pilot tells about the rock, but no one believes him.

Years later, developers build a resort on the forest’s edge. One night, hikers get lost and rediscover the glowing rock. Word gets out and people stream into the forest to see it. The rock becomes so famous the forest service builds a road.

Businesses spring up catering to visitors. Tract houses are built along the forest’s edge. Pollution fouls the air and an unexplained fire destroys more forest. The enchanted rock sits exposed to the elements. Its light gets dimmer and dimmer, and finally goes out.

Later, the new town of Rochelle builds a shopping center. No one knows what to do about the ugly rock. A demolition company agrees to haul it away. The rock is loaded onto a flatbed truck and hauled to a distant railroad. There, it is hoisted onto a rail car.

Days later, the train arrives at a sea-port and the rock is loaded into a ship. The vessel sails into the vast ocean, and drops the great rock into the water. The boulder quickly sinks into the murky deep, coming to rest on the ocean floor. Now in complete darkness, an odd thing happens. The enchanted rock once again begins its beautiful blue glow.

Fighting Continues In The EU Cheese War

2010-11-10T16:20:00.000-08:00

The stinking Cheese War in the breakaway Republic of Cheddarstan is now entering its fifth year, with no end in sight. A tribe of indigenous goat farmers called the Feta Fighters is waging a holey war on their next-door neighbors, the Swissies. This is not Gouda.

Reasons for the violence are unclear, but many suspect bad feelings between Fetas and Swissies started with the formation of the European Union. EU bureaucrats immediately set about standardizing weights and measures, starting with milk products.

In a bold move at cost cutting, the EU announced that Swiss cheese must henceforth have at least twelve per-cent more holes. This, of course, infuriated the Swissies, who insisted their cheese would then be no better than goat droppings. The Fetas, historically no friends of the Swissies, took this as an insult, and the War was on.

Later, in the Treaty of Briebourg, EU president Herman Munster urged both sides to set aside bad feelings and put their curds on the table. The shaky ceasefire lasted barely six weeks.

One night a radical cheese head named Russ Limburger sneaked across the border and set fire to a Swissie cheese barn. The resulting Battle of Fondue Field broke the ceasefire and the Cheese War today continues to rage out of control.

A Shout Out With Ashley Bryan

2010-10-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

"It's not that every artist is a special kind of person; it's that every person is a special kind of artist. Each of us experiences the aesthetic, and possesses the creative". -Ashley Bryan-

Last evening, Dunedin Fine Art Center hosted master storyteller, teacher and artist Ashley Bryan. Described as a “force of nature,” Bryan is the illustrator of 30 children’s books and winner of numerous awards, including the 2005 Coretta Scott King Award and Laura Ingalls Wilder Medal for achievement in children’s literature.

Surrounded by an exhibition of his colorful illustrations and puppets, Mr. Bryan quickly demonstrated why he is in such demand as a speaker. Within minutes this quiet and humble man had his audience shouting and clapping along, as they repeated after him several African-American poems and folk tales.

Each of us immediately sensed his joyful commitment to writing and the spoken word. Later, after most people had left, Ashley Bryan stayed on, amazing us with his energy and willingness to share.

"I've Nothing To Say!" There's An App For That

2010-10-11T15:32:00.000-07:00

We hear over and over these days how some marvelous new technological gadget will bring us together. From iPhones, Skype and YouTube to Facebook and Twitter, the mantra remains the same – “Stay connected!”

There are a lot of us who also use these same technologies to distance ourselves from others.

Take e-mail for example. Have you ever had a bit of unpleasantness with a friend and rather than meeting face-to-face or even phoning them, you instead tap out a quick impersonal e-mail. Confident the problem is solved; you are easily off the hook.

Facebook is an excellent way to stay tuned to what is going on in our circle of friends. Daily we learn of upcoming meetings, opinions or calls to action. But, as our circle expands, we become so inundated with opportunities to support worthwhile causes or attend urgent meetings that we automatically hit the “like” button and scroll on to the next news feed – a YouTube video of dancing dogs.

IPhone, with its e-mail and video functions, seems to be the ultimate connective tool. Messages and videos can be instantly uploaded to Facebook, Twitter, or a host of other services. Even video conferences are possible over these something-for-everyone marvels.

There remains in the world a group of people who do not function well in public situations. These are the folks who break into a sweat at the mention of the word “mingle.” At parties, they are the ones rooted at the food table, beer in one hand, stuffing canapés in their mouth with the other hand. Thus encumbered, they are spared the odious task of simple communication.

The iPhone turns out to be an excellent diversion for these silent types. I was recently at a dinner party with a dozen people seated at table, all trying to get a word in edgewise. One guest, however, did not join in the discussion and sat pushing bits of food around his plate.

