A decade of neologisms

Here's a selection of The Guardian’s favorite neologisms of the last 10 years.

These words and expressions were all coined in particular parts of the world in specific years: they're principally slang and jargon; catching on, but still waiting to be formalized into our dictionaries.

My favorite from the list is:

1.  generica: features of the American landscape (strip malls, motel chains, prefab housing) that are exactly the same no matter where one is

I may use this word in a future book.  I love it.

And my nine runners-up include:

2.  witches' knickers: shopping bags caught in trees, flapping in the wind

It’s tragic that this word even exists, but it’s a good one. 

3.  meh: boring, apathetic or unimpressive

4.  sandwich generation: those caring for young children and elderly parents at the same time (usually "baby boomers" in their 40s or 50s)

5.  elevens: the creases between one's eyebrows from squinting or frowning

6.  fogging: children showing minimal reaction to or agreeing with the taunts of a bully

I’ll  be teaching this one to my students, but also tragic that this word even exists.

7.  New York rain: water that drips annoyingly from air-conditioners onto passers-by

Brilliant. 

8.  glamping: glamorous camping

9.  push present: an expensive gift given to a woman by her husband in appreciation for having recently given birth

10.  menoporsche: the phenomenon of middle-aged men attempting to recapture their lost youth by buying an expensive sports car

I may be able to use this word with a friend of mine soon.  How joyous.

Literary and Pregnancy Dos and Don’ts

This adore this Romance Heroine’s Don’ts List.  It’s quite amusing.

I thought I’d create a list as well. 

So inspired by the birth of my friends’ first child two days ago, here is my Friends and Family of an Expecting Parent Don’ts List.

Please feel free to suggest additions to the list. 

1. Don’t tell an expecting parent that he or she will never sleep well again.  Just because you gave birth to a monster and/or are ineffective at managing sleep cycles doesn’t mean that you should damper the excitement of expecting parents.

And if you aren’t sleeping, may I suggest HAPPIEST BABY ON THE BLOCK.  I have only read one baby-related book since my daughter was born, and this was it.  And to be honest, I only read about a third of it.  But it was the important third. 

2. Don’t tell an expecting parent that he or she will not see the inside of a movie theater for at least five years.  Non-crazed, emotionally mature parents are perfectly capable of hiring a babysitter or asking a grandparent to watch the baby a few times a year if seeing a movie is something they enjoy.  I’m seeing my fifteenth film of the year today, and while we had babysitters for some of them, many of them were watched at the drive-in while my daughter slept quietly in the backseat. 

3. Don’t criticize a name choice after it has been made.  If the expecting parent requests an opinion on a potential name, be honest.  If the expecting parent is informing you of a naming decision, say something nice or nod approvingly while laughing inside at the stupidity of the choice.  Only arrogant, self-righteous jerks openly criticize a name choice once it’s been made.

4. Do not comment of an expecting mother’s decision to eat tuna fish, run a marathon or drink a glass of wine.  We do not live in the Stone Age.  Between doctors, nurses, books, magazines and the internet, expecting mothers are aware of the possible complications associated with such decisions but also understand the concept of moderation.  If they aren’t driving on the wrong side of the road without a seatbelt while smoking crack, keep your judgmental thoughts to yourself.

5.  Do not ask an expecting mother how much weight she has put on during her pregnancy.  Actually, you should never ask anyone about their weight, but the weight of pregnant mothers seems to garner a great deal of interest from idiots and fools.  Do not lump yourself into one of these categories.

6.  In general, don’t say ANYTHING negative about parenting or children to expectant and new parents.  I am baffled by the obsessive need of some people to play the role of the harbinger of death, warning parents about the pitfalls and perils of parenthood.  Old standards from this particular breed of malcontent include:

“Sleep now because you won’t be sleeping soon!”

“Start saving now, because the cost of diapers alone will break the bank!”

“Oh, you just wait until he is crawling!”

“You think it’s easy now.  Wait until she can talk back to you.”

My standard response to such doom and gloom remarks goes something like this:

“Why would you say something like that to me?  Is your own existence so miserable and pathetic that you feel the need to bring me down?  Does spreading despair and misery make you feel better about yourself?  Take your negativity somewhere else, because I love my wife, I love my daughter, and I love parenthood, goddamn it.”

