goin' down mammary lane. . .

B-O-O-B.

That's right. I wrote it, dammit.

And now that that's out of my system, I can discuss more important things, like this blog here that I abandoned the other day.

I miss you, little blog. Damn. I miss not being able to fuck around with font size and colors. I feel squelched by wordpress, in the regard. Don't get me wrong, wordpress saved my butt when Blogger fucked up, excuse  my French, the other day. I was beside myself, so frustrated. And even now, I can't type anything in Blogger on my pc. Just here, on this laptop. Crazy, huh?

But like I said, I liked Blogger when it was working, dammit. And I miss it. And I want it back but some things you can't get back. For whatever reason, they go the way of the dinosaur, or Pluto. Gone, and you don't realize how much you cared for them until you don't have them anymore. That goes for things, and years, relationships. . .

Don't get me started.

Too late, I guess. Once in a while I think about certain relationships I nurtured and/or exploited and/or fucked up. People I thought I was close to, I'm not close to anymore. Mostly my fault. You can't undo what's done. You know what, though? You should be able to, dammit. You should be able to make amends and have all be forgiven. You should be able to hit 'rewind.' Make all the hurt go away. Wake up and all is right with the world, everything's hunky dory. You didn't say that, do that, write that. . . piss him off. Offend her. Fuck it up.

Should. Yeah, right. Says who? Every minute that ticks by is a minute we can't get back, and all we can do is cast our eyes behind us, look wistfully at what was. Meander down mammary lane, remembering the good, trying to forget the bad or swearing we won't fuck up like that again; promising ourselves we'll cherish what we have right now 'cause it can all be gone in a heartbeat, an error in judgment, a lapse of attention. . .

A computer glitch.

But it was nice while it lasted, dammit.

Error on Page

screwing up, take two. . . *WARNING: RANT ALERT, replete with expletives (not right away but just wait, it's coming)* I am typing right now in HTML mode because when I try to type in regular old mode, whatever you call it, nothing happens. Oh, I have a lovely little "Error on page" thingie in the bottom left corner. That may or may not have been a harbinger for this morning's nastiness. . . It all began when I pulled up yesterday's post to fix a small error. The post, btw, was about my soiree into the wonderful world of blog pitching my novel, re: #PitchMAS. I'd written the wrong info relative the submission window. FYI, it was from yesterday at 9 a.m. PST to today at, I believe, 6 p.m. PST. Anyhoo, I tried to change it and all hell broke loose, I somehow deleted the entire post except for Mrs Fringe's comment, she's so sweet, then I tried to retrieve it through various ridiculous means, one of which was totally and completely frustrating, to wit: recovering the file via MozyHome. Which, apparently, I have no fucking clue how to do. . . I do believe I spent over an hour, 1/24 of my precious day, trying everything I could think of to recover the blog. To no avail. Then I had an epiphany. Two words: System Restore. So I set the ol' computer to restore my files to last night at 10:30. Meanwhile, I poured myself a cup of coffee and policed up the house a bit, energized by the knowledge that I would soon be back to square one, raring to go. A minor setback, a slight blip, nothing I couldn't handle. . . *WARNING: Rant starts here* Fuck, fuck, and fuck some more, excuse my French. Not only is yesterday's blog wiped from the face of the earth, but I can not, for the life of me, figure out why I can't type a blog post except in this HTML mode. I have a shiny new message now in the bottom left corner: Done, but with errors on page. How lovely. I can feel myself slipping into hopeless mode. I want to scream and cry at the same time. I'm angry at myself because I fucked something up and I don't know how to fix it and I don't know what I'm doing and I hate it. Yes I do. If anybody out there knows how to fix this, I would surely appreciate your input because at this point in time, I am clueless. I am actually considering hanging it up, aka: FUCK IT, my blogging days are over, I can not bear this, if I can't fix this problem pretty soon, I shall go completely and utterly insane.

word of the day: holy shit. . .

how the hell did that happen?

squeaky wheel. . .

Right now, a certain published author has my manuscript. He's a busy guy--his latest novel came out two days ago and he's just started a book-signing tour. He sent me an email the other day apologizing for the delay in reading the thing. Life's been insane but he'll get it read. Should have plenty of time on the road. . .

The guy's plate is full. Just the thought that he's willing to read something I wrote. . . did I mention he's won the Edgar award?

http://awards.omnimystery.com/mystery-awards-edgars.html 

He's in damn fine company, too. Dennis LeHane, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, Harlan Coben. Elmore Leonard. Mickey Spillane. Honest to God. Obviously, the man can write. His stuff sells. He's a bonafide NYT best-selling author and here he is, reading my damn book. How the hell did that happen?

I asked him.   

Sometimes I don't believe how ballsy I am. I thank my mom for that. She always told us: Squeaky wheel gets the grease. So when I read on this writer's website that he answers all emails, I thought, You know what? I'm gonna ask him to read my book. So I did, I asked him.

