My Town Monday: How to Complain About Michigan Weather

Michiganders love to complain about the weather.  There are some guidelines for these complaints, though, so everyone is on the same page.

If it's in the thirtys and snowy in January or February, complain about it being too snowy.
If it's below zero in January, complain about it being too cold (and ask where's global warming?!?)
If it snows in January or February, complain about how you're done with winter already.

If it's still below freezing any time in March, complain that it's supposed to be spring (and ask where's global warming.)
If it's warm in early spring, complain that everything is muddy from the melting snow.
If there's snow in late March, complain about how you're sooooo tired of winter!
If it's warm during the day, but cold at night in March, complain about how cold it is at night, as if it's some anomaly.

If it's in the 70s before June, complain about how long winter was.
If it rains a lot in March, April, or May, complain about the dreary weather and you're ready for summer.
If it's below freezing at any time in the spring, complain about how winter is supposed to be over!  (Don't forget to ask where global warming is.)

If it's over 80 in early summer, complain about the humidity or complain about how it's too early in the summer for heat like that.
If it's below 40 any time in early summer, complain about how it's still cold and how summer's NEVER going to start.
If it's hot and dry during the summer, complain about how brown and burnt all the plants are.  If you live on a lake, complain about low lake levels.
If it's hot and humid during the late summer, start complaining about how you're ready for fall.
If the temperature is in the 70s, complain about how cold the store air conditioning is or about how it's not hot enough.

If the temperature drops below 50 in September, complain about how you're not ready for summer to end.
If the temperature shoots up to 80s in September, complain about how you're done with summer.
If it's cold and wet on Halloween, complain about how it's always cold and wet on Halloween.

If it's below 40 in November, complain about how you're not ready for winter.

If it snows more than once in December, each subsequent time requires complaining about how you're done with snow already, even though it's barely started. 

That about covers it.  Happy complaining!

What Retail Taught Me About Writing

I realized that some of the things I learned working in retail for eleven years are applicable to writing.

1. Some people are truly expendable. They add nothing and often just get in the way.
2. If, in the process of reassembly, you have extra parts, chances are very good that those parts are unncessary.
3. There is no such thing as a "minor" change.
4. You accomplish a great many more things if you do them, rather than if you merely talk about how you do them.
5. The end results are nearly always better than the process, be it finishing a book or getting paid at the end of the week.
6. Every "authority" will say something different in response to the same question. The best listerners will hear it all, then sort out what works best for them, knowing that it is impossible to please everyone.
7. It doesn't pay well.
8. It's important to do the mundane clean-up tasks, either straightening shelves or copyediting for typos, etc. If you've done it right, the audience will only notice that it looks nice. if you do it wrong, the audience will draw the worst conclusions.
9. People judge the quality of work based on a tiny sample. A messy endcap means a trashed department-- and a sloppy first chapter means a poorly written book.
10. Everyone thinks it's easy, but only those who have truly undertaken the job, with the goal of being GOOD at it, understand just how much hard work it requires.

My Town Monday: Dark and Cold

Short post since I'm mired in grading.

It's about this time of year that people start turning off and taking down their Christmas lights. It's "too late" to leave them up.

But I wish they would.

Fine, fine, take down Santa and the creepy reindeer skeletons. But leave up the little lights. At least in places like Livingston County, Michigan.

See, it's January here. The sun rises about 8am and sets by 5pm. Yeah. The sun only works a 9 hour day this time of year.

So, seeing those little twinkles of white or colored lights is rather nice in the middle of the afternoon when it's already dark out. It provides a little bit of cheery light to contrast the cold, gray/white snow and the bare trees and the gray cloudy skies.

Who decided, anyway, that Christmas ends so early? It's okay to start Christmas festivities a month before the actual event, but less than two weeks afterward, one can be hated by the neighbors for continuing to have their lights on?

It's cold and dark. We really should be hibernating. Since we can't, how about leaving some cheery little lights on, to ward off the winter blues.

My Response to Harlequin's "Reprinting" the Pulps

Harlequin is reprinting some of the old pulps-- you know, those old books with plenty of sex and violence-- the sort of story where Bo Fexler would fit right in.

Except they're "editing" them to make them more politically correct. Apparently, Harlequin never even read the Wikipedia article on pulp fiction books... like where it says that pulps were "perhaps best remembered for their lurid and exploitative stories."

