I Bitch About Pixar's BRAVE

My daughter and I saw BRAVE last night, Pixar's latest about Merida, a teenage princess trapped in the role her mother wants for Merida, as opposed to the role Merida wants for Merida. Or, as her father, King Fergus, puts it, "I don't want to get married! I want to stay single and let my hair flow in the wind as I ride through the glen firing arrows into the sunset." Hey, everyone should have a goal.

Some of the critics have been a little pissy about BRAVE, which surprised me. Pixar's movies tend to be a 90-minute serving of gorgeous animation and terrific writing, case in point FINDING NEMO, MONSTERS, INC., TOY STORY, THE INCREDIBLES, WALL-E, UP, etc.  But despite this terrific track record, I kept hearing disquieting things about BRAVE'S lead.  "Unlikeable" was the kindest comment.  So we went, but I warned my daughter and we both decided to try to keep an open mind and enjoy the flick and even if it sucked rocks, we'd gotten out of the house and now had an excuse to hit DQ on the way home and so it wasn't ever gonna be all bad.

We liked it.  A lot.  As my daughter explained to the DQ guy making her chocolate dipped cone, "BRAVE was no FINDING NEMO, but it wasn't CARS, either. It's right in the middle. In a good way!"

But even though we thought it was great, those pissy critics were right.  Princess Merida is selfish.  She lacks empathy for anyone, especially her mom.  She's spoiled.  She doesn't listen.  She blames others for situations she created.  She doesn't take responsibility.  She's...a teenage girl.

I have one, you know.  A teenage girl.  (See above, chatting up the DQ guy while waiting for her cone.)  And she is the joy of my life and I would die for her or kill for her and sometimes I fantasize about chaining her to the washing machine until she gets all the dirty clothes off her closet floor and through the laundry and back onto hangers.  ("No wire hangers!"  No, just kidding; I'm not that bad.)  I can love her with all I have and still dream about holding her Kindle for hostage until she trembles and obeys because she's...a teenage girl.

Aw, no.  No.  Come on.  Really, critics?  Is that what the problem is?  You guys are having a tough time with a teenage girl as the lead in a Pixar flick?

Let's talk about another selfish overindulged brat with no empathy for the parent who would gladly die for him.  (Yeah, Nemo, you finned brat, I'm hitting your buzzer.)  This kid (minnow?) ignored his father's advice, then ignored his father's command to not touch something designed, built, and operated by THE MOST RAPACIOUS PREDATORS THIS PLANET HAS EVER SEEN. (No, not the barracuda that ate his mom and all his siblings WHILE HIS FATHER WAS UNCONSCIOUS FROM HEAD TRAUMA.)  Dentists, of course.  I'm talking about dentists.

Call Marlin crazy and over-protective, but he was all about trying to keep his last living child safe, but the bound-for-sushi brat didn't give a shit; instead he was all, sure, most of my family was wiped out but hey, that happened before I was born and it's in the past so drop dead, Dad, I wanna learn Mr. Ray's song about the zones, the zones, the zones.

(Sidebar: before I found out why some people were down on BRAVE, I really had no problem with Nemo and his borderline-sociopathic antics.  But once I started thinking about it...thanks for nothing, critics!  I hate thinking and you made me do it!)  Anyway, Nemo blows off his PTSD-laden dad and not only puts himself in direct mortal danger, but also his father, numerous innocent bystanders, and Ellen Degeneres. This resulted in, among other things, exploding mines which would have sunk any ships in the vicinity, at least one child assaulted by Willem DaFoe, a health care worker's livelihood being threatened, a whale accidentally aspirating a clownfish and Ellen Degeneres, an addict in a twelve-step program relapsing, and a trawler breaking, which meant all sorts of fishermen and their families would miss a few meals until they found the money to fix the trawler.  Which could only happen if goddamned Nemo does what he's told for a pleasant change and go home with his dad, who was further traumatized when he THOUGHT NEMO WAS DEAD.  (In Nemo's defense, all the above cured Ellen Degeneres's anterograde amnesia.  But at what cost, people?  But at what cost????)

So, Nemo:  selfish?  Check.  Unlikeable?  Check.  Doesn't listen?  Uh-huh.  No empathy for a parent?  Yep.  Won't take responsibility for own actions?  Yep, yep, yep to the nth.  But when the movie came out, was anybody griping about what an entitled jerk Nemo was?  Or were we all sobbing into our stale popcorn as we sat through the movie a third time while furtively downloading Bobby Darin's Beyond The Sea?  Yup.  I plead guilty.

