A writer has but one goal. Connect to the audience.

There’s great power in being able to capture the imagination of readers, introduce them to a wonderful place, filled with interesting people, and then murder the one they liked best, right in front of their very eyes, in the most gruesome way possible.

Clearly, with such great power comes great responsibility.

Take this little column for example.

You all signed up, hoping to have a laugh once in awhile, or maybe at least a smile, but, what happens when I betray that trust and tell you a very sad story about a small child who dreamed of leaving a life of poverty and managed to get a scholarship to a private school, and the school, while it’s in the same city, was more than a three hour walk for the boy, each way, and without enough food, he could barely get there in time for class, and one day, starving, he passes out along the side of the road, and freezes to death?

See what I mean? I broke our little agreement, to give you something light and funny to start your week, and instead I gave you a horribly depressing paragraph. You might even say I manipulated you and preyed upon your compassion for starving children just to make a point.

And, you don’t even know what the point is yet.

The first part is to highlight the callousness of writers who take joy in the suffering of their fans. People joke that writers enjoy doing this, but, they try to believe it isn’t really true that authors could be so gleeful in the pain of others.

Unfortunately, there is much uncomfortable truth in those quips. The times when I’ve written something that brought a reader to tears are some of the proudest moments of my life. There is a very small part of me that is properly ashamed that I am pleased to make people cry.

Writers have learned that tears of pain are the sweetest nectar to be found in the known universe; a feast of fulfilling achievement that perfectly nourishes our black souls.

There are occasions when I’m sad that I chose to write a humor column, because it limits the opportunities for turning you all into emotional wrecks and harvesting your precious eye nectar.

That was disgusting. I promise to never again refer to your tears in such a fashion. Unless it’s really, really, really funny. Or I forget.

On the bright side, sharing laughter is also nourishing to the writer’s soul. It’s a different kind of feast, usually with much less guilt.

And that brings us to the second point.

Most days, I’m much happier to bring you a sprinkling of light to fight against the darkness. I might not always be able to inspire an authentic “out-loud laugh,” but maybe there will be be enough silliness to ward off the gloom and nourish the flame of hope and joy in the world.

My sister loves disaster movies.

You know the kind – the ones where gigantic comets come hurtling toward the earth aiming to kill not only the photogenic and well-meaning actors, but THE WHOLE planet. Or the ones where ships crash and turn upside down and the only ones who will survive are the ones listening to the know-it-all kid who has the plans for the ship tattooed on his eyelids.

Over the years of our acquaintance, I have learned that it doesn’t matter how outlandish the plot appears to be from the trailer, what matters is that the earnest scientist/architect/reverend is always right, and the people who laugh at him end up dead, while realizing exactly how wrong they were.

Of course, there are also the innocent victims. There’s the lady whose birthday is being celebrated, and she just beat leukemia, and has a bright future in front of her as a virtuoso concert pianist, who ends up being crushed by something poignant, like a slab of concrete with her concert poster still hanging on it. There’s the lady trapped under a fallen beam, who hands over her infant to the know-it-all kid, so that at least her baby will survive. And there’s the earnest guy’s best friend who always believed his friend, but couldn’t escape the falling glass.

Naturally, the true star of a disaster movie is the disaster itself. It needs to be rendered in stunning visual effects which err on the side of “awesome” instead of on the side of accuracy. There ought to be scenes where nameless victims realize too late their doom, and attempt to flee, and get clobbered by the immense wave/blast/fire. The well-meaning person who leads a group of scared people toward the obvious survival path, against the advice of the know-it-all kid? Yeah, we’d better see slow shots of their cold, dead bodies. We will be sad for them, and tell ourselves that we would not make the same mistake.

I guess you’re supposed to leave the theater reflecting on how fragile our existence really is, and how if we’d only listened to the really crazy sounding guy, and changed our ways, we could prevent the inevitable doom of humanity. Me, I wonder if there’s time to somehow have a baby so that I have something to heroically hand-over to the know-it-all kid.

Maybe the earnest scientist is looking to start a family, and I can instead be his imperiled wife, who provides worried reaction shots to her husband’s selfless attempts to save their know-it-all kid who was on a field trip right in the path of destruction. Maybe I’ll have learned that when my husband’s predictions start coming true, it’s better not to sign the permission slip. Then, our happy little family can be together, and just say “he told you so” for the whole movie.

It is something of a cliche that women tend to complain about the challenges of finding clothing that not only fits them but adheres to their impeccable tastes and flatters their form. No one needs to hear yet another lengthy rant about that which we hold to be true. I take this as a given.