So apparently in Harlequin's reprints, instead of walking down these mean streets, the detective will walk down mildly disgruntled streets.

My Town Monday: Dark Alleys and Streets

The alleys in movies look nothing like the alleys that we have around here. In fact, the alleys in Livingston County, what few we have, are hardly ominous.
















In movies, alleys are always dark, narrow, and secluded. Around here, though, our alleys are short both in length and the height of the buildings (seeing as how are tallest building is 4 stories, with most being about 3).









Our alleys are also wide, well-lit, and fairly clean. Some of them are kind of charming.














So, as a writer, it does leave me without any real dark alleys for final showdowns or something. Especially since our little towns have this dreadful problem with illuminating a radius eight miles larger than the town itself (more or less) in all directions with the abundance of street lights. Street lights on otherwise empty, dark streets.








Now, I'll admit that I don't much see the point of most street lights. Downtown, sure. Though our local towns could turn off half their street lights and still have enough light to illuminated any person who happens to be out. Especially about three in the morning when there are NO shops open and about 1 or 2 cars driving within the entire city limits.

Once outside the city, what do we need lights for? Certainly not pedestrians as there aren't sidewalks much past the last building in town. My car comes equipped with headlights, and I believe this is standard. So why are there so many street lights here and there throughout Livingston County? They're blocking my view of the stars! And they screw up my night vision when I pass through the cone of yellow-blue light and back into darkness again.

I've got no dark alleys and lights on what should be dark streets. I suppose that's why I fit in here-- I'm as quirky as my county.

Join us for My Town Monday-- read others or tell us about your own post!

Professional v. Profanity

I'm starting to fear that being professional is a lost art to some kids these days. And some grown ups. Particularly in the age of insta-communication-- emails and texts written without forethought or afterthought.

My students usually smile when I tell them during the first day song and dance that I understand that profanity becomes habit. They smile and nod to each other. Then they get all flummoxed when I tell them taht I can out-swear the best of them. And I could. I can string profanity and vulgarities together in a way to make even the most bad ass high school wigger stop and stare. But I also know when not to use it.

When I'm heavy into writing, I notice that my speech pattern is altered a bit. I use more big words, even in the classroom than otherwise. I'm also more prone to being vulgar and shocking. Though you'd think my Hubby would be used to the things that come out of my mouth... even writing the words makes those speech patterns seep into my speech.

I don't have any real problem cleaning up my foul mouth for teaching (good thing!) though the occasional snarky line does sneak out. Luckily, each time it was with students that found it more amusing to hear such a thing from their teacher than offensive to hear it in school.

Nor do I have any problem writing polite, professional emails. In fact, I have a hard time being ME in email. I'm usually in something similar to "teacher-mode" that's nice, polite, and proofreads twenty-seven times to make sure that what I've written has a very high likelihood of coming across as intended.

I do, however, have trouble cleaning up my fiction for those markets that request things that way. I don't write clean by nature. To clean up, I usually go back in edits. And when I'm done, I always feel like the color has been bleached out of the story. Sometimes I think taht should I release a collection of Bo Fexler stories someday, that I'd go back and re-write the profanity and vulgarities back where they 'belong.'

Of course, the funniest part of all this, is I only swear at top strength around Hubby and a few other select people who I know don't find it offensive in anyway. I respect their right to not heard my creative use of bad words. But, man, they are missing out on some great lines...

Confidence

I guess I've lucked out in this regard. From reading posts and comments by other writers, apparently, it's fairly common to cycle between happy with one's writing and unhappy with it. Or more aptly put, to cycle between thinking one is amazing and one should just burn all the pencils and paper in the house to prevent ever putting words to paper again. And delete Word from the computer. And bandage one's hands together so not even the blood from a finger tip could be used to scrawl out a few written words.

I usually like what I write, thus, I'm happy with it.

If I 'm not, I fix it. But I'm no longer as averse to editing as I once was, so if I've written dreck-- perhaps mind-scrapings at the end of a long day just so that I can say I've written something-- I know that I can clean it up later. Usually, there's something that can be salvaged, even in dreck. Except that one story... which will never be spoke of again. What story?

You know, some people go watch those cheesy "horror" movies that have turned the definition of horror from shocking to gore-fest. And people enjoy it. I'm guessing either the makers are complete sellouts, or, more likely, they actually like what they've created and think it's worth watching.

