In Which I Shelve “Sh*theads” so as to not Further Anger My Potential Reader Base

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good Morning, Afternoon, Evening or Night fellow Sh… err, fellow denizens of my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Note that I stalled before writing “Sh*thead.” There’s a reason for that. A friend of mine informed me the other day that regardless of my ongoing contention about the term “Sh*thead” not being derogatory, it could still be construed as such by one or two people. He suggested a new strategy moving forward: That rather than potentially insult anyone, I should not use the term “Sh*thead” in the immediate future, especially in light of what is presently transpiring. I am, of course, referring to the imminent publication of my first book, ENDWORLD – A Novel.

A quick update on that for those of you reading this that are new to my mind and my world: ENDWORLD – A Novel remains in the capable hands of my chosen designer and formatter (is “formatter” even a word?). I am awaiting the first proofs of both the e-book version and the print version. Once I have them, the potentially laborious process of “tweaking” the design will begin. As much as I’d love to settle on a cover and an interior right away, I know that it’s not feasible. After all, I’ve waited almost 20 years for this moment. I want to do it right. Right?

When I do go “live” with the book I promise that next to me, my wife and my kids y’all will be the first people to know. So sit tight. It’s coming. Hopefully before Memorial Day, just in time for the summer reading season, thus completing the vicious circle that began many, many moons ago one summer in the basement/Periodical Room of a library in Wyncote, Pennsylvania. Back then, all ENDWORLD – A Novel was was an idea and a dream. It evolved into a scene and from there, it evolved into a Prologue, typed on my old 286 computer in Courier Font. If you’ve been following my random musings for a while, you know the rest. Fast forward to this unseasonably warm day in April of 2013 and my dream is close to becoming a reality. There have been a hundred and one people that have inspired me along the way (and that’s no exaggeration, guys), and it would take me a while to list them all. Instead, I’ll let the book’s dedication speak for itself:

This novel is dedicated to my companions. My brethren. My friends. The once and future inspiration behind its conception.

Je t’aime. 

For those of you that have never taken French, “Je t’aime” means “I love you.” Don’t worry: I never took French either. Nor did I take Latin. I was a Spanish guy from high school through college. That didn’t stop me from using both languages and no Spanish in the novel (I never was very good at Spanish, anyway). Someone once taught me how to both say and spell “Je t’aime” and the lesson? It has stuck with me since. I am eternally grateful for that. And to everyone else that has been there along the way. The finished product may be my words, but every one of you had a part in its development. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be dishing out royalties to you. Sh*t, the darn thing has to make money first. As I promised someone on Facebook the other day, if this book launches a writing career, I’ll buy the beer for a while. That said…

Back to Sh*theads. My aforementioned friend and I bantered back and forth a bit about me posting a retraction on my blog, i.e. instead of an Appreciation, an Anti-Appreciation of Sh*theads or something similar. Sadly? I’m not going to do that. The term “Sh*thead” is as much a part of my vernacular at this point as the word “aforementioned.” But I concede that  he has a point, and from the end of this blog forward, I will no longer refer to people, myself included as “Sh*thead.” Note that I wrote “from the end of this blog forward.” Before  I abandon the term indefinitely, I’d like to take a few moments and reflect back over its sordid history, not just on “Random Musings” versions one and two, but pre-“Random Musings,” back when I and my brethren all lived in and around Jenkintown, Pennsylvania and no one lived anyplace else.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when, exactly, I first wrote or said “the world is full of Sh*theads.” My V-D Day ponderance? My Y2K one? Back then, I didn’t consider myself a Sh*thead. I mentioned this before but it bears repeating for the newbies: I used to believe that a Sh*thead was, in essence, a Nine to Fiver. Someone that wakes up at the same time every Monday through Friday, goes to work, takes the same lunch break, goes home and goes to bed. Rinse and repeat.

But then something intriguing happened. I became one. A Nine to Fiver. A Sh*thead. All of those people that I was referring too back in my early 20’s? If I haven’t already I implore your forgiveness, now. It was a weird time for me. A time filled with copious amounts of alcohol, herbal refreshment, feminine banes, dungeons, poems, sleep deprivation and Animal Planet. Not to mention mountains of debt and a black, Dodge Neon Sport commissioned “The Wraith (est. 1998).” I knew not whereof I spoke.

Being a Sh*thead is not a bad thing when you view it in that context. It’s a good thing. It’s normalcy. The fact that I’ve attained any degree of normalcy in my almost 38 year life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence is still shocking to me. Considering where I was less than 15 years ago and where I am now? Yeah. If you knew me then and you know me now you likely “smell what I’m cookin’.”

I wonder if there are people out there now that look at people like me the same way I used to look at people like me. Me with my graying, fraying hair and the two spots of white in my once-three toned, now four-toned beard. Me, the guy who sits at a desk every Monday through Friday (and every fourth Saturday) from eight to five or five thirty running an office and helping people with their hydraulic and pneumatic needs. I can hear them snickering at me from within a cloying cloud of blue-gray pot smoke. “Look at him,” I can hear them saying in alcohol choked voices, “look at that Sh*thead. Man, I’m never going to be ‘that guy.'”