The novel was TWINK. I attached the first chapter, hit 'send' and immediately regretted it. I mean, really? What the hell was I thinking? But he wrote back. Very nice guy. He told me he read the first chapter and yeah, I can write. BUT, he said, people don't generally want to hear what he has to say. He doesn't mince words. He's been on the receiving end of harsh critiques; as a matter of fact, he has a couple of guys who regularly rip his manuscript a new one. They are relentless. They don't hold back. He asked me if I was ready for that, if I could handle that.

Yep, I said.

He was spot on, my God. I wept, then I shoved emotion to the side and started revising the thing. It's a much better novel, thanks to him. I really can't thank him enough.

But I'm incorrigible. When I finished writing CHERRY I thought, I wonder if he'd read it. What the hell, I'll ask. So I did. And damned if the guy didn't say, "Send it."

So I'm waiting. Patiently. Which isn't one of my strong suits but I'm doing it, knowing full well how lucky I am to have a writer of this man's caliber reading something I wrote. When I think about it, I'm thrilled and humbled.

You know what else I am? Proud. Because I started the ball rolling, took a chance. Sometimes you need to do that: step out of your comfort zone, make a little noise. It's a crap shoot, no guarantees.

But sometimes you get lucky. . .

he's so damn endearing. . .

cherry pickin', part DEUX

I knew the type of person Steve McGuire was before I wrote one word of CHERRY. I knew him up, down and sideways, inside and out. How did he get to be so sweet? Considering his history, what he’s endured, how he makes his living, and yet he’s a kind person. In a lot of ways, he remains an innocent. He’s not perfect but he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He’s a sponge trying to soak up everything, learn everything. Maybe because he knows his time is running out. He has an unshakeable belief system, an unwavering faith, a remarkable capacity to forgive. I love him. Can't help it.

“You’re not making sense. You’re mixing everything up.”

“No, I’m not, Mr. B.  I promised her. I told her, ‘I’m sorry I killed you but I still want to be your son’ and she said, ‘Then you can’t be older than me, Steve’ and I said, I said. . .”
Oh, shit. Here we go. I stood up.
“I said, ‘I won’t, I won’t Mom’ because she told me . . . she said. . .”

“Yeah, I’m in working mode right now.”

“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my name’s Cherry right now,” he said. “And I need to make some money.”

“Hey, Mr. Bee, this is a good one. It starts out with this guy who does high dives. Man, that Elmo.”

I smiled. “You’d better not call him that, Steve. I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

“Yeah, if he ever heard me call him Elmo I bet he’d say, ‘Not cool, Steve. Now I gotta break your legs.’”

“I can’t live longer than she did.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, I do. I want to be with my mom.”

“Hey,” I said, out of the blue, “You’re charging me too much. You shouldn’t be charging me a damn thing, Steve.” 
“Cherry, remember? I—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said. I took another pull and closed it up again. “I mean, dear boy. . .”

Steve must have thought that was funny. He cracked a grin.

“I don’t know what I mean, Steve,” I said, smiling back. “I mean, Cherry. Cherry, my dear boy.”

“You’re acting so weird, Mr. Bee.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say. It’s human nature to want to love and be loved, but people are imperfect, so—”

“So, they mess up,” he finished.

“That’s right.”

“But they have to keep trying,” he added.

I whispered, “Remember that on December 15, Steve,” and the kid whispered back, “I will, if you remember it on my birthday.”

"don't be an idiot, okay?"

cherry pickin', part one

In CHERRY, Steve McGuire, aka 'Cherry', is an enigma: intuitive but clueless, worldly but innocent, a perpetual man-child . . .   

“When I’m in working mode, my name’s Cherry. That’s my professional momiker.”

“You know what? We should go for a ride.”
“What—now?”
“Yep. We should go for a ride right now. We could go to the mall behind J. C. Penney’s.”
My heart skipped a beat. I felt it, swear to God.
“Twenty bucks. No, ten, ‘cause I almost gave you a heart attack.” He said that, then he stuck his tongue out at me. 

“Okay, part one: what was the book and part two: who’s Elmo Leonard?”

The kid slowly shook his head.
“What?”
“That’s not good, I bet.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m not exactly sure what it means, though.” 

“Okay. Remember the day it was snowing? You were standing in the road at Oak and Vine, right in the intersection, remember?”
“Nooo. . .”
“It was snowing and I fell out of the van, remember?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah, now I do. That was funny.”
“No, it wasn’t. I thought you were going to get hit by that car.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, smile fading.

“How did you know I was nice?”
“You let me get warm in your van.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“You were twelve, huh?”
“Yeah, and ever since then, I follow that code. I read it every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed.”
“That’s really something.”
“I know.” 