Feel free to use this response.  It generally puts these pests in their place.

Best books of 2009

The New Yorker’s writers list some of their favorite books of 2009.

Ann Kingman, Michael Kindness and the Books on the Nightstand listeners list some of their own favorites from the past year.

My hope was to include a list of my own favorite books of 2009, but it occurs to me that I read only a handful of books this year that were actually published in 2009, and while I enjoyed most of them, they were not my favorite books of the year.  My paltry list includes:

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES, which I enjoyed very much.  Clever, hilarious, and ingeniously woven.  

SCROOGENOMICS, which I thought was insightful and thought-provoking but ponderous at times. 

THE EVOLUTION OF GOD, which I also found insightful but extremely ponderous at times. 

Everything else I read or listened to this year was published prior to 2009.  About forty books in all.  And this doesn't include the many YA titles that I read with my students, none published in 2009 as far as I can remember.

I haven’t even read the latest installment of DIARY OF A WIMPY KID. 

Is this a bad thing? 

As an author, should I be more abreast of books published within the calendar year?  Should I have my finger better situated on the pulse of the publishing world?  Should the reading of more current books make my list of New Year’s resolution for 2010? 

I’m not sure.  Thoughts?

An honor or a disservice?

The NY Times ran a piece about the most commonly shoplifted books.

Oddly enough, THE BIBLE tops the list in some stores.  Perhaps people feel entitled to the word of their Lord.  Or perhaps THE BIBLE is overpriced.  I purchased a copy a couple years ago for a project that I was working on, and I spent well over $100 on it. 

Maybe the masses simply cannot afford the book.  

The Telegraph reports that THE VIRGIN SUICIDES is the most commonly shoplifted book in modern times.  I have not read the book, but my wife has and reported that “there are some things I liked about it.”

hardly a ringing endorsement.   

I’m left wondering if authors should feel honored to have their books on a most shoplifted list, or if the act of stealing a book is a sign of disrespect for the author.  

Also, how is shoplifting handled in financial terms?  Is it a loss  for the store, for the author, or both?

I’m not sure.  I mean, it’s nice to be wanted, but at what price?

Talented teenager

My former student has been creating some stop-motion videos that are both ingenious and highly entertaining.  She was brilliant when I taught her in third grade, but seven years later, she’s even more impressive.  Please take a moment and check them out.  They are sure to bring a smile to your face.

I’m actually thinking about asking her to create a stop-motion video trailer for my next book, UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO, similar to the stop-motion stick drawings that she did in the third video.  I thought that she might be able to capture the idea of the story and the character of Milo pretty effectively through this medium.  And the thought that a former student created the trailer might have some additional appeal to readers and even media outlets.

Now if I can just convince her to read the book…

Look! A Democrat who speaks like a Republican!

I try not to be too political on this blog, but sometimes I can’t help it. 

I’ve also been told by those who represent me to be myself and not be afraid to share my personal feeling from time to time.  Apparently readers enjoy getting to know authors on a more personal level. 

I’m a registered Democrat who longs for a Republican party of the Barry Goldwater era in place of the socially conservative, right-wing, anti-intellectual religious insanity that now dominates the party. 

I simply cannot join arms with people whose political mantra is “Drill, baby drill.” 

Until Limbaugh, Beck, Fox News, the Christian Coalition, Dick Cheney and Sarah Palin cease to have power over the party and there is a return to sensible, more moderate, conservative ideals, absent the religious fervor, anti-gay rhetoric, and acceptance of idiocy, I’ll continue to throw in my hat with the Democrats.     

As a Democrat, however, I find myself constantly wishing for a party with the organization, tenacity, and ruthlessness of the Republicans.  The Democrats are a middling, disorganized lot who often lack a clear vision. 

It frustrates me to no end.

But occasionally a voice is heard from the wilderness, an appeal that possesses the fortitude, the ruthlessness and the courage that I so desire.          

This is Senator Sheldon Whitehouse from Rhode Island on the floor of the Senate chamber last week, lambasting Republicans for their fear-mongering of Barack Obama.  He’s worth a listen. 

