Getting Published

I have had this blog “tobecomeawriter” for about 12 years now (off and on).  In the beginning, I discussed my efforts to do just that – become a writer.  Primarily my posts focused on getting a job with [adult swim], but they were not limited to that.  In fact, I actually got a job with Florian Satzinger, an Austrian cartoonist. If you have been reading this blog for long, you are probably aware of all of this and you recall that the Florian Satzinger job fell.  Anyway, over time my writing here slipped away from my goal of becoming a writer and focused on just writing.  That was not so bad because, I believe, the writing was, for a while, still entertaining.  Then I slipped away from writing at all and I stopped posting.

Now I have returned to posting, but I still find myself divided.  I find that I don’t have a lot to write about.  In my free time I do a lot of writing, but I cannot post most of it here because I intend to submit it to various magazines for publication.  They do not like printing articles that are already out there for publication.  But I want to post here.  So it occurred to me: go back to posting about my efforts to get published.  So, henceforth I will tag all of my posts about getting published with “getting published”.  This will be for short stories, poems, novels and any other creative work I attempt to get recognized.

Your support, comments and advice is always welcome.

We've Got a Stacker!

I dreamed that I took my family to this new restaurant called Stackers.  It was a fancy, but very weird hamburger joint decorated nothing like a hamburger joint.  It had this amazingly ridiculous jungle theme.  Tree leaves and vines were hanging on everything and you could barely move without touching some kind of plant.  They did not need walls because the trees and shrubs obstructed your view of just about everything.

You would expect the wait staff to be dressed in some kind of Hawaiian garb, or maybe something tribal, but you'd be wrong on both counts.  They were wearing slacks, a tuxedo shirt and a vest.

The moment we were called to be seated my wife, kids and I were split up.  This was part of the restaurant schtick.  They split groups up and seat you just about anywhere they could find an open seat.  You could not avoid this.  All parties were broken up, no matter the age.

The restaurant predominantly sold stacked hamburgers; up to five or six stacks of meat, but they forbade anyone from doing the stacking themselves.  You could order a three stacked barbecue burger, but if you dared to order three barbecue burgers and stack them yourself, you could be ejected from the restaurant.

The whole of your meal the waiter staff walked around on the lookout for stackers. At any point in your meal you'd hear, “Are you stacking? That looks like stacking!” And you had to argue your case with the waiter that you weren’t stacking, these burgers came this way. But once in a while you’d hear, “WEVE GOT A STACKER!” And a group of waiters would come and move you by force. Stacking could get you ejected or just moved to another table. So people would take the risk that stacking would get them moved to a table near their party or they’d try to sabotage the strangers they were sitting with in hopes of making room for one of their original party to be reunited with them.

I spent the entire dream mostly confused about what was going on while at the table with some woman I didn't know.  At least three times in my dream we were having a pleasant conversation when a waiter came up to me and yelled, "Are you stacking?  That looks like you're stacking!"  I played a long at first, but by the third time I was tired of it.  As the waiter and I were arguing some kid claiming to be my son came running in and said, "Daddy, I told you it's against the rules to stack!"  So I just stood up and ran into the jungle of trees, hoping to find a table with someone I knew at it.

So... if I ever decide to change careers to "restaurateur"...

Terror Talk

You know, it’s probably not a good idea to spend a lot of time near people who scare the shit out of you.  Even if you know that person isn’t going to harm you and would never harm you.  There are some people who are always talking dooms day scenarios and watching the clock tick toward midnight.  Or those who are certain that Ebola is somewhere on their desk.  Or adamant that crime is flowing into the neighborhood and anyone could be next.

These people are entitled to their stupid opinions.  I have my own.  But if this kind of talk frightens you then maybe this kind of person isn’t good to be around.  (I'm saying this to me).

I’m old; 42 – almost 43.  When I was in first grade Ronald Reagan was elected president.  Everything I heard about at the first grade water cooler was nuclear war.  Most days I could push the thought to the back of my mind and cover it with some kind of mental blanket where my brain couldn’t see it and I couldn’t think about it.  But as soon as one of my classmates said “war” or “nuclear” or “Russians” or “Soviets” or “communists” my brain went to that awful place of terror.

