Writing an E-Book.

An idea pops into my head. Ok, the truth serum is kicking in. An idea is germinated by something I hear on the radio. I decide to move forward with the idea, thinking it should be fairly simple, as I am going to crib most of it from my own seldom read blog. There was my first lesson. While cutting and pasting is somewhat simple for us, the e-book is a very specific creature. First I would have to choose between formats (cassette or 8 track? VHS or Beta? Soy or Coconut?). The Apple world has iAuthor. A fairly simple program, much like its other "art" programs; iMovie, iGarageband... Choose a design, drag and drop. Except when you want to do something else. Then arrggghh. The Kindle uses a more complex professional program, Adobe InDesign was the one I chose, that will let you do those "arrggghh" things, but it is far more time consuming. I started to format the book in both programs. The reason one can not just pick one is because if I publish in the easier one, Apple, I am forbidden from publishing on the Kindle brand, which cuts off the largest ebook store outlet, Amazon. But to save my sanity, I did pick one, hoping that some big author would sue and that problem would go away. So far, that hasn't happened.
But the real issue is not the formatting issues. The real issue is me. As we know from past musings, I am an underachiever. Laser-like focus on one project is not my best skill. I enjoy verring away. Taking a side road. Usually to a dead end, but as they say, its the journey. But now, as the final act begins, I desperately want to leave something. It seems that just having a body of under seen work is not enough. I don't have a child (the typical way of leaving something) and although I have been a part of many wonderful artistic endeavors, I don't have that one thing to point to. Not that one can physically hold an e-book, but you know what I am getting at.
However, (can't get the legalize writing out of me, no matter how many years have passed), I am slowly chipping away at it. I have 30+ pages lined up. Pictures too. Soon I will let someone else look at it and then I will have to be open to criticism and accept that some of the things I think are funny, just aren't. But that too will be ok. Because at the end of some day, I will have something to point to, even if it is on a iPad screen.

About 10 years ago, I wrote the following bit. Somethings have changed, but most is the same. I tried to watch last night but was too early, and my roof is still too bright. When I awoke at 3, the clouds had taken over the sky. No meteor show for me.

August 1993
In a successful attempt to go against the flow, I decided to search the heavens for Perseid the day after the advertised "best time" for viewing. I donned my sweatshirt and headed fro the nearest thing to dark sky, the golf course at the start of the foothills. I arrived to find the lot empty, the masses having had their go the night before. I settled into my beach chair, leather jacket acting as a blanket, and keys poised for any attack by non-stellar visitors. As I lay back, eyes roaming, I began to think loft thoughts. The vastness of the sky, the universe and beyond are good jumping off places for deep meditations on the origin of humankind, God, religion. I began to wonder about my role in such a scheme, what my, in the immortal words of Steve Martin, "special purpose" was.
And then my mine would change the channels before I could even get a coherent thought on the essence of my being. I began to think about my laundry, or my current financial despair, or the fact that my back was killing me and my underemployment necessitated total use of my back. Just as I was about to get into a full blown depressive state about my situation, a meteorite would transverse the sky. A bright white-orange star with the longest tail I'd ever seen, shooting out into God knows where. I whoop and cheer, just as I do when a fireworks display is especially exciting. I didn't care if I was alone!
I saw six "shooting stars" over the hour that I sat outside. Each time that I thought I would not see any more, another one exploded in my vision. I wanted to stay all night but my back was stiff and a car intruded into my solitude. Time to go. I saw the Perseid Meteor Shower. I had some lofty thoughts, I had some human thoughts and I had a hell of a good time. I still don't know what my special purpose is, but somehow, it doesn't really matter.

Escape American Style

In the wake of yesterday's news- a legal outcome that befuddles common sense and a suicide by overdose that just befuddles, I want to hide in the place that I have come to call my "temple": the Movie Theater. It is a good time to do that, in the middle of a film festival located down the street. But it doesn't mean that I wont be barraged with reality. Sure, last night while the verdict in the murder trial for the victim, Trayvon Martin, and millions of tweets were blowing up the blog-a-sphere, I was laughing my ass off, at the appropriately entitled "Ass Backwards" by and starring two amazingly talented, beautiful and FUNNY women, Casey Wilson and June Diane Raphael. But today I will not get off so easy. I will see a film about the lives of two people who are living their gay lives in Cameroon, Africa, called "Born This Way". And there are sure to be many more where the harsh realities of the world are depicted on the screen. But there will also be the uplifting. A short documentary about two Lesbian women who 15 years ago adopted two girls from Ethiopia. There will be 5 extremely well done shorts made by at risk LGBTQ youth. There will be more silliness and laughter about our mutual predicament of living. And there will be the fantastic feeling of community. Young, old, the human coat of many colors, straight friends who love the other and good film. That is the part of life I like to celebrate, while acknowledging that many people are victims of sad, mean troubled people. A foot in both worlds, if you will.


