Day 1: Gouda Morning to All

"Gouda Morning to All"

 

Well, that's how I was going to start this first of "30 Days Minus 2" challenge, considering its birthday is today ("Good Morning to All" is the same tune as "Happy Birthday to You" in case you didn't know that).  Does this make it one or two years old?  Is it three...because it feels like four.  Well, it doesn't matter as I'm going to cheat a little and post up a blog from a few years back. 

 

Why?

 

Because it's about cheese...and Gouda is a cheese...and this website has the word "cheese" in the title...and today's prompt is "Gouda" (I think I neglected to say that).  Anyone see a pattern here?

 

Anyway...as I promised to Scott Rice (the originator of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest) ever since I won back in 2003...here again is a tiny bit of publicity, provided by me.  Yeah, I know that might sound cheesy...but I'm being sincere. Oh yeah, and don't forget to get your entries in for this year...you still have time.

And don't forget to go to "We Work for Cheese" to read all the other entries for this month's challenge...Day 1 being "Gouda".

(The following piece was originally written/posted at my own blog site on 4 April 2006.) 

 

The Best at Being Worst...and Proud of It!

Well, seems it's that time of year again...the dreaded deadline looming ahead like so many ravenous vultures...like so many you lose count - even if you have one of those fancy hand-held metal clicker things that can be punched to 999 before it resets back to zero...then I guess you have to mentally remember that it spun around one whole time already, kinda like when you're dealing out cards and the phone rings and interrupts you midway and you forget who gets the next card, so you just start all over again because someone probably looked at your cards while you were gone anyway. Yep, the 15th of April is fast approaching and soon everyone will be asking each other, "Did you get it in on time? Did you get your entry in?"

"What the heck is she saying??" you might have asked yourself...and what about vultures? Is she talking about the IRS? Accountants? Huh...cards??? "Nay", say I...I'm talking about 'The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest' also referred to as the 'It was a dark and stormy night' competition. You might have read about it when I won the Grand Prize in 2003. Oh, c'mon...it was on the front page of the Montgomery Advertiser...surely you couldn't have forgotten that? Well, okay...maybe you did. Sigh. Let me then enlighten and elucidate...

You see that long sentence I started my blog off with? The one that goes on and on and on and on. Well, that was intentional..and not just because I am a bad writer (oh, keep the remarks to yourselves) but because I was, at least in 2003, proclaimed as the BEST at being the worst. I won the dubious distinction of writing the worst opening line to a fictional novel...and that opening sentence, above, is a little bit like what you'll see in the competition. Need a better, er...um...worse...example? Here is my winning entry:

They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.

The rules can be found on their home page...but they are relatively simple. Write the opening line for a fictional novel...make it bad...but make it enjoyably bad. Longer is not necessarily better, but it seems they do tend to favour longer entries...but be careful on your punctuation...there's only so many words you can string together before it gets too monotonous. Monotonous doesn't cut it...badly well written does.

So, do you have what it takes to make the cut? Cut might not be the best choice of words...don't cut...but rather elaborate. Can you write famously bad...to get 14 minutes of fame? All forms of glory can be headed your way...I was interviewed on CNN Live (yes, in the daytime)...and a bunch of other radio/tv stations from California to Australia...I showed up on over 7000 hits on Google...more than Alex Trebek; less than Mel Gibson...my name and entry was in newpapers, literally from Albania to Zimbabwe...I even made the front page of USA Today. In a nutshell, I loved it...can you tell? Okay, so Letterman never called...and Conan O'Brien's people said I probably couldn't fill up six minutes of airtime. Uh huh...right. And Craig Ferguson wasn't around yet...what a pity. But I do try my best to get the word out to people who might not necessarily know about the contest because it really was both a fun experience and an honour to be chosen. Thank you again, Scott Rice.


(Professor Scott Rice, of San Jose University, is the originator of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest which has been running continually since 1982.)

Esmerelda and the Area Known as 51

It was just about dusk as Esmerelda sat behind the counter filing her nails at the only gas station in Goldfield, Nevada.

She had sat behind that counter every day, or near about every day, since her daddy got taken ill with a raging fever that ended up taking his breath away. Momma prayed hard that day and asked Esmerelda, "Sing with your angel voice, child, sing so the angels can hear and come straight to your daddy to 'take him home'."

Esmerelda obliged.

She was just a girl of about seven...but her voice could make grown men weep - and when the town, once a boom town for gold, started to get deserted, grown men wept for other reasons. Esmerelda didn't really understand where "home" was. She just knew when people got bit real bad by snakes or had the consumption, they always went "home" and then no one ever saw them again. They parceled you up real good, too. Put you in a big wooden box to send you there. She figured a special postman with a big wagon and two horses came to take you back "home" and your family would walk as far as they could and then came back again...crying.

But no one came back once they went home. And for a very long time Esmerelda was afraid to ever go home, but as she never lived anywhere else, she figured she was already there. Then, as all things go, time passed and she understood about "home" and then was worried her momma would go there one day. Sometimes she'd find herself doing chores 'round the house and her sweet voice would pour out like liquid sunshine and kiss the ears of everyone within earshot. Then she'd clam up and run outside as far and as fast as she could. She didn't want those angels to find her momma.

