Blogging: Small Fish in the World's Largest Pond

WOW!
There's hope for us small town blogger's after all.
Recently I had the great pleasure of reading a feature article in Long Island's Newsday relating the tale of a local blogger. longislanddailyphoto.blogspot.com opens a small window allowing the rest of the world to come inside and experience a piece of everyday life, one photo at a time, as seen through the eyes of an average long islander. She was inspired by a similar blog highlighting the sights of Paris in much the same way. I've always maintained that the simplest ideas are most often the best ones, and applaud all of the daily photo blogger's for allowing us a brief moment to step into their shoes and take a brief look around. As I tend to be a little long winded at times, this type of daily blogging would never work for me, so I've decided to treat this particular entry more like a book report; something I haven't done since the days of my youth. Feel free to comment or simply grade me from "A" through "F." Hopefully no one has screwed up the Bell Curve.

My Neighborhood, by Morty.
Yes, the above link would be considered blatant plagiarism, so consider it footnoted. In an effort to stem my longwindedness, I figured I would send you there first. Now, on to business.
I was born and bred roughly eight miles east Forest Hills in nearby Nassau County on Long Island proper. The borough of Queens, while physically a part of Long Island is considered more often than not, by its residents as part of New York City. My earliest impressions of Queens echoed that of the locals. It's a far cry from the more relaxed, spread out, greener pastures (in the literal sense) of Long Island. A major percentage of the Five Boro's consists of pavement, high rise apartment buildings, major thoroughfares, gridlock, noise, parking meters, and a lack of parking spaces. Add to that, Alternate Side of the Street Parking. Twice a week on alternating days, drivers are forced to find suitable parking elsewhere as one side of the street is off limits to make room for the street sweeping trucks. My non-expert opinion as a casual, often frustrated bystander is that these trucks do nothing more than throw up dust while moving the dirt around.

My son gets a kick out of them though.
I had a rather large number of stipulations when it came to moving from the peace and quiet of the suburbs, a realtor's real nightmare. I wanted an apartment in a private house as opposed to high rise, and did not want to live on any street named with a number.
That's a tall order!
During the late summer of 1993, My significant other found said apartment without the help of anyone in the Real Estate industry. The only thing I'd known of Forest Hills was that it was one of the more sought after areas in this borough to lay down some roots, be them temporary or permanent. There's also a certain stigma attached to it that raises some eyebrows. Whenever I'm working with clients and the availability for small talk arises, the second I mention Forest Hills, their immediate reaction is,
"Wow, you must be doing really well."
"No, no," I correct them. "I walk through that neighborhood to get to mine."
The Gardens is one of the premiere exclusive neighborhoods in the borough of Queens. Its cobblestone streets and Tudor style homes give it a real European flair, at least the way I picture Europe based on what I've seen in say, James Bond and Pink Panther movies. I love to meander through the quiet tree lined streets, where parking is abundant and the noise of typical general traffic mayhem is considerably muted. There are actually plenty of buses, subways, and commuter rails that pass straight through the heart of town, which unbelievably is not more than a few blocks from this tranquil neighborhood, making for a short, trouble free commute to Manhattan. The main line of the Long Island Railroad slices through it's center. The dividing line it creates provides clear indication of the contradiction that is Forest Hills. Immediately south is the aforementioned upper income community of The Garden's. To the north lies Austin Street, the hub of Forest Hills, both for transportation and shopping. Beyond that lies Queens Boulevard, probably the busiest thoroughfare in the borough, followed by a high concentration of apartment buildings; essentially the more conventional Queens.
Pulling in or out of the Forest Hills train station, one cannot help but notice the hint of grandeur that once was. Mere steps to the south, the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium; the original home of the U.S. Open still stands. It's place in the music world is equally impressive, hosting such greats as The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, The Who, and Diana Ross. If memory serves, Hall and Oates may have passed through there as well. Majestic from a distance, it's crumbling facade upon closer inspection is sad. The last event that I can remember taking place there was a Phish concert in the mid-nineties. I may be speaking out of turn here as this is only based on my observations walking home at the end of a long work week, but the mildly unruly crowd wandering the streets with open beer containers, loudly complaining about the lack of parking most likely proved too much for the locals whom I am sure had some kind of hand in putting an end to such events. I for one would love to see this landmark put to use again. I'm sure that if I were to do a bit more research I'd find some type of preservation committee standing firm on leaving this iconic structure intact. In the meantime, it just seems to be a waste of some prime real estate.
Meandering further south on the quest to reach my neighborhood, the landscape begins to change. Nearly as drastic as the Long Island Railroad dividing line, is the razor sharp property line that signals the change from exclusivity to everyday. The middle income homes here are textbook old school Queens! Take a look at the opening sequences of television's King of Queens, or the classic All in the Family and you can see first hand exactly what I'm talking about. In fact, the exterior shot of the Archie Bunker home is literally just across the Forest Hills border, residing in the town of Glendale. Just a few blocks shy of this border is the area that I call home. The Long Island Railroad plays an important part here as well, both in its history and in the beautiful almost country-like serenity left in its wake. This was the major selling point in my relocating from suburb to borough. The former Rockaway Beach Branch; discontinued in the early 1960's now provides a beautiful buffer zone separating this neighborhood from the traffic and congestion on nearby Woodhaven Boulevard; another major thoroughfare. Our first order of business after settling in was to take a walk on those long abandoned tracks to explore a piece of Queens history that not a lot of people get to see, or may even know exists for that matter. Here we see the rusted remains of a set of stairs that at one time must have led to a long gone station platform.
The view from the rear of our home is idyllic. In the early days, my wife and I could often be found sitting outside at night, sipping wine as we listened to the rustling of the trees, looking to the night sky at the twinkling lights of stars while planes silently soared high overhead. In the morning, we would enjoy coffee back there, or spend some quality reading time together. The freshly fallen snow from the occasional winter storm would almost provide a Norman Rockwell like scene.
Recently, we acquired a new neighbor in the house next door who has put to good use the land behind his home, making for the perfect summer getaway without actually going anywhere. I hear there is talk these days of turning this area in to parkland, creating a Greenway here for biking, jogging, walking, or simply enjoying nature.