I wasn’t imagining nuclear war.  I was too young to have any concept of what that would entail.  I didn’t imagine anything and that was the problem.  I was frozen in fear.  My brain was like a computer stuck in an endless logic loop.  I was nothing but afraid.  These feelings could last a day or two.  If I was unlucky and heard such talk at just the right intervals in times the fear could kill a week.  I would get in trouble at school for not doing my work.  But I was afraid to tell the teacher that I was too afraid to do the work.  My mind would not stop being afraid of nuclear war.

It wasn’t until third or fourth grade that I finally had enough of it and I went and told the great source of reason and authority in my life, my father.  He could see the terror in my eyes and he told me that I had nothing to worry about.  He said that no one really wants nuclear war and the odds of it every happening were extremely slim.  I don’t remember what time of year or day it had been or what the temperature was before, but suddenly the sun rose and it was a summer Saturday morning.  I went outside and played.  I wish I had said something to him years earlier.  Positive thinking and hope made everything better.

People don’t act when they are terrified.  They react.  Or they do nothing.  It’s not a healthy place to be.

Obviously sometimes we are forced to act in situations of terror.  You cannot control life.  But you can control who you surround yourself by.  So if you have a person who is constantly taking you to that place of terror, whatever your place is, and halting your peace and ease of living and your comfort with no positive talk of solutions or ideas or hope then perhaps you don’t need to be around that person.

I’m 42, as I have said.  I’ve been working for my boss for about 7 or 8 years.  Generally speaking he is a rational and funny guy.  But ever since Donald Trump was elected he has been all talk of war with China and the end of days and Russian subterfuge and hopeless and worry and kids and grandkids and a world with no future.  You get the picture.  He says it with a laugh as though he has overcome the worry.  But so did the kids in first grade.  They wanted to hoist their worry onto someone else and hope that person could carry it for them.

I’m hearing this doom talk from a lot of different places and I’m feeling like a helpless first grader again.  And I think I’ve had just about enough of it.  I’m tired of worthless worry talk.  I’m ready to think positive and act positive and try and find solutions to the problem rather than tossing my worry off onto other people.

But it does leave me with a job dilemma.  My heart cannot take this talk anymore.  Logically I know how to cope with it when it comes, but for a few minutes every time I hear it I'm taken back to that place of terror.

I know what you’re thinking, “Michael, you’re a grown man, suck it up.”  You’re right.  And I probably will.  But this is one more straw, and a rather large straw, on the back of a camel that already doesn’t want to be carrying this job around.

(solutions to follow)

The Soft Ninja

It's been a while since I posted any pics from the Soft Ninja.  If you want to keep up with all of my SN art the best thing to do is follow my Instagram account.  Everything new gets posted there.  My user name is: alotapeople.

The Soft Ninja will make sure you get what you deserve this Christmas.
I love the ones that have a slightly ominous message.  Almost all of the original SN drawings were ominous like this.  I don't like the "lip" in this one.  It should have been protruding from the other side.  It would have looked more realistic.

 

The Soft Ninja catches Time off guard.
Action drawings are fun.  I need to do them more.

 

The Soft Ninja's brain freezes while contemplating campaign promises.
I really like the detail captured in the clothing wrinkles and tears.

 

The Soft Ninja can feel your chocolate covered judgement.
Yeah... my eating indulgences got a little out of control around this time.  Matched only by my gaming indulgences.

No one fails a New Year's Resolution faster than the Soft Ninja.
This is probably the best SN drawing I've done in a year.  I really liked it and the message.  Incidentally, one of my New Year's resolutions was to cut back on the pessimism and stay optimistic.  It has been hard.  

Step

Why is it that some tea bags sink immediately into the hot water while others float on the top, slowly soaking in the water before the take the plunge?

Why is it that this step here:

 – and not any of the ones above it or below it – made me sad?

I’ve heard people say, “I can’t complain.”

I’m jealous of these people.

Unless, of course, they mean that they have plenty to complain about, but they cannot bring themselves to do it because of some kind of psycho-emotional block.  Or because a secret society like Quitters Inc from the 1985 movie Cat’s Eye is listening in on their every word and if they complain Quitters Inc will cut off their wife’s pinky.  Or they live in Russia where if you complain about the wrong thing you die.  I’m not jealous of those people.  I’m jealous of the ones whose life balance tips so far into the side of AWESOME that they have nothing to complain about.

I can complain.  I don’t much because it doesn’t do much good.

