Shameless Marketer Searches for Readers

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMarketing is really just about sharing your passion.
Michael Hyatt, author of Platform: Get Noticed in a Noisy World

Hey folks, if you’re facing a slow TV night, want to dodge yard work, or if you lose a bet, come visit me in the coming weeks. I’ll be bouncing around Northern California promoting the Etc. Guy blog and my book “Let Me Tell You a Story.” Here are event details:

October 2014
Paradise Authors Open House – Thursday, October 9, 2014, Paradise Library, at 7 PM.

Chico Authors Open House – Saturday, October 18, 2014, Chico Library, at 11 AM

Etc Guy karate guys2November 2014
Northern California Author’s Fair – Saturday, November 8, 2014, Mt. Shasta Mall, Redding, 10 AM. (Still trying to confirm that one.)

Author Stories, Wednesday, November 12, 2014, Chico Library, 7 PM.

For Author Stories, I’ll give tag team presentations with fellow writers Joan Goodreau, Dan Irving, and Dan O’Brien. They’re really cool writers. Plus they’re fun. You’ll like ’em.

Etc guy hockeySo who’s reading Etc. Guy? At least EIGHT people, including karate guys, hockey players, kayakers, men who wash cats, my kids, and two women between the ages of 18 and 80 (that data according to Facebook).

Etc Guy kayakerCome out and give me a hard time, it should be a hoot.

Author Warning: You may end up in a story.

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catwashing1PS If you miss out, copies of “Let Me Tell You a Story” are available at Chico’s coolest independent bookstore, Lyon Books, or at Etc. Guy.  Be sure to LIKE my Facebook page too.

Posted in The Humor Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

A Dog’s Simple Life Ain’t So Bad

Dogs live in the moment and don’t care about anything except affection and food. They’re loyal and happy. Humans are just too damn complicated.David Duchovny, actor and writer

rotisserie chickenJust carrying a leash triggers bouncing and slobbering. The leash implies walks or car rides, maybe a romp in the park. But I had other plans. They bounded inside my SUV and I hitched the trailer while they panted through nose-printed windows.

My wife and kids were away vacationing, hotel style. I stayed home to batch it with the mutts. My week’s rations were deli sandwiches, salads, and a flock of Costco® rotisserie chickens stacked in the fridge. After chasing deadlines I needed a break—from work and Costco chicken.

I’ve shared life with many canines, some I liked more than people. Flicka, a German Shepherd, walked me to the bus stop during grade school. As a teenager, Shoni, a white shepherd-lab mix, was my trail riding partner whenever I saddled up. Susie, another German Shepherd, was my wife’s dog. My heart sank the lowest when Susie passed— her collar still hangs in the garage.

Radio & Lilla creekWith the family away I schemed to trailer-camp with the hounds. If I had a flat tire or a puking mutt I’d turn around. No big deal.  Radio, a lab-mix, has a thick black coat and soft gray muzzle. Though she doesn’t swim or fetch and often gets carsick, her eyes look soulful into mine like an understanding grandparent. Four-year-old Lilla, a rat terrier, has tortilla-chip shaped ears, gnaws wood, and digs her own water bowls. She has more energy than a seventh grader on Red Bull®. When she makes eye contact it’s simply a probe for food.

I haven’t solo camped with dogs other than one college trip near Rocky Mountain National Park with Bobbi, a malamute. Then, I pitched my pup tent during monsoon rains after sharing a gut-busting dinner of hotdogs and Top Ramen®. At midnight I hurdled over picnic tables to an outhouse. Bobbi howled inside the tent. Neither mutt nor master slept.

CavemanMy destination with Radio and Lilla was a campground 40 miles east of town. I drove the first fifteen miles on a straight gradual climb. Curves dominated the next 25 miles which heightened the dogs’ anxiety. Their whimpers barely drowned out the trailer’s creaks and rattles. I peered through the side-mirrors on every curve and realized I became someone I loathed. I was the guy delaying traffic, trapping followers between yellow lane markers and guard rails. The line-up grew with every turn. Fortunately my trailer is covered with 90 bumper stickers—reading material for frustrated motorists. When I pulled into turn-outs several drivers showed me the bird while others honked appreciation.

We arrived at the campground, and as I picked a shady spot, the dogs panted over my shoulder. Drool covered my neck. The hounds squeaked like rusty hinges, excited for a new adventure. After parking my rig I leashed the mutts for a hike to the creek. They pulled like unequally yoked oxen with Radio tripping over Lilla. At the water’s edge they slammed their brakes. No bribe, not even a milk bone, could get them wet. My mutts are the only dogs in Northern California that hate swimming.