Instead, I wish to take a moment to mourn the near extinction of jeans made with actual denim.

It has not escaped my notice that the supplies of jeans have been infested with a strain of virulent, genetically-inferior forms, innocuously labeled “stretch” denim. It has some admirable qualities. It is comfortable, and more flexible than true denim; it conforms to diverse forms more easily, and moves with the wearer in a superhero-sort of fashion.

And that’s all well and good.

But, when I plunk down $150 for a pair of jeans (which, for the record, I won’t do, because, frankly, I’m cheap thrifty never going to think that’s a reasonable amount of money to spend on jeans. However, let’s say I took a temporary leave of absence from my sanity, and had $150 in mad money to spend on a pair of jeans. Having spent this amount, I’d still expect to be able to wear them more than three times.

The likelihood that I would be able to wear them more than three times is miniscule if they happened to be made of “stretch” denim. It’s worse if I decided I might like to wash them. By my (only slightly) exaggerated estimate, I could get at most two wearings if the washer got involved.

And here’s where I get positively old-fashioned.

I have never seen denim jeans disintegrate before, but, once infused with the evil taint of “stretchiness,” they can’t seem to handle their own rivets. If you happen to brush against a pine tree, you’re liable to have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. Levi Strauss would never have become a household name if his work pants had had the tensile strength of starched tissue paper, but that has become the new norm.

Frankly, I just want my jeans to be jeans.

But, they’ve become an endangered species.

While my keen denim senses can tell the good stuff from the inferior stuff from 50 paces, I am increasingly disappointed that you can’t just walk into any shop and leave with a satisfactory denim garment. The typical shops are more keen on selling jeans as items of fashion then as objects of utility.

My quest for stretch-free denim has led me to some desperate measures. I’m not yet guilty of invocating dark powers to cleanse the “stretch” from the face of denim-kind, but, I might’ve been seen looking through the denim selections in somewhat unorthodox places. I hesitate to say more, lest the supplies be further depleted, but, suffice it to say, I’ve determined what my inseam measurement is.

I have nothing at all interesting to say about St. Patrick’s Day. I had hoped to wrangle it into a serviceable column topic, latching onto the timeliness of the whole thing, and then not have to dip into my well of mediocre ideas.

Except that the topic of St. Patrick’s Day is turning out to itself be a mediocre idea.

Sure, as a single woman, I’m sure you’d all expect that I could regale you with tales of debauchery and wild, carefree antics involving wearing inappropriate things as hats, or testing to see if watermelon burns well.

There are many roads that lead to a joyful, drunken stupor. Just a few steps further, there’s a narrow footpath toward suffering the same fate as a Spinal Tap drummer. The majority of these roads begin with the consumption of something much more flammable than watermelon. I’m a disappointment for those looking to have their antics vicariously through me. There’s little to tell. This weekend I have consumed nothing either fermented or green. I’m regretting the “not green” part. I really should’ve at least eaten a vegetable.

With the drinking portion of the holiday a bust, I could try and dredge up all of the other cliches inherent to the holiday for comedic effect, but, I remain unconvinced that there is any new ground to cover here. Is there any such thing as a new leprechaun joke? Haven’t they all been done to death? (The jokes, not the leprechauns. The leprechauns are fine, I’m sure. They’re all protecting their lucky charms and pots of gold, and doing whatever leprechauns do, making shoes or mischief or bad horror movies.)

Maybe I can find some snake-related material. I don’t typically find snakes hilarious, and jokes relating to serpents tend to turn into something less-than-family-friendly. Probably better if I save the handful of family-friendly snake jokes for Whacking Day (May 10). Naturally, if you’re not a native of Springfield, you’re probably thinking I’ve already bid the notion of “family-friendly” adieu.

In general, I’m in favor of wearing green. It’s a good color on me. I am not in favor of the pinching those who forgot to wear green. I suspect this horrible tradition was started by grade-school bullies who wanted yet another excuse to terrorize their classmates. And those rotten kids could really pinch hard. I think they practice all year.

I’m starting to sound like a St. Patrick’s Day grinch. I’ve somehow lost the true meaning of the holiday. I’m probably one “bah-humbug” away from a visit by three Irish spirits, each wearing different whiskey labels. They’ll insist on step-dancing to traditional music, while balancing baskets full of corned beef with cabbage and potatoes on their heads, and asking me about my boxty baking abilities.

I swear I’ve not had a drop of anything all day.

I might’ve underestimated that “nothing” I had to say about St. Patrick’s Day.

A long time ago, in a galaxy that remarkably looks like this one, there was a high school kid who liked exactly one television show. She thought that television in general was a colossal waste of time, and was sure that anyone who proclaimed their love of television was simply a victim of those aliens that dine on mushy brains. 