Ok, I complain here on this blog all the time.  But that’s because you’re me.  You and I are.  And we are the only one’s reading this blog.

But I don’t complain much outside of this blog.  About once a month or so I let it go on some poor soul.  A friend or my wife.  And they offer kind words of hope and support.  But it all seems like air.  As I’m sure my monthly break downs sound to them.  Periodic rants of how terrible a thing is and promises to leave said thing grow emptier with each passing day that those promises are unkept and those terrible things are not abandoned.  So I have no one but myself to blame that those periodic words of kindness and support seem so meaningless.  Invisible flowers thrown to an imaginary matador.

I went down to my office building’s snack bar.  On the way down I passed the above referenced step.  I looked at it for about a minute, trying to decide why that step made me sad.  Probably because since I vowed to quit this job – years ago – I’ve passed this step almost as many times as I’ve passed days.  Days I could have left this job and sought greener pastures.  Days I could have been doing anything but this job.

Maybe that’s it.  Or maybe it’s because for a split second I thought of making a vow to myself.  Right then and there.  I was going to vow that this would be my last time crossing that step.  And from that moment on I would never cross that step again.  But immediately the coward in me said, “You can’t do it.”  And, “You aren’t ready.”  And finally, “You’ll just be back here tomorrow and you’ll take the elevator.  Or maybe the other staircase.  But eventually you’ll be stepping over this step again.”  And I lost my fleeting resolve.  

And a hair fell out.  And another turned grey.  And I walked down the rest of the stairs that don't make me quite as sad as the one above.

Joey's Message

I fell asleep on the bus yesterday.  This is not an unusual occurrence, in fact, typically I try catch about a half hour of sleep each day.  It is, however, unique considering the inordinate amount of caffeine I had consumed at work that day.  I couldn’t stop tapping my foot.  I worried that the tapping might annoy the other bus riders, but when I looked around they all had their headphones inserted deep into their ear sockets.

I tried to close my eyes and force sleep, but the bright sunlight outside turned my dark eyelids a bright array of red, pink and purple.  I closed my eyes tighter, took a deep breath then released.  The colors of my eyelids darkened and pulsed like a rainbow choir.  My skin began to vibrate, out of time with the bus’s vibrations.  Out of time with my heart beat.  The vibrations were cosmic.  They were coming from beyond the earth.  It was the universe sending me a primordial message.

My eyes popped open.  I dried the drool from the corner of my mouth.  What had I been dreaming?  I looked around.  Everyone was plugged in to their own world.  My foot was tapping.

I dug through my bag and found my headphones.  I plugged them into my head and opened the YouTube app on my phone.  I pulled up Queen.  I listened to a song or two, but my thirst for new was not sated.  I pulled up the White Stripes and listened to most of an album, but I needed something else.  I played a round of Candy Crush.  Then I opened YouTube back up and found Joey Ramone’s album “Don’t Worry About Me,” released just after he died of lymphoma.  I started listening to it.  “What a Wonderful World” started playing and I could hear the rainbow choir in the background.  Red and purple flashed in my eyelids and my skin began to receive more vibrations.  Then everything faded.

Framed and matted in darkness I sat in a small, softly lit, green and mint-green room.  A distant sounding music played over the speakers.  I was sitting in a chair, but Joey Ramone was sitting on the edge of the table with this feet in another chair.  He was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped.  He was situated perpendicular to me, but his head was turned in my direction.  I looked deep into his red shades and said, “I won’t disappoint you.”

I woke up under Spaghetti Junction.  The bus was moving along at a smooth clip, but something was wrong.  My connection to the universe was broken.  My antenna is rusty from disuse.  I tried to go back to sleep, but my foot would not stop tapping.  I started the album over, but that didn't help.  My eyes would not stay closed and my skin would not receive the vibrations.  I was in a spiritual dead zone.

What had Joey asked of me?  What had I promised?  The universe had only sent me a piece of the message.  I want to do the right thing.  I don’t want to disappoint Joey.  But I don’t know what to do.  Or maybe I do know what to do.  Maybe I’ve always known, but I’m afraid.

Hungry for a Career Change

There is no way to make my job interesting.  I take statistical information – demographic, educational, employment and financial – that our customers don’t want to give and I format them in ways that my bosses don’t understand to produce reports they won’t agree with and then will turn around misrepresent to their federal counterparts who also don’t understand the numbers, but then turn around and use to tell the country that everything is fine and awful at the same time.  By the end of the grapevine the data the people hear about is so far away from how it began that we could tell a person about themselves and they probably wouldn’t know it.