"All to break the momentum of our new young president. They are desperate to break the president. The birthers, the militias, the lifers--- it is unbearable to them for the presidency of Barack Obama to exist."
"...the lying time is over....there will be a reckoning."

The story of our engagement

On December 28, 2004, I asked my wife to marry me.  My goal was to give her a proposal that she would never forget.  Here is the story:

Elysha’s favorite room in the world is Grand Central Station, so I chose that as the location for the proposal.  

I also wanted the proposal to be a complete surprise, so I chose December 28, right in between Christmas and New Years and about two weeks before her birthday. I figured that if Elysha was suspecting a proposal, she might expect it to happen on New Year’s Eve or her birthday, so deliberately avoiding those three days would increase the chance of surprise.  

Elysha had also told me months prior that no one had ever thrown her a surprise party, and she hinted that she would like me to throw one for her someday. I had told her at the time that I would plan a surprise party for her next birthday and would still manage to surprise her despite the forewarning.

She foolishly doubted me.

My plan was simple:

After she agreed to marry me, I’d tell Elysha that the marriage proposal counted as her surprise party. Two weeks after the proposal, I'd surprise her again with a birthday party that I was already planning at the home of friends.  So in the midst of planning a marriage proposal, I was also planning her surprise birthday party as well.

It was a busy time for me.

Next I needed a reason to be in New York on the day of the proposal, so I enlisted the support of Elysha’s sister, Emily, who helped me tremendously. Two weeks before the proposal, Emily called and asked us to come into the city that day. She also arranged for a luncheon at Ruby Foos following the engagement.

My plan was to propose to Elysha on the top steps of the Terminal, overlooking the famous clock and the throng of holiday shoppers and tourists that were sure to be jamming the place that day. Embedded within that mass of travelers and holiday shoppers would be our friends and family, remaining hidden amongst the crowd in order to watch the proposal and then surprise Elysha immediately thereafter.

This required a lot of coordination. Emily and a friend (Cindy) were instrumental in this task. First I had to get word to everyone who I wanted to invite, making sure that they maintained absolute secrecy from anyone not invited until after the proposal. We had to arrange for these people (22 in all) to be on a train from New Haven prior to the train that Elysha and I would be traveling on, and we also had to ensure that they would be out of the New Haven terminal before Elysha and I arrived.

We also had people living in New York who were coming in for the proposal, as well as one family on their way back from Washington, D.C. who would be stopping at Grand Central to join us.  Coordinating the timing and placement of these people in the terminal was quite a challenge.

In order to purchase the engagement ring, I assembled a committee of four of Elysha’s friends. While she was in a meeting at work, the committee convened in the classroom of one of these friends. While I kept a watchful eye on the hallway, these women went online to choose the perfect ring based upon the specifications I had gleaned from Elysha over the previous year.

Once they were in agreement, they purchased the ring and had a shipped to the home of another colleague for safe keeping.

Delegation, people. Never underestimate it.

All was in place when Elysha and I left the house on the morning of December 28, 2004.  Plans were finalized, reservations for lunch were set, and the diamond was stuffed deep into my coat pocket.

Of course, nothing ever goes perfectly.

About 15 minutes from the station, Cindy called. There was no texting back in 2004. Phones were still being used as phones. I pretended that she was my mother, so while I pretended to speak to Mom, Cindy informed me that my friend, Jeff, was running late (almost certainly because of his wife) and might still be in the New Haven terminal when Elysha and I arrived. I purposely took a wrong turn off the exit to add time to our trip and was berated by Elysha for doing so.

Upon arriving in the New Haven terminal, I discovered that MetroNorth had added another train to their schedule, an express that would put us into New York just minutes behind the train that our friends were already riding. Elysha saw the earlier train on the schedule and suggested that we take it. This was not good. I knew that Cindy and Emily would need time to position everyone in the terminal, and a few minutes might not be enough. Thinking fast, I explained to Elysha that Emily was expecting us on the later train, and since we had time to kill, we could get some breakfast and relax for once in our lives, since we are usually sprinting to make every train we had ever taken. She agreed, and the potential disaster was averted.