Potato Patch campWe returned to camp where Radio sniffed the fire ring and unearthed logs. Lilla growled at moths. I prepared a dinner of brats, green beans, beer, and milk bones—in no particular order—but the dogs didn’t complain. After supper I read by firelight while the dogs napped. When we retired to the trailer, Lilla yawned and crawled into her kennel and Radio lay on her pillow. Within minutes their snoring overtook the forest’s silence.

It occurred to me how simple their lives are. Their only needs are companionship, play, and food. For them life is not only good, it’s great. Unfortunately complications like work, deadlines, mortgages, and parenting cloud my thinking. But tonight I left the worries behind along with the cell phone reception. The night was perfect.

Life is Good DogThe average dog supposedly has the mental ability of a two-year-old child. I won’t suggest my dogs are as smart as toddlers but perhaps they’re more content than one. If only my life were so simple.

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Share your dog story by commenting below.  Please also visit my Facebook page at Etc. Guy and LIKE it.  I’m still upgrading my main site.  Oh yeah, copies of my book Let Me Tell You a Story are available at my site and at Lyon Books in downtown Chico.

Posted in Pets | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Chance Encounter on Flight Opens Door

Etc Guy bronco cheerleadersHey folks, though I’ve fallen behind on posting that doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. Or bothering my wife and kids. Or strangers.  On a recent Southwest Airlines flight from Denver the kids sat somewhere behind me and I was stuck between two Denver Broncos cheerleaders (only in my dreams).

Actually I sat next to a pretty cool fellow. We chuckled over this Volkswagen Camper tent advertised in the SkyMall Magazine which was placed in the seat pocket in front of me. I want one of these. It only costs $500. And my wife would love it.

etc guy Skymall Magazine VW busIt turns out that my seatmate is the editor of the Central Valley Business Times (Stockton, CA). We discussed writing projects. He liked the Etc. Guy blog and welcomed me to contribute. The magazine’s circulation is over 1.7 million and reaches readers throughout California’s Central Valley. He wants stories about Northern California’s perspectives on the drought.

So, I may occasionally deviate from wise-guy humor writing to cover some serious issues. Then again, I may also write nonsensical stories about serious issues. We’ll see how the brain-waves fire.  Here’s a link to my Op-Ed article published in the Central Valley Business Times last week. The piece is entitled “Buckets Aren’t Just for Bucket Lists.”

You never know who you’ll sit next to on a plane.

I’m also updating my Etc. Guy blog site to accommodate audio…coming soon. Feel free to share and thanks for reading. Join the Etc. Guy Facebook page too by LIKING it.  And yes, copies of my book “Let Me Tell You a Story” are still available at Lyon Books in downtown Chico.

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Posted in Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Words of Wisdom – Art Buchwald

etc guy art-buchwald-smHey folks,

I’m on the road for a week and have a slug of articles in development.  I’m trying to find the time to finish ’em.  I’m also doing maintenance on my main Etc.Guy site.  I’d rather fix pot-holes, at least those are tangible, but please visit Etc.Guy on occasion to see if there’s any life.  Try the Facebook and Twitter links too.  Feel free to send me a note at eric@etcguy.com as well.  Love hearing from readers.

Hard copies of my book “Let Me Tell You a Story” are available at Lyon Books in downtown Chico.  Had to order more…please keep the sales going.  Thanks.  In the meanwhile I hope you enjoy this pearl.   Buchwald would have been a cool guy to meet.

“Whether it’s the best of times or the worst of times, it’s the only time we’ve got.”

Art Buchwald, humorist & journalist (1925 – 2007)

 

Posted in Humor Project - Interviews, Words of wisdom | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Baby-Boomer Will Durst is a Comedy Innovator

Etc Guy and Will Durst_140214

“My wife and I are trying to live within our means.  We went from a $750,000 house to a $350,000 house and didn’t even have to move.”

Will Durst, American political satirist

He’s a superstar comic and satirist with a wit that feasts on political mayhem. He fires more misdirections than Chris Christie and John Boehner combined. But comedian Will Durst was down to earth when we met during his recent visit to Chico. When I learned Durst would speak at the Farm Bureau Annual Dinner, I knew I had to pounce like a lion on beefsteak.

A bipartisan basher, Durst is untouchable when it comes to political humor, his brand for over thirty years. He writes and performs political comedy for folks who don’t like politics. Durst is a five time Emmy nominee, has been fired by PBS three times, told jokes in 14 countries, racked up seven nominations for Stand-Up of the year, and has more than 800 television appearances including Letterman, HBO, Showtime, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox News, the BBC and more. Durst stretches your mind and unravels your brain.