“I didn’t know he was a cop.”
“Wait a minute—”
“And they’re mad at me.”
“Wait a minute, Steve. Who’s mad at you?”
“The cops.”
“Why are they mad at you?”
“I don’t know.” 

He bent down and whispered in my ear, “Open it or I’ll smother you. Do you want to be smothered right now?” 

“Did you know I got a busted rib?”
“Two busted ribs, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. And I got two black eyes.”
“I know.”
“And I got a broke nose.”
“I can see it, Steve.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed. 

“You can’t adopt me, Mr. Bee.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s crazy. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am, but you never told me what you want, so what do you want?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Seriously, Steve, what do you want? Tell me.”
His smile faded.  

“He knows who I’m with, Mr. Bee,” he said. “Don’t be an idiot, okay?”
 

okay, so maybe he's a shit and a fuck. . .

i love david brandt.

David Brandt, age 38, is a twice-divorced community college professor. He's also a selfish prick and he knows it. He says he doesn't give a crap but you can't put too much stock in that because he's a liar, lying mostly to himself. He's a seriously lonely fuck. He drinks Bacardi 151 to excess. He fancies himself an idiot. He fucks up more often than not. He dreams about bullets and black lace panties for God's sake. . .

I love him so much.

David Brandt is my main character in CHERRY. And the truth is, for much of the novel, he is all those things, but he isn't only those things and that's what makes him so interesting to me. That's what makes him human. He's floundering--trying to make sense of a world that sometimes make no sense. His misery is self-indulgent and insufficient because he's supremely unhappy, but not quite unhappy enough to call it quits.

Yet.

A complicated man.

I can safely say that David Brandt isn't the person at the end of the novel that he was at the beginning, but his transformation certainly isn't complete. It can be measured in degrees and may be temporary. Transient. The guy fucks up, he has in the past, anyway. Chances are, he will in the future and yet, he's willing to keep going, keep going, on the outside chance that the future holds some promise; that some good news might be waiting around that bend. He's willing to think that all may not be lost. It might be a case of a guy on the road to ruin, pulling the wool over his own eyes. Then again, maybe he's finally willing to accept some hard truths about himself, change some things that might not yet be cut in stone. 

Maybe.

I don't know, because I don't know how his story ends. CHERRY is a year in the life, as they say. Just like Brandt, I'm privy to his past, but not his future. I hope things go well, I hope he doesn't slip back into the skin of that selfish prick he was, but you never know. Maybe I love him precisely for that reason: he doesn't know either and grapples with that uncertainty. He wrestles with a past that seems hell-bent on fucking up the rest of his life.

How would I write his future? "Even when he loses the one person he loves, he's willing to consider a happier ending. Maybe not now, but at some point maybe something good will happen. Maybe. He's willing to stick around a little longer and see how it all pans out."

I love David Brandt because at the end of the day I believe he's still here, holding on to hope of better things.

"I missed my chance to poop in Cordoba." ~ Putputt

Before there was AbsoluteWrite, there was nothing.

I'm exaggerating. Before AbsoluteWrite, there was a little blue room and my computer and the cat.  There was a perpetual cup of coffee, perennially cold. There was one window, shade pulled down. There was the door, shut. There was a story in my head, and another one, and another one.

I wrote alone. Revised alone. The former was a furious endeavor. Exhausting. The latter was brief; cosmetic at best. When I finished a novel, I sent the file to OfficeMax and paid for a copy, brought it home and gave it to my husband to read. Then my mom. Then my sisters--oldest to youngest, as is tradition.

Then I wrote a query letter and sent it to some of the most well-respected, powerhouse literary agents out there. And waited for my big break. And waited. And waited. . .

OMG, I screwed up on so many levels. I shared my novels with people dear to me who were not writers. I drafted a query letter without having a fucking CLUE and squandered opportunity after opportunity, sending it out in droves, a plethora of qls flooding literary agencies coast-to-coast. Mind-numbing horror floating through cyberspace, landing on desks of agents who must have taken one look and (metaphorically) tossed that sucker in the trash, or lit it on fire, or slit their own throats. I had no significant feedback; ergo, I thought my shit didn't stink.

Then I found AbsoluteWrite. I won't bore you with accolades. And I won't say it's the perfect site, the perfect set-up. I have nits, I've gotten in some hot water, I've screwed up a few times, paid for it (still am). Not saying I don't screw up now 'cause I do, often--sometimes, spectacularly. But I am not a lonely, clueless writer anymore. Before AbsoluteWrite, I wrote in a vaccuum, or wrapped in gauze. Not anymore. I have learned so effing much it's not even funny, but it is mind-boggling: not only have I've learned so much, but I'm now aware that there is so much yet to learn about about the craft of writing, the business of writing. My writing has improved significantly: I'm more thoughtful, more careful with my choices, more cognizent of style and voice and consistency, tension, characterization. . .

I met writers.