Not everything I write is laugh-out loud/ stare in wonder goodness. But overall, when I completely finish a story (all revised, etc.) then I am happy with it. I think it's good. I like what I have created.

The problem, however, lies in aligning what I like with what publishers are looking for. My husband tells me rather frequently that I'm not like other people. (He says it's why he picked me. I say he better say that or that $100k bounty life insurance policy will be looking mighty nice!) I mean, I liked Pepsi Crystal when it was out!

Maybe this is a problem. Maybe because I like what I've written, I don't see where it's failing. Of course, it doesn't help that there is so little out there-- in books and movies-- that I do actually write. I have particularly tastes. Writing the book I want to read means writing something that I have not yet found anywhere in books or movies. I still like what I've written. Even if it doesn't fit with what others-- what publishers-- want.

It's Not Personal

All writers get rejected. There are several publications that I have never, and perhaps will never crack. At least not while I'm writing Bo Fexler stories as I currently do. I have some theories, some that are more salve than based on any facts, since I know nothing about the rejections other than the ubiquitous 'not right for us.'

I don't mind. I wholly accept that what I write and how I write it will not be to everyone's liking. The fact that I *do* get published-- and sometimes even paid-- are signs to me that I'm doing something write.

It surprises me, then, when I encounter other writers who take rejection very personally.

It's as if they think everyone should eat coconut and wear capris-- (two things that I loathe with a passion matched only by my love of writing).

I admit, I used to take rejection personally. But it was always that plaintive cry-- that desperate longing to know what was I doing wrong. If it wasn't good enough, then it must be me. Sometimes it is me-- sometimes the story doesn't quite work.

Sometimes, though, it must be you. Not that you're wrong. You have every right to hate my story as much as I hate [Insert current bubble-gum pop star with pseudo-serious lyrics.] You're not wrong, and I'm not right. Just different.

The world already has too much homogeony in flavor, I think. Too many Wal-mart-attired people going to McDonald's for their grease-flavored meal. Too many people who watch the same shows because that's what everyone is talking about or that one book that's So GREAT! Too many sheeple.

So, anyway, if we think for ourselves and develop our own tastes, everyone will have slightly different flavors. I'm not a standard flavor. There are plenty of people who don't care for my acerbic commentary and cynicism towards the wasteland of thoughtlessness that pervades too many in American culture. That's fine. If I see your sunshine and rainbows, I'm going to play Emperor Palpatine with the Force Lightning.

A well written story can suck if it's not interesting to the reader. I read Lord of the Rings. The books were very well written. It took me over a year to slog through them. I just didn't get into the story. And it's me. My taste, my preferences that were the "problem."

I mean, some people don't like Star Wars. Okay, well, them I can't forgive. That's just wrong and we should exile them to someplace, like downtown Detroit.

But for everything else-- it's not you, it's not me. It's taste. It's us being different. Which means at least one of us doesn't require regular sheering... the jury's still out on you. ;-)

Markets and Writing

Sometimes, I write a story with a particular market in mind. Not all the time. Some stories just write themselves.

Some writers recommend writing with a market in mind. Which, admittedly I did when I wrote "Bosom Buddies." Except, now I'm screwed. And not in the good way.

"Bosom Buddies" is one of those stories that really only fits in a small number of markets. Gratutitus sex and violence. Both which serve the plot, but certainly intended to be raw, titillating thrills.

Except the market it was "written for" is currently closed to subs. Looks like it's going to be that way for a while.

My second choice declined.

It's too violent for erotica. To erotic for, well, just about anyone else. And too long for many of the remaining sites. Or so's my conclusion at this point.

So, I'm going down the list. Hoping to make a few bucks off it, if possible. I'm at that point, I think, in my writing career where I'd like to see if I can't swim with the bigger fish. Maybe even make enough money to bother reporting it on my income taxes.

I like screwing myself as much as the next person, but I hate doing it with a perfectly good story. Paper cuts, you know...

Translating Ideas into Prose

Like many writers, I have an abundance of ideas. New ones, old ones, good ones, dubious ones, elaborate ones, and one-liners that may or may not make sense. Some are collected in a little box. Yeah, that one there. Plus I have a hefty folder on my computer.

But those ideas are in one language. The language of a laughing muse, who sprinkles ideas like fairy dust then flees off into the mist. And that laugh no longer seems fun. Some of those ideas don't seem to translate into the language of narratives.