I had watched his TV performances, read his columns, and listened to his radio monologs. Durst does not rant. He just writes and says what many others are thinking. And he gets away with it.

We met at Chico’s Hotel Diamond for breakfast. Durst had performed the night before to an audience of 400; many of whom were farmers that disdain government, whether it’s blue or red.  Durst wore a grey suit and shiny white sneakers. He sauntered inside the restaurant wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and vest. He looked like a regular guy.

Great show last night, thought I saw one guy keel over from laughing.

Etc Guy Durst smallDurst: [Chuckling] I appreciate that. The farmers are a different crowd than my normal gig. So what are you doing?

I’m a freelance writer trying to figure out where all the humor writers went.

Well, it’s my pleasure. What did you think of last night’s show?

That’s my question…loved your grey suit and sneakers.
Ah yes, I wasn’t sure what to wear. I also brought cowboy boots. The sneakers are clown-like and look odd with the suit. It keeps people off-kilter and I can move around easier. Cowboy boots are uncomfortable. Plus I’m getting too old to pander. So the farmers got sneakers. They’ll either like me or not.

You startled the audience. Do you switch gears when they gasp?
Always. I laid off some of the Republican stuff though. I only used about a third of my material.

I sat with a mixed table. The Republicans bristled at the Bush “Rain Man” joke. Then you bamboozled the Democrats a minute later with the “Stem-cell” joke. Nobody could predict you. But everyone laughed.
[Grinning] Delivering a routine is all in the set-up. I opened by talking about living in San Francisco, the land of crazies where people run around naked. I lay a base that I’m a real guy, that’s the primer, a regular guy from Milwaukee, not some intellectual snob. San Francisco is nuts. Opening with that puts me in the fold.

Plus you mentioned you worked on a farm, one of your 108 jobs.
Yep, I’ve worked on a farm as a hay bailer and sod farm attendant… college jobs when I attended the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I return home twice a year to visit family.

Do you have siblings in the entertainment business?
No, no…I have one brother who’s developmentally disabled. My half-brother is an anesthesiologist married to a psychiatrist, and my half-sister, a speech therapist, is married to a general practitioner. When my wife, a comedienne, joins me at family reunions we have four doctors and two comics. It’s an odd gathering. My wife is amazing. She’s an actress, does improv, and directs. She’s a true hyphenate.

Does she proofread your articles?
No, she doesn’t like my stuff. She’ll read something then ask, what are you saying?

Dave Barry Etc GuyDave Barry admitted that his wife doesn’t think he’s funny. Have you met Dave Barry?
No, but I’d like to. He’s insane, in a class all by himself.

So where do you see humor [writing] going?
Humor, whether it’s writing or performing, will always be here. But we’ll have wider and smaller markets. Humor changes, it morphs. In the old days we heard mother-in-law jokes. Now, political and observational humor is popular. Long ago everyone said that TV would ruin movies, and CD’s would ruin radio…but these media survive and thrive. We have formats for everything and I’m changing up my routine for live performances. I’m getting away from the night clubs where the average audience age ranges from 18 to 35. Young comics tell a lot of sex jokes, topics that are most familiar to them. I can’t follow that. They wonder about the cranky dude [ me] on next. Humor isn’t necessarily getting more vulgar but that’s what they’re exposed to. Humor writing and telling jokes is all about stories and character. If you are empathetic, or have empathetic characters that people can relate to, that’s all it is. The media format doesn’t matter. Comedy is all about shared references.

Will Durst Journal2What do you enjoy more, writing or performing stand-up?
I love both. They are two different skill sets but I can last longer writing than performing. No one writes like I do because I’ve performed stand-up comedy for so long [35 years]. I throw those experiences into my writing. But being a stand-up comic is not a testament to my writing. That’s why I’m different. When you write a story, you often don’t know how people were impacted unless they send you a note or LIKE it [on Facebook]. But when you perform…well, you can’t fake a laugh. You get instantaneous results.

Are you a serious person that writes funny, or a funny guy who can write?
I can’t separate them. I’m a funny guy with my commentary but I guess you can say that I’ve always been funny with my communication. I always tried to get my developmentally disabled brother to react. We had a connection when that happened.
will durst boxing gloves

What’s the target length for your columns?
555 words. I like the way the number looks. But yeah, the general range for columns is 600 to 700 words. Shorter is better.

How do you start your columns?
It begins with a mid-week radio commentary… “Hello Bay Area drivers, it’s me, Will Durst, with this week’s funny thought about …pot.” Each radio blast is about 300 words, two minutes long, and I repeat it for 16 different stations. Those 300 words are the kernel for that week’s column.

