Michael Fournier has tried harder than anyone in history to fall. So far he has spent nearly twenty-million dollars and years of his life in an attempt to best Joe Kittinger’s leap from an altitude of 102,800 feet.

Technically Kittinger was the first astronaut, as he pierced the stratosphere at speeds exceeding 614 miles per hour when he leaped from the Excelsior III in 1960.

What Fournier wants to do defies convention and most would say common sense. The cost and toll seems insurmountable. And in the end, the journey and preparations will probably only seem worthwhile to him. But really, his is the only opinion that matters. I would not do this–nor can I imagine the amount of physical and mental duress he might experience–yet I respect his courage and persistence. He is doing something that only one has dared to before, and besting it.

Unfortunately a malfunction on the ground resulted in the loss of the balloon a few days ago, and thwarted Michael Fournier’s most recent attempt at the goal. He has vowed to try again.

I believe he will.

For now, Kittinger’s breathtaking record of human flight stands.

Well, I could not have worded this more offensively if I tried:

“Look, it’s terrible, I know, but weakness really, really bugs me, to the point that if there is a wounded bird on the sidewalk, I look at it and I go: I think I’ll just kick it.”

Jodie Foster tells Britain’s Daily Mail

Seriously, Jodie, where did I put that brick? A vagrant in front of my apartment building needs . . . uh, help.

Looks like Skeletor was distributing Jesus juice without a license again.

Really, an East Hampton Gallery owner ought to know better.

Been a crazy month at work and without the benefit of exercise–weights, Krav Maga, running–I’ve got a wicked case of cabin fever, despite the great weather. However, the sun is about to shine in more ways than one.

For starters I’ll be training again soon. Second, graduation is next week, which means the students disappear for three months. Third, a note arrived this afternoon:

Thanks for checking in; our apologies for the delay in response. XXXXX is still in the process of reviewing your manuscript. Unfortunately we cannot promise an answer by a definite date, since projects from our clients, which can come in at any time, must take priority. However, XXXXXX will respond as quickly as she can.

There’s really one reason to mention the correspondence and that is this particular agent’s interest in the project is wholly unexpected. For years they lived at the cutting edge of chick lit. Anyone who has read my stuff will attest to one thing: I’m as close to chick lit as Stephen King is to Celtic fairy tales. I could live with being branded as dick lit, wherein my male characters act like and recognize that they have, in fact, a penis. Shocking talk, I know.

And there is another odd point about this development. This agent wound up on my radar screen by mistake.

When compiling the initial “hit” list, there were several criteria. The agent needed substantial and verified sales in the last twelve months. Over the course of their career they needed at least one project that had been optioned for film. And the clincher: they needed to like thrillers. ‘Cause scratch away all the polish and that’s what my book is.

Every entry on the list satisfied the above criteria to various degrees. Occasionally I had trouble finding a recent sale, but uncovered some from prior years and a film option. Or maybe they had no film option but had landed huge bucks for their client, world rights, etc and thus earned an exemption. I was however unmovable about the must like thrillers thing. Someone shopping for a Mercedes does not want to hear a BMW is a viable replacement, so it made sense to work with the grain and their tastes.

That course I plotted before demand for the chick lit segment began waning, and I’m considering revising my criteria. I recently learned despite all the media attention and films based on books in the genre reaching the big screen, the past two years have been a much harder road for the Bridget-has-sex-with-a-shopaholic-in-her-Pradas folk. As is the classic sign of a literary tide shifting, editors are now asking chick lit agents “what else have you got?”

In reviewing the list again when their request arrived, it became clear while they had sales and film deals under their belt, this agent had never indicated any preference for thrillers. Which means they were contacted because of my oversight.

And maybe, just maybe, they responded because they are looking to place something new.

A happy little accident . . .

It’s an unspeakable nightmare that is a reality for many people: a late night call from someone demanding payment for a service you never authorized. Only you really did, because someone hijacked your identity.

While there are controls in place at financial institutions that help safeguard private information, there are no guarantees that anyone’s identity is beyond the reach of evildoers.
Well there is LifeLock, of course. They promise a permanent solution. With the CEO’s Social Security number emblazoned on the side of a truck, and a one million dollar protection policy, this service ostensibly protects subscribers from identity theft and other fraudulent attempts to misuse credit information.

But it turns out their own CEO had his identity compromised 20 times. So far.

Ouch.

After two weeks of intermittent pain flare ups, the broken rib is now an injury that reveals itself a few times a day, rather than being a pressing inconvenience I constantly think about protecting from further damage. Now and again, I’ll twist my torso the wrong way or too quickly and remember why taking it easy is so important. Deep breaths can be challenging late at night. But otherwise, the sun is rising and setting. I’ll return to Krav Maga in June.

On a more recreational note, I’m having fun with The Confession. It’s been a slow ramp up, but the gains of translating something that consists almost entirely of dialog into a blend of third person narrative and snippets of adversarial exchanges, are becoming more visible. The work even seems worthwhile, albeit a bit tedious at times.

Speaking of time, it’s taking much more than forecast. The initial resolution called for a stable draft by July. I have … well, imagine something like a quarter draft.

So that commitment means a lot of work over the next six weeks. May require some reinforcements. I bet this guy can help:

Due to rising transportation and food costs, the pizza pusher who has delighted knee-biters for four decades, Chuck E. Cheese, has replaced their signature cheese with a high moisture mozzarella blend. Not to be fussy, but what exactly might be in that secret blend besides cheese?

And for that matter, is Chuck E. Cheese even pizza?

Consider the proprietary manufacturing process of a major pizza maker–which I’m not saying is Chuck E. Cheese, but I could be comfortable with a reasonable person erroneously assuming such. But under no circumstances should you mistake the process below as their trademarked way, because that would be incorrect. * Coughs *

OK, let’s make some “pizza”!

Step 1: Remove previously frozen crust from the refrigerator.

Step 2: Drop crust on counter. Hope no one notices the thud.

Step 3: Shake the contents of box of pizza stuff onto crust. Yep, one box. Pizza Stuff. You know, for kids.

Step 4: Jam the works in an oven.

Step 5: Serve to the same snot monster who just cast effluvia across the salad bar.

So hungry right now . . .