One of my closest companions in High School was a girl who had two great loves in her early life; horseback riding, and country music, one of the two which has rubbed off on me. I owe my love of country music primarily to my father who during our teen years always had 1050 WHN-AM on the car radio, making the unlikely pairing of Lisa and I as friends not so unlikely at all. I fondly remember coming to the end of the winter months when she would begin the countdown of days leading to her getting back in the saddle again (no pun intended). She would often try to coerce me into joining her, but there was something about the unfamiliarity of climbing on an animal many times my size and putting my trust in it's comfort with having me there. I was far more comfortable in the seat of a roller coaster, no matter what the size! Horseback riding probably would never have crossed my mind again, yet herein for me lies the greatest contradiction that is Forest Hills. This is such a far cry from the Union Turnpike that I remember as a kid, and that was at its eastern end in Nassau County Long Island! I've always had the dream of one day living in the country, waking up to the peaceful sounds of nature, living life at a pace that is somewhat slower than the frenetic one that New York City and it's outlying boroughs are known for. Pictured here is the entrance to Forest Park. There's a beautifully quaint playground here that abuts the entrance to the bridle path, and a working line of the Long Island Railroad most often used for freight trains. My son and I enjoy walking along the fence, each with our own nature supplied walking sticks, reminding him of a past trip to Vermont, while allowing me to lose myself in the dream of living in the country. If the quiet piece of land that borders the rear of our dwelling wasn't enough, the scene of horses trotting in and out of the park while a freight train lazily lumbers past is pure country paradise!

Development is important to the growth and well being of any community, a bland statement, I know. While paradise is often not more than a few steps away, there were certainly a few blemishes to mar this otherwise near perfect picture. The long unused, dilapidated buildings that once bordered the nearby intersection of Woodhaven Boulevard and Metropolitan Avenue are now thriving businesses. The recent additions of Staples, Sports Authority, Home Depot, and Trader Joe's are encouraging. I'm sure it's caused a bit of consternation for the long established small guy who 0nce dominated these parts, but sadly, this is the downside of progress. Another downside here is traffic! While I'm all for progress and development, the recent influx of shoppers has turned this place into a congestion nightmare. I don't know who plans the traffic studies to see how it may affect the community, but the individuals in charge of this one have failed miserably. Talk about screwing up the Bell Curve! Further development continues in this area on a piece of property that was truly a long decaying wasteland, overgrown with weeds and grass. This however is progress of the most positive kind! I can only guess at what it may do to the traffic patterns here, but the opportunity to have my son attend school in a brand new building, only a couple of blocks from home would make it worth the aggravation.