Not actually. Virtually. Doesn't matter, they're there and this is what they do. They get it. All kinds of writers, too, some are so damn talented it's almost scary. Some are newbies learning the ropes. A lot are where I am and we help and support each other. I've posted my stuff, excerpts from CHERRY and EFFIN' ALBERT and I've received some great suggestions and comments. I've found beta readers who have read my work and given me such tremendous advice, unbelieveable. I've turned a piece of shit into a decent--more than decent--query letter, thanks to the folks at AW's Query Letter Hell forum. An amazing forum. Can't say enough about it. I just drafted a synopsis, for God's sake, I was scared to death but I hammered it out, thanks to the writers at AW. 

I met writers. It bears repeating because that's the best thing about AbsoluteWrite. I've conversed with a lot of writers for whom I've developed a real fondness. Some, I adore. I have a wall, I didn't even know what that was, this public message thingie. People can send you comments publically and you can respond publically and why am I explaining? I was probably the only person on earth who had no clue what the hell that was. I started a wall because AW is somehow getting me to open up, try new stuff. Like this blog, for instance.

Back to the wall thing. My first message was from me, to me, saying, Hey, if nobody writes to me on this thing I'm writing to myself. I shouldn't have worried. Right now, on my wall, there are over 240 messages from a bunch of different people, telling me all kinds of stuff, offering support, bugging me, joking around. It's fun, you know it? Plus I write on walls, leave my mark, as they say. Thinking of three, four writers right now with whom I often converse, for whom I'm so indebted, of whom I can't say enough wonderful things. Even though they sometimes drive me nuts, I think I love these people. I never met them. It doesn't matter. How can you not love somebody who writes, "I missed my chance to poop in Cordoba"?? I mean, really.

So thankful that I found AbsoluteWrite. So strange to think I didn't know what I was missing.

what the hell is an "anorack"?

blogging when you don't know what to say.

I'm depleted today. I didn't sleep worth a crap last night, finally got up at 2:45 a.m., totally uncomfortable, in every way imaginable. I couldn't bear to be in my own skin. I fell asleep on the daybed and woke up soaked in sweat. I drank some Diet Vernors to ease my nausea and forced down four chunks of watermelon because I thought I should eat something. Physically, I feel like hammered shit. Emotionally, I'm as flat as a sheet of OfficeMax multiuse copypaper. Mentally, I'm fuzzy as a kiwi.

Welcome to my world.

So I was thinking, all right, I'll just post some quotes or something. I've been perusing different blogs since starting mine and I've noticed a trend. Seems like people who don't know what to write about just post what other people already wrote about. But honestly, I think it's kind of a cop out to do that. If you don't have anything to say, why say anything?

Hmm.

Fuck it, here's a quote about blogging:

"Blogs are for anoraks who couldn't get published any other way."

That quote from somebody named Janet Street-Porter, btw.

First thought: Hey, Miss Janet Street-Porter lady, that ain't very nice, being as I'm writing a blog AND I'm trying to get my novel published. Who is this Janet Street-Porter anyway?

Turns out, Ms. Street-Porter is a writer/former journalist and broadcaster, now "editor-at-large" for a British online journal: The Independent. From across the pond, I see. I shall keep my thoughts about THAT to myself, being as I don't want to rankle the few friends I have.

Anyhoo, Ms. S-P has a website, holy shit: http://www.janetstreetporter.com/ It's really quite something, I must admit. If I had the gumption, I bet I could spend all day dissecting that thing. I don't have the gumption. Perhaps you do, my beloved readers, assuming you're out there, and if you do, that's fine with me.

Back to the quote now. What the hell is an "anorak"? I can't help but think it is something unsavory. If you already know what an anorack is--you Brits might know--the following will likely bore you to tears, much as the preceding has already, in all likelihood, done. In that case, I think I should apologize to you twice.

I did a little digging and found an incredibly lengthy posted discussion about anoraks. Someone asked a question and a shitload of people answered, some quite passionately. I invite you to read or don't read. I shall not proclaim you an anorak, either way.

As for me, I'm going to bed.

What do the British mean when they call somebody an "anorak"?

Peter Post, Boston USA

• It is a term of mild abuse directed almost exclusively at men. Such men are usually obsessively interested in an obscure subject and/or activity - the archetypal one being trainspotting. Such activities often require the participant to spend hours out of doors doing not much and occasionally writing something in a little book. Hence, such people often wear anorak because they are (a) cheap (b) practical (c) have lots of pockets for flasks, notebooks, pencils, other pencils etc. Obsessive participation in such activities into later life is often regarded with derision by soi-disant normal people, whereas in fact it has actually been linked to a mild form of autism.
  Simon Blake, Shrewsbury England

• An 'Anorak' is the name given to someone who has an obsession with a particular hobby i.e. football statistics, trainspotting etc. I presume that the word itself derives from the rows of sad looking people standing every weekend and evening in the rain at the train station in their anoraks with their thermos flasks of tea while they tick off the numbers of trains as they go past.
  Jon Wereik, Welwyn, Herts UK

