Wednesday, February 27, 2002
Davis—bath towel wrapped from his sternum to his shins—twisted a cotton swab in each ear, inspected his teeth (not time to brush, yet), removed dental floss deposits gathered thick on the mirror with a tissue, and pulled the chord that controlled the bathroom’s lone sixty-watt light bulb to the dismay of three dizzying moths.
- kimmel 8:02 PM

Tuesday, February 26, 2002
I wonder if I ever shared the story of how I infiltrated the Time/Warner building in New York (before 9-11) reaching the book reviewer’s office of People magazine.

After two weeks of sprinkling the grassroots with my first novel Jeremy's Prophecy Dot Com, eating my fair share of New York’s cold shoulder, I realized it was time for a serious soaking of, not just the grass and the roots, but the weeds, the soil, the buds, the fertilizer, the flowers, the veggies, and the whole lot of horticulture particulars. “We need a break. Now!”

My partner and I try the rational approach first. He queries Time/Warner’s receptionist while I, behind him, casual like in a dentist’s office, rustle through magazine pages looking for a name. I find a random writer and relay him the info. “Joanne Cummings. Yes Joanne please,” he says.

“She’s freelance, sir. She doesn’t have an office here.” Shit. I scan more articles. He stalls. “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I’m looking for . . .”

Shuffling—“Sidney Spaldwick,” I whisper. Sounds important enough.

“He’s on assignment in Bosnia. Anyone else.” I’m ready for another round. My partner wisely thanks her, dragging me toward the exit. I’m then reminded of a stunt I pulled in college where I disappeared in front of a dance floor for over five minutes. The elevators! I see my tiny portal reveal its Cheshire smile. Somebody has distracted the building ID officer and like a wet turd I slip past the barricade.

With some navigation and elevator shifting I managed to arrive on People Magazine’s twentieth-something floor. My “colleague,” a photographer I’d just met, walked with me toward the double-door entrance. He looks at me, as if I have a key. “I’ll buzz us in. You are again?”

“Jackson. Jackson Cladwell. I’m looking for,” shit what was his name, “Simon Smith.”

“Hmmm. I don’t think--”

“Hey guys.” The gatekeeper arrives. I’m suddenly human on the inside--accepted. “This gentleman’s for Simon Smith.”

“Smith, I don’t know him . . . have a look around,” she says scurrying behind the bend.

Just ahead there’s a computer, a database of sorts. I search for names. How long can I pull this off? She’s back. “You still here?” she says. “Paul,” she stretches her head into an office. The nameplate above reads Paul Kravitz, Editor. “You know, Simon Smith?” It’s okay. You belong. Act as if.

“What’s he do?”

She looks to me. “He’s a book reviewer,” I say.

“Entertainment’s one floor up.” I hear his voice from behind the wall.

On the next floor, high with adrenaline, I change my strategy. “This book,” I show her Jeremy’s Prophecy Dot Com in my hand. “I’m supposed to drop it off for review.”

“The book reviewer's down the hall, to the left. I don’t think he’s--”

I walk down the narrow hall, fluorescent lights above, and faux wood office doors either side, painted with posters, like university professors do. His door’s open, he’s there, my Wizard of Oz, my golden-ticket, my light at the end--

“Can I help you?” He looks younger than me. He’s skinny, too skinny, his eyes--their sunken.

“Yes.” Be cool. “This book, I’m here to deliver it to you.”

“I’m not aware of any--”

“Yes, well, I don’t know the specifics.”

“So what do they want me to do, a review or something?” He’s eating his lunch.

“Well, I guess. You’re the book reviewer, right?”

“We get about 100 of these every day in the mail, you know that?”

“Well, I’m just delivering it. You should read--

He places the book on his desk. “Thank you,” he says not looking me in the eye, returning to his salami.

Screw this. “Yeah, well, it’s going to be a big hit--an absolute spectacle. It’s gonna change the world, my friend!” I say. His eyes light up. He’s intrigued. I leave.
- kimmel 10:00 PM

Monday, February 25, 2002
Clinging to a figment of a thought nor’ need be expressed. I’ve lost everything.
- kimmel 7:39 PM

Sunday, February 24, 2002
There are these somewhat educated, highly neurotic people, with toxic colons and pre-cancerous femurs, who analyze, deduct, criticize, formulate, conjure, manipulate, categorize, and fabricate conceptual conceptions in order to create a book jacket that you will like. These people are known to eat donuts and favor bright colors.

