Things I Find Fascinating: Pseudonyms, Pen Names, And Noms De Plume

1)  Ellery Queen:  Used as both a pseudonym and a fictional character, Ellery Queen has to be one of the most well-known fake names in literature. Very popular in their heyday, the Ellery Queen mysteries were the brainchild of two cousins from Brooklyn, New York. Now, stick with me on this one. The two cousins' names were Frederick Dannay (which was actually a pseudonym for Daniel Nathan) and Manfred Bennington Lee (which was a pseudonym for Emanuel Lepofsky). Yep, that's right: their "real" names were pseudonyms for their "real real" names. The two also wrote a few books under the collective pseudonym Barnaby Ross, but those books weren't nearly as popular. Nobody had ever heard of that guy!

Ellery Queen

2)  The Many Names Of Dean Koontz:  I've long been a fan of Koontz's writing, although some of his more recent novels severely pale in comparison to the ones he was churning out in the '80s and '90s. Early on in his career, Dean Koontz was quite the prolific writer, publishing books in almost every genre imaginable. Because he was an unknown writer at the time, publishers encouraged him to use a different pseudonym for each genre of book he wrote so that readers wouldn't be confused. (I'm confused just writing this!) Consequently, prior to achieving fame primarily as a horror/thriller novelist, Koontz's works were attributed to a variety of different made-up "people", including David Axton, Leonard Chris, Brian Coffey, Deanna Dwyer, John Hill (no imaginary relation!), Leigh Nichols, Anthony North, Richard Paige, Owen West, and Aaron Wolfe. You've gotta hand it to him, all those names sound very different and none even remotely resemble Koontz's own name. Anyway, these days he just goes by Dean Koontz. Although maybe for some of his lesser works, he should consider going back to one of those pseudonyms. Just a thought, Dean...

Dean Koontz

3)  Lemony Snicket:  This interminably catchy name is the pseudonym of Daniel Handler, author of the popular children's book series, A Series Of Unfortunate Events. Lemony Snicket also serves as the first-person narrator of the stories and occasionally appears as an actual character in the books. Presumably, Handler assumed the pseudonym to write these books to distinguish them from his adult-oriented fiction, which he may not necessarily want younger kids to read.

Daniel Handler aka Lemony Snicket

4)  Richard Bachman:  Much like Koontz, early on in Stephen King's career, he was writing more books than his publishers felt comfortable releasing in such a short time. The thinking then was that if an author publishes more than one book per year that the market will be saturated with his or her work and that would not be a good thing. (Doesn't seem to be the thinking these days – just ask novelist James Patterson, who doesn't actually "write" all the books he gets credited with). So King came up with the idea to write books under the pseudonym Richard Bachman. King was also curious to find out if his books were as wildly popular as they then were simply because of name recognition or due to the actual merit of the books themselves. King thought that if the Bachman books sold well on their own, then maybe there was actually something to his success after all. Unfortunately for King, fans caught on rather quickly, noticing little hints sprinkled within the text of the books and recognizing a writing style suspiciously similar to King's. King was soon "outed" as the author of the Richard Bachman books, and subsequently issued a press release announcing Bachman's death due to "cancer of the pseudonym."

Stephen King aka Richard Bachman

5)  Edward Gorey:  Author and artist Edward Gorey was famous for his often-macabre illustrations in his own books and books by other authors. But he was also well-known for his love of wordplay (I can definitely relate!), and wrote many of his books under pseudonyms which were actually anagrams of his own name, including: Ogdred Weary, (Mrs.) Regera Dowdy, Raddory Gewe, Dogear Wryde, E. G. Deadworry, D. Awdrey-Gore, Wardore Edgy, (Madame) Groeda Weyrd, and Dewda Yorger. Which, of course, made me curious to find out what kind of pseudonyms I could make using the letters from my own name (Jason P. Hill). These are some of the better ones I came up with: J. L. Siphonal, Jin Shallop, Josh Pallin, John Aspill, Phill Jonas, and Jalin H. Slop. If I ever wanted to use a female pseudonym for some reason, I could use Jan L. Polish, Lila J. Ponsh, Jill Shapon, or Liloh J. Snap. Cool!