Trouble raised its ugly head again about halfway to New York, when a train in front of us broke down, forcing our train back to Bridgeport in order to switch tracks. In all our trip was extended by 45 minutes, which was fine for me but began driving Elysha batty. The last thing I wanted prior to my proposal was a frustrated future fiancée staring me in the face. Thankfully a New York magazine crossword kept her busy enough to remain sane or else things might have been ugly. As she attempted to decipher the clues to the crossword, I went to the bathroom in order to call Cindy and warn her of the delay.

The last bit of trouble occurred upon arriving at the station. Because we had been switched to an alternate track, our train arrived somewhere in the bowels of Grand Central, on a track that Elysha and I had never seen before. Our friends and family had been positioned with the expectation that we would be arriving at a specific track number, and now I had no idea where we might emerge into the station. And because we were deep underground when we arrived, I had no cell phone service with which to warn Cindy.

All she knew was that Elysha was wearing an orange coat.

Thankfully that turned out to be enough.

As we emerged into the station, I grabbed Elysha’s hand and pulled her toward the stairs, aware that our friends could be anywhere at this point. I told her that I wanted to show her something. She rolled her eyes and followed. Someone in our group of friends spotted the orange coat climbing the stairs and everyone was watching as we reached the precipice. At the top of the stairs, amongst a throng of people, I stopped Elysha and turned her toward me.

The dialogue that took place was as follows:

Me: I chose this place because I know it’s your favorite room in the world.

Elysha: Yeah…

Me: And I wanted a place that would always be here, so that someday we could show our kids, so…could you hold my book?

I had a book in my hand and wasn’t smooth enough to drop it to the floor. Elysha took the book and I removed the ring box from my pocket. Just then a police officer stepped between us.

Police Officer: Please keep moving. You can’t block the stairway.

A second later she saw the ring box and smiled.

Police Officer: Oh… (stepping back)

Me: (Dropping to one knee)

Elysha: (Starting to cry)

Me: (On one knee) Elysha Green, I love you with all my heart and want to spend the rest of my life with you. (Opening the ring box) Will you marry me?

Elysha: (Starting crying and reaching out to hug me, never answering the question)

Friends: (Screaming in the distance, then immediately surrounded by National Guard Soldiers)

Me: That’s all of our friends screaming honey…

Elysha: (Continuing to cry)

The country was on threat level ultra-bad red, so the military was on hight alert. When 22 people erupted into cheers, it sent the soldiers into action, immediately surrounding the source of the disturbance. After assuring the National Guard that they weren’t in trouble or preparing to commit an act of terrorism, our friends began racing up the stairs, with the principal of our school, Plato Karafelis, who was also the man who would end up marrying us two years later, in the lead, shouting and pumping his fists.

Elysha: Oh my God. Where did you all come from?

The rest of the day was perfect.  After the proposal, we all enjoyed lunch at Ruby Foos and then made our way down to Rockefeller Center to check out the tree and have our photo taken beneath it.  Snow was lightly falling, the streets were abuzz with holiday shoppers, and things could not have been more beautiful. 

It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. 

Elysha, however, has yet to answer my question.

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Rise up, my brothers and sisters!

Mark Wilson and I are simpatico when it comes to handling movie theater talkers.  I agree with everything he suggests. On Wednesday my friend and I plan on seeing Avatar at the local IMAX theater, and if anyone dares to speak during the movie, I will take immediate action, employing some of Wilson’s suggestions with my own if necessary.  Normally, a simple but stern reminder of theater etiquette is enough to quiet down the average movie talker, but on more than one occasion, I have been forced into more drastic measures.

My wife and I were watching The Village a few years ago when a roving band of teenagers wandered into the theater, called out for a guy named Hector, and then left. They returned a few minutes later, stood near the door, and giggled before leaving again. Several minutes later they returned for a third time, taking seats in the front row and resuming their conversations. I waited for a couple minutes, hoping they they would calm down, and when they did not, I took action.

I walked down to the front row, took up a position in front of the group, leaned in, and whispered, “You can shut up and stay, or you can leave now.  But if you stay and keep on talking, I will make it my primary mission in life to get you kicked out of the theater, even if I have to lie to do it.”

They exited immediately.

