I recently had an experience that could only be described as uplifting and challenging; something that made me proud to be an American. Yes, I was summoned for jury duty. (Isn't "duty" a funny word? Just saying it makes you want to laugh.)

For my forty plus years, I have been lucky (?) in so much that I never got called for jury duty. When friends and family members around me received their summonses, I used to snicker, chuckle and, once, even guffawed facetiously. ("Jury duty? Hey, luck you." Snicker-snicker, chuckle-chuckle, guffaw-guffaw.)

After a while, it became annoying. Why were these people selected and I wasn't? What did I have? B.O.? Was there a special list of people excluded from jury duty, because they like to make questionable sculptures with fresh produce in the supermarket? It was becoming apparent that something was up.

Then, one day, to my delight and excitement, I received a summons to appear for jury duty. At last I could feel the same emotions my brothers and sisters before me felt when they were called. I could now understand what went through their minds when they reached into their mailboxes and pulled out this official document requesting their presence at the County Court House to fulfill their obligation as a citizen of this fair land. That must be why my initial instinct was to try to find a way to get out of this thing. (Since I'm not a policeman, a fireman, a nurse, an ambulance driver, or, a golf pro, it looked like I was going to have to serve.)

I explained to my employer that I was going to serve on jury duty for a week and that I would need the time off. My employer said, "Jury duty? Hey, lucky you." (Snicker-snicker, chuckle-chuckle, guffaw-guffaw.)

My first day, Monday, was a day of introductions as all of us gathered in this one large room where we sat and waited to be called upstairs. The first thing they did was have roll-call. (Actually, it was number-call, since they called out our juror number to which we answered, "Here!" or "Present" or "Bingo!") Out of the nearly one thousand juror numbers, there were only three or four hundred present. (Apparently, there are more golf pros in this country than I thought.)

Since my number was 792, it wasn't until the end of Tuesday before our block of numbers got called. Actually, I was glad, because, up until then, all there was to do was watch television, (Hint: There is nothing on after Live with Regis and Kelly.)read old magazines, (Cover of Entertainment Weekly - "Lillian Russell Appearing Nightly") or talk to the woman next to me who went into an extensive account of her gall bladder surgery.

I finally got chosen to sit on a jury where one sleazoid company was suing another sleazoid company. The trial was to begin Wednesday morning, but several of the witnesses were sick and could not be present. So, we went back to watching television, (Today on Montel, "Men Who Have Driven Through the Lincoln Tunnel and Come Out Women") reading old magazines, (Cover of Business Weekly - Ford Introduces Model "T")or listening to the guy next to me explain, in horrid detail, the pain of hair plugs.

On Thursday, after waiting in the jury room for the trial to start, the judge called us in and declared a mistrial, since the plaintiff and the defendant apologized, kissed and made up and opened a My Favorite Muffin together.

I understand it will be two years before I can be called for jury duty again. This is good, because it will give me plenty of time to come up with an excuse to get out of it. I'm pretty sure I can drive an ambulance.

When I first came to Taiwan to live I listened to the language and thought to myself, "OK, this doesn't sound so hard. I have high-school French and German so I already possess some linguistic ability. I can learn this."

Over the next year or so I worked constantly with an interpreter and never really put my theory to the test. When someone asked me: "Do you speak Chinese?" I would make an excuse and add, "But I am planning to learn it very soon..."

But my Chinese has never gotten beyond the ambiguous grunt that I uttered the first time a 7Eleven attendant hit me with a string of strange syllables. Here is my sad, sad story...

I'd heard all about the four, five or is it six(?) tonal endings and they seemed daunting, but if you can learn German grammar, I reassured myself, you can learn anything: I was just saving myself for the right moment to start. One day on a flight from Taipei to Kaohsiung, I decided this was the day; today I'd start actually learning the language of my hosts, my friends, and my wife and my two stepdaughters.