Edward Gorey

6)  Two Ladies Named George:  In the early 1800s, it wasn't all that easy for female authors to get their works published, even if they were exceptionally good writers. In some cases, if a book written by a woman was deemed worthy but the publisher was hesitant to publish it, the author (often at the behest of the publisher) would assume a male name so that the public would more readily accept the novel as "legitimate." Such was the case with French author George Sand (born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin) and English novelist George Eliot (born Mary Anne Evans). Both women achieved notoriety and success as authors despite the sentiment of the time that women couldn't write as well as men. Eliot, in particular, contributed several significant works which have since become classics, including Silas Marner, Middlemarch, Adam Bede, and The Mill On The Floss.

George Sand

George Eliot

7)  Collective Pseudonyms:  Throughout the history of publishing, numerous series of books (especially children's books) have been written not by one author, but by many different writers, often working in teams. Some of the most popular series of all-time fall under this category. Victor Appleton is credited with authoring both the Tom Swift and Don Sturdy series of books for young boys. In reality, "Victor Appleton" was a number of people, all working for the Stratemeyer Syndicate, which churned out hundreds of books per year in the early part of the 20th century by employing this very method of authorship. That same syndicate gave us Laura Lee Hope, a collective pseudonym for the author of the Bobbsey Twins books, the Moving Picture Girls books (Appleton "wrote" the Moving Picture Boys books), and the Make Believe Stories, among others. Perhaps the most famous collective pseudonyms are Carolyn Keene and Franklin W. Dixon. Ever read a Nancy Drew (Keene) or Hardy Boys (Dixon) book? I'm sure many of us have. Both series of books were (and still are) published under the collective pseudonyms of Keene and Dixon, but were actually written by many, many different authors, both men and women.

?????

8)  Anne Rice:  This prolific novelist, probably most famous for her Vampire Chronicles series (written well before vampire novels were "trendy," I might add), took on the pseudonym "Anne Rice" for the exact opposite reason that the two ladies named George changed their names for publishing. Since she was born Howard Allen Frances O'Brien – half of her four given names being traditionally male – Rice thought it might make more since to write under a female name to avoid confusion when folks saw her author photo on the book of the book. Probably a wise move on her part.  She doesn't really look like a "Howard" to me. What do you think?

Anne Rice

9)  Mark Twain:  One of America's most popular novelists and humorists was not born with the name that made him famous. The author we know as Mark Twain was actually born Samuel Langhorne Clemens. Initially, Clemens used the pseudonym "Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass" for humorous pieces that he had published. But when that wasn't working for him anymore, Clemens sought a new name to use for his writings. Having worked for years on Mississippi riverboats, Clemens remembered often hearing the phrase "mark twain" – which meant that the boat was in deep enough water (about 12 feet) that it was safe to pass – and thought it had a nice ring to it. And so it did. And so it does.

Mark Twain aka Samuel L. Clemens

10)  Poppy Z. Brite:  Okay, so this one's going to be confusing for me to write, so just bear with me. First of all, Poppy Z. Brite has got to be one of the coolest "fake names" I've ever heard. Poppy was born Melissa Ann Brite as a woman (like I said, bear with me). When she started writing fiction – mostly gothic horror, some of which I've read – she assumed the name Poppy Z. Brite because, well, it just sounds way cooler than Melissa Ann. Anyway, she became very famous and probably made lots of money writing as Poppy Z. Brite. A couple of years ago, Poppy revealed that she had long dealt with gender dysphoria and gender identity issues, and that she actually identified herself as a gay man. She/he then began the process of gender reassignment and now goes by the name Billy Martin – which pales in comparison to Poppy Z. Brite. But I digress. (This is where it gets tricky, because now I'm "supposed" to use all male pronouns like "he" and "his.") Martin has since retired and while he still writes for pleasure (blogging and such), he does not feel the need to write for publication any longer. Oy! That was awkward. But interesting...

Poppy Z. Brite (left) / Billy Martin (right)

Short Story: "Portions"

Well, this is it, folks! My 20th completed short story and the eventual title story for the short-story collection that I plan to put together in e-book form this year. I picked the title for my story collection months ago, but never gave much thought to writing a story by the same name until today. As it turns out, it was an unexpectedly good call to try and write one. Once I had the idea, the story sort of wrote itself.