• The nearest equivalent non-British slang term might be "nerd". An anorak is literally a hooded waterproof coat, and the slang term was originally applied to trainspotters - people whose hobby is hanging around railway stations, monitoring the arrivals/departures of various trains and writing down their serial numbers in little notebooks. I swear there are such people, and their hobby requires them to wear suitably draught-proof clothing. By extension it has become applied to anyone with an obsessive interest in a subject that is too technical or boring for anyone else to know much about. By the way, the title of the film Trainspotters is a reference to the interest the characters had in the traffic up and down the lines in their arms!
  Leo Hickey, Barking UK

• It is a disparaging term for someone who goes trainspotting, can tell you when each episode of Star Trek was originally broadcast, and has no friends other than fellow 'anoraks'. This is their chosen outergarment, whatever the weather, and they always still live with their mothers. They can quote 'Red Dwarf' scripts vebatim, and know all the boring and unimportant stuff about how computers work. Will that do?
  Jonathan, Lancaster UK

• To clarify, an anorak is a waterproof jacket, typically with a hood, of a kind originally used in polar regions.(derived from Greenland Eskimo 'anoraq') These garments found favour with those pursuing outdoor activities, most noticeably 'trainspotting' (collecting railroad train numbers)and during the 1980's it became a general derogatory term for an obsessive person with similar unfashionable and largely solitary interests. The modern day trainspotter is an altogether more sophisticated creature, most likely to be found wearing a Polyester microfibre mountaineer's jacket which boasts excellent wicking properties, a waterproof laminate skin and big enough pockets for voice activated dictation machine and a pair of high quality German binoculars. However, the epithet still applies and if anything, is more appropriate than ever.
  John Midknight, Harrow UK

• It's due to the type of coat worn by trainspotters whilst they scribble frantically into their notebooks on the end of cold, lonely railway platforms. The appeal of trainspotting is a mystery to most of us so if someone hints at rather too much statistical knowledge of something mundane or trivial, the epithet "anorak" is jofully applied. I suppose the american "nerd" is an equivalent.
  Austin Fisher, Auckland New Zealand

• The term "Anorak" refers to anyone who is obsessed with a hobby to the point of fanatacism. It comes from trainspotters (a term that can be freely substituted for anorak) who traditionally wear anoraks to keep toasty while noting down train numbers on windy platforms.
  Dan Whaley, Amsterdam Netherlands

• "Anoraks" are coat-like garments that (according to a rather cruel stereotype) train-spotters are seen to favour as they stand at the end of railway station platforms noting down the train numbers that pass by. The term "Anorak" has evolved to mean a person who partakes of what may be seen as rather a odd hobby or subject.
  Matt Jones, Croydon UK

• An "anorak" is someone who is either very knowledgeable or interested in a subject. The subject is usually one which would not interest other people - e.g. trainspotting, science fiction etc. The term comes from the deeply unfashionable plastic anoraks of the 70s and 80s, which supposedly people who obsess about such subjects would wear. (Since they're into "sensible" clothes and not fashion).
  Rick Webber, London Uk

• The term anorak is used to describe someone who has an avid interest or expertise in something most people would either find boring (train spotting) or is very complex such as quantum physics.
  John Ness, Glasgow Scotland

• An anorak is a derogatory term meaning the anal retentive accumulation of miniscule, arcane, and quite often useless bits of information. I believe it was used first around the indie music scene of the mid eighties. The item in question refers to the preferred clothing of those followers of that great British pastime - trainspotting. Knowledge for knowledge's sake, if ever there was.
  John , New York USA

• These answers are getting me worried. As a child in Melbourne (where I didn't need an anorak), I kept what I called my "tram collection", a list of numbers from 1 to 1200 that I used to carry around with me in my mother's car. Does anyone know where I can get help?
  Andrew Leslie, Stuttgart Germany

• I don't believe it...only one day on the site and 10 people fell for this question. 10 anoraks.
  Matthew, London

• The first use, to the best of my knowledge, was due to the waterproof clothing worn by the people who would charter small boats to see the offshore pirate radio stations that were moored off the Essex coast. The presenters would look out of the studio window and talk to their listeners about the latest boat load of anoraks coming towards the ship.
  Mark Morton, Leeds UK

• As a nerd, permit me to comment on comparing "anorak" with "nerd". In American slang an "anorak" would be properly known as a "geek" rather than a nerd. In short, a nerd is a geek with some social skills. Bill Gates was notorious for his unwashed hair, eyeglasses held together with tape, and for having "virtual dates" (he and another would go to the same dinner and movie in DIFFERENT CITIES, then discuss this over email). Now, Gates has an attractive wife (also a nerd), gives billions to charity and built a house like God would if God could afford it. Gates used to be a geek, now he's a nerd. Ralph Nader is a geek, Al Gore is a nerd.
  David Dreaming Bear, Horsethief Canyon, California USA