So that's what it is, and I won't deny I'm disappointed.  Also, here's a fun fact!  BRAVE was gonna be directed by the first female director to work for Pixar.  Until she got fired.  And replaced by a man.  But the important thing is that Pixar tried for equality in a lame and half-assed way before giving it up as a bad business.  But that's a rant for another day.  Bottom line:  it's fine for degenerate fish to endanger their lives and the lives of their family and friends, but not girls from Scotland.  I...don't get it.  But then, I'm hungry and it's hard to think when I'm hungry.  So I think tonight, for dinner...sushi.

That oughta clear my head.

Tennessee Joins The List...

...of states that invited me over.  Like if states had slumber parties, Tennessee is the state where the cool mom stocks the fridge with Coke and chocolate Zingers and lets all the teenagers have at it. And I am the kid who drinks all the Coke and accidentally leaves Zinger-stains on quite a bit of the furniture. Sure, Tennessee was all, won't you come to our beautiful state, which we are counting on you not to despoil? And I was all, aw, Tennessee, I know you mean well but it's not a good idea. C'mon: chocolate Zingers! I'm only human, for God's sake.

Anyhoo, I'll be at the first-ever ROMFEST in Gatlinburg, TN, where readers and writers can meet same, mingle with editors and agents, seize the chance to get out of the basement and wear some clean clothes for once, and actually socialize instead of practising for a later life of being a shut-in. Um, it's possible I'm projecting on other attendees. Also, I'd never hang out in our basement. Our house was built in 1860. You know how some people read the age of trees by the rings in the trunks? You can read the age of our house by the rings on all the spiderwebs. Crumbling cement walls, flickering lighting, appliances that mysteriously (and suddenly) rumble to life before dying out with a wheeze, a teenage boy facing the corner like that poor bastard at the end of The Blair Witch Project...I just never, never go down there.

But I digress! I'm the breakfast speaker at, I dunno, sometime around breakfast on June 21st. After which I'll avoid being cornered by all the innocents horrified at my over-sharing by hanging out in the Lodge's bitchin' indoor lagoon. Yay, me!

For more information:
http://www.romfest.com/

I'll regale y'all if I return.  When.  WHEN I return, is what I meant. Yeah.

Readers Shove UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE Onto Best-seller Lists and I'm Slobberingly Grateful

Found out tonight UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE made both the NYT best-seller list AND the USA Today list! I never take book contracts or sales for granted, so to say I'm pleased would be like saying Betsy would think hanging around the Manolo factory would be pleasant.

Thank you guys so much for sticking with Betsy and me through the grim stuff of UNFINISHED and UNDERMINED! I promised you guys there would be resolution (one way or the other) in this book and I'm grateful you gave me the chance to put my royalties where my mouth is.  Thank you!

Also: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Independent Book Stores Kick Ass: Uncle Hugo's

I've got nothing against Barnes and Noble or the late lamented Borders; I love them.  But I also love the independent book stores, sort of the way I root for the ab-eriffic studs in the movie 300.  They're probably doomed eventually, but holy hell, everything they do is mega-cool, and Gerard Butler is there!

Which brings me to Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction and Mystery Bookstore.  First off, at least two or three times a year, they invite me to sign books. They also keep most of my back list (60+ titles!) in stock. Third, one of the awesomest signings of my life happened on their property: me, and Laurell K. Hamilton.  (She gets migraines, so often wears sunglasses inside. And when she's on tour, they keep track of her whereabouts. So it was like a rock star had entered the building, complete with second-by-second updates and walkie-talkie noises:  "Laurell's pulling up. Kkkkssshht!  Laurell's getting out. Kkkkssshht...Laurell's in the aisle with... kkkssshht...the Parker novels. Laurell's...here!")

Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction and Mystery Bookstore would be great by anybody's standards, but these guys really go the extra mile, what with the signings and the back list...did I mention I don't write science fiction or mysteries?  And they STILL do all those things for me?

Right! So: too cool for school. Anyway, I'll be there tomorrow night, from 6:00 p.m. until 7:00 p.m. And then I'll probably cross the parking lot and hit the KFC. They have a Kentucky Fried Chicken mere steps form their door! After I finish signing I can take a bath in KFC gravy! What's not to love?

http://www.unclehugo.com/prod/index.shtml

Hope to see you there!