I've got more than a few stories that I've started writing only to find that every single attempt is clunky, awkward, silly, or dull. Even if I know what to do with that idea, how to spin the yarn out into a sweater (or a straight-jacket. Though, I admit, the idea of a knitted straight-jacket amuses me. Anyway.) Even if I know what to do with the idea, how to make it a story, it just doesn't work.

I don't know if it's me-- if my execution is where the idea fails-- or if it's just that the great idea isn't so great actually. I admit to abandoning many ideas because I don't know how to care for them and help them grow up into full-grown stories. They wait, like unhatched eggs, for me to come back. Every now and again, I dust one of those old ideas off and find that, with a complete make over and some trimming, cutting, reworking, and reimagining, that it can be story. But then, is it really the same idea? Does it matter?

Some days, it seems so silly that I can't turn a certain idea into a story. Or that I'm just not working hard enough at it. Other days, that same idea seems silly and hardly worth time, let alone a couple hundred (or couple thousand) words.

And other times I spend more time thinking about how I write than actually writing. Um. Yeah. Anyway, with the aforementioned story 'Bosom Buddies' complete, I'm in the process of shifting gears and WIPs. I've got two stories in progress, a third idea that is just begging me to figure out how to put it into prose, and a sudden increase in free time. I'm like a polygamist trying to decide between pleaseing the angry spouse, enjoying the happy spouse, and making a move on the new love interest.

I'm done stalling. And out of analogies. ;-)

I'm not a crazy. I'm a writer.

Though, it can be easy to confuse the two since both talk about, and to, people that don't exist.

Yes, I'm one of those people who talks to themselves. Only it's not me. It's Bo. And she's talking to other people... and every time such words pass my lips, I sound like a lunatic.

I like to think that part of the reason my dialogue is good is because I speak it. I take on both roles and actually speak the dialogue. I use this to make sure the lines are real.

But sometimes I talk to myself because I just enjoy the characters. I explore the things they would say to each other. Little vignettes, I guess, except they don't make it onto the page. But little scenes with Bo and her companions, or occasionally with other bit-part characters.

I often talk aloud. Sometimes I just move my lips. And I do it all the time. Empty aisles at the grocery store. While driving (when I'm not singing along to the music.) Walking to my car in the parking lot. And at home. Hubby's used to it. He pretends he doesn't notice it because if he said anything, I'd crawl under the couch cushions and wish I could die from embarrassment.

I can admit that I do these things... but I don't want anyone to see it.

Maybe I am just a little crazy.

At least I enjoy it. =D

In Cold Predawn Hours

I get up easily in the morning like a penguin flies. Especially when it's cold outside and warm in my bed with the flannel sheets, two blankets and comforter.

But, Hubby's car is in the shop for a few days. Which means I have to get my ass out of bed at dark o'clock in the morning to drive him to work. I need the car after he's gone to work.

I don't like getting up in the morning. And I really don't like getting up in the middle of the night. If it's dark out, as far as I'm concerned, that's the middle of the night.

But, once we're out on the road, it's not so bad. The roads are empty. Maybe a few cars. The ground is blanketed with a foot or so of snow. The air is crisp and it's so quiet it's almost as sound waves are frozen by the single-digit temperatures.

And at the exit ramp where Hubby gets off there's a single flame in the night. Blue or maybe orange. It's a sight to behold. (Okay, so it's the flame from the landfill... but it's still a pretty sight. And you can't see the actual landfill at night under the snow.)

Downtown, the city sleeps. The streetlamps, shining on empty streets, seem almost forbidding. You're not supposed to be here. It's time for bed.

Even the ducks, on the frozen surface of the Mill Pond, are huddled in their feathers and sleeping in a crowd.

Yesterday morning a train was sleeping right across the major crossings in town...

After my journey out in the predawn, I'm more than ready to climb back into my own pile of feathers and other warm blankets and go back to bed. I don't get up when it's dark.

What Font are You?

I thought it might be fun to find out what font I am.

Helvetica.

You’re like an industry standard. Classic. Reliable. Okay, maybe a bit boring. But don’t let the haters get you down—you’ve still got friends who think you’re the best.

Usually I have trouble with these sort of tests because 'none of the above' isn't really a choice. Nonetheless, this was fairly accurate. I am boring. I like it that way.

What font are you?

State of Publishing is No Match for Ego

So there's all this bad news in the publishing world. Yeah, yeah, and you can't find a single job in Michigan either.