Several years ago, I was watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies with a girlfriend. The movie had been running for about five minutes and two young women sitting a couple rows behind had failed to end their conversation, even after I asked them to stop. Frustrated and angry, I stood up, turned to the women (and the audience in general), and said in a loud voice, “Can we all agree that these two women need to shut up now or leave the theater?”

A smattering of tentative applause quickly crescendoed into a unanimous ovation by my fellow patrons, immediately shaming the women into silence.

I admit that there’s a small part of me that sometimes hopes to run into callous, inconsiderate movie talkers, just so I can pull stunts like those I’ve described above.

Nothing good can come of it

When I am helping a friend or colleague prepare for a confrontation with  a coworker, boss, family member or similar individual, I often ask the same question:

What is your expectation for a reasonable outcome?

For example, if you know that your supervisor has strong, seemingly unwavering feelings about a decision that he has made, but you disagree with that decision, is it reasonable to expect that you will be able to change his mind or alter the way he makes decisions in the future by confronting him?

If the answer is no (and quite often it is), then one must assess the benefit of confronting the supervisor at all.  Usually, my advice is to avoid such confrontations, since they tend to yield only negative results. 

This is the question that an author must ask himself when deciding if it is worth going on the offensive and challenging a negative reviewer, as so many have done this past year.     

In June, Alice Hoffman referred to a critic as a “moron” and an “idiot” on Twitter after The Boston Globe ran a negative review about her novel, THE STORY SISTERS.  Three days later Hoffman’s Twitter account had disappeared and she had issued an apology. 

That same month, Alaine de Botton posted a comment on the personal blog of  reviewer Caleb Crain, who had written unfavorably about his latest book, THE PLEASURES AND SORROWS OF WORK.  Among other things, Botton wrote:

“I will hate you till the day I die and wish you nothing but ill will in every career move you make.”

Not the best way to endear yourself to the public. 

In both these cases, I would have advised the writers to refrain from commenting at all, since there was no expectation for a reasonable outcome.  In each case, the reviewer was not going to change his mind about the book, and there was no way in hell that any public sympathy would be garnered through the vitriol that these authors used.  

But at least they used their names when commenting. 

Author Candace Sams went on the offensive against an Amazon reviewer LB Taylor after he gave her novel, ELECTRA GALAXY’S INTERSELLER FELLER, a one-star review on the Amazon.com website.  Sams attempted to attribute some of the problems with her book to her editor and then informed the reviewer and his many commenters that she intends to report them to the FBI.

But rather than commenting under her own name, she used the pseudonym Niteflyer One.  About half-a-second after she began commenting, savvy Amazon users had identified her as the author. 

Shortly thereafter, she deleted all of her comments from the thread.

While I disagree with the actions of all three authors, it’s Sams with whom I find the most fault.  If you’re going to criticize anyone in a public forum, at least have the courage and decency to attach your name to the criticism.  While I question Hoffman’s and Botton’s judgment, I do not question their integrity.  They disagreed with a review and made their voice heard.  They stood behind their remarks.    

Sams chose to hide behind a blanket of anonymity, but her blanket ended up being as thick as cheap toilet paper, as it often is in the digital world.  She acted like a coward.  Her actions were underhanded and dishonest.  In the end, she looked like a fool.

I despise the anonymous attack and am glad that Sams was exposed by the Amazon user-base.  Anonymity is a powerful, deceitful, insidious and gutless means by which a individual can lie, exaggerate, mischaracterize and slander without threat of retribution or rebuttal.  It must be rejected and renounced at every turn.

Thankfully, I have never felt the urge to respond to a negative review.  Even more thankfully, they have been few and far between.  Of the 51 reviews on Amazon, only four of them are one or two-star reviews.  But even if more had been negative, I cannot envision myself attacking the authors for their reviews. 

It all goes back to reasonable expectations.  I never expected everyone to like the book, so I knew that there would probably be some negative reviews.  Drawing attention to those negative reviewers by attacking them, both anonymously or publicly, didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, as a handful of authors discovered in 2009. 

I don’t care if Glenn Beck is on your Christmas list

An excellent question from Kate Ward of Shelf Life in regards to gift-giving etiquette:

“Is it possible to feel good about spending $20 for a book that you despise but know your loved one will devour?”