Now having finished 20 stories (which was my goal all along) and reached 25,158 words total (25,000 was my goal), I can now begin the process of self-editing before I start to put it all together in book form.


To all of you who've read me faithfully this year, thank you very much! If you have encouraged me through comments or whatever, keep it up – most writers, myself included, are extremely insecure when it comes to what they've written. They (and I) almost always think what they've written is wonderful, but seen through another's eyes, it's easier to take a critical eye at things that need more work, and to better appreciate why certain things work well or don't. I know I'm not a fantastic writer, but I try to put forth quality work whenever I write something. Any comments that you feel comfortable giving on this and any and other of my stories, believe me, I welcome it! All that being said, I hope you enjoy this short story, entitled "Portions"....

PORTIONS

Four sips of water and four sandwich quarters per day. Pimento cheese and lettuce. Never more than that, and often less. By the time I receive it, the the bread is already crusty, the pimento cheese slightly rancid, and the lettuce brown and wilted. But it's food, and it sustains me.

I haven't seen daylight in eighteen months. That is, I think it's been eighteen months. I keep losing count. After five hundred days, I stopped counting altogether. One reason was that there was no more room on the wall. Another is that I stopped caring. Well, almost.

How I wound up here is actually a funny story, if you think about it hard enough. On the surface, it might sooner be deemed a tragedy. My hubby and I had arrived here by cruise ship as part of a romantic getaway. It was supposed to be a second honeymoon for us, since our first one was protracted, as I was doing clinicals at the time and couldn't get away for a whole week.

We had the whole day on the island to do whatever we wanted, as long as we were back on the ship by 6pm. I wish we'd been paying better attention to the time, or we might not have wandered so far away from the ship. But there was so much to see and do here. Such vibrant colors everywhere – the houses, the stores, even the fire hydrants (the favorite color for those seems to be magenta). Everything back in the States is dull by comparison. Of course, I'd trade anything to see that dullness again.

Here I see nothing but three walls and metal bars. I haven't seen Stephen since they locked us up. I pray every day that he's still alive. If he is, they're keeping him somewhere else. I haven't heard his voice in so long, except in my dreams. But back to the story.

We'd been having a marvelous day trip here on the island, and we'd just finished eating lunch when a strange man approached us on the street. This wasn't altogether unexpected, as the cruise director and all the brochures warned us this was a possibility. Just be polite, they said, and respectfully decline whatever it is they're trying to sell you. Sometimes it's legitimate merchandise, sometimes it's black-market, and sometimes there is no merchandise at all – they're just out to steal your money.

It seems that constables are stationed at every street corner here, which certainly engenders a sense of security. Except when you're in the middle of the block, closer to an alleyway than a street corner, and your hubby has to stop and tie his shoe. Which is exactly where we were when the man approached.

He was dressed much like the rest of the natives we saw, in a brightly colored floral-print shirt and purple khaki shorts. Indeed, the clothes are as flashy as everything else around here. He wore a straw hat that looked like he made it himself and that had seen its better days. He offered us a brochure of some kind, written in the native language, and began pointing at the words in bold across the top. He spoke little English, but tried to convey what the brochure was all about as best he could. Something about political prisoners and modern torture methods. In retrospect, I probably should have paid better attention. It may have helped me understand why we were taken.

When the man seemed sure that he'd piqued our interest sufficiently (although he really hadn't, at least on my part), he beckoned us to follow him to a door in the alleyway. He bore a broad grin that exposed jagged (and a few missing) teeth which was more creepy than inviting, but for some reason we followed him. Stupid, I know, but we thought maybe we'd get something free out of the deal, an authentic native meal or something just for listening to the man rant in his own (and badly in our) language.

As soon as we crossed the threshold of the door, which was shabbily constructed and well-worn, we knew we had made a mistake. Two very large men filled the tiny space we'd entered, a cantina of some kind that appeared to have dried up decades earlier. To describe the two men properly would be impossible, as we only saw them for a few seconds. Immediately, one of the men grabbed me while the other manhandled Stephen and wrestled us both to the ground, faces-down. I couldn't tell you what they hit me with, I just felt the impact at the back of my head for half a second, then nothing. When I awoke, I was here in this cell, obviously somewhere below-ground. It was (and still is) dank, very dark, and cold. Ironic since it's probably swelteringly hot aboveground, as it usually is here and was the day we arrived.