So, long story short?

In the eyes of my five year old son, there's magic here. Every community has its share of problems. I've very lightly touched on the rare few that really irk me, but this community, while not perfect is the place that I call home. I've seen a lot of changes since the day I gave up my suburban roots, most of them positive. I would love to hear and learn more about the Forest Hills that was, but not from a book (remember those?) or the Internet. I openly invite anyone to comment here or contact me. I'm a great listener. Besides, a few more visitors on this site would also be considered progress of the most positive kind, with the hope that one day I may be a slightly larger fish in this enormous pond.

AWRY (pronounced "orrie")?

I consider myself a decent wordsmith when it comes to the English language, something I can attribute to my voracious appetite for reading. I'm not reading Faulkner or Hemingway mind you, but I seem to get by fairly well. Admittedly, I am a bit on the lazy side when it comes to words I'm unsure of, so rather than puzzle over their meaning or pronunciation, I just kind of skip over it and move on. I never would have dreamed that this lazy little habit would one day bring to the forefront of my life a simple SAT like vocabulary word that just by its mere site or utterance could instantaneously transport me back in time to an era of untroubled days and a relatively carefree existence.
"Imagine if the world ended today and the only two people left alive to carry on the future of the human race would be them," my friend Scott strangely contemplated, gesturing towards our two unlikely traveling companions?
“That would be like completely…” he paused, looking for just the right word. “Orrie?”
Laughing, I could see the word in my mind and knew exactly what he was trying to convey.
“How do you say it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “A-W-R-Y, I’ve read it a million times.”
It was July of 1987; the two of us lounging poolside at the South Shore Resort Inn, Virginia Beach, reveling in that special time of life where spontaneity and impracticality were the primary rules we lived by. Having recently endured a horrific four hundred miles on the road, we reaped our well-deserved reward that afternoon in sun and beer. Fran and Robbie, of whom I was only casually friendly with at the time, rounded out our crew. There was not much more to the lure of the Virginia coast for me other than fact that I had never been there before. The only sights I’d planned on seeing were the beach, the boardwalk and the nightlife. Scott on the other hand had chosen this little piece of paradise with the distinct pleasure of visiting the world headquarters of the Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.).
At least one of us would get a little culture.
The plan to leave the New York area sometime during the pre-dawn hours had been an ambitious one. As it was Scott’s turn to take the wheel this time around, I had opted for a night spent partying at our favorite watering hole where they would pick me up later. My jubilation mounted in direct correlation with the several Budweiser’s I had consumed before switching to Coca-Cola to keep the blood flowing. I had planned to stay awake at least until we reached Jersey. I retrieved my bag from the trunk of a friend’s car barely noticing the scent of overheated engine odor wafting from the direction of the late 70’s era red Dodge Dart that was unmistakably Scott’s. The not so tough looking crew I had already come to consider as our small band of highway rebels looked none too confident as I approached.
“The trip’s off,” Scott disconsolately proclaimed.
I could just make out the last wisps of rising steam, colored amber by the overhead streetlamp behind him.
Looking to the others who nodded resolutely, I put on a concerned face while trying to mask my obvious disappointment. Barely listening to Scott’s very non-technical diagnosis, I became momentarily distracted as a light southerly breeze kicked up, taking with it the cloying scent of burning anti-freeze and leaving in its wake a strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee. I looked over his shoulder at the lights of the 7-Eleven next door. The decision was immediate.
Several months earlier, I had made my first real car purchase, opting for a same decade 1987 Dodge Charger. There was no doubt in my mind in the car’s ability to make the journey. My only trepidation was that no one else in the group was capable of handling a four speed standard transmission. I bought myself an extra large coffee and a box of caffeine pills, which I hastily ingested during the laborious process of switching vehicles. It was four a.m. by the time we hit the road, the car packed with luggage and the prerequisite cooler of breakfast beers.