Generalizations are always false.

Just as there are still want ads long unfulfilled in Michigan, there are still agents and editors looking for the next great book that will make them money. That is what writing is ultimately about for publishers-- money.

So, with my ego still alive and strong (it's the rest of my brain that took a beating these last two weeks) I'm still fairly confident that my novel, my characters, and my writing are good enough to overcome the 'difficulties' of the current state of publishing. I have something different but still marketable... at least if my fans are any indication. I will find an agent and a publisher who likewise sees what I see in Bo Fexler-- fun stories with a strong, sexy, unashamed female protagonist.

On an unrelated note, ever notice that there's a fine line between dreams and delusions. =)

My Muse

My muse has a sense of humor. Often, when my schedule is wide open, with no obligations, she takes time off. And if she knows that day without obligations is a day when Hubby will be gone all day, she's even lazier.

But when I'm shorting sleep, trying to cram in several different projects and personal commitments, she shows up with this really great idea. Something to do with Bo. And strip poker.

Stupid muse.

And we won't talk about how she loves to give me ideas as I'm drifting off to sleep, warm and snuggled up with already-sleeping Hubby (who gets up at dark o'clock).

I'd hate her, but she does have such good ideas.

I've been trying to bargain with her lately. If she'll give me fragments of ideas when I'm busy, then it gives me something to mull over while I drive to work. Then, when I have lots of time, like some Saturday, she can just nudge the idea along instead of doing real work.

Does your muse behave? Or does she mock you like mine mocks me?

Temperature Changes in the Bedroom

My bed gets bigger and smaller based on temperature. It's a remarkable phenomenon.



When it's hot out, the bed is too small. There's not enough room. I push Hubby to his edge and scoot myself to my edge. But somehow, he's still too close.



When it's cold out, the bed gets infinitely large. Especially in the wee hours of the morning where somewhere past the edge of the bed is my persistent alarm... and the cold bedroom. It's awful hard to find the edge of the bed when it gets that large.



And yet, no matter what time of year it is, the full size sheets always fit.



Weird.

New Love Affair

I love Microsoft Word. Have for a long time. All the way back to my first computer (a Mac, actually, when I was in middle school.) I love all the toys and tools. And I'm happily wed to Word2003. With the Thesaurus in the Reference pane, with Styles and the Document Map. And Track Changes in bubbles.

I've been married to Microsoft for a long time. My whole family is in on it-- so there's plenty of site licenses to around. I consider licensed copies part of my dowry in my marriage to Microsoft. Afterall, my parents were the ones who first introduced me to Microsoft. I've accepted my computer partner as it's grown and changed over the years from "Shrug and Pray" to actual "Plug and Play." We both love my flashdrive.

I love Microsoft, in spite of their flaws. Like a lover who leaves socks on the floor. We had a little tiff for a while of Media Player, for example. Like any marital spat, it revolved around different ideas of how things should be. Microsoft wanted to be extra helpful and go to the internet for everything. I just wanted to play my music, dammit. But we found a common ground (and I rolled the Media Player version back to version 9).

We're comfortable now, Microsoft and I. WindowsXP, Word2003 (though the Laptop does have the snazzy, hip new version.) We know what to expect from each other. We do our thing, usually without stepping on each others toes. Though, we both have our moments of stupidity where we do something we really shouldn't. Sometimes it's a stop (or illegal) error. Sometimes it's a d'oh where something is overwritten or updated incorrectly. But over all, it's pretty good.

However, in spite of this long term relationship with Microsoft, I'm having a fling with Firefox. It started slowly, innocently enough, as do all love affairs. But, I admit it. I'm falling in love with Firefox. Especially the spellchecker! Oh my. I usually know I've spelled something wrong online, in a forum on here, but my give-a-damn doesn't extend to pulling out the dictionary. It is, after all, just the internet. Now, with Firefox, I have a spellcheck. Yes, I'm a fickle lover. The rest of the features are comparable. And I still default to clicking IE when I go surfing. But I swoon over the little orange fox.

Don't tell my computer (I call it Spud.) I don't want it to get tempermental on me. But, have you seen Firefox? How can I resist?

My Town Monday: They're Out There

They're waiting, sometimes in corn fields along the roads.
















Or standing in the trees, waiting for the sound of tires on ashphalt and the white triangle that marks the approach of my car.