I'm sure our families went out of their minds when they heard that we'd been left on the island by the cruise ship. Certainly they'd assume that we'd just catch the next flight, or boat, or whatever,  off the island and head back home as soon as we were able. What dark thoughts – all of them valid as it turns out – must have passed through their minds in the ensuing months might have already killed Stephen's parents. Jim and Dottie were much older when they had Stephen than my parents were. Jim has a bad heart, and Dottie has high blood pressure. My folks are on opposite sides of the country, but they would have likely kept in touch these many months to see if the other had heard from me.

But no one had heard from me, because I have been here. I'm sure Stephen hasn't been able to reach out to anyone back home either if he's in the same situation I'm in. I'm sure he is, if he's not dead already. My heart tells me he's alive, but I still worry. With good reason, of course.

I've never known who our captors are. I've never even seen their faces. They shine light in my face four times a day when they bring me water and my sandwich quarter (to make sure I'm still alive?), but my blinded eyes can't make out any facial features that I would recognize later – if there is a later.

Are we political prisoners, like the ones in the strange man's brochure? If so, why? If not, why are we here? What about Stephen and I would be important enough that the government of this island nation would use us as a bargaining chip for political purposes? And why do they think the United States gives a rip about the two of us when it won't even negotiate with terrorists?

Whatever the reason, we're here. Well, I am for sure. Daily I fantasize that Stephen has found a way to escape and is plotting to free me any way he can as soon as he can. Or maybe he has escaped and made his way back home and bringing reinforcements to come back and get me. Maybe he's lost his memory, doesn't know who he is, and doesn't even remember that I exist. Or maybe he remembers everything, and has chosen to move on with his life without me. The thought of that is ten times worse than imagining his being dead.

I wish I could offer you a better ending to my story. But it is what is is I am still here, waiting for my release or my death, the ultimate release. I have no greater hope than that, unless it is to see Stephen again. I sleep fitfully, day and night, and wake to a worse nightmare than I've endured in slumber. The door to the outside world opens four times a day, and I am given my portions. I force them down and keep on waiting. I survive.

Things I Find Fascinating: Words You Can Make Using Letters From The Words "Amendment One"

DISCLAIMER:  This is not a political rant for or against the amendment which is being voted upon today in North Carolina. If you see significance in any of the words I've chosen to form using the letters from "Amendment One," it is likely only your imagination. If you still choose to think that I picked certain words on purpose, well then, you are certainly entitled to your opinion. ~ JPH


1)  Memento:  (a) An object or item that serves to remind one of a person, past event, etc.; keepsake; souvenir.  (b) Anything serving as a reminder or warning.
 

2)  Momenta:  Force or speed of movement; impetus, as of a physical object or course of events.

3)  Dement:  To make mad or insane.

4)  Moan:  To utter something inarticulately or pitifully, as if in lamentation.

5)  Atone:  (a) To make amends or reparation, as for an offense or a crime, or for an offender.  (b) To make up, as for errors or deficiencies.  (c) To become reconciled; agree.

6)  Demote:  To reduce to a lower grade, rank, class, or position.

7)  Demon:  (a) An evil spirit; devil or fiend.  (b) An evil passion or influence.  (c) A person considered extremely wicked, evil, or cruel.

8)  Demean:  To lower in dignity, honor, or standing; debase.

9)  Mate:  noun  (a) Husband or wife; spouse.  (b) One of a pair.  (c) A counterpart.  (d) An associate; fellow worker; comrade; partner.  verb  (a) To join as a mate or as mates.  (b) To match or marry.  (c) To join, fit, or associate suitably.

10)  Amend:  (a) To alter, modify, rephrase, or add to or subtract from (a motion, bill, constitution, etc.) by formal procedure.  (b) To change for the better; improve.  (c) To remove or correct faults in; rectify.

11)  Mean:  (a) Offensive, selfish, or unaccommodating; nasty; malicious.  (b) Small-minded or ignoble.  (c) Inferior in grade, quality, or character.  (d) Low in status, rank, or dignity.