• Anorak is a term of abuse applied to trainspotters because of the clothes they wear when pursuing their supposedly pointless hobby. The people who enjoy giving such abuse often have much more thrilling and fulfilling interests such as milling around with crowds of semi-drunk hooligans all wearing identical multi-coloured scarves while watching overpaid prima donnas trying to propel a plasticised pig-bladder substitute in between two sticks.
  Mike Baldwin, Waltham Cross England

• Just out of interest I did a survey of a randomly selected group of Notes & Queries participants and categorised them into anoraks and non-anoraks based on a sophisticated questionnaire. The proportion that were anoraks turned out to be significantly higher than that of the general population at a p level of <0.001 using a binomial exact test. I can send you a copy of the results if you want, in a PDF attachment. Ooh here comes a train...
  Roger Humphry, Inverness Scotland

• To support Mark Morton's point, this is from www.offshoreradio.co.uk Andy Archer is the only DJ to have worked offshore in the sixties, seventies and eighties........Andy has been credited with inventing the term anorak to describe an enthusiastic, if slightly obsessive, fan. It dates from 1973 or 74 when four boat loads of listeners went out on an excursion to visit the three radio ships then anchored off the Dutch coast. On Radio Caroline it was decided that they would mark the occasion by presenting a programme not from inside the studio as normal but from out on the deck to give the fans something to see. It was a chilly day and the visitors had sensibly wrapped up warm against the elements. The listeners heard Andy say that he was delighted that so many anoraks had come out to see the ship. From this one, off-the-cuff, remark, thousands of enthusiasts across Europe came to be known as anoraks and a new example of modern English usage was born.
  Pete Watt, Twickenham

• To make the anorak/geek/nerd thing even more difficult, here on the East Coast, it's generally accepted that geeks are nerds with social skills, not vice versa. So I suppose that my tech-head husband is a geek in the eastern USA, a nerd in the western USA, & doesn't qualify as an anorak in the UK.
  Karen Abbott, New Jersey USA

• Do people who compulsively read and submit to N&Q qualify as "anoraks?"
  Mark, Heidelberg Germany

• The answer is: of course, geeks. pathetic, arn't they? no one in the U.S spots trains...ours are much more intense, usually bordering on insanity or C.O. disorder. I personally count patterns of flashing lights (turn signals, traffic lite changes, ect.)
  charles nelson, detroit, michigan. usa

• Charley, I spot trains! I go to the station, and spot trains. It's actually quite fun. And I have been called an anorak by my Brit friend. I don't take it as too much of an insult, although it's meant to be one. Then again, I take geek and nerd as compliments as well. To use the definition in a britspeak dictionary, "A socialy inept person, obsessed with a hobby or intrest. Has little or no fashion sense, and errs towards eccentricy."
  Jen, New Jersey USA

• Eddie Stobart lorry spotters.
  Matt Hill, Wednesbury, UK

• Reading the replies above it has become clear to me that a train spotter who stands at the centre of a warm platform while the wind is not blowing is not, in fact, an anorak.
  Dave, Swindon, UK

• Having a boyfriend who enjoys trainspotting I would say that he is considerably more interesting than many men who can't be dragged away from the TV or games machines.
  Sue, Essex, UK

• The term also applies to people who can recite the correct order for the reading of the shipping forecast.
  Hamish McSmall, Dundee Scotland

• I recall from my university days that a geek was defined as a circus perfomer who bit the heads off of live chickens. Part of the great American circus and freak show traditions of my land. (although these traditions were doubtlessly inherited from superior European cultures.)
  PeterR, New York US

• I am a builder with an obsession for astronomy and space science related subject's my friends and family often call my an anorak. I am proud to be a member of this exclusive lifestyle, and would like some ideas for 2008 anorak color's.
  Craig Evans, Barry Wales, UK

• Anoraks, Nerds and Geeks have something in common However Nerds interests tend to be 'intellectually based' thus they can recite the complete works of shakespeare tell you the date they were written. Can solve the most complicated mathematical problems etc. Thus Alan Turing is a typical Nerd. Geeks tend to be more technically based and interested in things like science fiction Anoraks tend to pursue outdoor hobbies such as train spotting bird watching and so forth. The things that bind them are their complete lack of anything to do with fashionable interests and a general lack of social awareness.
  Chris, Edinburgh United Kingdom

• We all seem to be getting on the wrong bus hear they are more than just "sad old men standing on a platform". In the hobby you have photographers that can be seen all over and 'Bashers' - people that ride the trains. I mean, I am a trainspotter. I don't hang around a station and I do not own a note book but I am still a trainspotter. Get you facts right before answering questions please.
  Adam Jackson, Nuneaton, England