You write for the Huffington Post, your own site and are nationally syndicated. Do you know how many newspapers in which you appear?
[Chuckling] No. We have about ten large syndicates in the country…United Media for example. I’m presently with Cagle Cartoons, a smaller syndicate. Every two years I send a query letter, bio, and 5 to 6 clips to the larger ones. For every ten, three reject me and seven ignore me. I’ve been on TV many times and tried to get on the Tonight Show. The 23-year-old booking agent didn’t know me.

But you’re Will Durst!?
That’s what I said. The Tonight Show never used me but I got on Letterman.

How was Letterman?
Aloof. After my four minute routine, he walked over and shook my hand. That was it. Maybe he was preoccupied with the set following mine, don’t know.

Selfie w Will Durst and EricWhat are the most difficult topics for you to write about?
Anything I don’t care about….talk radio…Miley Cyrus. I just don’t care.

How did you get your start writing and performing?
I did the airport lounge gigs in the 1970’s and even video-taped my first audition because I was afraid to do it live. I was a college sophomore for one of my first “theater shows.” My professor assigned a class performance project. I reserved a hall and bought a case of beer, selling cans for fifty cents apiece. I did seven minutes of stand-up and made $8.50 on that first gig. I also wrote for a local newspaper and acted in a nude play, “Private Parts in Public Places.”

You acted in the buff?
Well, not exactly. In those days the city ordinance required that comics get a nude dancing license, even though I wasn’t dancing. It was some weird law passed a long time ago and we didn’t have a nude license. Anyhow, the director hired an artist to sculpt the male body parts that I wore beneath sheer pantyhose. So, if the cops busted us, we wouldn’t be lying. We weren’t really naked. I then wrote a piece “Confessions of an Exhibitionist” for an underground newspaper, which led to a humor column and doing movie and concert reviews. I once hung out backstage with the Ramones. I’ve had all kinds of interesting experiences. I blogged five years for the Masters Golf Tournament. I’m not a golfer but that was fun.

From nude performances to golf blogging, quite a variety…
I even got Bill Clinton to snort water through his nose at a benefit fundraiser.

Did you also meet Clinton?
Yes. Clinton makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. He focuses just on you. He came to me and said one of my jokes was funny.

What was the joke?
It was about 9/11, here’s the set-up: “Everyone knows where Bush is, he’s in Florida, then to Nebraska, he’s inside a big 747 that says Air Force One on the side, the only plane in the sky. But where’s Cheney? Bush didn’t even know.” I mentioned that Bush is like the goat in Jurassic Park. I noticed Clinton taking a sip of water and said: “About that anthrax thing…Bush is opening Cheney’s mail.” Clinton laughed and snorted water from his nose.

Which writers grab your attention?
Andy Borowitz, who writes phony news in the Borowitz Report for the New Yorker. Hysterical. There’s Gail Collins, a political humorist for the New York Times and David Brooks who writes for the “Weekly Standard.”

BoomeRagingDescribe your “BoomeRaging Show.”
Boomer was a follow-up to my 2012 “Elect-to-Laugh Show” which started on Super Tuesday and lasted 41 weeks straight to the election. It grew from 70 minutes and by the end was two hours. I blew it up, distilled it… joke after joke…thick, lush and rich like a tropical rain forest. I had tons of material with Romney, Ryan, Perry… Then, on November 7th (2012), it evaporated. Nobody cared. So I wrote Boomer because I’ll always be a baby-boomer. It’s evergreen.

How’s it going with Boomer?
It’s getting better but I’m continually innovating. I’m trying to sell this show across the country. Still, people don’t know me.

Well, they got to know you last night.
Our waitress checked on us and Durst glanced at his watch. He paid for breakfast.

“I’d better get back to my room. I have a deadline.”

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI thanked Durst for his time. We took a selfie and as a token of appreciation I gave him Sierra Nevada Brewery souvenirs: a bottle opener, beer, glasses, and a jar of Pale Ale mustard.
“Hey, thanks. I hadn’t realized the brewery makes mustard.”
“Sure thing, maybe you can perform in Sierra Nevada’s Big Room sometime.”
“I’d love to.”
Durst scrambled upstairs and I returned to our table. The waitress, a college student in her early twenties, asked if I wanted more coffee.
“No thanks, but do you recognize the guy I just met?”
“Sorry, I don’t,” she replied.
“That was comedian, Will Durst. He’s appeared on Letterman.”
“I know of Letterman, but not him. Thanks for coming in.”