Ok, that’s an exaggeration.  The data doesn’t really change.  But the way it is interpreted does.  I once had the department Public Relations guy come to me about a report and ask, “Can I use these numbers, where it says we only put 15 people to work, and say that this program is failing and that is why we are closing it?”

“Well, the program is failing because the Commissioner sent out a memo that the field is no longer allowed to spend any time on the program."

“Yes, but I won’t be saying that.  Can I say that these numbers show the program isn’t working?”

“Why doesn’t the Commissioner just say he doesn’t want to continue funding the very successful program his predecessor from a different political party started?  Why doesn’t he just tell people the program they loved and that helped them to get jobs has been discontinued?  Why doesn’t the Commissioner just admit that he’s a douche bag?”

Ok, I didn’t say the last section.  And the program wasn't that successful.  But it was moderately successful.  And I did tell the PR guy he couldn’t say that our numbers meant the program was failing.  At least, not from any data that I would be giving him.

This is not the fault of the program.  I am not a fatalist type who would tell you that the system is broken and should be revamped or privatized.  And I’m certainly not for closing down the government.  I think our system is invaluable to the people.  I just think the people don’t really know all of the things that the government does for them and so they don’t have faith that it can do anything right.  This is the government’s number 1 failure.

See?  Dull.  Dull as shit, no matter what I do.  I couldn’t make this exciting if I were to have naked women set it on fire.

Also, I hate it.  Not because it’s dull, but because… well, a ton of reasons.  But mostly because it just isn’t me.  And also because it's dull. 

I think my bosses sense this.  They say things like, “What would we do without you?” and “Only you have the brains to figure this stuff out!”  But it’s all flattery.  The truth is, when I took a leave of absence a few years ago to nurse my wife back to health, they did just fine without me.  They hated it, but they did fine.  And I think they got a taste of what it would be like without me.  A person can eat dog food and live.  It would be a miserable existence, but they can do it.

I don’t want to eat dog food anymore.  I want to eat people food.  I want to eat at a five star restaurant to see if it really is that much better than a two star restaurant.  I skeptical.  I want to eat the stuff they make on the Food Network.  Ooh, especially those wonderful desserts and weirdly flavored ice creams.  And succulent meats that make you say words like " succulent" and "savory" and “unctuous.”

Ok, I got a little off track there.  My metaphor turned literal.  It happens.

But you get the picture.  I want a better job.  With better pay.  So I can afford better food!

Annoying (Letter 31)

Ok, typing in those little webdings was annoying as hell, and I'm not sure the effect was worth it. But at least I know what they are for now. They are for bedazzling your blog.

Well, Letter 31 was my last actual letter to [adult swim]. This week I plan on sending another one as a follow up. I'm paranoid and it occured to me that all of the letters might have gotten through, and been read, but the portfolio, since it was a large package, might have been stopped and rerouted. So I'm gonna send another couple of letters each week, just to keep me in their mind. Kinda like Caesar did when he was conquering Spain.

LETTER 31:

Dear [adult swim],

I met Steve Bartkowski when I was in fourth grade. I didn't much care for football then (and still don't) so I had no idea who he was. He gave me and a handful of my wide-eyed friends his autograph on little slips of cheap dot-matrix paper. I promptly lost is as soon as I was near a garbage can.

Had I known at the time that he'd be the only celebrity I'd meet for at least the next 20 years I might have relished the occasion a bit more. Well, maybe I wouldn't have; he was a bit lame.

All these years and Steve Bartkowski is all I have to show for it. My wife almost ran Michael Stipe down with her car when we lived in Athens. He was jay walking so he would have deserved it if she killed him. My brother peed next to William H. Macey somewhere. I don't know where, exactly, but I'm fairly certain it was in a bathroom.

My cousin has met lots of celebrities, but he lives in California so it's kind of understandable. Still, I live in Atlanta, I should at least bump into rappers now and again. But I got nothin'.

signed

Ps. I feel so dumb. After all that talk yesterday about how I'd never given you my e-mail, and how I needed to so you could write me, I still forgot to include it. What was I thinking?