Free Chunks of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE All Over the Web

Back from France today, the day UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE comes out.  France was wonderful, and more on that later (see my FaceBook page for immediate, laugh-at-my-expense details, and they are legion, baby!), but right now I'm pretty thrilled June 5, 2012, is finally here!  I'm so excited for readers to get this book, I can't tell you.  It's the definitive Betsy book: all the dark things happening in the last two books are resolved, one way or the other.  Love the ending or hate it, readers will at last know what Betsy's reaction to her horrific future is...and exactly what she does about it.


But hardcovers are expensive, and the economy sucks.  So I've done a number of blog posts all over the web, and with each post I also posted an excerpt of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE.  They're from a chapter here and part of a chapter there and a chapter in the middle and one near the end and one at the beginning...like that.  And though they aren't in order, when you put all those blogs and all those posts and all those sneak peeks together, you end up getting to read something like 85-some pages of UNSTABLE...for free.


So!  Here's a quick list of the blogs.  Check them out yourself...if you're intrigued, great, and if you're not, you're out just a little of your time, and none of your $$$$.  And hey...you might have found a new blog you might like to visit now and again!


Also: France rocked it.  ROCKED IT.  But more on that later.  I'm still digesting eclairs...what's French for, "Sure, there's a searing pain racing down my left arm and my heart feels tingly and a little too big for my chest, but have you tried this cream puff?  I like to buy two and then eat one, then rub the other one all over my face."


Blogs/book excerpts up as of right now:


nocturnereads.com
magicalurbanfantasyreads.com
literaladdiction.com
allthingsubranfantasy.com


Blogs up beginning June 8 (there will be one almost every day for the next several days, so if the excerpt isn't up when you check, keep trying):


Bittenbybooks.com  
beasbooknook.blogspot.com
theromancestudio.com
stella-exlibris.com
Freshfiction.com
RexRobotReviews.com
qwillery.blogspot.com


I'll also be doing some radio and TV interviews over the next couple of weeks, in addition to local (Twin Cities area) book and stock signings, so watch this blog, my Yahoo group, and my FaceBook for updates on when to catch my smiling face and/or dulcet tones on the airwaves.  That sounded less like a threat in my head, and more like an invitation.  Really!

I Let My Husband Speak

 With my wife MaryJanice out of town - nay, out of state - nay, out of the country! - I have hacked the password to her blog (hint: every password she has is a variation of “asshat”) and intend to bring you, the gentle reader, the first highly reasoned entry this entire blog has ever seen.  No outlandish statements, no random insults, no stream-of-what-passes-for-consciousness in her mind; just good, wholesome reading for the entire family. 

That’s why I’m going to talk about my ass.

Seriously.  (For about one paragraph.)  By the end of this blog posting, and probably by the end of the next sentence, you’ll figure out the rationale for this topic.  Of course to get there, you’re going to have to read about a colonoscopy.  I had one recently, and it just offers too much material.  MaryJanice spoke to me before she left about sharing the experience with her readers, since many of you might find yourselves in the same situation someday.  She thought it would be a good idea.  I’m still not sure it is myself - I’m an elected official running opposed this year, and even the most extroverted candidates don’t generally disclose THIS much information about themselves!  Still, I’ll do a lot for the sake of good health advice, and if everyone can have a bit of a laugh at my expense along the way, that’s just fine.

So, we’ve all agreed that if you’re reading further than this, you’re not going to whine on the Internet about “too much information!”, right?!  We’re all big boys and girls here, right?!  Okay, let’s get to the mockin’. 

The American Cancer Society recommends colonoscopies for adults over 50.  I am not over 50, but I’ve got some family history that convinced my doctor that my ass may be ten years older than the rest of me.  I put him off for a couple of years because, I dunno, my butt didn’t feel like it had cancer; but after he pointed out a few months ago that all of the good eating habits and stomach crunches and push-ups I was doing wouldn’t mean shit to a malignant tumor if it was sitting there already, I made the appointment.

Then I postponed the appointment three months, because I had a professional development opportunity. 

Then I lost the prep letter they sent me.

Then I got snippy when the clinic called and asked if I had received the prep letter and understood it. 

Then I made them send me another one, which I read and fumed at before I stuffed it back in the enveloped and tacked it to the kitchen corkboard, well within reach of my dog’s jaws if she were so inclined to taste the inexplicably gravy-tainted paperwork.

My wife has observed, on occasion, that I am not a model patient.  Of course I’m not.  Most models get paid - she should know this, having dabbled in that career path herself.  My service to the medical profession is to avoid being sick in the first place.  The less the doctors, nurses, and other devoted health professionals see me, the happier we all are.  I’m not the first person to feel this way, and I won’t be the last.  I consider myself in plentiful and distinguished company.