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed the waitress was unfamiliar with Durst. Maybe she doesn’t follow politics. Or maybe she’s too young. After all, she’s not a Boomer.

Follow Will Durst at www.willdurst.com and check out “BoomeRaging: From LSD to OMG.” He regularly performs in the San Francisco Bay Area and across the USA.

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Freelance writer Eric Miller, who puts the “free” in freelance, profiles humor writers.  Miller writes the Etc.Guy blog where you can follow him on either Twitter or Facebook.  He’s trapped in a house full of estrogen but lives to tell the story.  Copies of his book “Let Me Tell You a Story” are available at Lyon Books in downtown Chico.  Or order one via Etc.Guy (available in both hard copy or e-reader).

Posted in Humor Project - Interviews, The Humor Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 39 Comments

You’re Never Too Old to Not Tell Mom

Whether you’re seven or seventy, there are secrets you simply don’t tell. My brother and I, free range boys who bored easily, exercised the “Don’t Tell Mom” rule well into high school.  Our pact survived a multitude of sins, including underage joy-riding.  Unless our parents checked the car odometer or fuel gauge, they never knew.  Dad was more forgiving.  We’d sometimes confess to him, but never to Mom.  I carried this trait into parenthood.

east winnemucca exitI had been on the road nearly two weeks, camping across Utah en route to Colorado with Maggie, then 7, and Kate, 10.  We bonded over miles of open desert and lonely highways.  Without Hun, my wife, I had carte blanche to break unwritten rules concerning diet, curfew and spending.  What Hun doesn’t find out, won’t hurt her.

We violated the dinner and bedtime rules on our second day.  Rather than break one rule at a time, a cumbersome chore, I sought momentum.  It was 9 PM and traffic hummed eastbound through Salt Lake City.  The sun sank behind us and twilight illuminated the highway before us.

“Shall we make camp?”

“Keep going,” my road-warriors charged, “we’re not hungry.”

I drove another hour before pitching a tent at a state park.   Maggie and Kate swatted gnats while digging through the cooler.  They pulled out flour tortillas, peanut butter, jelly, and made PBJ burritos for dinner.

“Don’t tell mom that I passed by restaurants.  She’ll think I’m cheap.  Just say you ate.”

Our secret lasted eight hours, until Hun called.

“Dad fed us PBJ burritos for dinner, at midnight.  Bugs were everywhere.”

I sensed Hun’s annoyance before they handed me the phone.

“You fed them PBJ burritos for dinner…at midnight?”

“It was ten o’clock, not midnight.  We made more for breakfast and lunch.  They’re better fed than the Donner Party.”

etc guy photo western diamondback rattlesnakeWe resumed driving to our next camp, pitched the tent, and played cards to while away the desert heat.  We decided on a sunset hike and brought PBJ burritos, water and flashlights.  Ten minutes into the hike Maggie encountered a rattlesnake slithering away.

“Don’t even tell mom about the rattlesnake!”

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAn hour into the hike, Kate dropped her water bottle.  We listened as it rolled off a cliff and heard it smash against the rocks below.  “Don’t tell mom we were near a cliff.”

Ten days later, after a fifteen-hour westbound leg, I sprung for a hotel.  While the kids ate PBJ burritos, I walked to the ice machine.  I returned to the room to find them giggling at the TV.  They were watching HBO and talking to Hun on the phone.

“Mom, the cowboys are farting around the campfire.  It’s hilarious…”

Maggie handed over the phone.  I didn’t have time to warn the kids to keep quiet.

“The kids are watching Blazing Saddles?”

Etc Guy poster Blazing SaddlesMel Brooks never hurt anybody.  Besides, now they want beans instead of PBJ on their burritos.”

I expected the “Don’t Tell Mom” rule to eventually age-out.  That is, until one of Dad’s recent visits.

My dad is a retired physician, Vietnam veteran, and cancer survivor who lives in the Colorado Rockies.  He wears an oxygen mask nearly full-time.  Though his mind is sharp, his physical demise stresses out my mom.

“Living with an old man is hard,” she lamented.  “He’s yours for a while.”

On this particular trip, Dad’s visit to Chico came shortly after having back surgery.  I stood aghast when the airport attendant pushed him to me in a wheelchair.  Dad stood up with two canes and planted them like ski poles.  “Don’t need my oxygen tank here,” he said.  “I can breathe.”

He visited over a week and spoiled us with dinners and shows.  But eventually he had to go home.  I drove him to the airport and an attendant, with a wheelchair, rolled him to the ticket counter.  I watched through the terminal’s glass entrance door to make sure he caught his flight.  A TSA agent warned me to move my car.

