My Novelist Friends.

I know actors, I know playwrights, I know photographers and painters. I know musicians and I know dancers. I even know an actress who was once an Olympic gymnast. But I don't know many novelists, at least not any who are published. Well, I can now scratch that off my list.

My buddy Andrew, pictured here, has had his Novel, 'To The Last Drop' accepted for publication. I'll let Andrew tell you alittle more.

"After 11 years & 6 novels & 150+ rejections, the door has finally been cracked open just a wee bit.

The novel is about a war over water between Texas and New Mexico, set in the present day. In the story, Texas invades New Mexico and occupies it for its trickle of water. An insurgency grows in the oppressed territory of "New Texas" and it's all brilliantly executed. If you're interested in learning more about the book, please copy & paste your way to: myspace.com/tothelastdropnovel

My novel will be published within the next 12 months by the press wing of a research institute in Boulder, CO called BAUU. They mostly publish hard science, social science, native American anthropology etc but, in their well-educated wisdom, they've decided to take a chance on my novel: "We believe that the book has merit and the topic is inventive and pertinent to today's times ... we are excited about working with you and bringing this book into production."

Congrats, Andrew!

For all of you aspiring novelists out there, keep it up. Successes like these could be your own.

Great Bits Of The Past. The Burb The Killed Him.

Here's how it works. You let out a tremendous belch. After you finish, close your eyes and let your head fall, any direction is fine, drop anything you are holding, allow your hands to to go limp. Remain in this position until your straight man discovers you. When they do, they should cry out to the heavens, "Oh God, why!"

It can work pretty well with a sneeze too.

Here I am executing the bit at the southernmost point in the U.S. In this case it may have been, The Sunburn That Killed Him.

Me and Little Phil, A Sad Goodbye. Part 1

(I teased this story, but I'm a slow writer and once given an assignment, I tend to shut down. So, I'll release it in parts.)

In January of 1999, I was finishing up my postgraduate studies in Slackology, with an emphasis in Beach-Bum lifestyles, down in Key West. To make ends meet I would wait tables on the breakfast/lunch shift at Blue Heaven.



Blue Heaven was my Harvard. An outrageously successful place that served good food in a "real" Key West atmosphere. The staff was made up of a variety of eccentric souls. Most had thrown up their hands in disgust at whatever life they had led before, preferring happier times on the island.

When I say "real" Key West atmosphere, one of the things I mean is, there will be chicken's everywhere.

One day, during some down time on my shift, I noticed a small chicken moving about on it's own. It was bigger than a newborn, having lost it's yellow feathers for brown, but what was unusual was that it was alone. Most baby chickens stick very close to their mother hens, especially one as small is this. The more I watched, the more its isolation became obvious. Chickens are violent animals, as this one approached other chicks, or chickens, it would receive a brutal peck to the head from any nearby adult. It would wander from hen to hen, looking for food or a place to cuddle for warmth, but each trip became more dangerous. It eventually sat down, alone, and chirped loudly. Sadly.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of potatoes and some bread. At the first offering, it scampered off, so I left a few crumbs on the ground. After I had backed-up, putting myself between it, the food, and the yard full of chickens, it came over and had a bite. Must of us have gone through this dance. A bond is formed as trust sets in. After eating from my hand, it jumped into my lap as I sat there, turned twice, fluffed his feathers and sat down. Cute.

We weren't very busy, but I had some work to do, so I scooted it off me, stood up, and wandered out onto the floor. Nothing going on, everyone good. I drift into the server station. My colleague Jeff, a gay, violent drunk, in his mid forties, missing parts of three fingers and given to inappropriate physical come-ons, brought my attention to the floor at my feet.

"Looks like you got a friend."

The chick had followed me and was now nestled between my shoes.

"I guess I do."