Suddenly, grinning, he pulled out a shiny iPhone and immediately became lost in its multitude of applications. The man no longer felt the need to interact with his dinner companions. He had become an island unto himself thanks to his personal connection device.

Lessons From Flo and Eddie

2010-09-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

Sometime last year, two eastern grey squirrels decided to take up residence in my front yard – a small patch of peace and quiet one day and the next a chorus of chittering and barking as the two announced their presence to the world and the bored cat next door.

Squirrels have never come off as being overly intelligent, perhaps one notch above that moron of flying things, the mourning dove. Their alternating displays of spastic energy and trance-like stupor were amusing at first, but if those were all squirrels had to show, forget it. Besides, remove all their fur and what you have is a rat.

Refusing to let my mornings be ambushed by goggle-eyed rodents, I continued a long standing ritual of tea and solitude before heading off to work. My first mistake was the bag of peanuts, the raw in-the-shell kind, tossed onto the grass without a thought of the consequences.

To my surprise, Flo and Eddie scooted down the tree to investigate. The pair quickly realized a bonanza when they smelled it and eagerly scarfed down every goober. Afterward, they stared at me for a few seconds before going all spastic again.

It only took a few weeks before the couple had me trained to bring them peanuts every morning. After that, I had to remove squirrels from my dumb animal list.

Hands Across The Sand

2010-06-30T12:03:00.000-07:00

Hey BP, we don't want your stinking oil, except for our cars, trains, boats and planes, our lawn mowers, tractors, generators and furnaces, motorcycles, snow-blowers, and those noisy weed-eaters. So, all you greedy petrol pushers take your fancy oil rigs and go away, but don't go too far. We may need to gas up the SUV for a trip to the mountains over the Fourth of July.

Letter To The Gulf of Mexico

2010-06-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

Dear One,
Thought of you when I awoke this morning and turned on the air conditioner. Wondered how you were doing as I drove the car across town to the new Publix. On the way out, stopped in the produce section for Costa Rican bananas on sale.

"Paper or plastic?" the bag-boy mumbled and I remembered what you would say. "Paper of course!"

Hurried home to clean up the place before Laura flies in tomorrow. Remember we drove over to see you last time she was here? She dearly loves sitting by your side. That won't be happening this trip.

Well, I better sign off now. The lawn needs mowing. Dry-cleaning picked up. So many things to do. Just know that whatever I'm doing or where ever I'm going, you are always in my thoughts and prayers.

Get well soon!
Love,
Denis

Back From The Edge

2010-05-09T15:43:00.000-07:00

Mothers Day is the perfect time to hand out propers, to celebrate what didn't happen and be grateful for it. Once, many years ago, I came this close to rolling down a West Virginia mountain side. But for my wonderful and quick mother, I would, most likely, still be rolling.

When still a diaper boy, mom put me in one of those round baby walkers, so I could scoot around freely on my own. Little did she know my new freedom would soon take me right to the edge. One day, she left my sister and I to play in the living room while she took a shower.

At the time, we lived on the second floor of an apartment house in the town of Beckley. From our vantage point, there was no up, just a long way down the hill to the main road. Hill is a relative term here, because Beckley sat directly on a mountain top.

Mom felt secure, since the screen door was latched and she could hear anything going on in the living room. Besides, she would only be a few minutes. That turned out to be just enough time for my sister. My mother first heard silence and then the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor. When she heard the screen door swing open and my baby walker roll across the floor, she instantly knew what was happening.

She later told us she had never moved faster than that day. In an instant, she grabbed a towel and raced through the apartment to the living room. There stood my sister with the screen door propped open and me rolling out the door onto the second-story porch.

Mom made it out to the porch just as I approached the stairs. With her flapping towel providing little cover, she lunged and caught hold of me inches from the stairs' edge. Two old men sitting on the adjoining porch stared in wide-eyed amazement. One of them started clapping.

I'll never know whether he appreciated her quick courage or was simply grateful for the unexpected eye-full. I only know that on this special day many years later, I am still grateful for a mother's love.

Elephant Humor

2010-04-24T16:02:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when younger and more irreverent, I penned a small picture book of our friends the elephants. Not quite viewing material for children and perhaps too cartoonish for grown-ups, I could see no market for the collection of pachyderm puns. For years it remained lost at the bottom of my bookcase.

Spring cleaning recently brought the book out of hiding and onto my desk. Now, with a bit more maturity, or perhaps desperation, I'm beginning to see possibilities for this collection. All that remain are a dozen more drawings, photographing, scanning, editing, printing, binding, marketing, and then the hard work begins - more marketing.