I drove several laps around the terminal and glanced through the entrance door to check on Dad.  He hadn’t moved.  I parked the car and ran inside.

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to register my oxygen tank and can’t get on the plane without a doctor’s signature.”

“You’re a doctor.  Can’t you prescribe yourself oxygen?”

“Nope, I said I’d hold my breath.”

He bantered with an agent until someone finally did the right thing and approved his boarding pass.

“Just don’t tell your mom I nearly missed my plane.”

I never told her.  Whether you’re the son of one, or married to one, moms ultimately figure out what they’re not supposed to know.  Moms are brilliant.  Just don’t tell them I said that.

### Feel free to join my Facebook page at Etc.Guy and LIKE it.  My book, “Let Me Tell You a Story” is now available at Lyon Books in downtown Chico.  Or send me a note at eric@etcguy.com.

Posted in Parent and Kids | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Kid’s Quitting is OK with Dad

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.  Then quit.  There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.”                                                                                                            W. C. Fields

Etc Guy Maggie soccer fridgeShe lasted 90 hours over three seasons.  Maggie was not an outlier.  Not in soccer.

In “Outliers,” author Malcolm Gladwell mentions the “10,000-Hour Rule”, which claims that the key to success is a matter of practicing a specific task for around 10,000 hours.  Consider Bill Gates, Wayne Gretzky, or Mozart…former prodigies that hit 10,000 hours by their late teens.  Maggie will never become an outlier soccer player.  She quit 9,910 hours short.

I’ve always loved team sports and competition, even though I encountered setbacks.  I quit baseball after I got eyeglasses.  I missed grounders and fly balls but my batting fared worse.  I sank from a .500 average to .005.  I had two hits that season, one dribbling single that I outran to first base, and the other a home-run.  I was lonesome in the dugout.

In high school football, I played receiver but did more blocking because I couldn’t remember routes or catch passes.  I had bricks for hands and dropped nearly every ball thrown my way except for one miracle over-the-shoulder grab.   But like my home-run, it never happened twice.  I sat on the bench, a rite of passage for back-up juniors.  I quit football and sat in the bleachers next to pretty girls my senior year.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI never quit hockey, though.  I tried out for a college team but got cut.  Not making a team wasn’t as bad as quitting.  At least I pursued a goal even though I didn’t score any.

So when Maggie quit soccer, after playing on teams named the Crickets, Lady Bugs, and Sparrows, I understood how she felt.  Maggie wore jersey number 1 because she was the smallest player on her teams.  Her teammates were often 20 inches taller and 20 pounds heavier.  

I remember Maggie’s second to last game.  Her Sparrows, with a record of 0-6, were playing the 1-5 Chickadees.  They had a chance to win.  The girls swarmed the ball like bees.  One Chickadee broke through and fired a shot— into Maggie’s gut.  Maggie collapsed, gasping for air.  The referees called a time out.  I rushed onto the field. 

“You did great out there blocking that shot,” I consoled.

 ”I… can’t…breathe…she…nearly…killed….me!”

 ”But you stopped a goal, awesome.”

The Sparrows ultimately lost, but Maggie’s teammates, and even the Chickadees, complimented her. 

“Don’t worry, that won’t happen again.  You have better odds getting struck by lightning.  Way to hang in there.”

 ”Okay…I’ll keep playing.”

Etc Guy Maggie snowboarding_140308The Sparrows practiced hard the following week.  Next up were the Vultures, an undefeated team.  I prayed the game wouldn’t be a feeding frenzy.  When Maggie ran onto the field, a Vulture kicked a header straight to her face.  My daughter dropped like a sack of potatoes.  The referees called a time out.  I carried her from the turf.

“You did great out there blocking that shot…”  She didn’t buy it.

 ”I’ve heard that before.  I QUIT.”

 Along with soccer, Maggie has quit ballet, karate, skiing, and acting.  She’s now into art, the violin, and snowboarding.  She’s discovering what she likes and doesn’t like.  I wonder if she’ll stick with an activity more than 90 hours.  That 10,000-hour rule sounds huge but it’s all about perspective. 

Etc Guy Maggie violinIn five years, about 44,000 hours, she’ll leave for college.  A third of that time involves sleeping and another 8,000 hours will be spent at school, studying, and activities.  Four thousand hours will be spent eating and she’ll probably hang out with friends for 2,000 hours (so long as she does about 1,000 hours of chores).  We’re now at around 15,000 hours, of which I’m deducting 5,000 hours for family time.  We may have 15 hours together on any given week but that time isn’t guaranteed.  We’re now approaching 10,000 hours, the remaining time Maggie has, to master an activity before leaving home.  That assumes she picks one and doesn’t quit.