12)  Name:  (a) A word or a combination of words by which a person, place, or thing, a body or class, or any object of thought is designated, called, or known.  (b) An appellation, title, or epithet, applied descriptively, in honor, abuse, etc.  (c) A reputation of a particular kind given by common opinion.

13)  Amen:  It is so; so be it (used after a prayer, creed, or other formal statement to express solemn ratification or agreement).

14)  Damn:  (a) To declare something to be bad, unfit, invalid, or illegal.  (b) To bring condemnation upon; ruin.  (c) To doom to eternal punishment or condemn to hell.

15)  Mend:  (a) To make (something broken, worn, torn, or otherwise damaged) whole, sound, or usable by repairing.  (b) To remove or correct defects or errors in.  (c) To set right; make better; improve.

16)  Ammo:  (a) The material fired, scattered, dropped, or detonated from any weapon.  (b)  Any material, means, weapons, etc., used in any conflict.  (c)  Information, advice, or supplies to help defend or attack a viewpoint, argument, or claim.

17)  Deem:  (a) To form or have an opinion; judge; think.  (b) To hold as an opinion; think; regard.

18)  Tend:  (a) To be disposed or inclined in action, operation, or effect to do something.  (b) To be disposed toward an idea, emotion, way of thinking, etc.  (c)  To be inclined to or have a tendency toward a particular quality, state, or degree.  (d)  To lead or be directed in a particular direction.

19)  Ado:  A great deal of fuss and noise; a considerable emotional upset; to-do; commotion; stir; tumult; flurry.

20)  One:  (a) Being or amounting to a single unit or individual or entire thing, item, or object rather than two or more; a single.  (b) Being a person, thing, or individual instance or member of a number, kind, group, or category indicated.  (c) Existing, acting, or considered as a single unit, entity, or individual.  (d) In a state of agreement; of one opinion; united in thought or feeling.

Poems For Your Perusal: More Alpha Poetry

After my own heart
Stops beating
None of this will matter.
Decisions that seem
So monumental now
Will crumble
In a moment.


Bite the bullet, and
Do what you must.
Dreading it doesn't
Make it happen.
Putting it off only
Delays the inevitable.
You may hate it now
But you'll thank yourself later.


Cast the first stone of blame
At your own feet. You think
Because it hasn't happened to you
That it can't, and it never will.
Be careful what you prophesy
You could very well be next.


Decent people win by being decent.
They get ahead through perseverance
Never giving in, and standing by convictions.
What world am I talking about again?
That's alright. Who needs to win anyway?


Every time I think about you
I think about myself
And how close I came
To becoming like you.
Whew, that was close!


Faster than you've ever seen
He runs in one place
Harder and harder he pushes
And yet he hasn't moved.
Pity.


Getting what you want
Can be a blessing
Or a curse.
Getting what you need
Can make you
Complacent.
Ever wanting
Ever hungry
Ever trying
Maybe that's better?


Hope to see you again soon.
But what you really mean
Is that you don't expect
To ever see me again.
You hope not to, because
If you did, you'd have
To face the fact
That I was right
And you were wrong
And that's more than
You're willing to own.


If you walked in my shoes
For just a moment
You'd feel the pain
The cramped tightness
The worn-out soul
And you'd wonder
Why they always
Come untied.


Just like always
We gather here
To watch the two
Be joined as one.
And we rejoice
And we clap
And we cry
And we shower
Them with gifts
And we pray
That it lasts
As ours has.


Kindly take your hands
Off me. You don't have
The right to own me
Body, heart, or soul.
I will not be mastered
By you, or anyone else.
I know what is right
And I will honor it.


Let's just agree to disagree.
You see things a certain way
And I see them another.
We'll never be able to
Convince each other
That one of us is wrong.
It doesn't make it right
It just means we don't fight.


Most of the time
When I sit down to write
I have a thousand thoughts
Running through my head
At once. Today's no different.
Some days I can actually
Make sense of these thoughts.
Today's the exception.


Never too late to start again
An old dog learns new tricks
As good as anyone else does.
The lie that age dulls you
Or stupefies is just a myth.
Don't be fooled by fools.