Once Upon A Time In Atlanta

2010-02-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday’s gray blustery weather forced me to live up to a long standing promise – “On the next shut-in day I swear I will clean out my files.” My procrastinating skills could not even prevent the long dreaded moment and by mid-afternoon I found myself surrounded by piles of letters, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, receipts, and drawings – the forgotten stuff of pack rats.

Each piece that came to view brought a rush of memories and the short cleaning job stretched into early evening. A rediscovered magazine cover brought an end to the day’s labor and for that I gave thanks. A few hours remained to do what I wanted.

One of my first jobs out of college was a stint at the Atlanta Magazine, a glossy city tabloid put out by the Chamber of Commerce. To save money, all print preparation ended up being done in-house and that job fell to the advertising art department. The advertising director did not like his overworked crew taking on another job and directed them to bring in a free-lance artist. My college chum happened to be advertising art director and gave the job to me.

One week each month I pasted-up the Magazine at the Chamber of Commerce building in downtown Atlanta, just a short walk from so much Southern history. I loved that job and the opportunity to work in an office of wacky creative people.

I came up with the Santa Atlanta magazine cover and presented it to the editorial art director who passed it along to the editorial director. He shared it with his writers and they showed it to the advertising account reps. All down the line, everyone loved the idea, until it reached the advertising director. “We can’t have a cover without teaser copy,” he said. “Besides, no one will recognize it as Atlanta Magazine.”

Thankfully, the editorial department had final say and the cover graced the December 1972 issue. Looking at the cover today, I am struck by two thoughts – surprise that such a minimal design was accepted and a belief that my unique cover solution still holds up today.

Wild Wild Animals

2010-01-31T10:14:00.000-08:00

Here is the latest revision of a sample page from my Wild Wild Animals Alphabet Book. This eight year project has been through more changes than a rainbow chameleon, the latest being a complete text revamp.

A wise editor at a SCBWI conference a few years ago suggested I use rhyming text as a way to give more rhythm when read aloud. Perhaps it was also a subtle challenge to see if I could pull it off.

I can now state that writing in rhyme is not for the impatient or easily pleased. It has been a bear of a job and on more than one occasion I've thrown up my hands in frustration.

Now, with plucked up courage and generous critiques from my writing group, the manuscript is well on the way to completion.

I See What You're Thinking

2010-01-09T10:59:00.000-08:00

Apple this week announced the release of a new iPhone application that may be the ultimate in social networking. Named iThink, the free app will allow friends for the first time to know each other’s thoughts instantly from moment to moment, even while asleep.

IThink uses nano-technology in which tiny electrodes are placed in the cerebrum of user’s brains. Once implanted by Apple technicians, thoughts are wirelessly sent to friend’s iPhones and read as text messages.

Critics immediately complained that our thoughts, our last bastion of privacy, will now be on display to the world. But social anthropologist Barry Golson of Chicago’s Institute of Cognitive Behavior believes this may not be a bad thing.

“If everyone knows our every thought,” he said, “we will be forced to clean up our acts. We may be finally seeing the end of all negative thoughts.”

In a related story, Russian hackers have reportedly broken into thousands of European iThink user’s brains, wreaking havoc. IPhones across the European Union have now begun texting Slavic drinking songs.

When asked to comment, Apple’s EU Director of Information Nigel Perryman had this to say,
“Crikey, now I don’t know what to think!”

The Third Eye Blinds

2009-12-19T17:05:00.000-08:00

Today after lunch, I went for a three mile walk in the neighborhood. It’s an exercise I’ve been perfecting for twenty-four years, always following the same route, passing the same homes, people and landscapes. At my 1.5 mile mark, I turned round and headed home along the postcard beautiful Intracoastal Waterway.

I never tire of these forty minute immersions in urban nature, a landscape manicured yet still capable of stunning wildness. I have seen hurricane driven waves pound across the roadway onto waterfront lawns. Water spouts dancing near barrier islands. Nighttime electrical storms flashing webs of lightening.

Wild critters roam here too. Dunedin is home to ospreys and owls, coyotes, armadillos and raccoons. A run-over raccoon once dragged itself to a church entrance and died, stretched out in prayerful prostration.

Wood storks have also taken up residence. Groups of these gangly birds have moved up from disappearing Everglades wetlands. Magnificent in flight, storks on land shuffle along like old men at the mall. They are safe here and, armed with oversized beaks, fear no dogs.

These things I have seen and in every instance they have come to me unbidden. It’s amazing what one can meet when approaching nature without expectations. Tiny indigo wild flowers reveal themselves near a rain culvert. A belted kingfisher hovers inches above the water.