Quite frankly I don’t care if she ever programs code, scores hat-tricks, or writes concertos.  I prefer she try and quit whatever she wants.   When I consider Maggie moving away in five years, 10,000 hours doesn’t seem like much time at all.

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Join my Facebook page by visiting Etc.Guy.  Eric’s new book, “Let Me Tell You a Story” is now available at Amazon and also at Lyon Books, Chico’s finest independent bookstore.  (Hint: Think Father’s Day)

 

Posted in Parent and Kids | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 46 Comments

Writer Thanks Chico for a Great Book Launch

Etc Guy reading#1_140528I almost wore a sandwich-board sign, hired a clown, and rented a U-Haul® to import a truck load of cousins.  I expected an audience of 15—but was delighted that over 40 people attended Lyon Books last week for the official launch of my book “Let Me Tell You a Story.”   Often times, writers have no idea who reads their work.  So I was very humbled.  I’m more motivated than ever to press on.

 Thanks to those of you who came, and for the many others that sent encouraging notes.  Those that came walked in voluntarily, without bribes or losing any bets.  I greatly appreciate your support.

 If you are inclined, please write a book review for “Let Me Tell You a Story” on Amazon’s website. Writers appreciate feedback as it helps to sell books, which pays for print toner, the electric bill, and my IT guy.  And I need that guy, because my main Etc. Guy site crashed over the weekend (still working on it.)

You can post a review by clicking Amazon book review.  

In terms of Amazon’s book sales, I rank at number 1,384,325.  Yahoo, I’m in the top “two-million” (and that’s without my mom buying copies for her Pilates friends).  Maybe with additional reviews I can move up more slots, or at least ahead of the guy that wrote a book about socks.

Etc. Guy Book cover Front I have only 1,384,225 more slots to reach the Top 100.  What a crazy deal, help me get there.

Thank you Lyon Books for your hospitality.   Additional hard copies of “Let Me Tell You a Story” will be delivered to Lyon Books (135 Main Street in Chico) in time for Father’s Day.

But don’t wait until then to shop at, and support, a cool store.

###

Be sure to visit my main Etc.Guy site and join the Etc. Guy Facebook page.

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Hey Folks, It’s a Book Launch Party

(Readers: Due to technical difficulties I am unable to upload images…for now.  See also my main site by clicking on Etc.Guy.)

Earlier this week I spoke to the Chico Authors & Publishing Society, on how a 51-year-old guy set up the Etc. Guy blog.  After discussing a bunch of technical mumbo-gumbo, we all dove into a group conversation which involved teasing and laughs, at my expense.  I had a blast.  We viewed some Google Analytic map images showing Etc. Guy’s reach.  You’ll notice the gaps in Greenland, Africa, and Norway.  What’s with those guys?  If you know people in those places send them my link. 

On Wednesday, May 28, 2014 at 7 PM at Lyon Books in downtown Chico, I have the official launch of “Let Me Tell You a Story” which is based on the Etc. Guy blog.  My book is a collage of stories published in 2012 and 2013.  Here’s the scoop:

Husband to “Hun” and father to teenage daughters “Kate” and “Maggie,” Eric Miller navigates the currents and treacherous waters of married life, parenthood, and aging.  He’s trapped in a house full of estrogen and often paddles upstream.  But he lives to tell, and write, the stories.

Here’s others are saying about Etc. Guy:

“More than once I’ve spit coffee from my nose from laughing.  Eric’s humor ranges from subtle and self-effacing, to ribald.  He writes what many of us think but don’t dare say.”

         Jeffrey Bergeron/Biff America, columnist for Backcountry Magazine

 ”Eric’s parental observations are amusing and provocative.  He stumbles through his role as a husband and father to two teenage daughters but presses on.” 

         Marne Larsen, Editor, Growing Up Chico Magazine

“Miller is an aging athlete that has more luck figuring out what’s happening on a hockey rink than in the minds of his wife and teenage daughters.”

          Q. Bryce Randle, Editor, Hockey Player Magazine

“A former North State Voices columnist, Miller observes daily, mundane, events and spins them into amusing stories.  He’s edgy, but most guys are.”

          David Little, Editor, Chico Enterprise-Record

If you live in Chico, which is west of Africa but east of Bodega Bay, come out to Lyon Books and give me a hard time.  It should be a hoot.

 Wednesday nights are a slow TV night anyway.