Guess what, pal? You say that now when you’re sharing an apartment that smells like feces with two of your friends and living off of Ramen Noodles and powdered iced tea. But 10 years… 15 years from now when you’re married with a job, kids, a mortgage, a spare tire around your once-chunky, but now drooping waist and white spots in your beard/gray streaks in your hair? You’ll understand better. Me? Yeah, I’m a Sh*thead. But for the most part, I’m happy with my normal life. I’m happy with my wife, my job, my kids and my house (my spare tire? Not so much though I do think the white spots in my beard make my look distinguished). I haven’t smoked weed in a long, long time and the last time I did? Let’s just say the experience was highly un-enjoyable. I do still drink on occasion, but rarely to excess and I haven’t had a package of Ramen Noodles since roughly 2010. Powdered iced tea, though? Yeah. It and my spare tire go hand-in-hand.

I like normal. Normal is less stressful than Abby-normal. Normal allows me the time to write (or rewrite) a novel and the money to self-publish it. Admittedly, Uncle Sam had a little to do with that last, as well. It was a good 2013 for the Marsh clan. You can call me a Sh*thead if you want but buddy? Once upon a time (’cause all good stories begin as such), I was where you are, thinking the same way that you did. I’d wager many of us were. But now? We’re the end products of sociological evolution on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. See if you feel the same way when you’re where we are, now. Until then, as Dave Matthews sang, “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” Okay, maybe not “die” but age? Become Nine to Fivers, AKA Sh*theads? Definitely. That is the way of things. The way of the Force. End needless “Star Wars” shout-out.

I’m not going to lie: There are days when I miss the carefree lifestyle of my early 20’s. Back when I could rage until three in the AM and still get up two hours later to unload a truck at CVS, 45 minutes away from my little, two bedroom hovel in Jenkintown and thereafter, Northeast Philadelphia. Back when I had the tolerance of an elephant and not that of a dying field mouse. Back when I would take spur of the moment road trips with a friend or two (or four) in my spiffy black, Dodge Neon Sport, “The Wraith.”” Back when ENDWORLD – A Novel was still just ENDWORLD, the main character’s name was not William but Roland and the book itself? It was little more than a Fictional Autobiography that drew heavily upon movies like “The Terminator” and shows like “The Wonder Years” for inspiration. I’ve said this before, too: There are elements of both still in it, even now in it’s completed version, but those elements are no where near as prevalent as they once were. Nothing more than occasional homages to the aspects that originally inspired it. I can see them, and I’m sure a few of the people that read the original draft of the book back then will see them, as well. But for the most part? It’s new. A product of my mid-30 something, now late-30 something mind. Is it improved? Well, guys? That’ll be for you to decide. I’ve still got the original at home in a black binder under lock and key. I could always publish it if the new version tanks.

Will I? Probably not. Doing so would be the equivalent of publishing the first ever short story that I wrote. It would be the equivalent of dusting off, finishing and publishing THE OAKS. Yes, THE OAKS. There’s only one or two people I know now that know about that one. Believe it or not? ENDWORLD was not my first attempt at writing a novel. THE OAKS was. I was 17 or 18 when I began it. It was a story about a guy that dies and wakes up in an old, abandoned retirement community that is populated by ghosts, one of whom–Jerry–resembles Jerry Garcia. I made it about 50 pages in before I realized that all it was was a “Beetlejuice” retread and shelved it.

Shortly thereafter I found myself reorganizing the Periodical Room of a library in Wyncote, Pennsylvania. it was summertime, and I was thinking about my upcoming, yearly vacation in Cape May, New Jersey. I was suddenly struck with a notion: How cool would it be to see someone sunning him or herself on the beach while reading a book with my name on it? As I continued organizing and alphabetizing, a scene began to take shape in my mind and I immediately ran for the old, manual typewriter that I’d been using to type on blue, check out cards. I grabbed an empty one and started. By the time that I was done, the opening words of the final chapter of the original version of ENDWORLD were written. That blue card? It, like my 286 is now lost to history (but not THE OAKS; I still have that one). While it was the beginning of something, it was just that: A beginning.

Writing a book? It’s a lot like life, guys. Both have a beginning: A birth. The older both get the more refined both become. What was once a product of naivete–like trying to describe making love when you’ve never made love before–matures. Grows. Eventually? Something amazing happens. You finish writing your book, and you begin the process of either having it published or self-publishing it. And as you get down to that long awaited moment where you go “live” with your creation? You realize that unlike life which has one beginning and one ending, your book? Contextually it has one of each: One “once upon a time” and one “and they lived happily ever after.” But metaphorically? That moment when you make it available to the world is a second birth. That’s where the two ideas finally diverge from each other. What happens after that should be of no consequence to you. You’re not in this for the money, right? Well, maybe some of you are but for me? It’s never been about that. For me, it’s always been about that second birth. Regardless of ENDWORLD A Novel‘s success or failure, I did it. I got my second birth. At almost 38…

Me. A self-proclaimed Sh*thead. I used to think that Sh*theads never got that chance. Apparently, they do.