Letter 30

I don't really know why I did it, but I got it in my head that I wanted to Bedazzle a letter. I'm not even sure if to bedazzle something is a real term, but if it is not the term I don't know what is. To bedazzle something, as I understand it, is to glue little gems and fake fancies to a thing to make it look fancier. It takes the old addage of "less is more" and rewrites it so that it reads, "Put plastic gems on everything."

To better help the reader I will put a webding wherever I have glued a pretty plastic jewel.

LETTER 30:
**Dear [adult swim],

I started to get depressed last night because d you hadn't e-mailed me -to tell me how much you liked ! my letters; how they always brighten your day and how you @ look forward to each next one. So I thought as a last ditch effort I would bedazzle my next % letter and impress you with my skillful manipulation of acrylic jewels and glue. _ And if you didn't respond after such an act of devotion then my affection would surely remain Y unrequited.

Then it occured to me that I had never sent you my number or my e-mail. That's a bit of an oversite! How foolish of me. How are you supposed to contact me if you don't know how? For all I know you have been wanting to meet me from the first letter. " And here I've been tantalizing you mercilessly. L

I have decided I will still bedazzle this N letter. Mostly because I paid $2.94 for these stupid gems. They might as well be put to use.

signed

Ps.
Whoa Jem, Jem ~ is truly outrageous,
Truly, e truly, s turly outrageous.
Whoa f Jem, Jem the music's contagious, outrageous.

Pps. BEDAZZLE +

Going out. (Letter 29)

I still have not heard from [adult swim]. Today marked the first full week since they should have received my package. They've had it for a week. That means they actually have the address to this blog. Yipes! That means they can see that I have slacked off on posting my letters. Oh well.

I recon they will pass my wonderful stories around and laugh. They will listen to some really cutting edge underground college music and then years down the road, whether I wind up working for them or not, they will hear that music again and think fondly of me. But who am I kidding, I'm gonna work for them. They cannot say no to the man who could do what I've done. I'm the man.

Actually, I'm not the man. I'm just the best man. There are lessers. (Being with me is like riding a roller coaster of confidence).

So anyway, Friday night the Mrs. and I went to Buckhead for a drinking fund raiser. I don't know what we were raising money for. We went to a club called CJs. It's not bad for an open air dive. They actually serve beer from a tap that says, "Cheep Shit." If you go there, and you are the designated drive, as I was, do NOT get ice water. Go without. No matter how hot. The water was nasty.

When you were a child did you ever eat snow off of a car? If you did, did you notice that it had a metally taste? It tasted distinctly different from snow on the ground (which you should avoid eating for entirely different reasons). Well, this metally taste came from dirt. And not just regular dirt, but from road dirt. As you drive down the road the cars in front of you are kicking up nasty dirt from the road and tiny particles of it are sticking to your car. It's road tar, roak kill, dog poo, gasoline, dirt, drugs, cosmic bananas and just about anything else you can run over. So when it snows that snow settles in on your dirty car and the dirt clings to the snowy snow. And when you go outside to play and pick up a big handful of snow from the trunk of the car and eat it you are really eating frozen ice with all the road dirt you can imagine mixed in. That is where that nasty, dirty, metally taste comes from.

That is what CJ's water tasted like. Not similar to that, but exactly like that. Had I been drinking I probably would have dismissed it as drunken misunderstanding, but sadly I was sober.

I was also sad to be sober because there was live music. The musician was actually not that bad, though he only played covers. It was sad because it made me realize how long it had been since I got up in front of people and played. I love to play and sing for people.

While we were listening to this guy play, who incidentally was one guy, though he called himself a band name, like the Red Tide, or something, my sister asked if I thought he was good enough to tip. I said sure, but he wasn't good enough to have a whole band name to himself. It made me wonder what his name could possibly be; Peter Beavers, or Trevor Slapsmackpunch, or Carl Killspuppies. It must have been bad to prefer Red Tide. Anyway, I told my sister, yes, he is good enough. She didn't really need my help to decide. It was more of a gesture to me, as if she was acknowledging that I too am a musician.

I would have told her yes even if he had sucked. It is hard to get up there and play for people who don't care that you are there. It is tough to remain super cool and confident when your best lines are lost to the din of frat boys burping, waitresses lying about how long they've been working while they try their hardest to fall out of their shirts, and about 2000 extra pounds in the room shimmies and vibrates and stresses out the building foundation. After she tipped him she asked me if, as a guy, I preferred it when women tip me or men. I told her it all depended on how hot the man was.