Only those you want to keep
Deserve the care you think they need.
The ones you love is who I mean
What did you think I was
Talking about -- teeth?


Please, for the sake
Of all that is holy
Stop that infernal whistling!
You're not a dwarf
This isn't Fairyland
Work isn't supposed
To make you Happy.


Quickly realizing that
No matter what I do
No matter what I say
No matter what's the matter
Complaining doesn't help.


Rising above his circumstances
He looks down to see from whence
He rose. Things look so different
From up here. More manageable.


So sorry, but that's the way it is
If you wanted a better outcome
You should have cared enough
To do something, anything
To make it happen. Your loss.


Trailing by at least a dozen
Always playing catch-up
How did we get this far behind?
And when did we run out
Of time-outs? I cry foul!


Unless they come to a better understanding
It's likely that their ever after
Will not end happily. What a shame!
I was just getting sucked into the story.


Vanquishing foes left and right
And never stopping to take a breath
He soon loses focus, stumbles
Is caught off-guard, and loses his head.
Literally. Apparently violence is the answer.


Weak-kneed wanderer limps toward home
And finds that nothing's changed.
The past is still the present.
He swears there was something
Worth missing in the interim
But finding he was wrong
Decides that he prefers the road.


X generation kids having their own
Grunge is a thing of the past.
All that good flannel just going to waste
Should've known it wouldn't last.


Yes, it's true
I lost control
Ate too much
And I feel terrible.
Yes, I regret it.
Well, at least
I regret the way I feel.
I'll remember this
For next time.


Zip your lip!
Restrain yourself!
I know what you're thinking.
The whole world knows
What you're thinking.
But saying it will only
Make things much worse.
Just don't.

They're Just Doing Their Jobs!

1)  Fast-Food Workers:  Chances are, they're making much less money than you are, and they most likely have to deal with a lot more of the public than you do every day -- the good, the bad, and the ugly. If they're a little grumpy, there's probably a good reason for it. Maybe they just got cursed at because their burger has pickles when they specifically said "No pickles." Maybe the fries are cold -- they didn't make the fries, it's not their fault. Cut them some slack!

2)  IRS Auditors:  If you should ever be so "fortunate" as to have to undergo an IRS audit, don't take it out on the poor guy or lady conducting the audit. It is not a personal vendetta against you. They know you; they're not out to destroy your life. They're just doing what they get paid to do.

3)  Referees/Umpires/Other Sporting Officials:  A sporting official's job is to call it as they see it. Most of the time they get it right. Sometimes they get it wrong. This does not make them terrible people. It makes them human. Have a little understanding, and let them be human. You'd probably be hard-pressed to do as well yourself.

4)  Police/Law Enforcement:  Too many people either fear or hate "cops." In most cases, this is fear and hatred that's unfounded. Granted, there's a small minority of individuals in the law enforcement community who have abused their power and given good reason for people to hate them. But this is not the norm. Chances are, if you're afraid of the cops , it's because you're doing something wrong and you don't want to get caught. If you're not doing anything wrong, you don't have anything to worry about.

5)  Lawyers:  This is another case where a few bad ones give the multitude of good ones a bad name. I fully realize that, like some of the jobs on this list, lawyers are typically well-paid for their work. But that shouldn't give us the right to hate them for it. While it's often perceived to be one of the "glamor jobs", lawyers do a lot of drudge work that most of us wouldn't want to do, no matter what we were getting paid for it. It's not all Law And Order and Matlock. A lot of it is dull and solitary work. A good lawyer earns the money he or she makes. Don't take it out on a few of them who rake in the cash as a reward for their dishonesty.

6)  Car Salesmen:  Confession -- I am among the legion of folks who dislike car salesmen. And yet, I know several of them personally. Buying or selling a car is a very important decision. One that I would prefer to make for myself. But a car salesman's job is to steer you in the direction that he or she would like you to go. To sell you that car that's been languishing on the lot for far too long. The newer, more expensive one that just arrived -- that will get him or her a bigger commission. In truth, car salesmen are no different than any other kind of salesmen, whether it be the computer salesman at Best Buy, the furniture saleslady at Badcock's, or what have you. The guy wants to sell you a car, not to make you second-guess your (or his or her) decision for the next four or five years, but because he or she wants to get paid this week. They are trying to put food on the table just like anyone else. And with all that has gone down in the automotive industry in the past few years, it's getting harder and harder for them to do their jobs, which is selling. I'm preaching to myself here as much as anybody, but here goes: Give them a break. And I'll try to, too.