Here we have a preliminary offer of my new novel's, Dead in the Bathtub Water (scheduled for a first run printing of 50,000 copies) jacket design. I’m enamored with the symbolism.
- kimmel 9:09 PM

Saturday, February 23, 2002
Today, so far, I haven’t written a word for my new novel Dead in the Bathtub Water scheduled for a first-run printing of 50,000 copies. I did however wake up at High noon, cook and eat an Omega 3-cage free egg and broccoli omelet, and go for a jog.
- kimmel 4:56 PM

Friday, February 22, 2002
I try to avoid writers who use their middle initial as part of their byline. To me, drawing attention to one's name is a sure sign the proprietor is self-centered--piloting the keyboard with his ego.

Take for example Dennis A. Mahoney. His article, written in an effort to help webloggers, demeans unpolished writers and reflects, in my opinion, an insecure element about his own writing ability. True professionals encourage "novices" rather than belittling them.

Criticizing new writers is like pushing a toddler to his knees when he just figured out how to walk. If you're riled by reading these so-called "amateur" blogs, click-away. You know there are probably 7-million others to choose from.
- kimmel 4:10 PM

Thursday, February 21, 2002
For web log readers who enjoy consuming personal blather this is for you:

Today for me was a day where listening to Neil Young made it better. Today for me was a day where my desire for sleep was more powerful than my compulsion for orgasm. Today for me was a day where I was intrigued (for more than a minute) by the damp footprint I made on the bathroom rug.

For web log readers who enjoy consuming this exclusive perspective into my next novel's development this is for you:

These here are clues—puzzle pieces. Yours to manipulate so as to devise your own theories as to what Dead in the Bathtub Water, my new novel scheduled for a first run printing of 50,000 copies, will consist of.

• clue 1 Silent Maid Dispenser
  A3765 $2.49
  Sold separately. Hangs inside toilet tank for automatic dispensing of Silent Maid liquid concentrate.


• clue 2 Germ-Trol II
  A3388 $7.99
  Powerful 3-in-1 Cleaner, Disinfectant, Deodorizer. Helps prevent mold, mildew, athlete's foot, flu. Kills germs wherever they are likely to lurk. Fresh pine scent rids home of unwanted odors immediately. 22-fl.oz. Use with Spray Bottle


• clue 3 Will-Do™ Mildew Stain Remover Concentrate
  A3389 $7.29
  Wipes out stubborn mildew, soap scum, lime scale, dirt and grease. Cleans porcelain, fiberglass, stainless steel, chrome fixtures and ceramic tile. Contains BITREX. 22-fl.oz.

Wednesday, February 20, 2002

My goal is to live every day the way the person in this picture is. 'Course, I suppose that would get dull after a while. The first couple months, though, they would be great.
- kimmel 12:00 PM

Tuesday, February 19, 2002
The "Be-a-character-in-my-next-novel" winner:
Cami Walker, maybe some of you know her, she’s the winner of the be-a-character-in-my-novel contest. Briefly: About a month ago I started this contest where contestants e-mailed me with why I should make them a character in my next novel. Many people entered including a member of my family. He was promptly disqualified. Nevertheless, after diligent scrutiny Ms. Walker won the contest due to her willingness, dedication, and perseverance. Plus she’s nutz'so.

Since she won, Cami has mysteriously showed up in Leo’s Milk Bar (re-name later), which resides in my new novel tentatively titled Dead in the Bathtub Water scheduled for a first printing of 50,000 copies. An excerpt follows. The next contest begins February 27th. Hope to see you there . . . See what happens when you participate:

Hot off the word processor:
Ian approached the girl with electric hair who sat alone on the corner stool gazing at her laptop screen. Her legs were crossed, with the rest of her body hidden behind baggy clothes.

“Nutz'so, what’s Nutz'so?” Ian said reading the monitor.

“It’s just this website I’m doing,” Cami said.

“You do websites?” She could smell his Jim Beam stink the way she smells burgers when walking past McDonalds.

“Sort of.”

Ian scanned a bit. The site was arranged mostly with what looked to be journal entries. He read one where Cami was on the toilet pissing and simultaneously conversing with a drag queen.