LETTER 29:

Dear [adult swim],

When I was eight years old I missed baseball tryouts at Murphey Candler. the league said if I wanted to play I'd have to be thrown in with the seven year olds. At first I was disappointed, until I realized that I could run circles around those little punks. Well, most of them. Some of those kids were on steroids. They had to have been. The pitcher for our team could throw a 55 mile an hour fast ball. he was only seven.

The cops were completely uninterested when I anonymously tipped them off that my teammates were juicing. They said just because I sucked was no reason to get other kids in trouble. But that kid was amped all of the time and his chin was twice as wide as his head. He looked like Rick Flair. Well, he looked back then like Rick Flair looks now. Back then Rick just looked like he took SOME steroids.

Last night I was reading Shel Silverstine poems to my daughter. I complained that she wasn't laughing at any of them and by the sixth or seventh poem she was fake laughing to please me. What surprised me most was how convincing she was. Then I thought back on all of those jokes I'd told her mother over the years. All those times I was so "intellecutally funny," and "too clever to actually laugh at."

signed

Here is where I drew a somewhat decent picture of three steroid using seven year old baseball players.

Daggum Long (Letter 28)

It's funny to me how these last couple of letters are taking me so daggum long to finish. This is indicative of me, though. Once I get the really difficult and creative part of a project over, the clean up takes me forever. I have some projects that have stalled permanently in this phase. I had one aspect of my portfolio that had to be left out because I'd never get around to putting the finishing touches on it. This is the kind of thing it is good to have a wife for; someone who will look at you with a stern, almost pissed off face that says, you were just about to get back to work, right?

Just before I wrote letter 28 I started getting depressed about my writing. I don't really know what I expect sometimes, or why I expect it, but I always get these dreamy fantasies that my work is going to be so fantastic that the person I make the work for will drop everything and focus all of their praise an adoration on me. Just before letter 28 I was getting depressed because I hadn't heard from [adult swim] yet. Keep in mind that at this point I had not given them any kind of contact information, save the return address on the envelope, and let's face it, people are too busy to take the effort to write a letter. So anyway, this letter started off kinda pissy, but I quickly got over it.

LETTER 28:

Dear [adult swim],

I don't want to be funny anymore. I want to be a giant instead. A big, mean giant who doesn't care if you laugh at me; who sits on houses and scares children; who eats whole cows with one bite and squishes Englishmen into jelly for scones; and who looks really ironic reading poetry by Longfellow. But I am just little me and I have to be funny to be seen. *sigh*

Here is my theory of why we are who we are. In Heaven, before we are born, we wait in clearly marked queues to choose our lives. There is a line for adventure, a line for fame, a line for wealth, and a line for power. There are even lines for combos of these things. And then there is the bargain line; the express line.

As you might imagine, there is no one in the express line. Though it promises a fast and hassle-free connection of soul to body it will not guarantee you will be satisfied with the results. Still, every couple of seconds someone jumps through the door.

There are two things you need to know about Heaven to fully appreciate the problem I've discribed. 1. The liquor is free and unlimited. 2. There are no bathrooms.

Sure, everyone starts out in line to be a famous baseball player cum senator, or the blonde bombshell archeologist, but it gets pretty warm up there, what with the sun and other stars and things. It doesn't take long before you are really craving a whiskey sour. And then another. And another. Before you know it you are doing the pee-pee dance, waiting in line to be Ted Turner's next kid. But you can't wait anymore. If you don't get a body soon your soul is going to explode all over the Lord's pretty white carpets.

Finally you give up waiting and you run out the express door. "Maybe," you tell yourself, "I'll be able to get a job at one of Ted's companies."

signed

[clever picture]

Hind sight (Letter 27)

About half way into my letter writing campaign I realized it would be a good idea to get photocopies of my letters since they were hand written and occasionally included drawings. If I'm really lucky I'll be hired by [adult swim] and I'll be able to get my letters back. If not, I'll live.

When I'm a bit better at HTML, which I am not exactly skilled at now, I'll try and post these pictures I've drawn. I think they add a lot to the letter. Letter 27's pic was one of the funniest in my opinion. It really looks slap-dash, but that was the intent.