And with that? I am officially shelving the term “Sh*thead” until such time as I, my friend and any of my potential reader base offended by it deem it fit to return. Let my close by thanking… who else? All of my fellow once-Sh*theads, a few of whom I hope will buy my book when it becomes available, sometime pre-Memorial Day, 2013, and read it while sunning on a beach somewhere. For me? That would be full circle. A dream come true.

Je t’aime, friends.  

Another Quick Hit

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

We’ll, fellow Sh*theads. Guess what? As of this AM, ENDWORLD – A Novel has been submitted for design and formatting. Next step publication.

I’m equal parts elated and terrified about what happens from this moment forth and if this seems like a retread of my earlier Facebook post, it is. BTW, If you don’t follow me on Facebook you can check me out HERE or on my brand spanking new Facebook Author Page HERE. End aside.

I honestly don’t know where I’ll be posting updates on ENDWORLD – A Novel from here on out. My plan is to launch the book simultaneously across my entire electronic footprint. “Random Musings” is a big part of that and for those of you that follow me here? Thank you for your support and continuous reading of my glorified mental flatulence. I promise that I will continue to pollute your minds, even after the book goes “live” and hopefully sells 100,000 copies.

Okay, maybe not that many. In truth? A couple hundred would be enough to justify this almost 20 year process for me and keep me going. CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD, the sequel, promises to be even more interesting so I hope that I get to write it. Enh, who am I kidding? I’m going to write it regardless.

Time for me to wax philosophical for a moment: Books write themselves. The writer/author has little or no control over the process. He/she is a vessel through which the story makes itself known. Did I just personify a human driven experience? Yes I did, and I may sound like a kook for doing so. But I’ve always believed that stories… At least the good ones… Exist already. The writer/author’s role is merely to reach into the Ether, grab said story by the nuts and write it down.

I may never sell a single book. But in my mind? I’m fulfilling my role. Storyteller, vessel… Whatever I am. Other than being a good husband and Dad it’s my purpose.

I can hear people saying how much that last statement sounds like something my Biological would say. You know what? It is. He’s as much of a kook as I am. I’ve never denied that there are aspects of him in me. Every day I look in the mirror and see them. But me? I choose to embody the good parts of him and not the bad.

As I sit here typing these words, Natalie has fallen asleep on my lap while drinking a bottle. Sesame Street is still playing in the background. Nicole and Cara are out seeing “Pinkalicious: The Musical.” As Creed sang, “There’s a peace inside [my] soul. Let it be [my] friend.” Whatever the outcome of this next step and the publication of ENDWORLD – A Novel I have achieved my goal. I am satisfied with what I have created. Will others be?

We shall see. Stay tuned, fellow Sh*theads. Updates to follow.

ADDENDUM: I just posted the Prologue of ENDWORLD – A Novel to Createspace, “Alone.” If you’re interested in checking it out, you can download it and view it HERE. You can also post reviews to it’s review page. Which would be most appreciated. I know its only a couple paragraphs but I’d still like to know what people think. Thanks, guys! Have a great day! 

Of March Madness, Nutrisystem, Miley “Twerking” to “The Rains of Castamere” and the Grand, Quiet Time of the Aspiring Writer’s Soul

The Madchronicler2 Comments

Otherwise known as “the time after you ship your recently (or not so recently in my case) completed, e-formatted novel off to a handful of Beta readers and your editor but before you decide on a cover, typeset it and upload it to Amazon.com for sale.” Yeah. I figured that “the grand, quiet time of the aspiring writer’s soul” was a bit more eloquent, not to mention a blatantly obvious shout-out to Douglas Adams’ “The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul.” You may agree. Or not. Either way, its your prerogative, Bobby Brown.

Seriously, though? If it wasn’t for March Madness right now I’d be going completely stir crazy. Few sporting events get me more excited than the prolonged, three week orgy of basketball, brackets, beer and wings that is the NCAA Tournament. Sadly, this year’s “orgy” involves following the action primarily on my phone and my computer, mourning the first day loss of one of my Final Four teams (curse you, Lobos!), drinking glass upon glass of water (already up to five, today) and eating Nutrisystem Mexican-Style Tortilla Soup.

Regarding the latter, a few words to those of you that are considering adopting Nutrisystem as a means of dropping a couple of pounds before an event like, but not limited to a wedding: The food’s not bad. Taste wise its all pretty good. But the portions are tiny as f*ck. They’re made even tinier when you follow the instructions, only to have your already minuscule container of Mexican-Style Tortilla Soup blow it’s load all over your microwave. You are left with a bit less than half of your original meal. Were it not for the multi-grain tortilla and two pieces of cheese I brought as a “Smartcarb” and the apple I brought as a “Powerfuel” I’d be screwed until snack time. Is starvation a part of the Glycemic Index? If so, then this diet is working phenomenally! I’m down six pounds since this past Sunday. But I think my stomach is beginning to eat itself. If I break 10 pounds by this Sunday I’ll already be 75% of the way to my “goal weight.” Know what that means?

You’ve got it, guys! Wings and beer for the Sweet 16!

