On Piercings and Cellmates

Have I ever told you guys about the time I got my nose pierced?

Well seeing as I've only written two blog posts for far, that's a no. So for this entry I will tell you the story of how it was I came to have a nose ring.

The first thing one needs to know about me is that when I get an idea in my head, the easiest solution is to let me run with it. Usually if the idea is impractical, or improbable I will reach a certain point where I come to this realization myself and abandon the quest. Or I will simply run myself head long into trouble. Such was the case with deciding I wanted to get my nose pierced.

During High School and my early years of college I went through a psuedo-goth phase. Now-a-days they call this "emo", but back then it was simply called 'goth'. I was a lightweight goth, mostly just all black and I died my hair. Actually dying my hair wasn't even part of this dark and depressing motif I was cultivating, dying my hair has been standard practice for me since I was in Junior High and I realized that having red hair interfered with my ability to look like a bad ass.

I was almost 20 years old when the idea struck me I wanted to pierce my nose. I already had multiple piercings in my ears. And wanted something on my face. I didn't like the look of the labret and I wasn't keen on letting any one with sharp implements muck around near my eyes, so an eye brow piercing was out. But my nose seemed nice and expendable.

I had just spent the previous summer living in the Central American Jungles of Belize. I was feeling pretty much untouchable. So I declared with great conviction I was going to get my nose pierced. And like a smart guy, I decided this was probably a job for a professional (unlike the first time I pierced my ears...)

I was joined by long time friend Sara. Sara's mother and my mother are best friends, as a result the two of us were practically raised like siblings. She remains to this day a good friend, and since she already had her nose pierced, I figured she knew more about it then I did. We went across town to the tattoo shop that had done my tattoo the previous fall just before school had started. But as it turned out they had no openings for getting a nose piercing that day. This should have been a sign.

What I did not realize about getting my nose pierced was that it wasn't like having someone at a jewelry stop punch a gun into your ears. Instead there was a whole complicated process involving sharp needles, large tubes of metal and disinfectants. I should have realized when the tattoo shop didn't have time, that I was in for more then I was bargaining for.

But they did have openings at the shop they also owned downtown. It was a smaller shop, and manned by some one, but owned by the same people. I felt this was good enough a recommendation from my tattoo artist and off we went. The first thing about this shop that was different, was that it was considerably smaller. About half the size of my light breezy, open tattoo parlor off Broadway, this shop was cramped and the walls papered with drawings, pictures and posters. While my tattoo parlor looked clean and sterile, this one was dark, hazy and like something about of a movie in which the tattoo shop owner has information regarding a particular drug shipment but won't hand it out till the main character's buddy gets a humiliating tattoo on his bicep with a word misspelled.

I was not swayed.

At this point I was so hell bent to see this through, I doubt a hurricane could have moved me from my path.

I filled out the paperwork, which was more extensive then you would think (another sign I probably should have reconsidered). I got into the chair and then I met Mike.

Now with a name like Mike, it seems harmless enough. I knew a few Mikes, they were nice enough guys. I had thought the scrawny stringy haired man behind the counter would do the actual piercing. I was wrong. This guy was not Mike. Mike was not actually a man, in fact. Mike was a giant disguised as a man. Hagrid's long lost tattooed head to toe bald cousin. And yes, his head was tattooed.

I leaned back in the chair, which looked surprisingly like a dentists chair (another sign I should have just walked away, all dentists are sadists.) But I was going to do it. I was determined. I had my quest. I would not rest till my nose was full of metal. Of course my resolve and bravery faltered when I got a look at the thing that would be used to pierce my nose.

Now, when I say I'm afraid of needles, that's an understatement. The actual words I should use are "I turn into a batshit crazy man who will stab you with a plastic fork if you come near me with a needle." I have a genuine needle phobia. Not the sort of "oh needles bother me, but I can tough it." This is the sort of phobia that when I was four I dislocated a nurse's knee cap while she tried to give me my school vaccination. When I was a teenager I once ripped out an IV while in the hospital and tried to run away (only to be tackled by a large male nurse.) When I was sixteen I took a round house swing at a nurse who tried to draw my blood for a very necessary blood test. That is the level of awe inspiring terror I feel about needles. And since I have no natural flight response to speak of, my first instinct is to fight. And I punch hard. I'm not a very big guy, but it usually takes two or three people to draw my blood.

What they use to pierce your nose is nothing short of a medieval torture device. In fact I am pretty damn sure it was developed by the Nazis. It's a needle, but unlike most needles that are short, contained and encased in plastic; this one was about six inches long and curved. On top of that it was big enough I could actually see the opening at the end of it. And they expected me to let Behemoth Mike put that in my face? Oh hell no.

I start to feel the panic rising. My pulse begins to race, and my body feels like a live wire about to twitch it's self into oblivion. I want to get up and bolt. I want to grab the nearest weapon and defend myself from Behemoth Mike and his giant needle of doom. And I would have, except Mike began to talk to me about how important it was to hold still. He explained in rather graphic detail that if I flinch while he's working, I could lose my brain. Actually it wasn't that extreme, but at the time he made it sound like any little twitch and I'd be lobotimized.

In retrospect I think this was a scare tactic he used to drive home the point. The truth was he didn't really need to use it. Because Mike was a giant. And his arms were approximately the size of my skull in width. And as he loomed over me in that dentist chair I surrendered to the instinct in the back of ones head that says some people should just not be messed with. Mike was the kind of guy that looked like he used his prison cell mate as a shovel.