But now she was filing her nails and Curtis was in the garage of the gas station shouting obscenities each time he'd smash a finger. Curtis worked at the little grocery store and service station that was smack on the edge of town. Smack on the edge of town to nowhere really. Wasn't anything much before or after the town and certainly wasn't much there. The only thing within miles was Las Vegas and the only time people came through Goldfield anymore was because they heard it once had gold...but that was a considerable time ago, but that never stopped the passers-by who lost everything but gas money out of Vegas. Goldfield was a tank of gas away...and if they got lucky and found the stray nugget, it was a tank of gas back. And the only place to get that gas was at Esmerelda's daddy's store, "Old Bob Perkins' Place" it was called by the locals and that's what it will always be called if Esmerelda and her momma had anything to do with it.

It didn't cost much to run and Curtis got paid only when he fixed something, which wasn't very often, but then again, Curtis was never going to amount to much anyway...but that never stopped him from trying to hit on Esmerelda.

He had it all worked out in his simple head. He'd marry Esmerelda when the time was right and that time would be any day now seeing as she was starting to fill out her dresses too much and started wearing her momma's. Then he and Esmerelda would move in with his momma as she had the biggest house for miles around. Curtis never knew why she did, he only knew they didn't want for anything...but he never much wanted for anything anyway...anything but Esmerelda, that is. And that "wanting" wasn't exactly like wanting a new tire or wanting a new pair of shoes -- it was more like wanting some dinner...only sometimes this hunger seemed a lot deeper. Curtis, again, never really knew why.

But Esmerelda's hunger and desire didn't lie with Curtis...she wanted to go to Hollywood...or at least Vegas. She liked the distinct smell of ozone once when daddy took the family on a trip up there shortly before he died. Once in a while, on a warm still night, Esmerelda swore she could still catch a whiff of it if the breeze was blowing just right and if she turned her head just so.

Esmerelda knew she didn't have much time, either. The desert sun can blanch the bones of a dead thing white in a couple days...and the supple, taut skin of a young girl of 15 turns into something hard and leathery like the cowboys and Mexicans wore in those "shoot 'em up" movies she wanted to star in. Star in them right up there on the silver screen with Gary Cooper or John Wayne. Even though Esmerelda only went to a movie once, she knew that's what she wanted to do...she also knew, aside from "going home", that was her only ticket out of Goldfield.

And the best way to get there was on a tank of gas after someone found a big enough nugget.

So, each day she came to work dressed in her momma's best clothes, her hair styled as closely as she could get it to resemble the latest "starlet of the month" on the magazine cover and smelling of something called "L'amore de Parisienne". It cost a whole fifty cents...the finest her daddy's store carried. And there she would wait, filing her nails, anticipating that one day, and one day soon, a big Hollywood director would need a fill-up on his way scouting around for a new place to shoot a film...discover her in all her momma's Sunday finest...and sweep her away to the place where dreams can be made real...or at least as close to the reality she always dreamt about.

Each day, she'd walk home more disappointed than the last...and the days she spent waiting turned into weeks, then months, and finally years. Curtis had filled out enough to become interesting to her...and as he was the only boy close her age for miles, his dream was beginning to look like it would be her dream as well.

(End of Part 1)

(Originally posted 24 Mar 11)

(What does this have to do with the "We Work for Cheese" prompt "French" today?  The perfume, silly, the perfume...it's French.  Now go on over to the site and read all the other contributors for the "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" competition/non-competition.)

The Melty Man

You think you know someone. I mean, you talk to people and you get to know them a little; they open up, they tell you some stuff they ordinarily wouldn't tell their friends and family in person, but since you are on the Internet, there's no harm done, they never have to meet you. You typically share some really personal stuff you just wouldn't -- with people you'll never ever have to face in life. Am I right?

Well, I thought so, too.

It all started a few years back. My friend Chris, whom I've never met, who used to play my online comedy website, www.HumorMeOnline.com (which I never update anymore as I spend all my time obsessing about my health and pitying myself) "introduced" me to Mike. Mike, you may know, goes by a few names: MikeWJ, Michael Whiteman-Jones..."Too Many Mornings" Mike -- you know, that Mike.

Well, I thought we had struck up a friendship...he'd comment on my blogs and say nice things and I'd say nice things to him sometimes and we were all getting along fine and dandy (him posting photos of himself in different hats and all) when, out of the blue, I find out he's been battling some sort of affliction.

The obvious one comes to mind: alcohol. Yeah, who among here us doesn't like to swill back a few in the mornings, right?

Well, it wasn't that...so, naturally, the next obvious one, considering he takes photographs a lot...is that he is into some kind of porn. Maybe something to do with fruits or vegetables...something really weird...maybe with some shoe heels involved. After all, he did say he could spot a pair of Louboutins from a few feet away (pun intended) in that one blog he wrote about Washington, DC, which I think I'm STILL reading, by the way, as it was THAT long of a blog.