For me, it depends upon where the profits from the purchase are going.  If my loved one has asked for a copy of Virginia Woolf’s TO THE LIGHTHOUSE or Edith Wharton’s ETHAN FROME, two novels that I despise, I would have no reservation about plunking down $20 for the gift.  While Woolf and Wharton are unlikely to receive any share of the profit (since both are dead), the profits would eventually find their way into the pockets of the authors’ estates or to the  publisher who purchased the rights to the books.

However, if it’s a book by someone like Glenn Beck or Sarah Palin, two individuals who would not choose to support under any circumstances, this would be a more difficult, and perhaps impossible, proposition.  In this case, I might instead purchase them a copy of TO THE LIGHTHOUSE or ETHAN FROME (or maybe even both), explaining to my loved one that if it is Glenn Beck or Sarah Palin that they want, these two early twentieth century novels might serve as suitable replacements.

As much as I despise them, they can’t be any worse than a ghost-written copy of GOING ROGUE or Glenn Beck’s ruination of Thomas Paine’s perfectly good title, COMMON SENSE.

Another review to close out 2009

Hartford Magazine reviewed SOMETHING MISSING for their January 2010 edition, which arrived at my home this week.   

Marion Dooling writes that “Matthew Dicks’s tale about OCD thief Martin Railsback and "’his clients’ is a fun, quirky book that kept me reading far beyond regular bedtime.  His sense of humor and off-beat storyline often made me smile and share passages with friends.”

A nice holiday treat for me!

My 2009 Christmas haul

My wife is the best gift giver ever, and particularly the best stocking stuffer of all time. My gifts from Christmas morning included:

1.  A signed first edition of Kurt Vonnegut’s A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY, with a rare illustrated signature.

2. Several clever golf accoutrements

3.  Christopher Myer’s modern adaptation of the Lewis Carroll’s THE JABBERWOCKY. I recite this poem from memory to our daughter quite often, so now I’ll have some images to go along with the words.

4. A game of poker played with specially-designed dice

5.  Lots of underwear, including one pair decorated with golf carts. “It’s time to retire some of your current supply of underwear,” she told me as I removed the third pair from my stocking. If your wife is going to make you throw away underwear, it’s always nice when she replaces it for you.

6.  A set of bookmark pens which are thin enough to use as bookmarks but still functional as writing implements

7. A pair of rearview spy glasses!  Competing with the signed first edition for my favorite gift this year!

Seriously, the woman knows exactly what to get me every year, without fail.

The Simpsons and me

In 1989, I was eighteen years old. I had just graduated high school and had quickly moved out on my own. I was living in a townhouse in Attleboro, Massachusetts with two of my friends. One was going to college and the other worked in manufacturing. I was managing a McDonald’s restaurant. None of us had much money, and our typical meal consisted of elbow macaroni and canned soups. During our first winter, we could not afford to turn on the heat and stayed warm by sitting side by side on a hand-me-down couch under the same blanket. We owned a television, which sat atop a baby changing table in the living room. It was color but small, even by 1989 standards.

I can still remember the night when we sat down together and watched the first episode of The Simpsons, jazzed about this new show that we had heard so much about. We fell in love with it immediately, and for years, I hardly missed an episode.

In fact, it was so cold that night that once The Simpsons were finished, no one in the room was willing to get up and change the channel (no remote back then for us), so we simply remained in our places and watched the next show that came on. It was Beverly Hills 90210, a program that turned out to be quite horrible but spawned a series of 90210 parties that were well attended by many lady friends.

The Simpsons was great, but 90210 turned out to be a bonanza for us in terms of meeting girls.

Years later, I was living in a different apartment, with slightly more money and two fewer roommates. My wife and I were on our first official date after years of friendship, though neither of us was initially certain that it was a date.  We spent the afternoon climbing Mount Caramel together, and on the way down, Elysha reached out and took my hand, signaling that we had moved passed “just friends” status. After a bite to eat, we returned to my apartment to relax. We were sitting on my very uncomfortable futon, discussing our hopes and dreams, when my future bride cut me off in mid-sentence and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s 6:00. Do you think we could watch The Simpsons?”

Any doubts that I might have had about our future together evaporated as the skies opened and heavenly light bathed me in happiness and joy.

The girl liked The Simpsons. And she liked the show better than she liked talking about serious things.