I listened carefully to the clearly enunciated announcements as the plane began to descend into Kaohsiung airport: "Gerway lee ker chi...something something something..."

Okay, I'd start with that; I'd memorize that phrase, learn the English meaning and that could be the beginning of my grasp of Mandarin.

When I got to my meeting, I drew my friend Oliver aside and asked: "What does this mean? Gerway lee ker chi...something something something?"

He looked at me with a blank expression. "What does what mean?"

"That," I said. "The thing I just said, what does that mean?"

"I don't know?"

"It's Chinese. I heard them say it on the plane."

"I don't think that is Chinese."

"Yes, it is, they said it three times. Gerway lee kerchi...whatever...whatever whatever." He may have moved back a step; I didn't notice because I was wondering why he was being so difficult about this. Then I realized that perhaps I was missing one of the tonal endings, so for the next five minutes I tried variations: "Ger WAY lee KER chi...dah dah DAH....Ger way LEE KER CHI...dum...DUM...DUM!..."

He continued shaking his head and glanced at his watch. I took the not very subtle hint and we returned to the meeting. Later when I reviewed the experience I realized that for whatever reason he didn't want me to be able to learn his language. Obviously, somewhere in there I must have hit on the right combination but he had not wanted to admit it.

This had given me a new and chastening insight into his character. Two days later I lay in bed with my wife, and tried again, confident that love would overcome whatever malevolent cultural influence was denying me my right to speak Chinese.

"Darling, what does this mean? 'Gerway lee ker chi...something something something'." Two hours later, by analyzing all possible landing announcements she finally said:

"Oh, you mean Gerway lee ker chi...something something something."

"Yes, darling! That is what I have been saying for the past two hours: Gerway lee ker chi...something something something."

"No, dearest, you have been saying 'Gerway lee ker chi...something something something'"

"Yes! Exactly!"

"No, not exactly...maybe not exactly at all. You know 'Ber Per Mer Fer'?"

"Of course," I said, stung by her disloyalty. "Everyone knows who that is..."

Later I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and wondering just how deeply this heretofore undetected current of cultural enmity ran?

Two years later my 7 year old son came from Australia to live with me in Taiwan. He travelled with me as I moved about, spending more time than was healthy in hotel rooms watching cable cartoon shows. After a few months, I overheard him conversing in Chinese to his step sisters.

I thought: "Uhuh, they are taking pity on him."

Another few months passed and one day, as the three of us were driving somewhere, my friend Oliver told me: "Your son speaks very standard Chinese. How did he learn it?"

By now there was a great rift between me and Mandarin; my current theory was that you had to be born into the language. "I guess from his sisters," I said.

"No, Dad," he said from the back seat. "I learned it from TV."

"Hah, hah!" said I acknowledging his infantile attempt at humor.

Two years later I realized that I was the only member of our family who couldn't speak Chinese; at dinner time everyone else would yap back and forth while I wielded my chopsticks in silence. I had to face reality: I needed to learn Chinese.

And so I resumed my quest. Where should I start? I just happened to take another flight with my son from Kaohsiung to Taipei and heard the same announcement.

"Okay," I said to my son. "What did that mean?"

He looked up from his Game Boy. "What?"

"That announcement."

"I didn't hear it, Dad."

"They said 'Gerway lee ker chi...something something something.' He looked at me blankly. Fortunately for our relationship at that moment the same announcement was broadcast again. "That! You heard that, right?"

"Yes, dad. They said 'Gerway lee ker chi...something something something' But that's not what you said. You said 'Gerway lee ker chi...something something something'"

His expression was so kind, even pitying, that at last my arrogance crumbled.

Crestfallen, I asked: "But why? Why can't anyone understand me?"

He thought that over. "It's because you don't have a Chinese sound, Dad. You're trying to speak Chinese with your English sound. It doesn't work. You have to get a Chinese sound. That's how I did it. I got it from TV."

"You mean like 'Gerway lee ker chi...something something something'?" I said trying for the right intonation.

