BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

At first glance one might think I am talking about a bygone birthday. In my case, it would definitely be a “reflection” because 30 has been shrinking in my rear-view mirror for quite some time. In fact, I’m relatively certain by this point it has disappeared over the horizon, because I have very little recollection of it, save for the “sexy nurse” singing telegram my wife sent me – not stripper mind you, it was a singing telegram.

And the reason it sticks out in my mind is that E K, in her infinite evilness, sent her to my place of employment for maximum embarrassment. She’s kinda like that, as I’m sure you’ve already surmised.

But, first glance isn’t what I am talking about today. I’m actually talking about -30- as in the editor’s symbol meaning “The End”… “Fin”… Over… That’s all she wrote… Stick a fork in it, I’m done.

Yes, the good ol’ -30- is a “symbol” that denotes to an editor that there a no more pages. The end has been reached. And, it is something I type at the end of every manuscript.

Now, in this day and age, you will find agents out there who are so full of themselves that they issue stringent guidelines about this practice. I actually read an agent’s submission guidelines and he had such a stick up his bung hole that he literally stated he would automatically reject anything with a -30- at the end because he “should be able to tell where the end was without any help. And, if he couldn’t, then you obviously don’t know how to write.“

I think this particular agent has control issues and was probably spanked too hard when he was a kid. Or, maybe his wife slaps him around and he doesn’t know how to cope with it. Who the hell really knows? All I can say is, dude, get over yourself. You probably need to be on anti-psychotics, but who am I to say. I’m not a doctor. I just write books for a living, so what do I know, especially when it comes to something like putting a 30 at the end of a manuscript?

But, I suppose you may wonder, “Why 30?”

Well, I have no clue. I seem to recall hearing the story once upon a time, but years and alcohol have relegated it to a filing cabinet I am unable to locate. Suffice it to say, I learned a long, long time ago, that I was supposed to put a -30-, or even a 30 in a circle, at the end of my copy before I turned it in. This was taught to me by Martha Ackmann, my Journalism teacher, about whom I have waxed nostalgic in the past.

Now, it is entirely possible that they don’t teach kids to do this anymore. I haven’t been in a Journalism class in nigh on to 26 years now. Things change… I know this. However, the fact remains that the -30- is something I not only learned, but it became so ingrained that it eventually morphed into a major part of my writing ritual. Without it, I feel unfinished. Incomplete. Without end.

Literally. And, yes, maybe even a bit literarily too.

Now, this is not to say that I write -30- at the end of my to-do list,  grocery list, or sappy love notes I leave for the Evil Redhead (which reminds me, I’m probably due to scribble one of those to stuff into her lunchbox…) However, at the end of any and all of my manuscripts, novelettes, short stories, articles, or any other writing project, I most definitely do. Once I have done that, I can move on to the next part of the ritual – a glass of scotch and a really good cigar while sitting on my porch swing.

But, now that the -30- is typed, the scotch is imbibed, and the cigar is nothing more than smoke & ashes, what happens?

Well, I’m afraid that’s a story for the next blog entry…

More to come…

Murv

-30-

I’ve never really been all about the video game stuff. I mean, after all, “PONG” was the biggie when I was a kid. In my teens things got really advanced and we had stuff like Asteroids. I actually used to be pretty damn good at Asteroids. I had a tactic of holding the thruster button down and spinning the little triangle shaped ship in a circle while blasting the holy hell out of the space debris that was barreling in on top of me. Kinda like that “death blossom” maneuver in the movie “The Last Starfighter”… Yeah, obscure movie reference, but you know me… Suffice it to say, back then my friends called me the “Han Solo” of Asteroids, because I could play for hours without getting blown up or even encased in carbonite, not that the latter was actually an option…

Even so, that’s pretty much where my “Video Game Wizard” career ended. The Who never wrote a song about me, even though I am now about half deaf and wear bifocals. A buddy of mine who filks wrote a song about me once, but it had more to do with my books than it did my ancient video game prowess…

Yeah, I’m chasing chickens again, aren’t I?  Oh well, you know how I am….

So, on to the real story here… As I’ve mentioned before, the O-spring has one of those hand held, Nintendo DS things. She also has an enormous number of cartridges that go along with it. Among her favorites are the pet hospital/trainer sort of things. She has several, and you can often find her running a grooming salon, doctoring zoo animals, or simply taking a dog for a walk, all via that noisy, pink, folding rectangle with all the buttons.

Now, one of the interesting things about these Nintendo DS dealies is that they have voice recognition. Yeah, you can talk to them. So, whenever the O-spring is training an animal we tend to hear her talking to the DS. Such was the case just the other night…

Her Supreme Evilness and I were taking a moment to veg and have a look at something on the toob. O-spring was parked on the couch and whatever it was we had elected to watch wasn’t to her fancy, therefore she had her nose buried in the DS. Via points, virtual money, or whatever it is that you do, she had obtained a new pet for her menagerie and she was endeavoring to train it to sit, roll over, etc via voice commands. During the commercials I would listen to her barking commands at the electronic pet, repeating them over and over while the stress level in her tone grew. It was obvious that her frustration was mounting.

Eventually, long about the third or fourth round of commercials, the munchkin let loose with one of her hallmark shrieks. You know, the 9 year old who’s lost her patience squeal. I continued rocking in my chair, but turned my head and asked her what was wrong.

“My bunny won’t do what I tell it to do!” she lamented.

“You’re trying to teach a rabbit to sit?” I asked.

She all but wailed, “Yes! But it won’t do it!”

“Well, honey,” I said. “Rabbits aren’t exactly the kind of pets you teach those kinds of tricks to.”

Now, one would think that this is the punch line of the story. I mean, the kid was trying to teach a virtual rabbit to sit and roll over. It’s bad enough when it’s a virtual dog, but come on, a rabbit?

But, as you are sure to have guessed by now, the Peter Cottontail factor isn’t the whole story. It’s part of it, but the real punchline is still coming…

The O-spring barked another string of “sits” at the pink rectangle, then once again let out a frustrated shriek.

“Honey,” I tried to soothe her. “I really think you picked the wrong kind of animal to train. Rabbits don’t respond to voice commands like dogs do.”

Without missing a beat, the kid wailed, “BUT IT DOES WHATEVER MOMMY TELLS IT TO DO!”

I can’t say as that I blame the damn thing. I mean, we are talking about The Evil Redhead here…

The problem is, I am now having some really bizarre nightmares…

The one that recurs constantly involves the Easter Bunny. E K has him strapped to a giant frying pan and she’s beating him with an oversized spatula while he screams, “Cadbury! My safe word is Cadbury!”

Don’t worry. It disturbs me too…

More to come…

Murv