She went to college, and in those days, she got an idea that she wanted to write for that show, and even had managed to get an internship with one of the writers on that show in L.A., and had to turn it down, for various mundane reasons relating to money, and logistics, and no she’s not really bitter about that, except when she thinks about it, and she entertains notions that she would’ve been working in the industry in time for the television show that completely changed her mind about the brain rotting power of the medium.

That television show premiered 16 years ago today.

At about this point, you probably have figured out that this “she” is me, right? I knew I couldn’t fool you all.

For those that are not me, and don’t remember the dates that TV shows premiered, that show is called Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I know.

Ridiculous name. Made from a movie that I had, to my great surprise, liked. In my snooty “television is worthless drivel” mindset, I deemed the entire premise incapable of sustaining a series. I didn’t bother with it when it first premiered, but, eventually, I learned my mistake, and took back all the things I had said about it. I know. I am deeply ashamed. I was very wrong.

I didn’t get all confessional about the origins of my marginally unhealthy relationship with television to convince anyone that the show with the silly name is worth watching.  Instead, I am celebrating the series that turned me into an unrepentant champion of television worth watching.  And, in so doing, I’m revealing to you all another of my deeply geeky traits.

Besides, it’s Lent. Having a moment of reflection is part of the formula. I should assess my relationship to scripted fiction, and think about the horrible things I used to do before I fell under the thrall of television.

More than that, I am sorry for all the insults I once heaped upon those lovers of TV. The things I said were cruel, and might’ve implied that loyal viewers had rotten brains, no standards for quality entertainment and smelled of unfortunate hygiene habits.  I hope you forgive me.

If it’s any consolation, I’m doing my best to offer penance.  There’s this little confession and apology, and, I hope that one day, all this thinking about the larger metaphors of being a superhero and saving the world will make me a better person.  It’s the least I can do.

I am hoping to get your help with a little mystery that’s been haunting me all week. I’m crossing my fingers that if I share it with you, that it will finally leave me alone.
It started with a harmless trip to the grocery store. As I got to the sidewalk, 25 feet from the entrance, I noticed a scattering of flower shrapnel covering a small three-foot blast radius.

I surveyed the curious litter. The flowers were the sort found in bouquets. A thoroughly tattered stem bent in many angles lay at least a foot from the nearest bloom. Orange lily parts dotted the banks of snow. A smushed white chrysanthemum-y blossom stared at me with its dead eyes, the violent tragedy silently screaming at me from its muddy resting place. Spots of color from no longer identifiable flowers caught my eye from every direction.

I stood there for a few seconds, and moved along, trying to pretend I hadn’t noticed, that I was immune to the horrors of dismemberment. Even with the scene behind me, I couldn’t shake the images. They compelled me to consider the circumstances that led to such carnage.

I tried to make sense of the scene. The remains didn’t add up to a complete bouquet. What if someone had spent their last $20 on the bouquet to brighten the room of a dying friend, only to carelessly pack the car, where it shifted, spilling a few of the exquisite blossoms to the ground? Did he even notice? I imagined the moment when he did notice, and felt his pain that the gift was had been so diminished, with such a keen sense of loss.

As I entered the store, I saw the displays of fresh flowers, happily beaming at me from their racks, ignorant of the fate that befell their cousin a mere feet away. Their joy mocked me.

My thoughts moved to another, more violent scenario, where the bouquet had been wielded like a club against a would-be mugger, or maybe as a weapon in a lovers quarrel.

I tried to put it out of my mind, and succeeded, until, I was passing the spot on the way back to the car. Again, I was overcome by the sadness of the spoilt flowers.

I got to the car, and told myself it was beyond ridiculous to get emotionally involved in a bunch of flowers, and put them out of my mind.

Until I realized that I had failed to get several items on the list I hadn’t actually made. Probably, I was too shaken by the tragedy that only existed in my head. This happens more often than I’d care to admit.

Once again, I had to stop at the store, and again I had to pass the scene which haunts me to this very day. The white mum-y bloom was in the same spot, affected by another 24 hours of decay. The orange lily shards had blown away, but the stem remained, broken into additional parts, scattered by more foot traffic. New scenarios filled my brain, each more horrible than the last.

There are days when I am jealous of people who can ignore the mysteries and inspirational story material lurking around every corner. Today is not one of those days. Because, although I have probably been more bothered by the ruined flowers than the person who bought them, I admit that I was grateful to have something to put in this week’s column.