"Yeah," he said, going back to his Game Boy. "But Chinese."

Now when he and I go somewhere he does the talking. Inevitably taxi drivers and shop assistants remark with delight on his extremely standard and fluent Chinese, and then they ask if the brooding fellow beside him can also speak Chinese.

In his reply I imagine he is summing me up most succinctly: "Sadly, my honorable father is wise in many things but he is a complete moron as far as speaking this excellent language is concerned. He is deserving of pity. Don't look at him for he will feel ashamed."

Late one dark night Lu Lu Bear got fed up with the tenants living in the apartment building across the alley from her lovely urban den. Lu Lu Bear minds her own Peas and Ques, stays within her own property line, doesn't bother her neighbors and expects the same in return. Sometimes that's not enough and she finds herself pushing the border back to where it belongs.

The owner of the apartment building decided he needed a garage for his tenants, so he built one. The big problem was he put it right on the edge of the alley with no apron at all for his tenants to use when parking their cars into each single car garage.

Well, when the occupant in the first unit would come home and try to park his jalopy in that very small garage, he found things a bit tight. He'd conclude that he didn't have enough room, so he'd get out of his car and move Lu Lu Bear's garbage can far and away from where she liked to keep it. However, he wouldn't put it back when he was finished parking. Lu Lu Bear would find her can parked all over the alley the next day and it was starting to irritate her. After all, her can was on her own property and that's the bottom line. She could put it anywhere she wanted and he had no right touching it. Actually Lu Lu Bear wouldn't have given a rip, all he had to do is return it to where it belonged.

One morning she went out to the alley to deposit the garbage. She found her can shoved way down to the end of the alley. Lu Lu Bear was not pleased. AND by now, she was not in a negotiating kind of mind after this rotten stunt. She decided she didn't need to take any more guff off this tenant.

In a fury, Lu Lu Bear went into her gadget drawer and found the duct tape, then headed out feeling strong and willful of mind. She took that tape around that apartment garage four times. The woman in the upstairs apartment was looking out her window and became upset. She called her landlord who told her to call the police and then informed Lu Lu Bear what she had done. Lu Lu Bear thought the whole thing was pretty hilarious, decided she had made her point and started taking off the duct tape when the police arrived.

Lu Lu bear was calmly removing the tape when the cop asked her what she was doing. She simply remarked that she was ..."taking the tape off." The cop wondered if she was the one who had called the police.

"No." she replied, "The woman in that unit up there was the one who called you. I am the one who did it."

By now the police were cracking up because they had never EVER gotten a call reporting an irate bear duct taping her neighbor's garage.

"Strangest call I have ever gotten!" lamented the cop to his partner between hysterical giggles. Lu Lu bear laughed along with them.

"I realize you'd just tell me to take it off, so that's what I am doing. I've made my point." said Lu Lu Bear.

The cops asked all sorts of rhetorical questions, took no action, but wrote their report anyway. The owner of the building showed up the next day at the precinct to read the report.

Lu Lu bear never had another problem with that tenant bothering her property again. Pretty soon after he moved out.

The owner of the apartment building later wanted Lu Lu Bear to paint a picture of his building, so she did and titled it "In the Light of the Moon". The owner never paid her for her irreverant reminder of the night of the duct tape caper, so Lu Lu Bear kept the painting. It's featured in the Folk Art Corner of her website galleries, called "In the Light of the Moon"..

The Tucson Deli is where I buy my cheese. The rusty machine in my cellar allows me to slice my meat at home. Stepping up to the counter, I request one pound of white American cheese which makes me sound like a racist.

When the clerk begins to slice the cheese, I caress myself as each sliver drops onto the paper. Rhythm is everything, and it seems like we are working toward a satisfying conclusion.

The clerk abruptly ceases slicing in order to quiz a mother standing next to me about whether her child would like to sample a slice of cheese. The mother nods her head affirmatively, accepts a slice of my cheese and passes it to her child sitting in the grocery cart.