Basketball and dieting aside, this really is a quiet time in my life. One of the quieter ones that I can remember. I don’t know that much has changed. Responsibility-wise I’m in the same boat that I was in a year, two years, and even three years ago. Sure, I’ve got an extra little one to care for and sure, my three and a half year old is no longer as portable as she once was. But things aren’t that different. It really does come down to the whole writing thing. I’m not actively working on anything right now, be said “anything” Endworld – A Novel, one of its planned sequels or something else. In truth? The only thing that I’m doing right now is updating my blog. While that technically is “something else” its different. Discrepant (one of my favorite words that I never get to use). Discordant? Only if I’m trying to sing a duet with my three year old. I swear that kid already has a better voice than I do.

Hence the fact that I’ve been pumping out two blog entries each week for the last couple, a fact which hopefully isn’t getting too tiresome. What can I say? I need to be writing. Its ingrained in my DNA. My Biological? He was… is a writer, though his style of writing is a  wee bit different than mine. He was always very talented at describing a scene in the least amount of words possible. Me? People have told me that I’m too wordy in my descriptions. Some have told me that my strength is writing believable dialogue, something that my aforementioned Biological was never able to do well. Mind you, I haven’t read anything that the guy has written save for a few letters in the last almost 20 years but based on their content? Yeah. His writing style hasn’t changed much since he crossed the proverbial line from “Father” to “Biological” (he hadn’t been “Dad” in a while). He was always more James Joyce than Stephen King.

Me? I’m a mutt. I’m the bastard offspring of a dozen different writers and their styles. I’m the aspiring author Frank Snow of Broomall, Pennsylvania. If you have no idea what that means I urge you to subscribe to HBO and watch “Game of Thrones.” It’s the best show on television. You have until next Sunday, March 31st to get caught up before Season Three begins. Seasons One and Two are only 10 episodes long each. Plenty of time. You may have to sacrifice a game or two of the Tournament but I promise you that you won’t regret it. It has something for everyone. Even boobs and a**. Why boobs and a**? Trust me: You’ll understand by the end of the first episode.

Furthermore, don’t just watch the television show and accept it as canon. Read the books. There are five of them so far with two more too come, and “A Game of Thrones” is just the title of the first one. The others are “A Clash of Kings,” “A Storm of Swords,” “A Feast for Crows” and “A Dance with Dragons” (author: George R R Martin). I know that reading for leisure is, for many younger people as tortuous as watching paint dry and the prospect of reading something longer than 1000 pages is almost, but not as frightening as watching Miley Cyrus “twerk” in a unicorn suit. But try it. You might be surprised. I used to consume 1000 plus page books like “It” for breakfast when I was a young “whipper snapper.” I read the Bible for fun. Books like those? They not only made me want to be a writer, they made me lust to be one. ‘Course, if the prospect of reading something longer than 200 pages doesn’t appeal to you, you likely won’t purchase my novel when it becomes available (423 pages, pre-edit and pre-typeset). And if the process of making money for a living appeals to you? Well, you can still make money as an aspiring author but guess what? You won’t be doing it as a writer. You’ll be doing it as a Retail Manager. Or an Office Manager, and you’ll be writing in what little spare time you have.

I’m not trying to discourage you from following your dreams, guys. I did. I still am. I’m simply stating the facts as I see them. The unabashed truth on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Let me take this opportunity to say thanks for reading “Random Musings,” even though many of you may now be departing for that really spiffy cat blog you saw beneath my URL on Google. For those of you that decide to remain, I promise that I’ll keep updating this site, even after Endworld – A Novel goes “live,” whenever that ends up being. Some days, the long road from conception to publication, self or traditional really does seem endless. People told me that, but I never believed it. Until now, that is.

Ah, the grand, quiet time of the aspiring writer’s soul. I’ve been here before, and I forgot how incredibly dull it is. On a happier note, my March Madness bracket–which took a beating yesterday–is looking better over the first slate of games of today. I figure if I can get out of today with five or six total losses in the first round (I currently have four) and still only one team out of my Sweet Sixteen eliminated (curse you again, New Mexico!), I’ll be able to make up many of the points I squandered yesterday on teams like the aforementioned one and Pitt (the last stand of the Big East? Come on, Pitt! For f*cks sake, it was Wichita State!), even though I’m also -1 in my Elite Eight and -1 in my Final Four. On an even happier note, I just consumed a piece of Nutrisystem chocolate cake and my stomach has, for the moment, stopped eating itself. I am feeling less starved than I was feeling a few hours ago. Might this whole Glycemic Index thing actually be working? Survey says: Probably not. I’m likely just getting used to the emptiness.

No sooner had I written the last paragraph than Ole’ Miss went on a run and is currently leading another of my Sweet 16 teams–Wisconsin–by six with a minute and a half left to play. Make that seven. Well? You can’t win ’em all, I guess. Some days, though? I wish I could travel to the future. In doing so, I would be able to:

1. See who wins this year’s NCAA Basketball Tournament and adjust my bracket accordingly. Maybe then I’d not risk something as sacred as my Sweet 16, my Elite Eight and my Final Four on a mid-major school like New Mexico or a proverbial disappointment like Wisconsin. It seems that every year, one of the regions of my bracket begins, right around this time on the second day of the Tournament, to look like the scarred surface of a battlefield. This year is no different. The West? Yep. It’s lost. On a happier note, I’m still perfect in the Midwest and the South, and I only have one loss in the East. A man can dream. A man can…