A couple years later, my wife and I would have another serious conversation regarding The Simpsons. This time we found ourselves shamefully and grudgingly admitting that despite the greatness of Matt Groening’s creation, South Park had transcended The Simpsons on the animated landscape.

It was a sad day, indeed.

But still, The Simpsons carried on.

The Simpsons has been on the air for twenty years, which is equal to the amount of time that I have spent living outside my parent’s home, taking care of myself.  So much has happened in those twenty years:

I have lived in three different states, in eight different homes and apartments, and spent a short period of time homeless.

I’ve earned a living as a restaurant manager, a bank manager, a marketing strategist, a delivery boy, a wedding DJ, a teacher and a writer.

I’ve attended five different colleges and earned three different degrees (including a Masters), plus a teaching certificate.

I have been arrested, tried and acquitted for a crime that I did not commit.

I have become a husband and a father.

I’ve lost my mother and possibly my brother.

I have been teaching elementary school for eleven years.  More than 200 students have made their way through my classroom door in that time.

I have published a novel, have another on the way, and am finishing a third.

With all of those changes over the previous two decades, it’s comforting to know that some things never change.  Homer and Bart and the Springfield gang have been around for as long as I have been living on my own.  In fact, it’s about the only consistency that I have had over the past twenty years.  The Simpsons and my best friend, Bengi, are about the only two things that have been in my life since my eighteenth birthday.

So here’s to another twenty years of The Simpsons, even if I only watch it sporadically now. Just knowing that it’s still around makes me feel good.

What woman buys this stuff?

This product litters the counter of my local 7-11, and it’s always half-empty or better.

I don’t get it.

Hollywood does it right

Having just finished reading UNDER THE DOME and SCROOGENOMICS, I’ve decided to treat myself with a re-reading of Peter Benchley’s JAWS, a book that I have not read since I was a teenager.

I’m hoping it’s as good as I remember it.

I thought the contrast between the original cover of the novel and the movie poster was striking.  Both are effectively ominous, but the book cover doesn’t hold a candle to its cinematic counterpart. 

In fact, in comparison, it looks a little silly. 

Literally singing the praises of books!

What’s better than an independent bookseller singing the praises of your book to the tune of a classic Christmas carol?

Not much!

Uncommonly bad advice

My wife is Jewish. I am not.

I have agreed to raise our daughter in the Jewish tradition, though for my wife, this tends to lean more on the culture aspects of the Jewish faith rather than the actual religious dogma.

I support this decision, though I have also made it clear that when our daughter approaches me at the age of seventeen, declaring herself a Buddhist, a Pastafarian or an agnostic, I will tell her to follow her heart and do what she thinks is right (and hide from her mother).

Even though I am not a Christian, I continue to celebrate most of the traditions associated with Christmas, because these are the traditions in which I was raised. The tree, the stockings, the music, the late afternoon NBA game and even the beauty of midnight mass all bring me back to a time when my family was whole and I was young and innocent and everyone seemed immortal.

I may not associate the holiday with the birth of Christ, but I love it just the same.

My wife has embraced the Christmas tradition with even more enthusiasm than I have managed for her holidays. She adores decorating the tree, has already become enamored with our ornament collection and attends midnight Mass with friends each year. Her enthusiasm for Christmas is so great that I often feel guilty for my lack of equitable excitement over Jewish holidays like Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah.

Of course, if her holidays included flying reindeer, twinkling lights, rampant commercialism, and the NFL, my enthusiasm might be a little more… enthusiastic.

Either way, I feel blessed that we have managed to merge our two traditions into one that we call our own. It makes for a full and diverse holiday season.  Last week we wrapped up Hanukkah and this afternoon we plopped our daughter on Santa’s lap.

In the end, I think that Clara is the biggest winner of all.  She’s getting the best of both worlds.

This is why I find Emily Yoffe’s advice to a woman who is looking to do a similar merging of tradition to be disappointing and, dare I say, a little biased, considering she is Jewish.

In the video below, Yoffe informs a Chinese American who wishes to celebrate Christmas as a secular holiday (as her family has always done) that her Jewish boyfriend probably has a better understanding of Christmas than she, and therefore his feelings must be respected.