When I shop tomorrow, my broccoli will be sitting in the same spot where her child is now pooping in the basket. The situation leaves me stunned without my hammer. My eyes shift from the clerk to the mother as I wait for judgement to fall.

I'm as magnanimous as the next guy, but that was my slice of cheese and nobody asked my permission to make a donation. I'm not wearing my Feed The Children T-shirt. Nobody seems to care about my feelings. It's like being at a meeting with ten nurses at work.

I snatch the cheese away from the brat, and he begins to wail like an imprisoned priest. I love children, but not when they steal from innocent people.

The mother screams at me, and demands to know what the hell is going on. I slowly explain to her about how the repo man recovers his cheese. This whole situation helps me understand how the Palestinians feel.

The child is still screaming at the top of his lungs with great gusto. It's rewarding to see him show a little remorse for stealing. A crowd has begun to gather, and it's time to make my exit.

The girl at the checkout counter does not attempt to pilfer a slice of my cheese, which reassures me that the world is back in balance.

Upon arriving home, I weigh the cheese. Trust has to be earned, and then cherished.

I know this is another complaint made about the elements, but if you just endured the same week I did, you'd have a lot of whining to do yourself. I simply want to know the idea of the wing truck. What's a wing truck? Well. to be honest, I'm not even sure I'm calling it what it really is. I'd heard it referred to as a wing truck so that's what it is ... at least to me. The most important aspect I want you to realize is that I don't give a flying frog what it's called. I do not respect this vehicle and I think it's sole purpose in life is to make homeowners miserable for the purest sake of evil doing. Let me begin my rant ...

The wing truck is the same plow truck they plow the roads in the winter time with, except they add on that extra long plow blade (which resembles a long wing ... get it?) and clip back the snow banks. When asking some people about the reason they do this, I was told (as in a detailed explanation) that it's so I can see over the banking at the end of my driveway. While this is true for the explanation's purpose, it missed one very important detail. All the wing truck really did was knock the snow off the banking that I cannot see over and place it in front of my driveway. So while it serves one beneficial purpose, it also has an underlying side effect that is rather problematic. I can't get into my frickin' driveway. This snow that is knocked off the snowbank and into the driveway isn't exactly the fluffy, white variety that is easily moved by a plastic bladed shovel. Actually, I don't believe it can even be classified as snow any longer. It's not white. You cannot make a snowman with it ... at least with the more common definable shapes of a conventional snowman. You can't make snow balls with it, although I've discovered you can chuck the smaller more manageable pieces at wing trucks driving past your house and do some pretty extensive damage to windshields and all. Yeah ... I'll be starting my community service next week. Washing wing trucks as my fate would have it. Irony is not without a sense of humor. Back to the snow ... er ... ice chunks. Whatever. I got home from work twice this week after spending many physical hours there only to have to snow-blow the snow that had fallen that day. First I'd also like to add the fact that I did not order this snow on Sears.com or even Walmart.com. A plowman I had a confrontation with at my last residence made the mistake of telling me that I need to "keep my snow in my yard." That didn't settle too well with me. Make mental note to yourself ... never say something stupid to a man shoveling his yard with a metal shovel. I'm glad that community service stint is over, though. And that I moved. I was beginning to get "noticed" in that town all of a sudden everywhere I went. As you can tell, it's hard to stay focused on the subject matter and I duly apologize. I spent a few hours on each one of these evenings snow-blowing and shoveling the girth of the fallen debris up on the ever growing snow bankings. Indeed the snow-blower was becoming ineffective since it couldn't even reach over the banks when I got close to their edges. But when it's 8:00 (or later) in the evening and I'm all out of steam, I'm not going to climb the snow banks and perform my own winging service with a hand shovel if you can understand that. The very next day, however, I leave for work again with all the aching muscles in my arms and legs reminding me that I'm middle aged and that many middle aged people die in winter performing the same exact service that I did the previous evening from heart attacks.