Still, it’s hard to ignore things like mortality, especially once trauma hits someone you know.  Also, it occurs to me that I will make a kick-ass grandfather someday, because I very much enjoy entertaining children for short bursts and then off-loading them onto someone more responsible.  But I can’t have that sort of fun if I’m dead.  So I wiped the gravy off the envelope, fed the dog a biscuit instead, and kept the goddamn appointment.

Prep letters for this sort of procedure are written by well-meaning people who didn’t exactly major in communication or marketing.  That’s okay, because I’d prefer they pursued the medical degree.  Still, it’s obvious that these letters have some passionate authors, because they have warnings heaped after bold-faced warnings heaped after bold-italicized warnings heaped after bold-italic-underlined warnings.  You can just hear the staff as they plink away at the keyboard:

Tappity tap.  “Okay, I’m listing the low-fiber diet.  Should we explain why it’s necessary?”

“No, let’s just start listing foods they like.  What do people like?”

“Hmm.  I like nuts.”

“Nuts.  That’s the first thing to go.  Add raw fruit and vegetables, too.”

Tappity tappity.  “Raw fruit...vegetables...anything else?”

“Hmmm.  There’s a lot, aren’t there?  Just list ‘high-fiber foods’.”

“Wait.  We’re going to make a list of high-fiber foods, throw a couple of examples, and then just close it out with an actual entry that says, ‘high fiber foods’?  That doesn’t explain very much.  Isn’t that like defining a word by using the word, or something?”

“What is this, War and Peace?  Just tell them to lay off the fucking fiber.  Everyone knows what fiber is.  Finish the list and let’s move on to liquid diet day.”

“Got it...all right, doing the part about mixing the laxative and the Gatorade.  Should we explain why this is necessary?”

“They’ll figure it out within an hour.  Hey - make sure it’s not RED Gatorade.  We don’t want this solution to taste like anything but fake lemon-lime.  Underline that: not red.”

Tappity tappity tap.  “Not...red...underlining...okay...”

“Did you boldface it?”

“I underlined it.  That’s not enough?”

“They won’t read it if you don’t boldface it.  Also, it should be all caps.  Patients need capitalization when they read about colonoscopies.  That’s how they know it’s important.”

“Do you think they won’t read the stuff we don’t capitalize, then?”

“Good point.  Better capitalize the whole paragraph.”

Of course, everything they direct the reader to do is actually important, and I did it.  It helped to take a vacation day or two off beforehand, and I was also glad MaryJanice was home with me because like most people who don’t normally work out of the house, I lost track of what day of the week it was and almost made a cataclysmic mistake when I popped open a Greek yogurt the day before, thinking it was Wednesday instead of Thursday.  Actually, truth be told, in that moment I thought it was Sunday since I’d been home the day before.  This whole thing was really hiding my water bowl, so to speak.

During this short liquid diet, I got a brief glimpse into the life of an anorexic.  I’m not jesting there; I know many people with eating disorders resort to liquid diets because they’re effective at purging the weight of whatever’s in the digestive tract.  It’s wildly effective for about 24 hours - you drop a bunch of pounds right away.  The problem, of course, is that this is a one-time loss of solid material from your body, and to sustain the lower level you have to keep sucking down nothing more than chicken broth and sports drinks.  Say what you will about the evils of fiber, but I found that I was nearly keeling over every three or four hours without it.  Apparently, foods with fiber also tend to have these crazy things called “nutrients” in them.  So don’t skip ‘em.

In between fainting spells, I was also mildly cranky.  Wedded life with me is normally uninterrupted bliss, as MaryJanice will be the first to attest (though there’s no need for her to exert herself editorially in this blog entry, to do so).  Still, when not properly fed, I can do an admirable impression of that honey badger that went video-viral about a year ago.  Cute as a button, but perhaps a touch aggressive.  Here is a list of things I found annoying during this time:

* the cramps (no way this doesn’t come first);

* the fact that I knew I couldn’t play basketball or do any significant exercise;

* the taste of Gatorade laced with Miralax;

* the fact that my wife, in a fit of well-intentioned helpfulness, bought three times the volume of liquids I could possibly consume for this time period, apparently thinking me to be some sort of exotic fish;

* every Gatorade commercial I saw on television, which showed other people drinking the stuff during the course of actual physical exertion;

* the way the dogs barked every time a squirrel crossed the street;

* the inexplicable career success of Kristen Stewart;

* my children’s voices;

* the air from the ceiling fan;

* the stuffiness of the room when the ceiling fan wasn’t on;

* my persistent inability to beat the demon Belial on normal difficulty in Diablo III (since rectified, but still);

* the endless chain of leashes my family has constructed for the puppy so that she can explore more of the yard while being taken outside, which is both unnecessary and in fact counterproductive to proper training (this may still be bugging me); and

* the worry that this procedure may, in fact, find something requiring follow-up.