I find this bit of presumption to be a bit... presumptuous, but it’s her last bit of advice that rubs me the most wrong. She says, “If you want to marry a Jewish man and raise Jewish children, it doesn’t seem quite kosher to force him to celebrate a holiday that makes him uncomfortable.”

A holiday that makes him feel uncomfortable?

This woman is not sacrificing chickens or asking her boyfriend to don a burka. All she wants, quite literally, is a Christmas tree in her house. She’s agreed to forgo presents and even decorations if she can just have the tree.  This hardly amounts to “celebrating Christmas.”  and even if it did, I can’t help but ask what kind of man is made uncomfortable about the prospect of a Christmas tree in his living room. Even if it somehow represents the birthday of a two thousand year old demi-God, I ask:

What kind of a man (and I use the word man with the most misogynistic of tones) can’t muster enough inner fortitude to let his future bride have a Christmas tree for a couple weeks in December?

If he was my friend, I’d be quoting Don Corleone from The Godfather:

“ACT LIKE A MAN!  What's the matter with you? Is this what you've become, a Hollywood finocchio who cries like a woman? ‘Oh, what do I do? What do I do?’ What is that nonsense? Ridiculous!”

Of course, anyone whose faith and conviction is threatened by a Christmas tree has probably never seen The Godfather.

While I often agree with Yoffe, who can be no-nonsense and tough as nails, she is way off in this case, and perhaps too close to the situation to see it clearly.

Thoughts?

No more ring

My wife called me at work to tell me that the phone service in our home was out.

“The Internet and cable?” I asked, panicking inside. A Friday night at home without the Internet? What would we do?

“No. Just the phone line,” she assured me.

“Oh, that’s good,” I said and meant it. In fact, I was secretly hoping that she couldn’t get it working for at least a month. I hate the house phone. Actually, I hate all telephones, but at least I can ignore my own cell phone. When the house phone rings, my wife occasionally asks me to pick it up, and rarely is it someone to whom I wish to speak.

Here’s the thing:

There’s almost never a moment in my day when I am not doing something that demands my relatively undivided attention.

Writing.

Reading.

Playing with my daughter.

Planning lessons for work.

Chatting with my wife.

Correcting papers.

Watching a ballgame.

Playing poker.

Contemplating existence. 

And more often than not, I’m doing two or three of these things at one time.

If there were stretches of my day when I was sitting around, doing nothing, then a phone call might be fine. But the way my life is currently structured, almost every phone call is an interruption. It’s an attempt by someone to invade my space, willow away my time, and break into my focus, concentration, or amusement in order to impose their own thoughts, needs or desires upon me.

To me, the phone is the five-year-old who is constantly tugging on his mother’s arm, demanding unnecessary attention whilst she is engaged in thoughtful, provocative conversation.

Most of the time, I just want it to go away.

Timing is everything

Just as the Miami Dolphins tied the score, sending their game against Tennessee into overtime (annoying me immensely), my Google Alert pointed me to this delightful post on The Official Gordon Korman Web Site. It read:

I quite accidentally stumbled across this writer, and I’m glad I did. Matthew Dicks is the first author in a long time that held my interest the same way GK does. I finished the book in 2-3 days, and GK’s the only other author who’s books I finish that fast.

This is Mathew’s first novel and I look forward to his next one. Something Missing is about an obsessive-compulsive thief who ends up trying to help out his ‘clients’, as he calls them. Well worth picking up. You would definitely be ‘missing something’ if you didn’t.”

It’s always great to hear that someone enjoyed my book, but it seems as if the universe constantly conspires to send me these snippets of goodwill at just the right moment.

And just as I finished reading the post, the Titans kicked a game winning field goal, making it a nearly perfect football Sunday.

Nearly perfect because I was supposed to be in Buffalo with a couple friends today, watching my Patriots crush the Bills on their own turf, but confusion on the calendar left me stuck in Connecticut, spinning tunes at a wedding.

It didn’t make up for the missed trip, but the literary and football Gods seemed to be in perfect alignment this weekend, which helped.

Not cool

Nothing against a holiday wreath, but what’s with the disembodied baby’s head?

Who thinks this is cute?  I had to stare at it throughout breakfast, and it got creepier by the second.