Nonetheless, I looked proudly at the work I had completed and set off to work with a degree of satisfaction. Not even at the end of my road, I saw it. The wing truck. I saw what he was doing. I lied to myself and said ... No ... he won't mess up my yard. Or my mailbox ... which is another area I clear for my mail lady ... I used to deliver mail to HCR addresses so I'm compassionate to the rural mail carrier. No ... he will simply raise his blade when he drives by my house, I said.

I worked hard that day, too. I got home late that afternoon to the devastation. He submerged my mailbox in an avalanche of monumental destruction. He closed the walkway I purposefully makeshift to the mailbox with a three and a half foot tall wall of ice and road salted chunks of ... ice rocks. That's what they really are. The driveway was even worse. There was one small area where the height of the devastation wasn't too severe and I aimed my four wheel drive truck at it and turned the steering wheel at the same time I accelerated for torque. I almost didn't make it. Almost. In a way, I wish I hadn't. At least it would have made a better headline in the morning paper. Mad Man Who Cannot Get Into His Own Driveway Hunts Local Plowmen. Film at eleven.

Now, as I said, it's not like I can just rip cord the old snow-blower and come up to this ... ice rock and just blow it back up on the snow banks. It's too chunky, too heavy, too ... unsnow-blowable! It not only has to be dealt with BY HAND, it also requires a chopping action of sorts in order to knock the ice rocks into manageable sizes to throw ... back onto the snow bank from whence it came. Get it? The state ... the city ... whatever ... whoever ... has got me smashing rocks in my driveway into smaller rocks (now how many prison movies have we seen prisoners smashing rocks with hammers? ... can't I boldly say that I've been doing community service long before any crime was even committed?) so I can put them back to the exact same spot the wing truck had the nerve to knock them down from. You see ... that's the only place there's any room to put the snow. Back where it was before this wing truck came along to do whatever it is he's getting paid by my tax dollars to do. Am I the only person in the world this does not make sense to? For example ... let's say I had room elsewhere to put the snow that is plowed up in front of my yard from the roads all winter long every time it snows. Wouldn't I point the chute of the snow-blower in that direction when it's actually snow? Just because we're paying the driver of the wing truck to clip the snow banks in the entire village does not make any more room in my front yard to handle the mess he left in my driveway.

So, I spent three hours ... after there was no snow that day and I was excited about not having to be outside for a change ... yet I found myself outside, chopping, shoveling, chopping some more, relenting and trying the snow-blower in hopes it could manage something ... shoveled using the snow-blower as a shovel at times (anyone who has ever used a snow-blower before knows exactly what I'm saying here) chopped some more ... and opened my driveway and my mailbox ... and my weekend neighbor's driveway back open where there was once again a degree of satisfaction ... however ... there was also an underlying niggling and a twitch in the crick of my neck and one eyelid ... a vow of sorts ... to myself that I would exact vengeance if I saw another wing truck the next day. Why am I held as if a prisoner of my own village?

I will go outside the box here and proclaim that tax dollars can certainly be trimmed or even better spent. Perhaps even increased if need be. Can you say "snow removal?" Yes, that's expensive, but consider the benefit of not moving a stupid piece of the puzzle to another place ... especially when there's no other place to put that piece any more. The thing is, no one really knows how much snow we're going to get and every year the towns and cities try to each have enough money for their departments the tax payers all complain. I understand this. I can even live with the fact that each time I finish plowing the end of my driveway that regular plow truck comes by and closes it in. Why? Because that happens to everyone. I know for a fact that there is a conspiracy where the plow truck times each residence and knows exactly when each person is going to finish the end of their driveway. If they get ahead of schedule, a nearby outlook radios them and tells them to pull over out of sight and then announces to them when they've finished. I know this. My sister told me. And she knows all about conspiracies. All the way up to the presidency. But even when they come by after you're finished, the contents of what they spew into the end of your driveway is manageable. It's not part of some snow bank that's been baking in the sun and growing with each snow storm, getting all the road debris and the occasional mixed precipitation sprinkled on it and then refrozen. It's just road snow. You can snow blow it. You can even ignore it and just drive over it a couple hundred times and pack it down. I say to you, that the avalanche the wing truck litters across your driveway is much less manageable. It's simply clipping the chunks of ice and snow packed together from the snow banks ... into the end of your driveway ... for ... evil doing.