Today, for the first time, I took along a camera to capture nature. Throughout the walk, my attention remained focused on the next creative shot. I made dozens of photographs, hoping for the best exposure, composition, and interest. The session ended quickly and I returned home feeling like an intruder. Something special was missing and later I realized that today nature had been hiding.

Elizabeth Gilbert on Creativity

2009-12-16T11:48:00.000-08:00

Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators

2009-12-02T12:16:00.000-08:00

SCBWI is alive and well in the Tampa Bay area. A call recently went out from our area coordinator, Sue LeNeve, and on Monday evening a large group of us convened for an introductory "meet and greet" at Bahama Breeze restaurant in Tampa. I was surprised to learn there are presently ten critique groups in Tampa Bay.

When joining SCBWI four years ago, I was hard pressed to find any group in Pinellas County. Now a concerted effort is being made to bring these groups together on a regular basis and have workshops and guest speakers.

This bodes well for those of us who often pause at the keyboard, wondering if we are the only writer in the world stuck on page sixteen with a plot going nowhere.

Clan of the Cave Rat

2009-11-21T14:10:00.001-08:00

In 1954, 160 acres of orange groves in Anaheim, California were cleared to make way for the first Disneyland theme park. The park opened its gates to the public a year later.

One night several months after that, a group of displaced fruit rats went looking for their old home. After squeezing under Disneyland’s front gate, they scurried down Main Street past Tomorrowland and soon came to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Old Riley Rat peered all around and scratched his gray whiskers.

“I’m positive our grove of trees was right here.” he said and stamped the ground next to a concrete toadstool.

“No, no! chimed in Ronnie Rat, “I’m sure they’re over there on the other side of that river.”

By now dead tired, the rat clan trudged on, dodging shiny exotic cars in Autopia until finally arriving at the Jungle Cruise attraction. Standing at river’s edge, they gazed down into the dark water.

“What now?” squeaked Ruthie. “I certainly can’t swim across.”

Riley spied a Styrofoam tray floating in the reeds and using his cane pulled it over to them. The tray was big enough for four rats and an argument broke out on who should go. Riley, being the wisest, agreed to pick three companions to make the crossing with him. The old rat selected Rocco, the strongest of the group, Rico, the fastest among them and finally, Romeo, the best talker.

“If we get cornered by a cat,” he said, “we’ll need a politician to divert its attention.”

After a slow and soggy river crossing, the four rats scrambled ashore on mysterious Jungle Island. Before them rose a wall of thick mahogany trees. Strange sounds echoed from within. The rats glanced at each other and trembled. Wise Riley pushed Rocco out in front and off they went into the jungle. After an hour, the trees began to give way and the four came out into a sunny clearing.

At the center stood a bright striped tent with mouse-head balloons bobbing in the breeze. A flowing banner above the entrance proclaimed, “Welcome to Mickey’s Toontown!” All the rats scratched their heads. Who is this Mickey and what is a Toontown?

“I wonder if he’s friendly?” said Rico.

The rats approached the entrance and saw off to the side a trap door with stairs that descended down into darkness. Now more curious than afraid, they looked quickly around, saw no cats, and started down the steep steps. Holding onto each other’s tails, the group came at last to the bottom and found themselves in a narrow passageway. Further along, they made out the faint outline of a large head. Moving in for a closer look, Romeo came face to snout with a grinning clown face. And below the face was an ornately carved door.

Riley tip-toed to the door and pressed his ear against the clown’s wooden nose. He heard nothing except his beating heart.

“Clowns scare me,” he whispered, “but I’ve just got to see a Mickey.”

With that, Riley grabbed the door’s brass handle and pulled. The door groaned and moved a few inches. Then the others took hold and together heaved open the door. They stood on the threshold of another room, staring into inky blackness.

Riley plucked up his courage. “I will be brave! I will be brave!” he mumbled and forced his feet to inch forward. The other rats crept behind. About twenty feet into the room, Rico stepped on a raised bump in the floor. He instantly pulled back, but too late.

Flashing technicolor lights suddenly ricocheted around the room. The interior lit up until the rats saw they were in a great circus hall. Laughing cartoon faces looked down from every wall. Stars twinkled in a cotton candy ceiling. Carnival music filled the thick air.

Somewhere far away a humming sound grew louder and louder and just then, the floor itself began to open. The rats tried to run away, but their paws felt glued to the floor. Wide eyed, speechless, they watched as something huge began moving up through the opening. On and on it came, until the colossal thing shuddered to a stop. Fifty feet high, it towered over the trembling rodents.

Terrified, all four covered their eyes and huddled together. None dared peek, lest they be completely vaporized.

A thought zipped through Riley’s troubled mind; Will we ever get out of Toontown alive?