2. See what happens in Season Three of “Game of Thrones.” Okay, I’ll admit that I already know what happens and all I’m going to say to those of you that have A.) Never read the books or B.) Not made it through “A Storm of Swords” yet is this: The Rains of Castamere. That may hold no significance for you now but trust me when I tell you that by the end of this season, it will. As will boobs and a** for all you young “whipper snappers” that watch it and everything else on HBO for… well, boobs and a**. I think I’m more interested in seeing the reactions of the people that have never read the books to what happens than I am in actually seeing it. Their reactions? That would be enough to get me to travel into the future. Yet while I’m there, I think I’ll…

3. Check and see if adopting Nutrisystem was really worth it. How do I look at the wedding? Do I look “tight” or do I still looked like a stuffed sausage wearing pinstripes? If the former, hooray. I now have motivation for sticking it out until the end of the program. If the latter? Well sh*t. I might as well just stop on the way home and pick up a bucket of wings, a jug of blue cheese and a case of Yeungling to watch March Madness on my phone and my computer with. Because really…

4. I could see if it was all worth it. All the writing and revising; all the waiting and wondering about whether or not people will like Endworld – A Novel. Beta readers are great, and if you utilize them right you get a good cross-section of your potential audience (young adult mixed with new adult mixed with middle agers mixed with ole’ timers) to give you feedback before you go “live” with your book. But if I traveled to the future, I’d be able to see the finished product: The cover, the interior et al. I’d be able to read the reviews that people have given it on Amazon.com.

It may seem to many of you reading this blog that I devote a lot of time to talking about my novel, and very little time actually working toward getting it published. Trust me: I’m working my a** off. So much so that when I’m not being an Office Manager or spending time with my family its all that I’m doing. That’s what makes now so strange. I feel like I should be working on it. But there’s not much that I can do at the moment. The book? It’s in good hands. I need to be patient. After all, I have all the time in the world to do this. Why not do it right? I assure you that I will be talking even more about it as the next few days, weeks and months pass. Hell, I’ll likely be marketing it here on “Random Musings” one it goes “live.” I know, that cat blog is looking more and more appealing by the word, isn’t it?

Sadly, I can’t travel into the future. I can’t see the outcome of the Tournament, I can’t see myself in a mirror and I can’t know based on the opinions of a few people if my book is going to succeed or fail. What I can do is cheer for the teams that I picked that are still playing. I can drink my eight plus cups of water a day (up to seven, now), consume my “Smartcarbs” and “Powerfuels” and force whatever I choose as my Nutrisystem Dinner Entree down my gullet. Most importantly, though? I can “just keep writing, just keep writing,” even if two blog entries a week balloons into three. I can’t allow myself to get rusty because once Endworld – A Novel is, blessedly, done and “live,” there’s a second and a third book to write. Maybe more. Who knows?

In closing? Well, I can do this one of two ways. I can post the video of Miley Cyrus “twerking” to Flo Rida’s “WOP” or I can post the lyrics to “The Rains of Castamere.” Both represent an ending: One to a career (sorry, Hannah Montana, but this is the low point of your ever diminishing career) and the other to… well, no spoilers. Obviously I’m more inclined to post the latter, but the masochist within me really wants to post the former. I know! Someone needs to overdub Miley’s “twerking” video with Bronn singing “The Rains of Castamere” pre-the Battle of Blackwater. Then? Well sh*t. If anything can penetrate the grand, quiet time of this aspiring writer’s soul, that’s it.

Get on it, Youtubers. And everyone? Have a great weekend. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

Of Doctors, Dieting, Elbows and A**holes.

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

“Five ear infections in nine and a half months. That has to be some kind of record.”

So read the text message that I sent my wife this AM upon finding out that our youngest is yet again suffering from an ear infection. The good news? At least this one is not a “raging, double ear infection” like the last one. Seriously? Some doc’s watch too much “Grey’s Anatomy,” i.e. they’re incredibly over dramatic about the conditions that they diagnose. They treat every sniffle like Ebola and every case of Pink Eye–Conjunctivitis if you want me to get technical–like the Plague.

That is by no means an indictment of every doctor that coexists with me, here in my subjective reality. My wife, for example, is a PharmD and she’s not over dramatic though she was, once upon a time, an avid follower of the “Grey’s Anatomy” soap opera, both onscreen and off. One of my best friends is a doctor and he is arguably the straightest shooter that I know. But many of them? I’ve encountered my fair share over the course of my 37, almost 38 year life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence and let me tell you something: I’m not over exaggerating. I’ve wondered often if the whole “see a doctor, see a specialist” thing isn’t an elaborate, money making scheme that they learn about on day one of med school, along with the Hippocratic Oath and the difference between an elbow and an a**hole.

Am I wrong? Who knows. Whether I am or am not is irrelevant. Perhaps it’s all legit and above the board. This might just be a brain fart–an accumulated bubble of Mental Flatulence that I’ve been mulling for years. While I can’t speak accurately on the topic of whether “specialists” are a limb of the many tentacled conspiracy that is health care in 2013 (and I wouldn’t want to; after all, I did vote for Obamacare by virtue of voting for Obama), I can say with a good degree of certainty that the drama? It exists.