If you're one of the men or women who drive a wing truck, be warned. If you drive past my house, you better raise that blade high and pull away from the snow bank and keep driving by. If you have the nerve to clip the bank, then why not perform a community service of your own and drop that blade to the ground once your past the bank and in my driveway and carry that avalanche onto the next snow bank. I realize that wouldn't be as much fun for you, but it would be safer for the environment. Years after years of this kind of abuse has a way of eating at one's sanity. Just ask my sister.

There seems to come a time in everyone's journey down the highway of life that you reflect on your state of affairs and conclude that you'd like to become a redneck. As demonstrated by the armored car robber who used his loot to buy a house full of velvet Elvis paintings, money can't take the redneck out of a man. But, can an outsider join the brotherhood of rednecks with a little studying, a mullet wig, and some cold hard cash? As we'll see, the answer is "hell yeah!"

The first question we have to ask ourselves is "What exactly does it take to be a redneck?" Is it a part of your DNA or is it the way you part your hair? Is it a state of mind, or is it the state of Alabama? These are the questions that keep many redneck wanna-be's up all night until the butt crack of dawn. But beyond these deep philosophical questions, what are the nuts and bolts of actually becoming a certified redneck? As the bumper sticker says, "What Would Bubba Do?"

Well, the first step down the road to redneckville is to visit the rednecks and learn their ways. Don't worry, they won't bite. So take your time to study their language, play their games, and drink their beer. Just don't drink all of their beer, or they WILL bite. One of the best places to interact with rednecks in their native habitat is at the Summer Redneck Games, held annually since 1996 outside of Atlanta. Featured games include the Hubcap Hurl and Redneck Horseshoes, using of course a toilet seat as the horseshoe. And don't miss their Bobbin' for Pig's Feet Fest.

Now that you've studied the redneck, you're ready to put on a cut-off flannel shirt and try it yourself. Fortunately, entire industries have arisen to satisfy our redneck cravings. You won't have to search long to find redneck books and videos, redneck auto and truck accessories, redneck apparel, and yes, redneck food. In the food category, you'll find redneck cookbooks (think beer can chicken recipes), bacon flavored mints, exotic meats gift sets, and BBQ scented scratch-n-sniff undies. If, after feasting on all this, you're feeling too lazy to take your truck four wheeling through the mud, you can use a product called Sprayonmud, so you'll at least look like you've gone muddin'.

We'll, you're almost there. You just need a bit more practice in the redneck arts. So while you're waiting for your mullet to grow, take in a midget wrestling match. Learn to play "Sweet Home Alabama" with your armpit and palm. Luckily, there is not just one path to becoming a redneck, but many.

Perhaps not as poetic as Shakespeare would have ... could have eloquently written it ... but I ain't exactly William. The good lord knows I'm trying. Not to emulate William. To exemplify myself. I have no idea how many query letters this makes. How many rejection letters to counter our efforts. My wife is a driving force to be reckoned with and the labors of her hard work are merely squandered by the lack of empathy in this business. The business of writing. Writing for your life, if you will. Because when all is said and done ... that's what I'm really doing.