After several minutes, Riley felt for his snout and found it still attached to his face. He counted his fingers, all eight still there. The rats had not been zapped after all. They were alive. The music and humming faded away. One by one, they opened their eyes and squinted into the bright silent hall. None could believe what they saw before them.

The giant creature stood alone in the center, bathed by the glow of dancing spot lights. All four rats gazed at its fat yellow shoes and oversized red shorts. Two white gloved hands reached out to them. But it was the face that took their breath away and opened their eyes in amazement. Riley, Rocco, Rico and Romeo stared up into their own rat faces.

But here was a face like they had never seen. Radiating compassion, its warm smile and twinkling button eyes melted away their fears and filled their puny bodies with hope. No longer lost in a strange land, the rat clan felt for the first time in the presence of divinity. All fell to the floor, prostrating themselves before the great magnificent being. They had finally come home.

Not In The Cards

2009-11-10T14:20:00.000-08:00

In 1979, in an effort to revive my ailing illustration business, I started a greeting card company called Bullfrog Press. Why hustle trying to sell one drawing for $500.00 when I could sell 250 cards at $2.00 each.

After researching the market, designing six Christmas cards, and convincing a printer friend to let me pay on the cuff, I had several thousand cards printed. My company of one was up and running.

Step Two of my Success Plan transformed me into what I considered a savvy sales rep. Samples in hand and chafing in coat and tie, I cold called gift shops in Atlanta's trendiest neighborhoods - Buckhead, Virginia-Highland, Midtown, and Little Five Points.

Step Three was supposed to be me writing up huge orders but my pen never left my pocket. Most shop owners would not even bother to talk. Others allowed they bought all their cards at the big spring wholesale show. One buyer suggested I add a dozen cards to my line and come back. So much for Step Three and the savvy sales rep.

Realizing my research was faulty, I visited the Atlanta Merchandise Mart and discovered several companies that offered greeting cards. The owners of the second showroom loved the drawings and irreverent humor. They agreed to handle my cards, but warned they would be up against major companies with lines for every occasion.

Their commissioned salesmen fanned out to all major Southeastern markets, but after four months, my cards always ended up on the bottom of their sample cases.

My excellent greeting card business folded after selling a dozen cards to one shop in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. It was, I assured myself, a great idea whose time had not yet come. Not wanting to dwell on "what ifs," and "maybes," I sought gainful employment and found it - designing brochures and trademarks in a corporate art department. Bullfrog Press still simmers on the back burner.

The Faithful Fridge

2009-11-01T15:18:00.000-08:00

In 1973 my parents bought a small wood frame house built sometime after World War II. The fixer upper had all original appliances some of which my dad swore came over on the Mayflower. The ancient ice box was soon replaced by a new refrigerator from Frigidaire, the same company that invented the self-contained refrigerator in 1916.

Made before “planned obsolescence” trickled down to appliances, the Frigidaire ran and ran and kept on running. Over the years, its housemates, toasters, televisions and telephones came and went; their stamped circuits no match for over use, power surges or Florida humidity.

But for thirty years the “Frige” did its job quietly and efficiently, never once calling in sick or taking a day off. It was only during hurricane driven power outages that we realized the importance of “old faithful.”

About five years ago the Frigidaire began leaking from somewhere deep in its mechanical innards. Its dry rubber seals began peeling off like shedding snake skins. Finally, the compressor started making large clunking sounds, causing visitors to exclaim, “What in the world was that?”

We knew it was time for “Frige” to go. As often happens, a few days after we decided to pull the plug, I was given a practically new refrigerator. Lightweight and energy efficient, the Hotpoint looks sleek compared to the squat coils-in-the-back Frigidaire.

Yesterday we made the switch and with much effort pushed and pulled the old Frigidaire out to the curbside. In a final act of indecency, we removed the doors, and “Frige” stood naked to the world and people using the laundromat across the street.

Taken from its familiar kitchen environment, the dismembered Frigidaire looked unrecognizable; a derelict chunk on the urban roadside. After thirty-five years of loyal service, it deserved better.

Postscript: I wanted to take a photograph of the Frigidaire and drove over early the next morning. It was already gone and I am hoping an industrious family resurrected old faithful for another ten years of chilling service.

Jimmy Roy, King of the World

2009-10-25T11:44:00.001-07:00

One of my children’s stories, "Jimmy Roy, King of the World," was recently published by Stories For Children Magazine. Featured on page 38 in the September issue of the popular e-zine, "Jimmy Roy" expands on the reoccuring wish of children to rule the world.

The story recounts what happens when a mischievous and creative boy is grounded for the weekend with a computer. His outlandish wishes become real, but with some unforeseen and funny consequences.