OUTFEST Opening Night Festivities

Assisted Living: When you just need to GET AWAY

Over the past 8 years, I have managed to go away several times. Early on, I could leave the Old guy alone, with some pre-made food, arrange for someone to take him out one night. If I was to be gone for a longer period, I would have him stay with the "sister wives". One time, I had people scheduled to stay a night or two at the apartment. But recently, I have been reluctant to ask for this help. Oh I know people would say, "Of course, I'd like to help" when discussed in the hypothetical, but, when it comes down to specifics, the discussion gets a little fuzzy. And since it is the American Way to be self reliant, I decided to do it the old fashion way: pay someone. There is a great advantage to this, and the obvious disadvantage (cost). But I am able to do it and it provides me with peace of mind (or is that a piece of a mind? both probably). Old Guy gets a companion for the time who will be nice to him (she is paid) and a different cook. But mainly it makes him very happy when I return. As for me, I get a good chunk of time to return to my swinging single life. (insert tire screeches here) Yeah, that's not really true. I have, sadly, aged 8 years, and so, funny in an ironic way, not haha way, I have slowed down too. But I did get to enjoy just taking care of myself.

All the experts will tell you that taking care of the caretaker is very important. The truth is, it is very hard to accomplish. But, when you do get the chance your heart and head will thank you for it.

Then, its back to the grind.

Upon return:
"How was the wedding?". "What wedding?" "Didn't you go to San Francisco for a wedding?" " No, I went to Sacramento. No Wedding." "Oh, my mistake"
Next day:
"How was the wedding?"

Still Alive and writing...

So, all three of my readers already know that I am writing an E-Book entitled...well, lets make that a surprise for when I actually finish the damn thing! Suffice it to say, that these little writing exercises I like to call Blog Posts, are in it. I am having fun learning two new formatting programs cuz the world likes to make it really difficult (did we really have to let the cassette win, when 8 track was so superior in sound quality?), again, apropos of nothing. AH Ha! maybe that will be the title. dont steal it Chuck Lorre.
Speaking of whom, I am going to reprint his recent Vanity Card, just because it sounds right. I do believe comedy writers are our new philosophers. We don't have time for thick tomes on life and death; much easier to write that into an episode of a sit com.
Yes, I am still open to that world's oldest PA job in the writers room, Mr. Lorre.
Read and ponder....




CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #416

I've been thinking about becoming a polytheist. No, this has nothing to do with missing Battlestar Galactica. And yes, I realize my blasphemous notion flies in the face of a few thousand years of "Ye shall have no other gods before me." (To be honest, even when I was a kid that commandment troubled me. It sounded like a jealous girlfriend saying, "If I catch you looking at other girls, you're in big trouble, Mister!" And don't get me started on how "no other gods before me" kinda implies that there might actually be some other gods loitering about.) But my main reason for considering becoming a Pagan (Pagish? Jewgan?), is that it neatly answers the age-old question, "Why does god allow so much suffering in the world?" When tragedy strikes, the monotheistic approach can only offer the tired old, "It is not for us to question god's will." Really? Why not us? Who else is in the questioning business? But look what happens when we ask the same question from a pantheistic perspective. Why do the gods allow so much suffering in the world? Because outside of their particular area of expertise: farming, war, fertility, what-have-you, they are not even remotely in control. The buck stops nowhere. (In this scenario both the Old Testament and New Testament deities are off the hook as far as your general suffering is concerned.) But here's the really good news: with a polytheistic approach to prayer we can micro-target our beseeching. Trouble with love? Take it to Aphrodite. Not catching enough fish? Poseidon. Are you regularly waking up from alcohol-induced blackouts in the sleeping compartment of long-haul trucks that carry circus equipment and little people? That sounds like a job for Dionysus. Need your sitcom pilot to get picked up for the Fall season? Les Moonves. In other words, whatever the crisis might be, there's a god ready to take your call. What are you waiting for? Call now and receive a free goat-sacrificing kit! (Goat sold separately.)

Assisted Living : Passive-Aggressive

A little while ago, I noticed the OG was slowing down. I went to the handy interwebs and did a little research on the next generation of canes (we have progressed from a standard cane to one with 4 posts-Quad Cane

This seemed to work for a while, a long while actually, but now it was time to go to the rolling walker with seat

I assembled the walker after work, while he was watching TV. I asked him to give it a try. He said to me with astonishment and outrage: "I don't need that!". And because I am an IDIOT, I responded. I cited all the reasons that he did. Then after exhausting myself with my own craziness, I set the walker in the corner and left the room. About 15 minutes later, he came to me to ask me how it worked.