I must interrupt my thoughts for a moment to tell you all this. I'm online right now ... I was going to say ... write now, but I didn't want anyone to think I typoed without it being on purpose. Come on ... I have sperl chek. Anywell ... whilst online and deciding to write about this in my blog ... a familiar voice emitted from the speakers of the laptop announcing the fact that "I have mail." It not only broke my concentration and made me ponder why in hell I even attempted to write while I was online ... what was I thinking ... obviously, I wasn't! Hello ... how ya doin' nice to meet ya! Reluctantly, since my concentration was already broken, I opted to check the email and see who the hell had the gall to bother me while I was writing. Another agent query reply. Oh joy. Another rejection? Should I have just deleted it and saved myself the pain? I opened it ... because for crying out loud Jiminy Cricket ... you never frickin' know! I read it. What? I rubbed my eyes and read it again. Did she just say she was interested? Come on. I read it again. And again. I was just about to give up all hope and I'm sure I'm not even near surface of what some other writers have endured before getting accepted. It's just such a thankless industry. I read it again just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating from the heat index and the humidity. Gall darn ... it's in black and white. She said she's interested. Somebody pinch me. Ouch! You know ... I meant that figuratively ... not literally. That frickin' hurt! Let me read that one more time. OMG ... she is ... she really, really is. She wants me to snail mail her the stuff and I may have to wait several months. But ... she's interested.

What am I talking about? I assumed you understood. Sorry about that. I have written one book and appeared in two other anthologies. I want to be noticed by my peers as an author. I want to obtain the fruit of my labor. I don't want to get filthy, stinking rich. It's not like that. It's just a little notoriety I'm looking for. Someone to read me and say ... yeah ... that was alright. He's not bad. Maybe he's not Stephen King ... maybe he's not Edgar Allen Poe ... hell, I could use the opiates for something to write about lord knows, maybe he's not Grisham, Rice, Benchley, Hemingway, Lovecraft, O. Henry, Straub, Koontz ... but he's got something. Maybe even if it's a little something ... he has a gift to entertain his audience. He has something to captivate his audience and make them feel the plight of the characters he chooses to write about. He has something. I don't care how small it is. Do any of you watch the Sci-fi channel? No ... this is not true confessions. I don't really care for that matter. Truth is, I don't that much. I watch Ghost Hunters and some reruns of the X-Files because I was a fan of it when it was on syndicated television. I actually envisioned Gillian Anderson to play the part of Rhonda Lary in my manuscript if they ever made a movie of it. Of course, if you tell her this, I will deny it through my teeth. But ... anyway ... the movies they make on there. Is it me? Are there some people out there truly entertained by the movie Mansquito? Half man, half mosquito, all blood sucker. Are you serious? Just the trailer to this movie was bad! Is there someone out there in this world that actually watched that movie and are hoping for a sequel?

Really? People. I got some bad news for you. If you're one of the ones sitting at home that I just described ... half man and half mosquito shouldn't be sucking anything. First of all, female mosquitoes are the blood suckers of the species. So to be politically correct, the title of the movie should have been Womansquito, not mansquito. The male mosquito simply supplies the sperm to the females wh then require a meal of blood to develop the eggs. Male mosquitoes simply eat-slash-drink nectar from flowers. Ohhhh ... now that's scary! Maybe if I'm a frickin' tulip or a daisy! I didn't watch the movie. I saw the trailer and said to myself ... the only thing worse than them making a movie about something this stupid are the people that actually watch it and think it was kinda good. The ones that can't wait for "The Return of Mansquito." And then it wasn't long after this ... I saw the trailer for another movie on Sci-fi channel. Now wait a minute before you go accusing me of spending all my time on this channel to begin with. I don't and my wife will vow testament to that. I told you the shows I watch on there ... and they happen to have commercials ... but this trailer I actually saw on "The Best Week Ever" or "The Soup" and they made fun of this movie and exploited the fact that not only was it on the Sci-fi channel, but it was also written by the same guy that wrote ... yep ... you guessed it ... Mansquito. It was called Ice Spiders and it was about giant florescent green spiders that attacked a community of skiers on the slopes of a ski resort. Hey ... if this is what you people want ... I can write that stuff. I just happen to choose something that I think would be a little more ... shall we dare say ... entertaining to the mass populous.

