The piece I mentioned earlier last week, one that a lawyer friend consented to my co-opting is done; however, it turned out nothing like expected. So different, it earned a new title.

Originally, the title was Hiding My Johnson, and yes the tongue in cheek reference was intentional. I believe we both pictured a dark comedy. When I started writing, it was funny, and delivered a few great zingers. With much amusement, I invested several hours per session into the project, growing the story. I laughed at the insanity of their predicament. I had fun. Then events turned.

Something happened between page five and six: the main character and the antagonist started playing different tunes. By page seven, the characters hinted that matters more ominous lay ahead than just black humor. I elected to not analyze, letting the characters run where they wanted; I would count the bodies later. And run they did. Even though I envisioned a dark comedy, the final product is…gasp…horror.

Not sure if it’s scary, so I’ll run it by a few of the Eight and get their take.

Since my head is still in a recent 2,500 mile car trip, and writing is its own journey, an analogy seems fitting. To cast the writing experience in road trip terms, maybe the true role of a writer is to be more an active passenger than a driver. Like the one with the map who highlights alternate routes. Listen more than talk, and suggest on occasion. But ultimately, the decisions are made by other forces in the car.

In other words, duck and get out of the characters way.

There are matters that defy description, and then there is a hotel in Columbus, Ohio. Normally one must leave the country to find this level of hygenic neglect. Like Sri Lanka.

Here’s a photo amalgam from the trip:

Might be blood in my hotel room. I hope.

Fire door minus a few parts.

Look! The missing parts!

Lackluster beaver

Pray for less filth, Bubba.

Now that’s good reading. Hands and shirt by clerk.

Random discoveries: two-thirds the surface area of the continental United States is Pennsylvania, every other trucker on I-476 smokes crank at the wheel, and the remaining half are fresh out of the stuff and want my car down a ditch.

Otherwise, a relatively uneventful trip so far. Except…

During the Wife’s driving spell, somewhere in Ohio, I called an old friend about a story idea we tossed around ten years ago. My question was what happened with it, because the premise was comedic gold. Always I had wondered if he wrote it. He did not, though he remembered our drunken conversation near a golf course and some bits of dialog.

So I asked if he minded if I ran with it, as the concept was entirely his idea. He agreed. I now take back everything evil I’ve said about lawyers; there is one who has a soul and a sense of propriety. And this story will be a good project because it’s impossible for me to think about the idea for more than sixty seconds without chuckling.

True, what punches my buttons may only resonate with those who share my brand of humor, which who the hell knows how many people that really is, but I can deal with that possibility. If nothing else, I’ll bring enthusiasm to the page.

Last thought, a slow hotel Internet connection is better than no connection.

In the morning, the Wife and I leave for the Heartland. Middle America. Kansas — the Wheat State. Think I’ll tear through a cornfield at mdnight and summoun Malakai. Or maybe I’ll just wish my grandparents a happy 60th wedding anniversary, and take some pictures.

The eerie thing about this excursion: their 50th blowout doesn’t seem all that long ago. In fact, the Wife — she was the Girlfriend, though she was always the One — had just moved in together.

The blog will improve when I return next week. Less clunkers, more grins. Seriously. If there’s Internet access between now and then, I may through up a post or two. And I get to see Pollster’s new house.

Closer to the halfway mark with Team Eagle Eye edits. Of the 32 chapters addressed thus far, 32 end with a cliffhanger. Expect the unexpected, I say. Also, the hero figures more prominently in the narrative. The action is tighter and more consistent. Overall this is getting to be the sort of story I wanted all along, but lacked the tools, the chops, and the life experience to write.

Before the first tech bust, I worked at a consulting company which employed three tech professionals I respect. One of them said, “Deploy the sort of solution you would pay for, nothing less. That’s the greatest measure of quality.”

He may have been talking about code, but I think his theory applies here as well; this is almost a book I would buy.

Hard to believe it’s been a week or so since the last entry. Despite the best intentions, life just happens.

I learned something about working weekends. Avoid them. Let me repeat that; it’s important. The first rule of the good life club: weekends are for relaxing, not the job.

Last week a disaster prompted emergency action, this round was by choice. I had looked forward to this particular Saturday for more than three months, because it meant a hands on network upgrade — a pink elephant among system admins. I always heard about techs who swapped out the old and busted gear for the new hotness, but ’twas never me. Today it was.

On the plus side, the Team Eagle Eye edits are coming along. Some sessions go very well, I emerge from the office with 1-2 brand new pages to replace cut material. Good days. Other sessions feel more like running in place, the changes are subtle. And that realization is biggest reward so far, that no matter how long this process takes, the advances are tangible. They feel real, even if I’m one of the few that see them right now.

When a four-year old flips off a crowd, adults are alarmed. When the child is the winner of the Mr. Apricot contest, judges yank his crown.

Listen, judges, this is New Jersey. Often a child’s first complete sentence is F*** you. That one and ut-oh, the mailman is on mommy again. Already at four this child knows the state gesture. Good boy, former Mr. Apricot.

More about the story here: http://cbs13.com/topstories/local_story_183194617.html

The holiday weekend started off right, then turned ugly on Saturday when a massive power failure at school led to a campus wide shutdown of network services. Unfortunately, because the heating and cooling system, as well as the electronic locks, need a network to function, I got the bad news call four sips into the first cup of decaf. Eleven hours later, power returned. All was well, except a corrupted application — in the worst place. Yikes. My eyes half closed, I drove home in a stupor and deferred further thougts about it until Wednesday.

Here’s a transcript of me arguing with some toady at the Emergency Hotline for the power company:

Sam: Hi, I’m calling from the XXXX school, account number XXXX. I just wanted to know when the surpervisor and the crew will be here.
Toady: Why do you need a supervisor?
Sam: You tell me. We were promised one two hours ago. Personally, I’d prefer a crew, but whatever.
Toady: Well, the job is scheduled for today. Why do you need a supervisor?
Sam: Can you tell me when abouts?
Toady: I have no way of knowing that.
Sam: But you know it’s today?
Toady: Well, it will happen today.
Sam: Great. I tell you what. Since we are a major customer, what say you move us up in the queue?
Toady: What do you mean?
Sam: It’s not like your techs can be everywhere at once, so the jobs assignments are queued.
Toady: I don’t understand.
Sam: How about this one. We spend 30,000 a month on power. We’re not a small customer. Escalate my call to someone who knows what a queue is, or a manager.
Toady: There are no managers. They are all in the field. There’s no one to escalate the call to.
Sam: Are you saying you treat every customer the same, regardless of size?
Today: It’s the emergency hotline, all calls are treated as emergencies.
Sam: So you treat a small house the same as a company? A house that pays 41 bucks a month for utilities the same as a corporation that pays 30,000 a month?
Toady: It’s the emergency hotline. All calls are treated as emergencies.
Sam: OK, then. How about I discuss this with a manager? There are children who can’t get into their dormitories because the locks can’t function without power. If this was my private house I wouldn’t care. I’d wait it out. But think about the children.

Unfortunately, my line of reasoning — the very one so popular with those who claim that banning whatever in the name of public safety saves young lives — did not sway her. Toady not only refused to escalate the call, she insisted there were no managers available. She did promise to “increase the priority” of the ticket.

This incident marks the fourth time in two days a large company informed me that they had no managers. The other three ocassions were separate branches of the largest bank in the country. Maybe it’s the holiday season, reduced hours, vacations and so forth, but I want to know when this shift in corporate America happened. Apparently, managers are optional. Everyone just directs themselves now. Sign their own paychecks, too, I bet.