You would think that I would have already learned that lesson. Many days, when the temperature is cool, 75 degrees (I do know how ludicrous this sounds to those outside of southern California), He refuses to go in the "Hot" Tub-spa. But, I say (note the pattern here) "it is 104 degrees IN the tub, and you have a big fury robe to warm you up after." To no avail. So I go to my room, busy myself with drugs and alcohol, and soon he is walking down the hall in his swim shorts and towel.

Moral to the story: Concede early and shut the heck up!

The Story of FED UP FEM FOILS FELON

I remember the day. Warm enough to ride a bike and want to spend the afternoon in the movies. I went to Pink Floyd’s The Wall by myself. It was shown at the now defunct but much remembered St. Marks Movie Theater at 134 2nd Avenue and St.Marks. I just googled it and as of that picture, it is a clothing store; who knows what it is in 2013. People loved that theater because you could smoke pot in it. They had couches, but being the middle class California transplant I didn’t dare sit on them. I did love that they existed, tho. So the movie. I am not sure why I even went. I was not a fan of Pink FLoyd and I had no idea what the film was supposed to be about. Still don’t. I do remember that it had very violent images mostly against women. When I exited the film, I think it was around 5 or 6pm, I rode my bike towards 3rd on 9th. I was looking for a hip resto that I had heard about. As I approached the corner, I saw a kerfuffle. A woman of about 60 was distraught shouting about her purse had been taken, to my right down Stuyvesant St towards 2nd, a man was running with the purse, followed by another, whom I call the Good Samaritan. I began following both of them. Oh did I mention I was on my bike? They ran down 10th to 1st avenue and it was about here that the Good Samaritan lost his mojo, having less of an incentive to keep going than the perp. But unbeknownst to both of them, I was there. I followed at a safe distance,but close enough to see him when he turned onto East onto 11th St. and jumped into a sub-basement dugout that NYC has on many buildings. I rode past quietly to see him crouched down, rifling through the purse. I rode across the street to the pay phone (remember children, this was the early 80’s, and personal phones were only on Star Trek and in Beverly Hills) to call the police. They wanted me to give my name, and I almost didnt but they wouldnt let me go if I didnt. I am glad I did. I jumped off the phone to make sure he was still there. I waited across the street in case he decided to leave before the cops arrived, and as I watched a car go up 11th towards 2nd Avenue, he popped out, minus his jacket and purse. This dude was happy, as he made off with the crime, and was now heading to his dealer. But he didn’t figure the raging feminist following him. He was making pretty good time, walking fast but not running. An undercover cop car pulled up next to me and asked if it was the two Puerto Rican kids, and I said with glee, “no the tall white guy!” . Suddenly two unmarked cars did a “V” move, trapping him up against the chain link fence. He said, cocky and all “Is there something a matter, Officer?”. Since he did not have the purse on him, the cops looked to me. I said he was down in one of those sub-basements. I was a little confused with the moment and went to the wrong one, but then we found the purse and his jacket. BOOYA!
I rode to the WOW Cafe on 11th street, flush with excitement. No one there seemed to care. So I rode home. Just as I finished my 5 flights of stairs with my bike, my phone rang. A man asked "if I was Debra Miller, the Debra Miller who found the man who mugged my wife?" He was so grateful and happy and wanted me to have a reward. They invited me to dinner and gave me $50 bucks! They were great people in that fantastic apartment building, The Brevoort, on 5th Avenue at 8th.
But it didn’t end there. In NYC the way criminals are prosecuted is through the ancient “Grand Jury” system. A group of citizens are impaneled for a year (it becomes their job), where they decide if a crime warrants prosecution. These people had heard everything. They were over it. The DA is examining me and I am telling the above story. They still don’t react. Finally he says, "Ms. Miller, tell the Jury how you caught the perpetrator?" "On my bicycle." They all sat up. You must remember that in addition to no cell phones, bike cops had not yet been “invented”. I may have been the impetus but I’ll leave that decision up to you (Forrest G anyone?).
So how did the Daily News find out about you? Well, some time had passed, and I was telling a new friend the story (cuz ya’all know I like to tell my stories). She said that I was a Crimestopper. A what? Clearly, I was not a Daily News reader. She proceeded to write the story up and send it to the paper. They investigated, and viola! I am chosen.
My friend drove me down to the paper on the back of her Vespa, where I was interviewed. I had been up late celebrating an Opening Night with my friends, The SplitBritches, so my head was a wee bit foggy. The writer basically eek-ed the feminist twist out of me, but it wasn’t really too far from the truth, since we all know that I have been a proud Fed Up Fem(inist) for all my life!