Consider: There is a whole generation of doctors like my wife and my good friend the straight shooter that have entered the working world in the last half decade. Many of them were inspired to become doctors by television shows like “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Scrubs”, along with older ones like “ER” and, in a few isolated cases, “St. Elsewhere.”

Okay, really? If you’re a doctor that has entered the profession in the last half decade due in part to the impact that “St. Elsewhere” had on you there’s something seriously wrong with you. I know med school takes a while but “St. Elsewhere” went off the air in 1988. Assuming you were of the Age of Reason–seven–in 1988 you would need to be at least… what? A 27 or 28 year old Resident at the least? That means that by the time you’re done your Residency you’ll be approximately 30. Guess what? Unless you’re in spectacular shape things start to go downhill after you hit the big 3-0. I’m not saying that your hands shake and your body gives out, but your mind begins to get a little wonky. You develop conditions that you need to go and see a “specialist” about. You feel the cold, rubber encased and lubricated index finger of time diddling your a**hole and you realize that even Doctor Doug Ross had gray hair by the time “ER” went off the air in 2009. Don’t believe me? Just wait. Your time will come.

All I’m saying is I that there’s no way in H-E-double hockey sticks that I’m letting a mid-30 something, new doctor care for me. I like my doctors one of two ways: Young and inexperienced or old and grizzled. That’s it. If one of my mid-30 something friends came to me tonight and said, “surprise, Frank! I’ve been secretly attending med school for the last six years. That’s why I missed ‘Kilt’ night (as in the Tilted Kilt in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania) this past Saturday but good news: I just graduated and I’d love it if you would be my first patient.”

Well, guys? Despite my loyalty to that friend I’d either A.) Come up with an elaborate excuse not to see him or her or B.) Throw another of my friends under the bus. “Oh, thanks BLANK. I feel great despite the volleyball sized tumor protruding from the side of my neck but I hear that BLANK needs a Proctological exam. You should really call him.”

Interesting. In this hypothetical scenario, am I a good friend for sending business the newly minted doc’s way or a bad one for denying him or her mine, and recommending that he or she recruit one of my otherwise healthy friends to be a medical guinea pig? Along the same lines, another question: Why am I suddenly obsessed with a**holes? I’ve gone whole blog entries without mentioning the Chocolate Starfish but now? It may end up being a Tag by the time I’m done. Note to self: Try and resist referring to “a**holes” in what remains of this blog entry. And please resist the urge to use it as a Tag. That may be easier said than done. Once you get an a**hole on your mind, its tough to get it off. SHIVER. 

I have no idea. The only thing that I know for sure right now is that I’m tired because my youngest has another ear infection and hasn’t slept well since last Wednesday (it is now Monday night). Said exhaustion is compounded by the fact that I am currently dieting in an attempt to shed a few, extra pounds before the wedding I’m going to in two and a half weeks and am this close to chowing down on one of my limbs. I’d drink another cup of water but I’ve already downed six today. I feel like Violet Beauregard from “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” The Oompa Loompas are singing “drinking, drinking, all day long” in my mind. Seriously? I’d make love to a bag of Doritos if you put one in front of me right now. Think I’m kidding? Try it, and please: Avert your eyes.

Which reminds me of something my wife told me last night. No, not about having intercourse with a snack food. This:

Begin parenthetical aside: I generally don’t think much of these when they clutter up my Facebook Feed. I think about as highly of them as I do of the “specialist” that informed me a few years ago that I had Fybromyalgia, only to inform me during our second appointment that he, too, suffered from it and “by the way, Frank: There’s a support group that I’m the chairman of that you can join for an annual fee of BLANK.” Shockingly? I was cured from that day forward and have never even mentioned FM as a condition that I suffer from since.

Until now. Consider yourselves lucky, guys. “Hi. My name is Frank Marsh and I suffer from a condition of exclusion called Fybromyalgia. I don’t know if its real or not but my ‘specialist’ told me that for X-amount of dollars, he’d diagnose me with any condition–exclusionary or otherwise–that I want.” He should have just told me that I was tired because I was overweight and out of shape. Maybe I would have dropped the weight I’m trying to shed now then. Maybe I’d be eating a bag of luscious, mouth watering Doritos right now and not a Nutrisystem, “Thick” Crust, Personal Pizza. Ever eaten cardboard with cheese melted on top of it? Trust me, guys: It’s more filling than this. I feel like a contestant on “Survivor: Delaware County.”  Yes, Broomall. The tribe has spoken.

Dieting? It’s a bitch. If you’ve ever tried it you feel my pain. If you’ve never had to diet good for you. And screw you. I want your rubber stomach and your skinny genes. No, not “jeans.” Stuff me into a pair of those things and I’d look like an over-microwaved hot dog. End parenthetical aside.