The essence of Jimmy is autobiographical and becomes a vehicle for my own childhood shenanigans. Now that I think of it, this could lead to a series, "The Further Adventures of Jimmy Roy."

Out Of The Blue

2009-08-29T12:42:00.000-07:00

My writing buddy Augusta Scattergood recently sent a link to writer Sue Monk Kidd’s Top 10 list of writing advice . Monk Kidd, author of The Secret Life of Bees, and The Mermaid Chair, is an engaging and wise woman. I printed out her list for future reference – wisdom words for when my mind wanders or I find myself re-reading the same sentence over, over and over. These are sure indicators of an imagination in need of kick-starting.

Advice Number 4 held my attention. It’s about going with the third idea generated by an initial flash of inspiration. Kidd believes that one’s gut instinct is often a jumping off spot for completely new creations.

This insight comes as I’ve just completed an excellent book, The Tipping Point, by Malcolm Gladwell. New ideas are not linear, Gladwell writes, and the most successful ones spread like epidemics - exponentially doubling and re-doubling. People who have these sudden inspirations are called Innovators and, more often than not, their groundbreaking ideas are unorganized and misunderstood by the public.

It is up to another group of people, the Translators, to take these new ideas, shape and refine them, so they become acceptable to large audiences. Innovators and Translators are necessary for a product or movement to reach the tipping point – mass market success.

I wonder if this same process holds true for writers. Our initial inspiration could be called the Innovator – an exciting but un-polished idea. Fortunately, the Second or Third Thing arrives to function as the Translator, whose job is to repackage the idea or come up with a new creation. The evolution of our idea proceeds to a point where it tips and the message of our writing becomes a clear and potent force.

Back To The Garden

2009-08-17T09:19:00.000-07:00

Today marks the 40th anniversary of the Aquarian peace and love-in known as Woodstock. Americans even then knew they were in the midst of a defining cultural moment. Years later, people I met would look back wistfully on those days and say, “I was there.”

I, however, was not there. I wanted to go, but several months before, I moved to Atlanta and got a job in the Merchandise Mart display department. As Woodstock made history, I was gathering Fall gift items for the Mart’s display cases.

Atlanta had become a mecca for hippie life and the epicenter was a midtown area known as “Tight Squeeze.” Attracted to the freedom and camaraderie of communal life on Peachtree Street, part of me longed to join them. Rent, car payments and job security pushed aside those thoughts.

Around the same time, the rising Southern rockers The Allman Brothers played several free concerts in nearby Piedmont Park. Friends who went talked about the magical experience for years. I somehow managed to miss them.

In college three years earlier, I often observed fine art majors throwing Frisbees or lounging on the grass, seemingly without a care in the world. They were the closest the University of Florida came to having hippies, and I envied their unconcern with grades, classes or graduation. I wanted to be like them, but an inner voice urged diligence, study and the promise of a career.

Most of what I know about Woodstock came from the excellent 1970 documentary. Listening to Allman Brothers records, I still play a mean air guitar, and freedom can be sitting with friends under the Golden Rain tree at twilight. These are enough.

Iconic Woodstock photo thanks to Burke Uzzle

2009-07-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

The End Of The Road

A mother and her young son drove to town for an afternoon of shopping. On the way, they passed an ice-cream shop decorated with bright balloons. The boy began sobbing.

“What’s wrong honey,” asked his mother, “don’t you feel well?”

“I want ice-cream!” he wailed.

“Maybe later," she added, "if you’re especially good.”

He whimpered once and grew quiet. Presently they drove by another ice-cream store with a laughing clown waving out front. Again the boy’s tears flowed.

“Now what is it Billy?” His mother turned to look at him. “We’ll be at the super market in a few minutes.”

“Ice-cream!” he cried.

Billy continued crying all the way to the market. He cried in the can-goods aisle. He wept as they passed the produce section.

Exasperated, his mother gave in and bought him a scoop of Raspberry Road.

Billy’s eyes lit up and with great gusto he slurped the frozen treat. Soon his face and hands and even his little sailor’s suit were magenta colored. He resembled a grinning raspberry.

It took a while, but finally Billy ate down to the sticky sugar cone. Suddenly he stopped. He stared hard at the last bites of cone. He looked up at his mother. Slowly, his smile turned upside down. Billy burst into tears.

“What in the world is wrong?” said his mother. “Raspberry Road is your favorite.”

With the last of the ice-cream dripping down his hand, Billy stood weeping on the sidewalk.

Then, as if the weight of the world pressed down on him, he whispered.

“In two more bites there won’t be any ice-cream left.”