Ian lost some of his cocksure countenance. “Now is this just like a personal thing or--"

“It’s personal, but people do see it.” Cami said. She didn’t look Ian in the eyes.

“Um, maybe we could talk a little more.” The clamor from the stool Ian pulled to sit in was sudden.

“Do you have e-mail?”

“No.”

“Then I guess we can’t talk,” Cami said as she turned toward her screen and began to type.
- kimmel 4:58 PM

A suggestion muttered to writers is, “keep a daily journal.” Blogging makes a journal polished. With a daily audience I can’t be lazy. With a daily audience each word must be solid.

That said, my editor has opted to forgo assisting me with this blog.

If someone who edits desires to work on this project let me know.
- kimmel 3:49 PM

Monday, February 18, 2002
Davis scribbled on a cocktail napkin:

"Do you want to dance somebody else’s two-step? Do you want to warm your hands with another’s flame? A thin puddle tires--incapable to provide for those who believe that from only it can they drink.

If there is despair from those who cry with their opinion. Those unhappy, sure with the ways of their mind, I send you courage and an unbreakable grin. I can wait; dream to swim, with you, here in this, our bathtub forever."

He gave the napkin to Sarah.

She perused the scrawl read and re-read.

“I can’t make much of it,” she said to Ian who was blowing foam off the head of his beer.
- kimmel 7:07 PM

Sunday, February 17, 2002
"When does my opinion become your fact?" Jaime said.
- kimmel 6:37 PM

Saturday, February 16, 2002
We Have A Winner.

The be-a-character-in-my-next-novel contest is over. Thank you for your submissions and participation. The final contestant was decided by using a proprietary set of calculations and computations developed by a reclusive literary scientist from Bangor, Maine.

The winner has won a cameo appearance in Dead in the Bathtub Water, my next novel scheduled for a first printing of 50,000 copies.

The next competition will begin February 27. Good luck to you all.
- kimmel 9:33 PM

Friday, February 15, 2002
"Sometimes I look at people, how the sway their arms when they walk--I mean, what is that. Back and forth, forward and back . . . like a pendulum. How come nobody ever says anything about it?" Ian said.
- kimmel 5:11 PM

Thursday, February 14, 2002
A woman--she was from Canada--stopped Davis on his walk to lunch and gave him a tiny, heart-shaped tart with the words “Be Mine” printed on the front.

He smiled and said, “Be mine . . . be mine! I don’t want to ‘Be Mine’. I don’t want to be yours, theirs, hers, that, I don’t want to BE anything.”

Moving on he turned to her, "Well, actually, I apologize. What I meant to say was I can't be yours; I can just BE." The two shared coffee, later.
- kimmel 5:35 PM

Wednesday, February 13, 2002
The following are the thoughts of a character. Can you guess who he/she is?

Enter at nine am. Check schedule to see if Mrs. Jenkins is in Hawaii as promised. (He’ll be in better spirits.) Confirm Jenkins appointment with Roxanne. Sit at desk. Drink coffee. Wait seven minutes. Read headline story in paper. Begin medium trot to Jenkins’ office. Stop in front of Jenkins’ door. Listen for phone conversation. If none, knock twice. If yes, return to desk wait thirty-seven seconds and repeat.}}

The first to e-mail me with the correct answer will win a prize. For real.
- kimmel 7:31 PM

Tuesday, February 12, 2002
I feel like writing about finding the courage to fight the good fight. Alas, I am too lazy. So I will borrow the following quote from Albert E. which sums up what I wanted to say in the post that I would have written if I was not too slothful to write it:

"Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocre minds."
- kimmel 3:30 PM

Monday, February 11, 2002
Trying hard not to be cynical for me is like a goose trying hard not to lay eggs. Intensive discipline is for Buddhists and sergeants so here goes:

Folks, the FBI issued a warning to be cautious of an impending terrorist attack on U.S. interests in the United States or Yemen as early as Tuesday. Didn’t the first FBI warning cover this months ago? Apparently his (most-likely belt whippin’) parents never read young Ashcroft The Boy Who Cried Wolf cause’ when it comes to covering his own ass nothing but his hands and awful childhood memories get in the way.
- kimmel 5:20 PM

Sunday, February 10, 2002
“You know,” Joe said. “You know, I really love a parade.”
“Yeah. I hear yah. I like the circus, myself.”
“Well, nobody can deny the fun at the circus,” Joe said.
“Yeah, carnivals too.”
- kimmel 6:48 PM

Saturday, February 09, 2002
What’s with these Olympics? I’m becoming a bit queasy listening to cacophonous cowbells and over-zealous broadcasters. Is this unnecessary amplification made to drown out the vibrant glare of corruption hovering over Salt Lake City like a giant jellyfish from Mars?