 As you might be aware, the Oscars are today.  In general, I’m in favor of celebrating the contributions of people who lie for a living, my sister pointed out there are almost as many awards shows for makers of movies as there are makers of movies.

With so many opportunities for Hollywood to pat itself on the back for making millions of dollars, it reminds me of the neighborhood pet shows where every pet, and its proud owner, gets a prize.  “Awww, did Rusty stay awake for the whole show? Here’s a medal!”

You are probably thinking that I’m only saying this because of some sort of misplaced sour grapes. And, you would be right. If I had manage to produce anything that resembles a movie.

Instead, I’m thinking of all the people who don’t get awards shows to pat them on the back. The people who manage to drag themselves out of bed on a cold and snowy morning, shovel a foot of show down 20 feet of concrete, drive three hours to work, and still arrive on time. These are the people that stay all day at their posts, and then drive 3 hours back home. These are the people who deserve a shiny, gold, naked guy on their mantel.

Where are the awards for those that excel at the Cubicle Arts?

They don’t sound glamorous, but, I suggest that the reason they sound so mind-numbingly drab is because they don’t have their own awards show, complete with red carpet and snarky commentators.

I can see the Memmys, awards granted by the Academy of Office Arts and Sciences for achievements in the field of office work, start to gain momentum and a following among the aficionados of office trades.

I can see many important categories, like “Best Presentation,” which allows nominations of any meeting, team building exercise, or proposal in which none of the attendees fell asleep, let their attention wander, or disappeared in a flurry of mass non-attendance by virtue of fake dentist appointments, looming deadlines, and/or suspicious eruptions of dead relatives.

Other potential categories include “Best Workers” in both supporting and lead roles, and “Best CEO.”

For those that are more talented with behind-the-scenes contributions, there could be awards for achievements in memo writing. Perhaps separate awards for “Best Original Memo” and “Best Adapted Memo.”

Once the Memmys get established, I expect there will be new awards shows to honor all sorts of skills and talents. Finally, people who don’t make millions will be recognized for their contributions.

The downside here is that there will probably be awards shows every weekend. Inevitably, there will be true award show fatigue, and with everyone getting an award, even if they’re spectacularly mediocre, no one will feel much like it means all that much anymore.

That’s sad.

Okay, new plan. Only one new award. This one is for “Best Short Weekly Humor Writing by a person whose name rhymes with “Fate Warns.” Gold naked statue and a truckload of cash is an acceptable prize. And you all will totally get thanked in my acceptance speech.

There are many times when I want to blame a weeks worth of procrastination on my not getting a column written until the deepest hours of Monday morning on the slate of good shows that all happen to be on Sunday night. (Shhhhhh… not late, it’s still Sunday if I’ve not gone to bed yet.)

I find it hard to cope with a world where the worst night of TV is now the best.Well, after Wednesday. And maybe Monday. Have you been following “The Following?”

Sunday used to be about Hallmark movies with ushy gushy saccharine sentimentality. It was appointment TV — if you count making an appointment to do anything else. There was also Wild Kingdom, and The Wonderful World of Disney, which punches all nostalgia buttons, but really doesn’t do anything on the must-see-o-meter.

Now it’s filled with a wide range of good stuff. There’s Downton Abbey and zombies and racing around the world and Disney-ified fairy tales. There is too much goodness for such a small night, and too few options for time shiftiness. They probably waited until I had chosen Sunday as my column deadline night, and then scheduled all their best content for that night.

To add insult to that injury, the networks in their infinite desire to annoy and collect prime ad revenue, put all the special events on Sundays. I’m looking at you, Oscars, Emmys and the Super Bowl.

I wish I could say that I am a disciplined writer who never makes the elementary mistake of trying to write with the TV on. Well, I could say it. In fact, I just did. And because it’s written, it must be true. Unless it’s fiction.

Where was I? Right. Lying about always writing in a distraction free zone.

Lying is probably a slight misrepresentation of my numerous shortcomings.

Do I always write the column at the last minute with the TV blaring in the background? No. Has that been known to occur? I suggest you stop asking questions now.

In point of fact, my immense shame at not getting a new column sent last weekend has sparked a twinge of penitent behavior. I wrote most of this over my lunch break. Long-hand. No TV. No computer. No Internet. No interruptions.

Of course, since I had most of all this written, I didn’t bother to get onto the “sending” portion of the evening until, well, after midnight. Even though I know that things go much better when I don’t procrastinate, I was living comfortably in the little house of confident denial I had built out of my almost finished work, This is the happy place where I told myself I had nothing to worry about, everything was done! Finishing it will take only 15 minutes, and I can go about the business of not thinking about the column. Three hours later, I’m finally wrapping it up, but, with no picture.