7)  Auto Mechanics:  Like other jobs on this list, auto mechanics' reputations in general have been sullied by the ones (admittedly, more than just a small minority of them) who are dishonest, unethical, and downright cheats! I, like you probably have been at some point, have been burned on more than one occasion by dastardly auto mechanics who told me I needed something that I probably didn't need, paid them an exorbitant amount of money to fix the problem, only to find that it was actually another problem all along, one "amazingly" not related at all to the one I've already paid for. While there are a lot of dishonest auto mechanics out there, and I may continue to naturally distrust them in general, I do realize that there are many, many honest auto mechanics out there who work hard, do a good job (much better than I could ever do!), and can and should be trusted. I have a guy who does my car repairs now that I trust is among that latter group.

8)  Busboys (or Busgirls):  I held this job throughout my college years at a local seafood restaurant, not because I wanted to, but because it was a steady job and the hours were always at night (and all my classes were during the day). The pay was lousy, the work was thankless (except for the occasional "thank you" from the nicer waitresses who appreciated that we were doing all we could to get their tables ready for another group of guests), and no, we did not get tips. After hours, we effectively became the janitors of the place (another thankless job!), having to sweep, mop, and wipe down everything in the dining room areas.

9)  Truck Drivers:  Being away from home and family for long stretches of time. Being on the job 24/7 but only getting paid by the number of miles that you drive. Being cursed at, given the finger, or conversely, begged upon by minivans full of kids to honk the horn when you're just trying to do your job. Sound like fun to you? Not to me, either. But without these guys and ladies, the shelves of our favorite stores would be empty; our restaurants would close down for lack of food to serve; that birthday gift you ordered for your brother online would never arrive. Without truck drivers, we wouldn't have most of the things we enjoy everyday. Think about that next time you grumble because that 18-wheeler won't get out of your way so you can get to the nearest Starbucks for your morning cup of Joe (which was probably delivered by a truck driver not that long ago).

10)  Call Center Reps/Customer Service Reps/Telemarketers:  Many people don't choose to do these jobs. Often, desperation forces them to take them because no one else will. These jobs often don't pay very well, especially as compared to the stress level that's involved in performing them well. But somebody's got to do it, right? Call center and customer service reps and telemarketers probably take more crap than anybody else, especially since the anonymity of being heard and not seen emboldens many people. Folks will say many things over the phone that they would never say to another person's face. And yet, for the person on the other end of the line, getting paid very little to do so much, they still reap the "benefits" of the customer's fury. And that's not fair. I am as guilty of this as anyone, but it's still not right. Speak into their ears the same way as you would if you could look into their eyes. They're just doing their jobs...

My Favorite Four-Letter Words

It's late. We've been busy. I'm keeping it simple tonight. These are ten of my favorite four-letter words. And they're not necessarily the ones you would expect. Enjoy!



 

Love

Food

Book

Word

Hugs

Cats

Fire

Tree

 

 

Path

Naps

Weird Quotes By Guys Named Tom

  "I've had just about everything punched. 

I've had things grabbed that just shouldn't be grabbed."

~ Tom Brady, NFL Quarterback

"If fishing is a religion,

fly fishing is high church."

~ Tom Brokaw, Television Journalist

"You don't know the history of psychiatry. I DO!"

~ Tom Cruise, Movie Star

 "Nothing's worse than a woman know-it-all."

~ Tom DeLay, Former Politician

"I like to drink to suit my location."

~ Tom Jones, Welsh Crooner

"The big print giveth, and the small print taketh away."

~ Tom Waits, Singer/Songwriter

"I'm Tom and I'm here to help you. 

Send me a message if you're confused by anything."

~ Tom Anderson, MySpace Co-Founder

"A nice pop star would do you nice

on one of those deserted islands."

~ Tom Felton, Film Actor

"It's better to be quotable than to be honest."