They were asleep before Brooklyn and stayed that way until roughly five hours later at the Maryland border, where I required some assistance in plotting a new course to correct the faux pas I had made earlier, having missed an important exit several miles back in Delaware. The best bet at that late juncture called for continuing South to Route 50 where we would veer east towards the shore. It looked sound enough on paper until we grudgingly realized that a large percentage of the state’s population had decided to hit the beach as well. We were deadlocked in the worst traffic jam that I had ever known. The only plus to this course deviation were the road signs touting Ocean City; a name I had stored in my subconscious for future vacation consideration, and the opportunity to drive over one of the most extreme bridges I had ever seen. At some point we would arrive at one of the nations more impressive transportation marvels; the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which had become something of a Holy Grail in our quest to reach Virginia. It was our crossing at The Bay Bridge however, that will resonate in my mind forever. Sleep-deprived and moving at barely a crawl across its span, I luxuriated in the pleasantly disconnected feeling of floating in midair, high above the gently undulating water’s below. By the time we had touched down on solid ground, I was in a state of euphoria and felt the need to celebrate. I pulled over, opened the rear hatch and retrieved a number of long awaited (now well past) breakfast beers. Clandestinely handing the frosty contraband to my companions still seated inside, I very openly took a long pull from my own right there on the pavement, smiling and waving at the astonished onlookers as they drove past, some of them looking decidedly parched. I laughed, umworried at the prospect of anyone calling a cop.
Cell phones hadn’t been invented yet.
A couple of hours later, we had finally reconnected with our original route only to find ourselves shocked, dismayed and forlorn at the irrefutable fact that we still faced a minimum of four hours traveling time. Maybe it was the caffeine or the momentary beer buzz wearing off, but I was privately and inconsolably distraught. Not even the excitement of reaching the world’s largest Duck Decoy Factory, whose proud signs we had been passing for several miles could lift my spirits. Irritable and agitated, our long awaited arrival at the famed Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel came with little fanfare. The sparse recollections I have were of a gift shop located mid-span, the gulls that seemed to inhabit every lamp post, and the actual pavement with its constant rises and dips that seemingly created the nauseating sensation of seasickness.
Twelve hours after our early morning departure from Long Island, we had finally arrived, greeting the Virginia shore with a tired indifference, although Scott had perked up for a second as we drove past the sacred home of the Association for Research and Enlightenment.
Talk about your Holy Grail!
My one glimmer of hope appeared in the form of a lone parachute soaring above the ocean. Parasailing, a safe, sane version of skydiving had long been a dream of mine, which would soon come to fruition.
It is no wonder that in my exhausted state, I would lose track of some of the routine aspects of our impromptu getaway. There must have been some degree of excitement upon checking into our temporary residence. There was most certainly some degree of celebratory beer consumption once we hit the pool. Following dinner in the hotel restaurant a short time later, we finally ventured out to explore the beach and boardwalk where I clearly remember witnessing a number of minor altercations, which were most likely alcohol fueled. Scott’s concerns echoed my own in that there appeared to be an under-current of racial tension, luckily short lived, at least during the time of our stay.
Later that night we visited a club inside a high rose hotel across the street chosen for only two reasons; location and a live band. Still shell shocked from the drive, the night was wholly uneventful and would have gone unmentioned here had it not been for this bizarre ability I have of retaining some of the most mundane, unimportant little tidbits of information. The band was forgettable, yet to this day, I remember them only because they performed an obscure Inxs tune from the Listen Like Thieves LP, “Same Direction”.
The next morning, we dropped by the dock to reserve parasailing time. With nearly two hours to kill before our scheduled departure, it was back to the pool for some mid-morning brunch beers, this time at Scott’s behest.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I never drink before flying.”
“You don’t have to do anything but hold on,” he chided!
Sated from grog, we gaily meandered back to the dock, trying to stifle any errant laughter that might give away our near state of inebriation.
What happens if I have to pee up there," I secretly worried?