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Hockey Bag Violates Air Space

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

(Hockey Player Magazine, May 2014)

Humans are among the smelliest creatures in the animal kingdom.  We share the “Smelly Top Five” list with the wolverine, Tasmanian devil, polecat, and skunk.  Hockey players are a unique subgroup.  Though we are extremely agile, intelligent and handsome, we suffer a critical flaw.  Like whales and birds, we have a poor sense of smell.

 “Get that bag out of the dining room,” Hun shrieked.  “It reeks worse than dried salmon!  Take it to the garage!”

“Really?  I can’t smell anything.”

My beloved hockey bag, habitat to shin guards, elbow pads, gloves, pants, jersey, and the occasional mouse, is banished from the house.  It’s as unwelcome as a Persian cat on the sofa.  My wife can’t stand it.  Maybe I don’t smell it because of a genetic glitch.  I asked a buddy where he keeps his bag.

“It’s in the garage.  My wife won’t go near it…doesn’t bother me though.”

I suspected gender bias.  Surely a hockey mom would empathize.  So, I called one.

“I once stashed a can of Lysol® inside my son’s bag on a Canada trip.  The airport X-ray machine caught it and alerted a customs agent.  I cautioned her not to open it.  She nearly keeled over.  I thought we’d be quarantined.”

NVSHC rinkHockey sweat, which contaminates said bag, is made up of salt, ammonia, and urea.  It flushes from said hockey player during games.  In addition to hockey bags, these organic compounds accumulate in places such as garden soil and leach fields.  With the exception of several fillings (teeth) and screws (knee), I’m completely organic.  I don’t understand my wife’s protest of a natural occurrence.   

In simple English, hockey players seep into their equipment, with the seepage rate directly proportional to playing time.  Shin guards and elbow pads, which are stored in hockey bags, capture the seepage like sponges.  And then the bag sits alone and undisturbed, often in a garage or shed.  When bags are zipped shut, conditions propagate microbial zoos, with bacteriological activity heightening during the day.   The microbes are released when the bag is unzipped, which could be the next day or following week.  My teammates and I unzip our bags every Sunday evening, game night. 

We lug our gear inside the locker room, sprawl out, and chitchat.  We complain about job woes and car trouble before delving into more serious matters like global warming.  After two minutes of that nonsense we focus on the game.   My teammates, though brainy, are absentminded.  They often forget to air out their hockey bags.

“Hey Johnson, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good Swifty, but work’s a pain and my car needs a timing belt.  I also read that Iceland lost another glacier.  Hey, got any tape?”

“Hold on, it’s in my bag.”  Zzzziiiippp….Phwish….  Swifty’s bag shot a beam of noxious musk with dead accuracy into Johnson.

“Dude, that’s AWFUL, what crawled in there and died?”

etc guy eric hockey blazers“I don’t smell anything.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

Swifty pouted while Johnson teased.  Johnson opened his bag, unleashing a cloudy vapor which floated past the nose of our goalie, Crazy Eddie.

“Holy cow, Johnson,” Crazy Eddie winced, “Is that blue cheese matted to your jersey?  That’s disgusting.  For Pete’s sake, use some Febreze® or hydrogen-peroxide.”

“Really?  I don’t smell anything.”

The insults continue as bags open.  By the time we tie our skates all eyes are watering.  We skate onto the rink, take practice shots on Crazy Eddie, and glare at our opponents.  I’d face-off against Schmitthauser who brushed by me during warm-ups.  We huddled for a pregame rap session.

“My god, Schmitthauser stinks like rotten eggs,” I said.  “What’s with that guy?”

“Yeah,” said Swifty, “Schmitthauser never airs out his gear.  I heard that his wife has a restraining order against his bag.  He stores it in his Volkswagen.  Just don’t inhale at the face-off.”

With Schmitthauser we really need environmental protection.  That one guy pollutes more cubic feet of breathable atmosphere than a feedlot.  In comparison, my teammates smell like freshly baked bread.

Mother skunks won’t reject their young and I won’t snub my teammates, or their hockey bags.  They may smell worse than skunks but those guys run in my pack.  It’s a good thing we can’t smell ourselves.     

But as for Schmitthauser… now that’s another matter.

PS Players: If your wife, or gal, gives pause to your hockey bag send them to Hockey Clean for helpful tips.  Cool site.

### Eric Miller skates with the Hamilton City Hockey Club at the North Valley Hockey and Sports Complex near Chico, California.  Contact him at eric@etcguy.com.  You can also follow him on Facebook or Twitter, or buy his book “Let Me Tell You a Story,” by visiting his site at Etc. Guy.

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