Back to the Rheumalogist that told me I had Fybro. That guy? He’s the guy that I think of when a doc tells me or one of my loved ones that we need to go and see a “specialist.” Regarding my youngest’s predicament: I understand that it’s in her best interest. I further understand that doctors, even the over dramatic ones that model themselves and their approach after the “Grey’s Anatomy” derived approaches of Doctor McDreamy and Doctor McSteamy. By association, “specialists” are a necessity in a world filled with sniffles and Conjunctivitis and, to a lesser extent, Ebola and the Plague. The whole thing may very well be an elaborate, money making scam, perpetrated by members of the medical profession but that doesn’t change the fact that as a dad, I’m locked in. I want the best for my children–I could give a sh*t about myself–and if “the best” includes taking them to multiple PhD’s, PharmD’s et al and not just one apothecary? So be it.

As I write this, it is 10 in the PM. Across from me, my wife the PharmD sits playing Candy Crush Saga on her phone. She’s waiting patiently for me to finish and I don’t want to disappoint her. About an hour and a half ago, I put my youngest, five time (“five time! Five time!”), ear infected daughter to bed. She’s whimpered once or twice but for the most part, she seems to be sleeping peacefully. That’s not to say that she won’t be waking up in the next hour or two. If she does? She does. Occasional sleepless nights are a part of being a parent. As are “raging double ear infections” and Conjunctivitis. She has an appointment with an ENT (Ears, Nose and Throad) “specialist” tomorrow AM which I will be attending. Hopefully the doc will offer my wife and I a less invasive solution than placing tubes in her ears. Who knows? About the only thing that I know for sure is that I want her to get better, and if that means giving into the slimy embrace of the many tentacled conspiracy that is health care in 2013? Well sh*t. I may be an a**hole sometimes, but I love my family.

Just no Greenhorn, 30-something year old medical professionals, please. Either under 30 or over 50. Experience optional for the former, but imperative for the latter.

“Doom-pa-dee do.” G’Night all.

 

A Pi Day Reflection on High Blood Sugar, “Pinky and the Brain,” a 1200 Word Short Story, Purpose and an Un-extraordinary Life

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good day, everyone! Happy Pi Day! No, I’m not talking about “pie.” I’m talking about Pi, alias the irrational number that we all learned about in math: 3.14 et cetera, et cetera. Though a piece of pie would taste good to this sugar-deprived, pseudo-madman right about now. Sadly, my desire for a piece of pie will have to remain unfulfilled until such time as I reduce my blood sugar from where it is to a manageable number sans medication. Thanks, Doc L. I know you’ve got my best interests in mind, but really? Depriving me of pie… of anything with sugar in it is almost as bad as depriving me of caffeine. At least I can get the latter with no sugar in it. I can’t exactly get sugar without sugar.

Oh f*ck. I’ve gone cross-eyed again.

Believe it or not, Pi Day, irrational numbers and my sugar intake (or lack thereof) are not the things perplexing my oft perplexed mind, currently. In truth? There really isn’t anything new perplexing me save for the same sh*t that has been on my mind for the last couple of weeks (book stuff, of which you guys are already aware). Instead, I’m reflective. Yesterday, at the urging of my wife, I did something that I never thought I’d do. I entered a short story in a contest. But not just any old contest. I’ve done that plenty of times before this. No, guys. I entered a short story in a contest sponsored by an organization that specializes in giving non-professional authors like myself with children an opportunity to showcase their work. Sounds innocent enough, right?

And it is. In fact, I’m very impressed with the organization and what it stands for. So why write that its “something that I never thought I’d do?” There are multiple reasons, none of which reflect poorly on the organization in question or others like it. Primarily? I wrote that because X-amount of years ago when I wrote “The Wandering Seeker,” I never dreamed that the scene portrayed in it would be a scene from my own life.

I don’t know if I can publish it here on “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman.” That’s http://www.randommusingsofapseudomadman.com. Yes, I wrote “.com,” and not “.wordpress.com.” I have, as of yesterday afternoon, purchased the domain name though really? The prospect of anyone ever using a domain name even remotely similar to it is pretty remote. What can I say? It’s a part of my ongoing bid to dominate the internet on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I already own “frankmarsh.net” and am eyeing up “frankmarsh.com” if the person in DC that holds it ever relinquishes it. To quote one of my all time favorite cartoons:

Pay no attention to the snippet of Raul Julia from “Street Fighter: The Movie” at the end of the clip. I’m sorry, but it was the cleanest one I could find on Youtube. And really, WTF does Raul Julia have to do with “Pinky and the Brain?” Note to self: Make sure to tag this blog entry with “randomness,” as well, when completed. Thanks for f*cking my world up, WelsheyOneder.

But I digress. I was writing that I don’t know if I can publish “The Wandering Seeker” here because of the contest rules. No submissions of previously published material can be entered. Once I put something on “Random Musings” it becomes a part of the Eminent Public Domain. I don’t know if blog publishing counts as publishing so rather than risk it, I think I’ll deign to not post it. That doesn’t mean I can’t tell you about it, though.