Worse? I didn’t even watch the zombies tonight.

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After weeks of anticipation and painstaking preparation, the most holy day of the US calendar is finally upon us.  Countless avocados have been mashed to a cheery green pulp, numerous buffalo have sacrificed their wings, and scores of bowls have been filled with highly salted carbohydrates.

The faithful take their places on comfy couches and squashy armchairs, arranged around the warm glow of the television to watch grown men crash into each other and fall down.  The less faithful anticipate the stream of talking babies, horses with large feet, and shiny automobile antics.

For those whose sole reason for watching the Bowl known as Super is the advertising, disappointment has become the regular feature. How can the gift of a clever advertisement be enjoyed if it’s been previewed on the morning news media weeks before the big day? This is like opening your Christmas presents on Thanksgiving. By the time you get to Christmas, all the paint has dulled under thousands of greasy fingerprints, and the initial delight has been replaced by a “seen-it-all cynicism.” There’s no longer anything special about it at all.

It’s sad that companies have lost the true meaning of the holiday. The one day when people watch a show live and don’t fast-forward through the commercials, and they take it all away from us. Why should we bother paying attention on the breaks if they’re only going to be running commercials we’ve all seen before? There’s simply no respect for the audience.

And despite the increasing disdain for their viewers, they still expect us to eat the required allotment of junk food. I have learned that the USDA has proclaimed that their normal dietary guidelines are suspended for this day*, and in their place, there is a strict, enforceable, snack food intake requirement. This is to insure that the purveyors of all things crunchy and of dubious nutritional value sell enough to put the industry into the black for the year.

Each person must eat a minimum of three servings from the fried food group, two from the salty group, five from the heavily seasoned, bite-sized meat group, three from the sugary and sticky group, four from the fermented and carbonated beverage group, and six from the dip group. I’ve had to pay expensive fines for not complying with the requirements, and this year I’m taking no chances. Now, not only am I going to be feeling exceptionally queasy on game day, I’m going to be eating leftover chips for months.

*This is not actually true, even if all the components of common party recipes mysteriously go on sale the week before the game, as do sugary beverages and macrobrew beers. The nation’s strategic snack reserve is perilously low around the first weeks of February, and, I’m certain it puts us in considerable danger on the world snack stage.

I’ve discovered that a fair number of the top young adult novels are dystopias. You know, on the surface everyone’s happy and well-adjusted, but the cost of these peaceful, happy societies is simple things like freedom and individuality.  Usually, these worlds have grown up out of the ruins of our failures, and grown into well-functioning communities built on the judicious application of mind altering drugs, fear mongering, or strict punishment for any rule infractions.

And, while we’re not supposed to want to live in these horrible places where there are no books, or where everyone’s pretty, and all they have to worry about is parties and what to wear, I admit to being tempted by some of the good things they offer.

Take for example the food.

In all of these worlds, food is not only plentiful, it’s organic, and locally grown. No one is overweight. Even better, in the vast majority of the settings, the food is delivered magically by technology, or by people whose job it is to prepare and deliver the food.  At any hour of the day, warm, flavorful food is just a simple request away.  No one worries about affording groceries, paper vs. plastic, processed foods and chemicals verses fresh ingredients, and no one spends one brain cell on what to have for dinner. Sign me up.

Money is completely gone in these “backwards” societies. Since every member of the community gets fed, clothed and housed, money is irrelevant, which means no more Ponzi schemes, lotteries, taxes or fiscal cliffs.

Then, there’s the convention where the community assigns you your role. That’s right. They give you a job based upon your aptitudes and interests and the needs of the whole community. Awesome! No floundering around trying to figure out what you can do well enough to make a living, and yet doesn’t make you want to peel your own fingernails off. Plus, no job interviews or unemployment, and you are automatically making a meaningful and valuable contribution for the whole society. Sure, you might only get to live to middle age because the community rules “put you out to pasture” at a relatively young age, but, none of your years were spent worrying about retirement, making a difference, or getting a promotion.

And, don’t worry about picking a spouse. Nope. Your community’s got you covered. So long as you don’t have congenital defects, they’ll assign you a suitable mate. None of the inconvenience of dating, the pain of rejection, or lying on your online dating profile, they’ll hook you up with someone compatible. No one has to go through life without someone to help get the stuff off the top shelf, or kill the spiders, or take out the trash.

There’s no use thinking the perfect world is just a cataclysm away, or that it even exists. I’ll just be glad I’ve got books and freedom to take risks and worry about groceries.

Well, at least I’ve got books.

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