They've tried before. Once, they almost got me. Almost.







They're more determined than ever.

They're waiting for a long straight stretch of road. Some night, when I'm on my way home.

Or perhaps early morning while Hubby goes to work. No way I get up "early" in the morning! I'm nocturnal. But so are they. Twilight and dawn. When the world is gray and sleepy, night still near.

They're not thinking clearly-- they're reckless and careless. They're minds are on one thing. Sex. Two if you count a good time. But that might still be one thing.

They're a menace to the roads in and around the towns where I live and work. Long straight roads are the most menacing.

As I drive along, I have to be careful, be watchful. They might jump out at any moment. Doesn't matter if I'm going 55 mph down a quiet country road. They're not thinking about me.

They are after, all, just horny deer.

Yes, it's that season again. When the deer are out frolicking and looking to get laid.

They almost got me once. Wounded, my Firebird limped away. The Firebird, my first car, had to be put down after a deer bounded out from this very field.

Okay, maybe he didn't run out. Those deer live on the other side of the county where they kamikaze into the side of cars.

Maybe the deer just strolled across the OTHER lane to come stand in MY lane and stare at me like the dumbshit he was. He deserved to get hit. It's not like I'm fool enough to go swerving into the trees, ditches, mailboxes, and farm fields. Hit the deer dead on.



He lived. The Firebird didn't. (Okay, I have no idea if the deer had antlers or balls. It was a deer in the middle of the night and it wrecked my car. He could have had seven legs and good grills on his teeth and I wouldn't have noticed.)

Two days later, in my replacement car, I nearly hit another one. Thus the conspiracy was revealed.

They're after me.

I see them. Waiting. They're biding their time. Trying to catch me off-guard. They know that I'm hypervigilant. So they wait.

Sometimes in groups. Sometimes, oddly, alone. Sometimes they dart across the road, to see if I'm paying attention. Today one was grazing in the center median of the expressway.

They almost got me once.

It's only a matter of time before they try again.

So they wait. Along the edges of corn fields. Under the shadows of trees. In that odd gray light between daylight and nighttime. They're out there.


Visit Travis Erwin to read other folks' My Town Mondays.

Just Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

How disappointing. My husband's car is only 3 years old, with a massive 38,000 miles. And not only did the strut mount fail, but the car is already rusting rather dreadfully on the underside.

Now, there are a couple competing factors, but the outcome is still shock (horror) and disappointment.

1. This is Michigan. One of the Rust Belt states. And Michigan has a delightful obsession with thinking that winter time means that roads should be free from snow. So, there is continally enough salt on Michigan roads to turn black ashphalt white. This salt eats cars. It is the cancer of Michigan cars that can be held at bay for only a little while before it creeps in, slowly destroying a car from the botttom (where you can't see it!) up. My own car has terminal cancer. It has months to live, if that.

2. My husband follows directions well. If you wash your car frequently in Michigan winters, it will delay the inevitable rust. So, if it's 33 degrees, my husband is washing the car. (Me, not so much... hence the death sentence on my own car ;-)

3. My husband's car is the third Cavalier we've owned. The 90 Cavalier didn't rust too bad for some 7-8 years. And was still in good shape, rust wise, when my mechanic got tired of working on it. And the repairs were worth more than the rest of the car was worth. The 94 Cavalier didn't rust too bad until I started driving it about 3 years ago. Heh. Yeah. No lesson learned. It's like they forgot to undercoat it or something.

My cars are supposed to go 200k miles or 10 years, at least. That's the minimum. At the current Rust Rate on Hubby's car, we won't get that. It looks like my rust bucket did a few years ago.

Seems like each car we got has succumbed to rust sooner than the predessor.

It would help if people could just drive in the snow. Then there wouldn't need to be so much stalt. It's not hard if you just slow down and pay attention...oh... never mind.

Need a Tourniquet

My bank account is hemorrhaging!

Badly.

I keep trying to convince Hubby to prostitute himself for extra cash. He's a good looking guy. He should be able to get a few takers.

For some reason he never goes for the idea.

I could be his pimp.

He just laughs at me.

He laughs at me a lot. He says it's becuase he thinks I'm funny. Sometimes I think he might just be laughing at me.

I still think he could make good money at a prostitute.

Since he's not going for that, I guess I'd better get to work making money some other way. That bank account isn't going to heal by itself.

I wonder if he'd agree to be a male stipper...