But, nope. Still totally off the mark.

So, I find out today...his face fell off.

Yeah...I know. THAT kind of thing, you'd think someone who calls themselves a "friend"...would mention. I've gone on and on to him about my sleeping problems, my issues with my thyroid, my lung, my toe, my pathetic boobs, my butt, etc., and you'd be darned tooting right if you guessed that IF I would have had an issue with my face sliding right off, I probably would have mentioned it.

Now, I know he posted a few photos of himself recently - but they show no signs of slippage. I'm sure he has Photoshop, and anyone with any type of artistic background could easily manipulate their face and tweak it here and there right back to where it used to be. But, I'm figuring they weren't even recent pictures. Hell, that might not even BE what he looks like. Could just be that "Mike" has some bizarre obsession with some guy with a beard whom he pays twenty bucks a pop to - to pose for some artsy "black and white" jobbers.

I, for one, am gobsmacked. I'm literally speechless...and anyone who knows me, knows damned well that doesn't happen very often, if ever.

Sure, he's probably speechless, too...but that's just because he can't pronounce words anymore because he...HAS NO LIPS...because his face fell off -- and I had to go and find out like most everyone else did -- not like a friend would: I had to friggen find out by reading it on the Internet!

But, I guess that's only poetic justice...or irony...because, after all, we did "meet" on the Internet. Two faceless people brought together by a force invisible...only much more tragic and prophetic than I ever, ever envisioned.

(Who the hell is Mike? Well, my "friend" -- you'll find out here: Mike)

 

 

 

This blog was written and inspired by Mike...who is a damned good writer and I'm jealous, but in a good way (if there is such a thing)...and we were both initially inspired by the "We Work for Cheese" non-contest contest...whose prompt today was "Friendship".

 

 

 

The Best at Being "The Worst"...and Proud of It!

Well, seems it's that time of year again...the dreaded deadline looming ahead like so many ravenous vultures...like so many you lose count - even if you have one of those fancy hand-held metal clicker things that can be punched to 999 before it resets back to zero...then I guess you have to mentally remember that it spun around one whole time already, kinda like when you're dealing out cards and the phone rings and interrupts you midway and you forget who gets the next card, so you just start all over again because someone probably looked at your cards while you were gone anyway. Yep, the 15th of April is fast approaching and soon everyone will be asking each other, "Did you get it in on time? Did you get your entry in?"

"What the heck is she saying??" you might have asked yourself...and what about vultures? Is she talking about the IRS? Accountants? Huh...cards??? "Nay", say I...I'm talking about 'The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest' also referred to as the 'It was a dark and stormy night' competition. You might have read about it when I won the Grand Prize in 2003. Oh, c'mon...it was on the front page of the Montgomery Advertiser...surely you couldn't have forgotten that? Well, okay...maybe you did. Sigh. Let me then enlighten and elucidate...

You see that long sentence I started my blog off with? The one that goes on and on and on and on. Well, that was intentional..and not just because I am a bad writer (oh, keep the remarks to yourselves) but because I was, at least in 2003, proclaimed as the BEST at being the worst. I won the dubious distinction of writing the worst opening line to a fictional novel...and that opening sentence, above, is a little bit like what you'll see in the competition. Need a better, er...um...worse...example? Here is my winning entry:

They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.

The rules can be found on their home page...but they are relatively simple. Write the opening line for a fictional novel...make it bad...but make it enjoyably bad. Longer is not necessarily better, but it seems they do tend to favour longer entries...but be careful on your punctuation...there's only so many words you can string together before it gets too monotonous. Monotonous doesn't cut it...badly well written does.

So, do you have what it takes to make the cut? Cut might not be the best choice of words...don't cut...but rather elaborate. Can you write famously bad...to get 14 minutes of fame? All forms of glory can be headed your way...I was interviewed on CNN Live (yes, in the daytime)...and a bunch of other radio/tv stations from California to Australia...I showed up on over 7000 hits on Google...more than Alex Trebek; less than Mel Gibson...my name and entry was in newpapers, literally from Albania to Zimbabwe...I even made the front page of USA Today. In a nutshell, I loved it...can you tell? Okay, so Letterman never called...and Conan O'Brien's people said I probably couldn't fill up six minutes of airtime. Uh huh...right. And Craig Ferguson wasn't around yet...what a pity. But I do try my best to get the word out to people who might not necessarily know about the contest because it really was both a fun experience and an honour to be chosen. Thank you again, Scott Rice.

(Professor Scott Rice, of San Jose University, is the originator of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest which has been running continually since 1982.)

Originally published 4 April 2006.

________________________
This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" challenge.  (Yes, I know - another 30 days of me begging for people to read my blog...but, dammit, I really want the nasty salty licorice prize...so if I come in 2nd, I think I win it; you can be instrumental in getting me to win and gag on it.  Hell, there'll probably be a blog involved...ooops...spoke too soon probably.) Anyway, today’s topic is "Cheesy". Please check out "We Work For Cheese" for a list of the other participants.