LETTER 27:

Dear [adult swim],

I suffer from insomnia some nights. It mostly stems from a sincere feeling that my life is slipping by me and I haven't accomplished much. I taught myself how to juggle. I painted an army of little plastic men that now sit in a box. I wrote and recorded and album that I never got around to producing. And I guess the family thing.

Sometimes I think about getting a tattoo. You have to be pretty tough to get most tattoos. A nancy like me can't really pull off the "LOVE/HATE" across the knuckles. Vines around the bicep is cliched, and I haven't much of a bicep. My wife has a butterfly on her ankle and a cat on her shoulder. I clearly can't do that. I'd instantly grow a vagina. My friend has a panther. It looks kinda gay, but I can't say anything. He got it when he was an airborne Ranger for the Army. The last time we wrestled, just goofing around, he threw me across the living room and about broke my couch with my back. I don't mention the gay panther anymore. So I don't know what tattoo to get.

So anyway, I stay up late thinking about how to further my career and I almost always wind up thinking about what kind of tattoo I should get. Because clearly my stagnation on the ladder of success is a direct result of me having no body art. All my art is aromatic.

signed

Ps. Tonight I actually brought home work from the office to do while I couldn't sleep. But when I logged onto the computer our system servers were down. I stared at the wall for a while. Then I drew a guy on my arm and named him Probably. He watches [adult swim]. He thinks I would rock as a writer there.


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Black
It's the new white.
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The Dollar Market Brand

Sleepy Week (Letter 26)

Perhaps it is because of day light savings, but I am having a really hard time staying awake this week. I just want to curl up and sleep. I wrote a little story to some friends about falling asleep on the job. I'd post it here, but this format doesn't allow cut and paste, and I'm just too tired to type that whole thing again. So all you get is another letter.

Quick side bar; I don't have a printer at my home, so I am not able to print the fancy ads and clip art that I can from work. The letters 26 to 29 have hand drawn ads.

Oh yeah, PARENTS: Please watch out for explicit use of the word "pussy." Some of you pussy parents may want to protect your pussy children from reading such language.

LETTER 26:

Dear [adult swim],

I always fall behind on my letters over the weekend. Those lazies down at the post seem to think every Sunday is a sick day. So I have to suffer and catch up on Monday.

Today was hard though because I had training all day long. These trainings are awesome. They basically tell you: This is how to turn this program on, now go figure out how to use it. I'm sure I'll get a certificate of completion of training in a year or two. By then I might understand the program.

Actually, what I meant to say was I'm a very fast learner. By the end of the class I was teaching the instructors applications for their own program they hadn't ever considered. Everyone in the class hoisted me on their shoulders and chanted, "Michael for Commissioner!" Before long the crowd had grown beyond my control and they were storming the sixth floor to oust the Commissioner.

The battalion on the sixth floor was easy enough to get by. There were just one hundred of them and half of them switched sides when they saw me. The Commissioner, however, was a different story. He burst from his office outfitted in wizards robes and a shriner's hat. On his chest he wore a pin that belied his membership in the Order of the Hand. In ten seconds he squelched the unintended rebellion. I pretended to be a passer-by and Joe Shannon got fired instead of me for trying to over throw the Commish, which was a real shame because he really liked his job.

signed

Ps. So when you guys decide to hire me, would it be a problem to hire Joe too. Afterall, I got him fired kinda. It should be pretty cheap as he's fictional.


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How I Write (Letter 25)

I have several different methods for writing, but one of them is to take a piece of something that is true and use it as a base for a story. I take that kernal of information or truth or conventional wisdom and then I basically ignore it. From there the story writes itself. Now you can be an undiscovered world class writer like me.

A couple of months ago I heard about a study that found that if you have eggs for breakfast you are more likely to feel replete throughout the day. In other words, you will be less likely to want to snack. This information is primarily for people who struggle with their weight because they can't stop snacking. People like Americans. Anyway, that was my kernal of truth for Letter 25.

Take note of the awesome self promotion.

LETTER 25:

Dear [adult swim],

There is an ancient proverb that says: Eat eggs for breakfast and eggs for lunch and the afternoon staff meeting will stink. I live my life by these words.

I was looking through the Book of Runes, Spells, and Michaels, which categorizes all of the runes, spells, and Michaels throughout history, placing them in order of their importance to the human race, as determined by the Order of the Druid when they wrote and enchanted the book 2600 years ago, and I noticed a new entry; My-Khal Xergliburp. Apparently he is from another solar system in our galaxy, but his name is sufficiently close to Michael, so he made the list. Anyway, he too is a wannabe writer in a dead-end job for the government. And like me he is trying to land a job with his favorite entertainment group by sending them letters.