Good Things, Small Packages

2009-06-06T16:55:00.000-07:00

In my extended gig as a health food store "vitamologist," word got out that I also dabbled in the Arts. Before long, I was asked to exhibit work in the store cafe, next to the "all you can eat" salad bar and across from the "grab 'n go" deli. It occurred to me one day, while noshing on an organic radish, that in a restaurant setting a different kind of art exhibit would be better appreciated.

Thus was born the Grab 'n Go Art Show, featuring scores of original 3"x 5" drawings covering the deli walls. Customers simply pulled off the drawing they liked and left $5.00. I made enough money from that exhibition to buy more art supplies.

The Grab 'n Go Art Show will make a reappearance at the July Cool Art Show in The Cloiseum in St. Petersburg. Above are samples of many new works that will be available. Just grab 'n go....after paying for them.

Not Fade Away

2009-04-19T12:46:00.000-07:00

Standing in a dim theatre lobby,
the woman looks at her husband.
“I see two of you,” she says.
“There’s a blue glow behind your head
that travels all around your body.”
“Just forget it,” he answers.
“Let’s go back inside.”
“I never noticed it before,” she says.
“You live with someone twenty years,
you realize you don't know them at all.”
Following him into the darkened theatre,
the woman stares as his once familiar figure
dissolves into blackness.
"Who are you?" she whispers.

Happy Birthday Barbie

2009-03-06T15:08:00.000-08:00

Barbie, with a waist that remains impossibly slender, turns 50 this year. For a gal who doesn't say much, she still has the ability to turn heads. Perhaps that's part of her mystique -the beautiful and silent type. And wealthy! At 1.2 billion dollars a year, Barbie earns more than any of those Hollywood blabbermouth beauties.

The curvaceous cutie also outlived her steady beau Ken by two years. While attempting to light a panatella, the poor chap incinerated himself.

Life goes on however and Barbie is again playing the field. Our sources report seeing her exit a Toys 'r Us, with a certain Russian hockey player. Careful Boris, it will take more than a few rubles and a hockey puck to corral this high maintenance beauty. We say, hats off to you doll - still hot after all these years.

A-B-C, What A Concept

2008-12-26T19:33:00.000-08:00

Today I finished an alphabet book project that has kept me occupied for two years. A,B,C
books are examples of children's concept books -well-told stories intended to teach basic knowledge. Creating this book re-taught some valuable lessons - patience, deliberation, and research.

I've sometimes balked at illustrating narrative picture-books, because I found the job of drawing the same figures over and over unappealing. An alphabet book gives me the opportunity to tell twenty-six different stories in words and pictures. Humor also became a way to keep the writing from becoming didactic. Laughter can be a great learning tool.

A is for Anteater has been through many edits and drawing revisions, and my goal is to make it look as simple as A-B-C.

A Way With Words

2008-12-15T08:18:00.000-08:00

Words produce mental pictures and for the visually gifted there is an abundant crop of mental word pictures waiting to be plucked. I've bypassed the process here and present the images without stories. It's been said viewers bring their own stories when looking at art, so I can imagine lots of interpretations for these drawings.

If Only The World Were A Fuzzy Puppy

2008-11-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

Over the years, I've tried and tried to write a fuzzy puppy story, a feel good tale to be read near a warm fireplace with a cup of hot chocolate. I have been unsuccessful, due in large part to hot and cold wars, melt-down economics and my own fuzzy headedness.

Winter may be approaching, but I feel a refreshing gust of warm air coming from our nation's capital. I get the sense now that anything is possible, even a fuzzy puppy story. This time I've started with the illustration.

What Happens When You Won't Vote For A Witch Doctor

2008-10-24T20:44:00.000-07:00

Creature Feature

2008-09-30T08:23:00.000-07:00

In 2005, my colleagues and I at the Institute of Humongous Natural Critters (IHNC) began hearing reports coming out of Indonesia of the discovery of previously unknown plant and animal species in the far east of that nation. A team of entomologists from the University of Dusseldorf had been searching for new bog-bug phyla in the humid jungles of Irian Jaya, the Indonesian part of New Guinea.

After their guides mysteriously disappeared, the group wandered for days in a vain attempt to reach camp. Finally and quite unexpectantly, they staggered from the jungle onto a large plateau surrounded by a ring of mountains. The Germans stared in disbelief, for it was if they had arrived at some terrestrial Atlantis.

All around, covering the lush plateau, were giant fern-like plants, unlike any they had ever seen. Here and there grew groves of giant evergreen trees normally found only in high Alpine areas. The unspoiled plateau was also home to a diverse population of never before seen animals, including giant arboreal wombats and laughing shrews.