'Course there's something to be said for eighteen-year-old unknowns soaring past man's current physical peak.
- kimmel 9:03 PM

Thursday, February 07, 2002
Observant viewers of this blog may notice a photo positioned in the upper-right corner of the page. There seems to be an animal of some sort there. This is a dog. He lives with me.

People who know this dog say this picture of him is unflattering. I’ve asked the dog if he thinks the likeness of him is unflattering. He said no. He thinks it’s swank.
- kimmel 6:40 PM

Wednesday, February 06, 2002
I wonder if generic, chocolate sandwich cookie makers would sell more if they didn't attempt to mimic the embossed, triangle design found on Nabisco's Oreo.
- kimmel 10:59 PM

Monday, February 04, 2002
I am a football fan. I’m also a conscientious citizen, which is why it may seem a bit ambivalent for me to declare my love for football. Before I became a cynic. Before I became super-aware of the mischievous side of things--the corporate monarchy, the self-absorbed athlete, the money, I was a fan with a love from my heart. Yes, as a child, football players were my heroes. I longed to be one borrowing their name during scrimmages with my friends in the street and posting their likenesses on my wall. Why, they could do little wrong.

And then I got older. And then I became unhappy. I became distraught with the way stadiums took on corporate names, with the way players shifted teams like square dancers shift partners. I became distraught with salary caps, and instant replays, and marketing, and brutes instead of fans, and alcohol instead of enthusiasm, and the whole spectacle being one American display of pure capitalist crusted apple pie.

As a result, I added professional football to the list of many letdowns during my swim into adulthood. Our youthful romance had ended.

So the Superbowl arrived, as usual, this Sunday with its wont splendor and sparkles. I prepared myself to pick and prod the event with all my sarcastic gusto. Here comes Sir Paul McCartney ready to show the world, once again, what a sell-out. . . . Then something happened. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t blast him. I couldn’t blast him, them, anybody.

The New England Patriots entered the field as a unit--how exceptional, how unified. And then these underdogs, these revolutionaries proceeded to scrap and brawl halting a team considered far more powerful then they. And then U2 preformed live for the halftime show. No boy bands, no teen-pop princess, no fireworks, no batons, nor flamboyant flag flyers, just a strong band with a strong performance.

The game continued with genuine zeal and grace. A controlled battle was underway; millions watched with time (as we know it) seeming to take a rare coffee break. And then the kid and his humble team from Boston, fueled with the energy of belief, finished the Goliath off stunning the experts exalting in ecstasy capturing a symbol of modern greatness.

The owner of the New England Patriots Bob Kraft accepted his trophy. He’s an easy target to mock. He’s a high-powered businessperson, a literal icon of what’s wrong with professional football, right?
Well, maybe he’s not.

He says, “The Kraft family is happy to be associated with coaches and team players who put team first. At this time in our country when people are banding together for a higher cause (we) can feel this special spirit of America . . . . We’re proud to be a symbol of that in a small way. Spirituality faith and democracy are the cornerstones of our country. We are all patriots.”

So my heart swelled. Not a bad ball game. Maybe we should start dating again, football and I. Maybe it’s time to fall in love, again.
- kimmel 4:54 PM

Sunday, February 03, 2002
Passion erupts as I use this computer’s keyboard to type the words in which you are reading right now.
- kimmel 4:14 AM

Friday, February 01, 2002
The thing is; this Internet is out of control. The guru’s, god bless ‘em, can’t create new code standards fast enough. Just when I’ve got CSS down they start in with this web services stuff. And you know what, thanks.


"In this world one never arrives. The good news is you don't have to; you're already there."
- kimmel 11:24 PM

The thick hush of the deep night relaxes me.
Maybe it's the fact that so many are sleeping.
Or maybe it's the purple scented dark.
Regardless, the day, with it's tension and worry, is done.
- kimmel 12:51 AM