There are some differences though. I develop business rules for department programs on a daily basis, whereas My-Khal peels the flesh off of his master's enemies. And where my entry reads that I have two kids and a wife with a boyfriend, his reads that he ate a pie. I'm not sure what kind of pie it was, but it must have been pretty special. Aside from the flesh peeling and eating of that pie My-Khal has done nothing and the book still shows that he has made more of a contribution to the human race than I have.

I am three places above Michaels Arts and Crafts, two places above Ned Needlander, a fictional character whose middle name was apparently Michael, and one place above the rune that means Butthole. It may not be obvious, but most Michaels consider this a place of honor. I am just below My-Khal, Michael the waste Jones, a gospel singer who was struck dumb by the Lord while singing on the 700 Club because, as the Lord's voice attested, he was just god-awful, and Michael XXXXX, who apparently shares my name, is my age, has a wife and two children, and works for the government in Florida, but is just slightly better for the human race that me.

I'm not a very competitive guy, but if I had a job as a writer for you, I feel certain I could move up past Michael the waste Jones, and maybe even the other Michael XXXXX. Think about it.

signed


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Ugh, I'm so tired. Some of the work I do here is so boring. It's cool in the sense that it is pretty techinical, but it is boring in the sense that it is so damn boring. I mean, it's cool, but you won't stay up dreaming about it at night.

I work for a certain Department of Labor in the United States. I probably shouldn't say which one it is, but I will say it is in the general region of Georgia. If you have drawn unemployment insurance in Georgia in the past 14 years then you probably used the OLIVoR system to get your check each week. Well, we are upgrading and I am on the team of people who gets to decide the language of the new system.

It's pretty mundane stuff. We are trying to simplify the language for better customer service. For example, we have decided to change the term certify to request. I suggested that we change certification to Requestification, but it was promptly vetoed. They said I was working in the wrong direction.

I did stall the meeting out when I requested that we define the term "paid." Surprisingly no one could give a definition we all agreed on. We decided to adjourn until tomorrow.

See, I can't be responsible for serious crap.

Automated Operator:
If you are calling for Requestification of your Unemployment Benefits please press the 11 key or say Hffmphfhffddldlfbl. . . I'm sorry, that entry is not. Please try again to hang up.

Letter 24

I really liked this letter. It came to me very quickly and it reminded me a lot of a propagandist movie I saw in elementary school. It was some silent/black and white film about a girl with a red balloon. The balloon was actually red, so the film did not have to be black and white, though it was. Her balloon was larger than the balloons she passed on the street and it was self aware. It followed her around like a dog. Anyway, she walked into a play yard where a bunch of boys were and they all threw rocks at her balloon until it deflated. That's when she took a bump of meth and capped each boy with her pistol. Just kidding, she went running away crying. But aparently the spirit of the balloon stretched out across the city and called all the balloons to her. Suddenly all of those balloons had color and they gathered around her and she was carried away in a cloud of balloons.

I may have some of the details wrong, but that is essentially how I remember it. I'm sure it had some hidden communist message.

LETTER 24:

Dear [adult swim],

Yesterday at lunch I watched a plastic grocery bag floating around in the air. It was almost magical the way it rose, in defiance of gravity, up the side of a 20 story building and then out into the open air. And it hovered there for several seconds, as if trying to decide where it should litter itself.

As it hung there I wondered what the odds were that it would land on my boss's head and smother him nearly to death. I wouldn't want him to die. I just want him to know that I am not the only one who disagrees with him. The bag is on my side, and perhaps the wind.

Then I saw two more plastic bags rise into the air with the first. They danced around each other in a synchronized flying show. They dove and twisted and rose, and I know my boss was getting worried. My plastic army was growing. Soon the skies would be filled with my minions, dancing and twisting and falling upon anyone who stood in my way.

But alas, my three pplastic compatriots were impaled upon a Ginko tree. They hanged there, like lynched rebels, as an example to other bags. Sadly I took them down and tossed them in the trash. As I walked back to work I saw an empty Doritos bag floating in the air and I wondered what the odds were that it would find its way...

signed

Ps. Man this city is a dump.


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