The boat ride out to the ocean was both relaxing and insightful, providing us with an unimpeded view of the Virginia Beach shoreline. It was also the first time I had ever witnessed something called a Banana Boat, wherein riders towed behind a speedboat atop a banana shaped raft slalom in and out of the waves, soaring momentarily skyward, before jarringly returning to the unforgiving sea. Shortly thereafter, several of the happily dazed passengers would be found floating in the water like shipwreck survivors awaiting rescue.
We passed on it.
My parasailing experience was invigorating at first as the anticipation began to build. Holding tight to two vertical poles on the boat’s rear platform, there was the momentary thrill of resistance as the chute fanned out behind me and I was suddenly airborne, amazed not only that I was actually flying, but that there was absolutely no sensation of movement. Soaring quickly higher, the droning of the powerful motors beneath me dissipated, leaving nothing but the light ruffling of the wind blown fabric above. It’s not an extreme sport by any means. Those eight minutes were among the most peaceful moments of the entire vacation. I’ve parasailed many times since then and would recommend it to anyone without a fear of heights, water, sharks…

I was always on the hunt for a girlfriend in those days. While other males on a four-day getaway would be on the hunt for something else, I simply yearned for a significant other. Tina was the poolside server who brought us a continual stream of beers and daiquiri’s. She was sweet, easy to talk to and we tipped her well. Had it not been for a single photo we had somehow coaxed her into posing for, she would long ago have faded into obscurity. Thinking about her kept a smile on my face during those few days while my mind pleasantly contemplated the what if factor. Alas, while romance was not in the cards, we had become pen pals for a short while.
Fran and Robbie; the other half of our unit were in no way romantically linked, yet they fought and sniped at each other like married people would. Their constant bickering had me practically begging Scott to take me with him on his afternoon sojourn to the A.R.E.! Choosing to ignore those pleas, he left, in search of something I would never understand. Met with a small degree of apathy by the others upon his return several hours later, Scott’s tales of crystals, negative ion’s, and atmospheric calm held my rapt attention long enough to usher him upstairs and begin a marathon of late afternoon snack beer consumption. I really believe that we acted mature enough for our age, choosing not to behave like rock stars hell bent on launching televisions from upper floor balconies, and as a result had never been evicted from any premises nor asked not to return. The letter we received from management as a gentle reminder to leave all of the furniture inside the room seemed a bit extreme. Any furniture removal was only in good fun. Coorsman; our own personal super hero came to life that afternoon. I don’t know what he was fighting for or how many people might remember the iconic character standing on our balcony smugly waving at the crowd below like a proud dignitary riding upon a parade float, but he lived in our hearts long thereafter.
Twenty-one years have gone by since the utterance of that unremarkable, trite little word. Scott relocated to the west coast in the early nineties, resulting in the inevitable waning of our kinship. He recently popped into town for the first time in nearly half a decade, allowing us the brief opportunity to get together one Sunday afternoon to do a little catch-up beer consumption. It’s always a bit awkward for me trying to reconnect with someone after a long period, but with Scott, we seem to have a knack for picking up right where we left off. It’s a special bond that while broken by time and distance on the outside still holds strong on the inside. It was during that short reunion, the two of us sitting at a lakeside bar in New York City’s Central Park, lazily rehashing the old days, when the magic word floated from my mouth, releasing this flood of memories.
“Where was that from,” Scott asked me with a look of confusion on his face?
I was dismayed to learn that the word didn’t hold as much significance with him.
“Virginia Beach, Fran and Robbie,” I prodded.
Laughing upon immediate remembrance, he looked at me and said,
“Man, you have a great memory!”
I do.
For certain things.
I call it selective retention.
His statement is the very catalyst, not just for this story, but also for the entire reason that this site exists. The photo albums I’ve kept from those years are helpful in triggering recollections, but pictures just barely tell the tale. I know there’s plenty that I’ve forgotten.
The remainder of our brief adventure has faded from my memory, although I must have connected with Robbie on some level. Ignoring common sense and the refusal to learn my lesson, the two of us spent our last night in some bar or club, while Scott and Fran had opted for sleep instead. The drive home went smoothly, clocking in at somewhere around six hours. The route was easy enough to remember, and would be followed again when we would make a return trip for the upcoming Labor Day Weekend with a larger cast of characters. I’ll leave the exploits of our Virginia Beach homecoming for another time. Should I ever decide to revisit that weekend in literary form, I think I’ll title it with one other unremarkably trite little word…
“Twice!”