• Reading the above, I've guessed that you can be an anorak without trainspotting and without actually wearing or owning an anorak, but can you be a geek if you have only the interest but not the technical skills?
  Kay Rivera, Philippines

• My name is John ... and I'm a ...Trainspotter. I have an black anorak with a brown furry collar which I wear most autumn/winter/spring days. I always carry a black notebook and a pencil (pens run out). During my lunchbreaks I'm usually to be found on a railway bridge near where I work. If I finish work on time you'll see me either at the station car park or at another bridge. I will always have my camera with me in case I see an 'interesting train'. My current aim is to photograph all Class 66 locomotives. I have few friends - work colleagues yes - but few friends. Weekends are split between my gorgeous lady (she's lovely) - who lives some distance away - and an early start to view a visiting charter train in the area or just the run of the mill freights of the former GW main line between London and Birmingham. Evenings I'm monitoring the 'gen' web-sites to see what trains are running where and planning how I can juggle my time to maximise my rail viewing pleasure. I cause none harm ... and yet I am ridiculed. I've been a rail enthusiast, trainspotter or ferro-equinologist, and yes, an anorak for over 45 years and will continue for many years to come. The railway scene changes - the days of steam are but a memory - a vivid memory but just a memory. Beeching's Axe fell and decimated our iron roads. The demise of the ill-fated diesel classes of the 1955 Modernisation plan was long ago. And our beloved Westerns, Whistlers, Peaks, and of course Deltics exist only as museum pieces - albeit finely preserved and living examples. And now in the seemingly never ending stream of 66's we nevertheless derive as much pleasure as ever. DRS, Freightliner, EWS, Metronet, Shanks - all different liveries powering different trains. We still love 'em. And always will!! My name is John .... AND I'M A TRAINSPOTTER - A PROUD TRAINSPOTTER !!!!!!!!!!!!
  John, Oxford UK

• All of the above sound a lot like my husband and 13 year old son. My wonderful husband is obsessed with the 2nd World War and my gorgeous son is vey heavily into anything that has wheels and is fast, in particular Ferraris, Lamborghinis,etc. They have both been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, a mild form of Autism. Social skills not so good, obsessive interest in one particular subject area, fashion sense- total lack of interest. Bill Gates has some of these traits, so I believe it's not an entirely negative thing to have.
  Ineke, Brisbane, Australia

• Supporting answers from Mark Morton and Pete Watt, the term "anorak" was originally created by "pirate" offshore radio DJs in the early 70's, who used the term widely on the air to describe the boatloads of fans who used to visit the ships. I quote: He made a complete description of how the word ‘Anorak’ came in use originally in the Offshore Radio World. It’s Andy Archer who wants to comment on this: ‘ I just like to correct you on one point about "anoraks". We originally called "anoraks" the "anorak and Acne Brigade, because all of the fans that waited for us on the quay at Scheveningen seemed to wear anoraks and a lot of them had acne. Later we shortened it to "anoraks". The meaning has since expanded to include anyone with similar traits to these original obsessive fans. (Train Spotters, etc).
  Keith, Costa Calida, Spain

• Anorak = my son. He collects door numbers.
  Paul Boswell, Widnes, England

• Closely related to this is the word 'anoraknaphobia'. Nothing to do with a fear of spiders, but a term for the collective derision that our dumbed down culture has for anyone who is interested in anything or knows about something in detail (other than Premier League Football or TV reality shows).
  Mike Hyde, Solihull, UK

• Can we look at this slightly diferently. Are anoraks necessary in the battle against 'dumbing down'? What if we said that being an anorak wasn't confined to a particular garment or lack of fashion awareness (whatever that means?)nor the pursuit of a hobby but was a state of mind or being that made others think you were a bit of a loner. Don't we all need to be a bit of an anorak from time to time and stare out to sea?
  David, Eastbourne, Britain

• Why pick on the train spotter, my friend was a Plane spotter in the 70's + 80's and discovered numerous interest facts about the different types of planes while acquiring the autographs of international singing stars like #demos rusos on the back of a bus schedule so there are advantages of being an anorak
  GERRY, THURLES IRELAND

• I notice another contributor said that Trainspotting can (not always) be a mild form of autism. I just caught a train from Exeter, and a lad was not only trainspotting, he was speaking loudly along with the platform announcers announcements, and my first reaction was "that's Aspergers if ever I saw it". The link between transpotting and autism hadn't crossed my mind before. And please no one read this as offensive, or a generalisation, it's just an observation.
  John Davis, Plymouth UK

• I can definitely confirm that the first usage of the term "Anorak" was used aboard the "Mi Amigo" off Holland in the second coming of Radio Caroline. It is credited to Andy Archer, but was probably actually in use amongst the Offshore Radio Community before then. I know this because I am one. http://www.radiocaroline.co.uk
  Steve Rowlandson, Warwick, UK