So I write these stories and I write these blog entries and I feed-slash-suck off the nectar of my feedback from my friends and my family and I strive to become better at what I do. I belong to Internet writing-slash-author communities where we can all go on and review and rave and bash each others work and say it's because we want to be better at what we do ... and blah, blah, frickin' blah. No one wants to hear the story they just sat down and wrote sucks. No one. I don't care who the frig you are. On the flip side of that, people ... no one wants to hear that everything they write is "awesome" or "good" or "great." We all need areas of improvement and when you send out your material to only your friends and family ... because they're the only ones you don't seem to have to hold a gun to their heads to get to read it ... although I have to email them all every now and then and remind them that I have a web site and I'm a writer and I'd appreciate it if they'd read it or I'll go get my gun ... you're going to get a more partial and biased review than you are if you send it out for an unbiased and neutral community of self-proclaimed writers and authors to review. Some of them may feel challenged by your stuff. Some of them may offer some inspirational advice. Some of them may sabotage your work because they think they're better than you. Maybe they are. But that wasn't the reason I put it out there to be reviewed. Nor was that the reason they put their own work out there. It's just the way they are and maybe the fact that they were not breastfed as infants. I don't really know all about that nor do I care. I just want to write and be noticed. So instead of the self-publishing avenue this time, I have written a full length manuscript entitled Season of the Sand Devil and I think it's good enough to be made into a movie that Sci-fi channel could finally be proud to show on their network. I am seeking representation from an agent for this manuscript to get it published by a traditional publishing house.

Can I write? I don't know. I love to write. That's what I know. I can type fast like a son-of-a-gun and I don't even do it the right way and my wife is still envious of how fast I can type. She took all those classes and has worked in the administration field. My typing experience comes from one simple personal typing class in high school and writing on a typewriter, then word processor, and now a computer my whole life. I have a broken right hand for crying out loud and my fingers are a bit gnarled and I can still type pretty darn fast. Typing fast doesn't make you a good writer. I realize this. What comes from the typing defines whether you have the talent to entertain people or not. Most people that have read me ... friends, family, and even the Internet writing communities, all say that I inhibit this talent. Maybe I'm not the greatest. Maybe I'm not the worst. But to give this guy that not only wrote Mansquito another opportunity to go out and write Ice Spiders and then make movies of both his ideas has this insidious way of mocking me. I don't want to take anything away from this guy. But he's had two movies made of his writing. I'd give me eye teeth to see my stuff on any channel with the opportunity to finally get noticed for what I am striving to be. A writer. Should I write or should I go? If I write it could mean trouble ... if I don't ... it could be ... double. Don't sue me The Clash. I couldn't help myself and hey ... you just got some free advertising because anyone that knows that song of yours has it ringing in their head for the rest of the day, so bite me and you're welcome.

Is it a miracle that when I sat down to write this, my intention was to express my frustration in this industry, trying to get an agent to represent me to finally notice me ... and before I was done writing my first paragraph, I actually had one say via email ... they were interested? I don't know. What are the odds? I don't really believe in miracles. I believe in hard work and ethics paying dividends. Just because she said she was interested doesn't mean I'm in. I have a coupla other irons in the fire and lord knows we have a plethora of unreplied queries on the back burner simmering. Hopefully, anyway. If you know me and you love me ... clap you hands ... no wait ... that wasn't what I was going to say ... so much for that The Clash song tinkling around in my head ... I was going to say ... keep your fingers crossed for me. I need some inspiration in this industry right now. It does a body good. Maybe not a body, but a mind is a terrible thing to waste. Unless you're Edgar Allen Poe and can write under the influence of opiates and pull it off successfully. Now ... if you'd all excuse me ... I have to go plagiarize the sequel to Mansquito ... so I can get frickin' noticed!