Wanted: Discipline

Right now I picture a bunch of wayward Internet surfers in search of something along the dominatrix, S&M lines wandering in here after typing the tag word "Discipline" in the Blogspot search engine only to find a picture of a doting dad with his kid, and a number of very "G" rated stories as well.
WAIT!
Don't leave until I've had the opportunity to welcome you and invite you to look around. My first entry here "Return to Innocence," may surprise you.
(Right now I picture the abovementioned crowd moving on elsewhere with said Internet search).
Hey, I've never been a salesman, but I may have some of those traits housed within. Using deceptive tag words to lure in unsuspecting others is not a bad idea. "Discipline" goes without saying. "Return to Innocence," while seemingly innocent at first glance may mean something completely different. For instance, what is he returning from? A-a-a-h-h-h, you're thinking about that now, aren't you? Go ahead and look. I'll still be here when you get back.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Echo."
"Echo."
I guess you're not coming back.
Yes, once again it's been a while since I've stepped foot inside these hallowed halls. The alternate title I had considered for this space; "There Nobody's Here," which was one of the first truly cognizant sentences uttered by my (then) two year old son has yet to disappoint. Don't pull out the hankies, start playing the world's smallest violins or any other cliché oriented things that come to mind yet. Although I am a bit disappointed at the lack of traffic through here, I can't blame folks for not stopping by. My last entry was back in November of '07. I can easily make a number of weak excuses as to why, but for now let's chalk it up to plain and simple laziness with a lack of motivation on the side. Writing has long been a dream of mine and now that it's finally being realized, I find it can be cumbersome at times. Yes, I still submit a bi-monthly column to a local magazine. No, there's still no paycheck in sight, but that's alright. The charge I get out of seeing myself in print is still second to none, and while I'm not being stopped on the street for autographs, hello's or simple nods of recognition, I know people are reading me. How, you may ask? On the days immediately following the magazine's release, one can often find me suspiciously skulking around the distribution sites, mentally calculating the rate at which the magazine is being consumed by its devoted readers. The fact that many of these sites are banks should raise a few eyebrows, especially from local law enforcement, who upon realizing it's me should offer high-fives and pose for pictures.
Guess what? There Nobody's There either!
I need to set aside time to write. I tell myself that daily, but find it nearly impossible just trying to balance work and family. Once the weather turns warm, I selfishly enjoy retreating to the peace and quiet of our front steps to lose myself in the pages of a good book for an hour.
(These days enjoying a bad book wouldn't be so bad either).
Naturally that time could be better spent putting some of the jumbled thoughts that race in and out of my brain down on paper, but it wouldn't matter. My son, whom I am convinced is nocturnal also happens to be an early riser. Shortly following what I thought was a successful solo trip to the great outdoors, I hear someone trying to sneak up behind me.
"What are you doing, Buddy" I ask, trying to mask my momentary disappointment?
"I just want to watch you read, Daddy."
"OK, but keep it quiet," I say, knowing I won't get a sentence further.
My eyes return to the page for barely a second when:
"Daddy," he begins.
We return inside to get breakfast started.
He's like my shadow and I wouldn't have it any other way. In his younger days when I would bring work home, my wife would find the two of us on the couch furiously scribbling notes in our respective composition books, me trying to log some DVD footage for editing the next day, him trying to emulate his dad.
It's hard to write with a five year old always looking over your shoulder. His antics and simple observations alone as he continually discovers the world around him give me a wealth of material to work with. The hard part is finding a wealth of material to interest readers in a public forum. With the magazine, I've spent a good deal of time revealing some of the odder moments in my life (all of which are unarguably true and without exaggeration.) They call the column a Literary Showcase, but to me it's really anything but. Literary brings to mind accomplished authors and dusty tomes on library shelves. I've never considered myself an author. I'm just a guy who enjoys to write when the mood strikes. Recently the mood seems to strike when I am jarringly reminded via e-mail that anther editorial deadline is on the horizon. Somehow, in under 48 hours I manage to pull off another submission. I call it winging it. Even in my professional life when I'm facing a tedious video project that I have managed to lazily put off a day or two, I find myself winging it on the day before it is due. Maybe it's the whole working under pressure thing that seems to click with me. In fact as I write this, I'm considering a hastily written e-mail to the publisher of Forest Hills Celebrity and Entertainment who has unselfishly given me a very long rope with which to hang myself, and see if he'll consider changing the name of my small page of literary real estate to "Winging It." Maybe that will draw some inspiration. In the meantime, consider this a call for help. Feel free to throw some ideas my way or some tips on writer's discipline. Otherwise, maybe I will resort to a dominatrix to help whip me into shape.