• An anorak is basically a pretty decent insult. For example, I have a friend called Josh, who appears to display anorak tendencies from time to time. Thus for, I often label him an anorak. E.g. Josh: "I challenge you to a game of chess." Me: "Erm... why?" Josh: "Because I feel that we will tesselate nicely within the chess community" Me: "Mate, you're a bleeding anorak". As you can see from the above example, when "anorak" is used in the correct context, it is a blinding vituperation. The use of the word often fills the "insulter" with a delectable sense of satisfaction and achievement. Meanwhile, the "insulted" is left red-faced and dejected. So next time you feel someone you know is inclining towards the "anorak" school of thought, be sure to bedazzle them with this classic British insult.
  Jacob Swatton, Grantham UK

• Please keep in mind, Asperger's Syndrome/Autism are, clinically, incipient stages of a Psychopathic personality disorder, JMcA.
  Jacke McAllister, New York New York

• The term 'anorak' is a mark of separation and used by those sad critics who stumble through life, unable to find an interest outside of their dreary work-bound existence. Anorak refers to a person who has developed a fringe interest which nearly always had it's origins in childhood and is no less useless than the crossword, jig-saw puzzle, TV soap addiction or a marriage vow. Get a life. Get an interest!.
  P.Wood, Derby UK

• A weatherproof coat or colloquially, someone who has a hobby that isn't deemed 'cool' by some idiotic comedian or the media. Work this out: Knowledge of computer workings = anorak Sports stats knowledge = cool Train Spotter = anorak Football programme collector = cool Ham radio enthusiast = anorak Facebook user = cool Watching birds/wildlife = anorak Reality TV Watcher = cool Stamp/chess/sewing/etc. club meeting = anoraks Drunked night out with possible fight = cool Sensless or what. Live and let live. The mild mannered interests that people undertake are seen as boring, nerdy, anorakious but the loud, garish, boisterous, offensive, dangerous pastimes are seen as cool!! Stupid rules made up by a stupid minority of people in the media. Anyone who thinks these people are 'anoraks' are the boring and ignorant ones.
  Joe, Pembroke Dock Wales 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/notesandqueries/query/0,5753,-19185,00.html

in a pig's butt. . .

love will go anywhere.

In CHERRY, a young male prostitute loves a self-destructing, self-centered pig. Eventually, the pig loves the prostitute back.

How the hell does that happen?

Grandma used to say, "Love will go anywhere, even in a pig's butt." Sometimes, without rhyme or reason, people find love. Despite themselves. Despite everything.

When I first thought of the story for CHERRY, I knew the type of asshole my mc Dave was going to be. He admits early on he doesn't give a crap about people, least of all himself. He hates himself. He's self-destructing. He's one seriously lonely fuck. He has no friends, no one on earth loves him and no wonder: he treats people like shit.

Then he meets this kid who, for some unfathomable reason, cares about him. Makes no sense why, makes even less sense that he's incredibly turned on by this kid. He isn't gay--he's been married twice, for Christ's sake. Dave tries everything to push Cherry away, even as he's fucking him two, three times a week. He uses and abuses the kid. Taunts him. Hurts him emotionally. Physically. Doesn't matter--Cherry loves Dave unconditionally and forgives his trespasses, including an act of betrayal so devastating that he's heartbroken. And Dave nearly blows his own brains out. 

But the more Dave gets to know Cherry, the more he realizes that this kid is different. Special. He's an enigma: uncommonly sweet, incredibly naive and yet he sucks cock for a living. And he's as nutty as a fruitcake--Cherry believes his mom came to him in a vision when he was twelve. He's going to kill himself before he turns nineteen because he believes his mother told him to do it. His one goal in life is to be with his dead mother and he's planning for it, practicing by strangling himself and playing chicken with oncoming traffic.  

 

The closer Cherry gets to D-Day--Death Day--the more panicked Dave becomes. He  tries everything he can think of to change Cherry's mind. Dave's feelings are all over the place: one minute he want to fuck the kid, the next, he's seriously considering adopting him. He resorts to threats: he'll kill himself if Cherry doesn't listen to reason. But despite his best efforts, Cherry remains steadfast, determined to go through with his plan. No amount of begging, cajoling, or bullying by Dave is going to change his mind. 

At some point Dave stops thinking about himself. At some point, he accepts responsibility for Cherry, realizing that only he can stop the kid, except he can't; and when Cherry disappears, Dave finally admits the truth: he loves that kid, loves him more than he's ever loved another human being. It's not about sex anymore, not about himself anymore, it's about this other person who saw something in Dave he didn't see, couldn't see; loved him despite everything. . .

What possessed Cherry to love Dave? Sometimes there's no logical explanation for loving a person. Love doesn't care if a person is saint or sinner, alive or dead. Love doesn't care why, doesn't need to know why.  And sometimes, when you're hopelessly lost, love will find you. Even if you can't believe you deserve it.

Even when you don't.