I held so still I am pretty sure I stopped my own heart. And there was pain. I had forgotten that little part of my adventure - that your nose is sensitive and it will hurt when you pierce it with a giant metal tube. But I am proud to say I survived, I did not punch Mike (which is a good thing because I'm pretty sure he would have used me as a shovel to bury my own body when he was finished with me if I had.) I got my nose piercing. And then I went and got a giant ice cream cone and held it against my face; because it frakking hurt.

in which I lay out the reasons I'll never win a Pulitzer

I never know where to start with a blog. Should I begin with "greetings and salutations!" Or. Should I start by just diving into the subject at hand? The former would get old. Fast. The latter would likely lead to a great deal of posts being nonsensical. Because when left too much to my own devices; my brain will wander. ADHD for the win, people. For the win.

So we're going to just get to the point. Eventually.

Now.

Right now.

Whenever I am introduced to someone new, or I've had a lot of alcohol and introduce myself to someone new; I always get the same question. The second someone asks what I do for a living and I say 'Oh I'm a writer', the next question is some variant of this: "What do you write?" (For the record this also was a recurring theme when I was training dogs full time: "What kind of dogs do you train?" Or my personal favorite: "Can you help me with my dog [for free]?")

I never know how to answer this. First because my first published book is about Bromance in 1920's England and under aged sex. And a few other themes that take a turn for the dark here and there. And I do live in Idaho, and as much as I love being so close to all my favorite outdoor activities; there are some pretty hard core conservatives in these parts. It's hard enough being openly gay(ish) much less having some people know what Holbrook Academy is actually about.

The second reason I never know how to answer this question is because I don't know what I write. To me the themes of my stories are all basically the same: life pretty much will kick your ass given half a chance, your friends are important, loyalty is paramount, and faith in something larger then yourself will see you through. These are difficult subjects to sum up in a single sentence. Though I just did apparently, but I could wax poetic on the topics for ages. (Note to self: use this as a blog topic when you run out of interesting things to say tomorrow.)

But the reality is that while I always have similar themes running through my work, vary rarely is anything truly with in the same genre. Most of my work skips around the genre department as I see fit. My story Modern Privateer deals with espionage and high stakes white collar crime. But Alt-Jumpers is a hard core Sci Fi Adventure. And while Nothing Like Flying is a WWII epic, Werewolves of Portland is a Paranormal Noir. So the idea that I can pin "what I write" to a few short sentences, is daunting at best. I usually just settle for the blanket term "Oh, just fiction." If the person is actually curious they'll press for more information, or accept this answer and move on with life.

And then of course they all want to know if I ever wrote anything they've read. This is a no-brainer because no, they really very likely have not. Unless they frequent the GAY section at the book store, chances are good my only published book has never crossed their radar.

Finally, comes the kicker: "Do you write anything like Twilight/50 Shades of fucking Terrible/etc etc?"

This question annoys me to no end. It grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. First the implication is that if I haven't written anything like Twilight, nothing I've ever written or will write is worth anything to any one. Second the idea that the load of crap churned out for mass media consumption is some how comparable to what I write...is down right insulting.

I realize people don't know any better. But honestly, those of us who pride ourselves on having a smidgen of talent - do not relish the notion of being compared to hacks who got lucky. I usually grind my teeth and put an abrupt stop to the conversation by saying something that makes me sound like a stuck up jackass in love with my own work, and a delusional asshole. It usually goes something like "I couldn't write that kind of worthless tripe if I were comatose."

This total lack of public decorum might be why I'll never win a Pulitzer. It also might have something to do with the fact I have a tendency to write things simply because "Dude, that sounds cool!" in my head. Either or.

Greetings and Salutations

Hello, Internet.

Is that enough? Could that be considered my first blog post and we be done with it? No? Right.

So, I have been informed by numerous people, all of whom have a much better grasp of the idea of how to use the internet to my advantage then I do - that I need to start putting myself out there. More. Apparently a Facebook page I am sporadic at best in updating, and my random tweets about breakfast cereal are not enough. I don't see why not, breakfast cereal is fascinating. We could discuss it at length.

The bottom line is that I am not very good at this sort of thing. I write fiction, and I write fiction for the primary reason that writing about my life is terribly boring. And since my fantasy life is more interesting I feel like most of my efforts should go that direction. OH and I am terrible at maintaining anything that might come close to resembling adult responsibility. That's probably the biggest reason I have been reluctant to blog thus far.

Except that isn't true. I have been blogging sporadically for the last couple of years over at TO DOG IT MAY CONCERN. Yep that's me. My nick name in local parts is Pine. But I'm the same guy - mouthy, weird, sometimes inappropriate and obsessed with my dogs. You can go through and read all of those entries if you so desire, but I can sum it up pretty much in a few words: I will probably write more about everyone and everything other then myself through out the duration of my attention span to handling this blog.

That means; I apologize in advance when I do something stupid. It will happen. I swear. I tend to get on my high horse and sometimes it's next to impossible to get me off it again. I alternate between delusions of grandeur and crippling insecurity. I am, in short, very much a writer.

And if you'll bare with me on this little adventure, it might be kind of cool in the end.

But I am not making any promises (mostly so I can't be held to this promise of cool at a later date when you all realize I am decidedly UNcool ...See? Sometimes I can plan ahead. Don't get used to it though.)