For two days, the university team recorded twelve new plant and eight new animal species. The night before being rescued from the highland Shangri-la, they heard a commotion outside the tents. Rolf Jensch, expedition photographer, crawled outside just in time to get a picture of surely the oddest inhabitant of that alien land – an eight foot long goliath bog-bug, pictured below.

Dr. Seuss, Renaissance Man

2008-09-22T19:18:00.000-07:00

Growing up quickly in the small town South, I missed an opportunity to read the wildly popular books of Dr. Seuss. When Horton Hears A Who came out in 1954, I was nine years old and more interested in the Brooklyn Dodgers and earning Cub Scout merit badges. I read reluctantly and only for homework assignments.

Thirty years and some forty books later, when Seuss’ controversial The Butter Battle Book was published, I struggled with the twin efforts of relocation and career change. Reading then, started and ended with a morning newspaper.

Only now, in the reflective period of life, have The Lorax, The Grinch and Yertle The Turtle made their presence known and ended up on my reading list. Perhaps only now does The Lorax’ charming call for environmental conservation hit home. The Better Butter Book’s less subtle stand against nuclear proliferation has as much meaning today as it did in 1984.

And just now a Dr. Seuss art exhibition provides a look at two other sides of the amazing writer and illustrator. Syd Entel Galleries in nearby Safety Harbor has mounted a month long show, and on a recent afternoon I had the entire gallery to myself.

Wandering the chronological exhibit, I was struck by Dr. Seuss’ editorial cartoons and educational films made in the army during World War II. His stands against fascism and ethnic and racial discrimination reveal a strong humanitarian side that would resurface in his children’s books.

The gallery also presented personal works that the public never saw – colorful surreal paintings and sculptures of fantasy creatures – all created late at night. In his long career, Dr. Seuss won three Academy Awards, an Emmy Award, and in 1984, the Pulitzer Prize. He impresses me as that rare artistic genius who cannot help but create masterworks in everything he touches.

The Critic's Choice

2008-09-10T15:26:00.001-07:00

For several years I belonged to a writers group that met every Friday at the local library. I learned how to critique from this diverse collection of writers, a seasoned bunch who could tell a newbie in the most diplomatic way his flash fiction stunk.

For three hours we gave and took with the best, and if not exactly rescuing Western literature, we did become better writers. Afterwards, some of the longer-winded convened at a Greek restaurant to continue the dialogue with dolmas and black coffee.

I returned home late in the afternoon, full, perhaps a bit brighter, but useless for the rest of the day. Being a reluctant member of the working class, I knew my literary Fridays could not last.

Later an opportunity I couldn’t refuse landed in my e-mail box – an invitation to join an on-line critique group. This group gave me all the advantages of the one at the library, plus an added bonus – I could critique at home.

Working from home lets me enjoy my natural slothfulness, and, while the old nine to five forced me to wear a management approved shirt, I can now sport my favorite Muppets tee-shirt, or, if I choose, no shirt at all. I just hope the critique group doesn’t decide to add video conferencing.

Having A Wonderful Time, Wish You Were Here

2008-09-08T14:17:00.000-07:00

I just realized I’ve spent three quarters of my life here in the humid flatlands of Florida; the state of hanging chads and sticking sand-spurs. A place where catfish walk and people cringe at the approach of monster hurricanes with girlie names. Here comes Hannah!

In Florida we are never far away from terra primeval. Alligators hunt in urban lakes not far from my home. Sharks patrol off both coasts, and when I turn off the lights, la cucaracha comes out to play.

These are all grist for the writing mill, and animals have figured prominently in much of my writing for children. I have written three funny field guides of wild critters and recently completed a wild animal alphabet book. As long as I continue to live in this state that sticks into the Gulf of Mexico like a dog’s wagging tail, I will have great writing material.

Writing Like Rodin

2008-09-06T15:29:00.001-07:00

It seems to me that writing starts out being more like painting and ends up being like sculpture. Painting is mainly concerned with putting media on canvas, adding and adding, building up the surface until the desired results are achieved.

Sculpture, in contrast, begins with something already complete, like a block of fine marble. The marble is slowly, delicately chipped away until much later a work of art emerges.

Writing, at the beginning, flows like an abstract painting; complimentary ideas blend together and stand in stark contrast to earlier passages. Swirling word pictures lie thickly on the page. These layered, unconnected thoughts and loopy sentence structures resemble a Jackson Pollock painting.

Writing enters its sculptural phase when the writer takes his editing chisel and chips away at the dense verbosity. This paring down and discarding bits of unneeded words goes on until an underlying form appears. Like a sculptor, the writer strives to get at the nub of the piece, that point where most everything has been taken away and there is nothing more to say. And like a sculptor, the constant companion of writers is the question, “Have I gone too far?”