~ Tom Stoppard, Playwright

Thinking En Español At Midnight

It's been awhile since we've gone now, but for several years in a row, our church took a group of people on missions trips to Reynosa, Mexico at Easter time. My wife and I (she was my fiancee the first year) went on five such trips with the church, each year from 2003 to 2007. While visiting the various churches in Reynosa (and one year in Monterrey), we were able to make lots of friends among the Mexican believers. Among them was the pastor of one of the local churches, Victor Cruz.

We became very close to Victor, his wife Mary (pronounced MAH-ree), and their five kids over the years that we went to Reynosa. My wife Mary helped his wife Mary and some of the other ladies at the seminary where we stayed in preparing the meals for the seminary students and the people in our group. Mary learned how to make tamales (though she couldn't really reproduce them at home -- cooking is such a process there) and mole chicken and other great foods native to Mexico. I was part of a group of guys, led by Victor, who worked on various construction projects both at the seminary and at Victor's church across town. Not being a particularly handy guy, I can't say that I actually learned very much about construction, or that I even helped all that much. My biggest contribution was probably an intangible one.

Having taken four years of high school Spanish and placing into the fourth (and highest) level of Spanish I needed to take in college to fulfill my foreign-language requirements, I was fairly fluent in Spanish at the time. Of course, knowing how to conjugate common verbs and speak conversationally doesn't help you a whole lot if you don't know any construction terms in Spanish. But still, I was probably more fluent than most of the people in our group, especially among the guys. So I basically became our de facto translator. Victor didn't speak a whole lot of English -- most of the people we met there didn't. But he could speak a few words here and there to get his point across. What he couldn't say in English he would say in Spanish and I would do my best to translate it for the other guys.

It's now been more than five years since the last time we were in Mexico. Outside of some scattered communication in Spanish with our contractor guy over the past few weeks (he speaks very good English, so we don't have to revert to Spanish too much), we haven't had many occasions to speak Spanish with any regularity. Mary (my wife, not Victor's) was pretty good at Spanish, too, and did her share of translating when she was working with the Mexican ladies in the kitchen. But again, it's been five years, and we haven't practiced, so our Spanish skills have declined greatly, to say the least.

I say all that to say this: Last night, I had a good long chat with Victor on Facebook -- we have sporadically kept in contact through the social networking site, but hadn't chatted in a while. The good thing about reading Spanish as opposed to speaking it is that if you get stuck, you can just pull up Google Translate and either translate what you don't understand that the other person has said, or translate into Spanish what you want to say to them.

So, when at the end of our chat, Victor asked for my phone number so we could talk on the phone, we were both elated and a bit scared. Would we be able to carry on a conversation primarily in a language we hadn't spoken regularly in several years? Would Victor feel pressured to speak only in English, with which he is not all that comfortable, either? We honestly didn't know how it would go. But I messaged Victor with our home telephone number anyway, figuring that he'd call in a few days and we'd have time to brush up on our Spanish in the interim. I signed off the Internet and we were about to head up to bed. After all, it was 11:30 at night. Then the phone rang. Of course, it was Victor.

We ended up speaking with him for over an hour, and I think it went pretty well, considering. Between the two of us, Mary and I both succeeded (somewhat) in communicating what we wanted to say in Spanish, and understood (for the most part) everything Victor had to say (mostly in Spanish also). We caught up on each others' lives over the past five years. He asked how certain people from our church group were doing. We inquired how his family and the other families we befriended in Mexico were doing. Victor told us that he and his wife Mary plan to visit the United States early next year, and if at all possible, they may try to head this way and visit us here in Greenville. (Awesome!) It was great hearing his voice again, and catching up and reminiscing about old times. There may have been some miscommunication to him on our part, or to us on his part from time to time. But ultimately, it didn't matter as much as I'd thought before he called. Thinking in Spanish and English simultaneously and trying to translate both at midnight after a long day of work and years of non-practice is quite difficult, and both our brains (and probably Victor's too, trying to work some English into his part of the conversation) were fairly taxed afterwards, but it was worth every minute of it. We are looking forward to the next time we get to speak to him on the phone again. Even more so, we look forward to possibly seeing Victor and Mary again in person next year.

Until then, we better start brushing up on our Spanish-speaking skills...