In short (and it had to be: 1200 words max; limiting a short story to 1200 words is almost as daunting a task as writing a novel, at least for my long-winded a**), “The Wandering Seeker” is the story of a father who is awakened in the middle of the night by his daughter whimpering in the room next to his. He goes into check on her and asks her what’s wrong. She informs him that she heard crying outside her window and it woke her up. “Oh, that’s nothing,” the father says, “that’s just the Wandering Seeker.” She asks him who the Wandering Seeker is and he tells her a story about a person that used to wander the world… “the worlds” searching for answers. His travels took him many places but in the end? He ended up settling for a normal life and not an abnormal, pseudo-chaotic one. He met a woman, fell in love with and married her. He had a couple of kids. “He doesn’t wander anymore.” The tears that the man’s daughter heard? They were an echo of the Wandering Seeker’s tears. “He cried because he didn’t have a family to love” her father tells her, “but now? He doesn’t wander anymore. He’s stopped crying. But occasionally you can hear him on nights like this one.”

There’s a bit more but rather than ruin the O’Henry ending (which, if you know me is pretty predictable), I think I’ll stop there. Keep your fingers crossed, guys. I’m still waiting for my “big break” and while I don’t know if this could be it, the reward and the platform said reward would provide me would be very, very beneficial to a burgeoning writer, about to publish his first novel. But the contest? It really is supplemental to the story: A story which I wrote long before I met Nicole.

You see, “The Wandering Seeker” was another one of my early-adulthood attempts to envision my life as I desired it to be, and not as it was at the time. But the amazing thing about it? As opposed to my other attempts to write “Autobiographical Fiction,” the events depicted in “The Wandering Seeker?” Well sh*t. They came true. Everything down to the color and style of my wife’s hair in it (brown and curly, a part of the story which I was, sadly, forced to edit out to get it under 1200 words), the color of my daughter’s eyes, her age and the style of her own hair (aspects of the story that I did retain; in essence, I made it 1200 words about a father and his daughter and not 2000 words about a father and his family).

Now, you could argue this eventuality a couple of ways. You could say that the story, which was written with my ideal in mind some 15 plus, very odd years ago could not help but come true. You could say that I would not have settled for anything less than the woman pictured in the story and the little girl that was, quite obviously, a hybrid of her appearance and my own. Contrary to that interpretation is another, though. One word… a word that I’m leery of attaching to anything for fear of either sounding like someone not grounded in reality, alias someone who believes in things like the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. Or that Pi has a final number. That word? Fate. Or destiny. Or any number of other synonyms that exist.

Let me be frank with you, guys (no pun intended, or course): I don’t believe in fate, destiny or whatever you want to call it. I believe in pulling myself up by my bootstraps. I believe in free will. But I do believe that we all have a purpose and that purpose is hard-wired into our souls pre-conception. Getting there? It’s up to us. Some of us achieve our purpose and some of us don’t. How we are judged by the almighty for our incapacity to either use what he or she gave us or not is purely speculation on my part. I won’t know if I succeeded until I’m gone from this world… from these worlds. Even then I may not know. But I trust in the belief that I have clung to since I was a child. If one day, I die and find out that it was all a farce? Well sh*t. It won’t be the first time someone played a cruel joke on me. Hardy har-har. Insert pie in the face here. 

But being a good husband and father? I truly believe that those things are a part of, if not my whole purpose. The scene that I pictured in my story? It was bound to happen, but not because it was destined to. Nor because I had the foresight to extrapolate what mine and my ideal woman’s daughter would look like at 20-something years young. I don’t even know that I could do that now at 37, going on 38 years old. It happened because when God or whatever gods you believe in was dolling out souls back in late 1974 and early 1975, he or she took one look at the wispy “stuff” that was going to make up mine and said, “do you know what? This one? He’s going to be a good husband and a good dad. He’s going to put his family before anything and everything else in his life. If his daughter calls his name crying in the middle of the night, he’s not going to roll over and cover his head with a pillow. He’s going to get up, no matter how drowsy he is, and make his way groggily into her room. He’s going to sit with her and tell her a story. I’ll let him decide the content of it.”

That’s me, folks. About as plain as can be, really. I’ve been summed up in many ways by many, different people over the course of my… for the most part… un-extraordinary life. Some have called me a lover. Some, a fighter. Some, a big p*ssy and some a fedora and trench coat wearing elitist (you know who you are). I really could give a flying f*ck what people think of me. Some may believe that this blog is just another means of me, drawing undue attention to myself and I’ll concede that while I don’t believe that people always embody the traits of the Zodiac sign that they were born under–mine was Leo, BTW–that particular trait? Yep. I do have it. But only to a degree. I am also humble. I believe that everything that I have, pre-programmed or not, is a gift. And I cherish it. My family? My ability to write? My sometimes quirky sense of humor? My capacity to love unconditionally? All. 

I mentioned earlier in this blog post that I was not perplexed, but reflective. I’m reflective about where I am now this chilly, mid-March Pi Day in 2013, and where I was then, an undetermined day of an undetermined month some 15 plus, very odd years ago when I first wrote “The Wandering Seeker.” Back then, the life that I have now was a dream. Today? Well, guys, I may not yet be a published writer… I may only be a part of the Eminent Public Domain currently… whatever I am, there is one thing that I am for sure. And that is? If you know me you already know the answer. I’m the guy who got out of bed and told one of, or both of his whimpering daughters the story of the Wandering Seeker. Beyond that?

Well sh*t. You don’t want me to give away the O’Henry ending now, do you?

“They’re Pinky, they’re Pinky and the Brain Brain Brain Brain Brain.”

🙂