The morning of the procedure, MaryJanice and I drove in to the hospital together.  (I couldn’t go alone.  You need to have someone there to drive you home, so they can start laughing at you and your ass camera procedure right away.  Delaying the mocking process can entail severe side effects.)  The office made it very clear (note how I’ve bold-faced, italicized, and underlined that) to be there forty-five minutes before the actual start time of the procedure.  Lots of paperwork to do, you see, and it’s the start of the day and we need to be there on the spot so that they don’t get behind with everyone else.  Everything depends on us!  So we’re there forty-five minutes early.  Is there a soul out there who hasn’t already predicted that we had to sit in their waiting room for a good chunk of that time, anyway?

At this point, I get some new papers that outline what the procedure will actually be like, and what I’ll need to do afterward.  It’s legal stuff masquerading as medical information (you can tell because of the way you have to sign at the end and give them back a copy, even though they already know everything on the sheet).  Still, I read it and found it informative.  One of the things I learned was that the endoscope didn’t just have a camera on it; it also had a tiny pair of scissors capable of taking tiny biopsies.  That way, if they found anything, they could snag the sample right away, instead of pulling the camera back and then blindly jamming some spinning blades into my intestine.

“That’s thoughtful of them,” I remarked to MaryJanice.  She nodded, nose stuck in People magazine.

Eventually I got to go back to the prep room, where you undress and put on the stupid smock.  I had to use the bathroom again, which inspired the nurse to reassure me that I would likely not have the urge again during the procedure.  When I asked her the basis for her astonishing prescience, she pointed out that the endoscope also had a suction tool.

Wow, I thought to myself.  A camera.  A scissors.  And now a vacuum cleaner.  It’s like getting an enema from a Swiss Army knife.

Flash forward twenty minutes, and yep, that’s what it felt like.  No, okay, it wasn’t that bad!  While I was in the prep room, the nurse set up the intravenous for my sedative, which not only keeps you from driving home alone later but also keeps you from jumping off the operating table mid-procedure screaming “aaaiiiiiiieeeeee...that thing must be at least four feet long!”  Here, the writing skills of whoever authored the prep memo shone brightly: they used the word “discomfort”, which is spot on.

The doctor herself was a superstar, a fine mix of pleasant and professional, who hadn’t forgotten that patients like things like introductions and explanations and warnings.  She was kind to her staff, who were also excellent, and she recognized me in my city council role...which led to the only surreal part of the entire experience.

I understood immediately, when she began asking questions about a specific city planning issue, that she was trying to distract me from the discomfort of the procedure.  (I’m like a quasi-slim Jabba the Hut, in that Jedi mind tricks don’t work on me...also, I keep an enormous beast in the basement, under a trap door.)  Still, it was an odd topic to pick.  At one point, one of the nurses chimed in with mild disagreement about my take on the issue, which didn’t strike me as fighting particularly fairly.  I mean, I think I held my own in this particular debate; still, I trust everyone involved will cut me some slack if I didn’t recall correctly every precise detail of the city’s landmark purchase of the Hudson Sprayers building for riverside redevelopment purposes.

Just at the point where I started to feel sufficient discomfort to request a change in conversational topic, I felt the Swiss Army knife retract.  It pulled back with alarming speed, but it seems churlish to complain.  I got up, they guided me back to the prep room, I got to dress and have an orange juice and cookie, and then my wife drove me home.

Oh, I almost forgot: no growths.  If cancer’s going to get me, it’s not taking the back door!  In fact, given some thinness in some of the lining in there, the medical staff actually had the outstanding sense of irony to recommended a high fiber diet for me.  I tried hard not to say anything in response to that.  (I lasted until this blog, anyway.)

So that’s how I started my Memorial Day weekend, which put me in a mind of the real sacrifices many people have made, which far outstrip anything I’ve experienced inside or outside a hospital.  I’m grateful for the life I have, the city and state and country I live it in, and the people I know who’ve helped me along the way.  They care about me, and the least I can do for them is take reasonable steps to ensure my long-term health.

Do I have to spell out the moral of the story?  Very well, for the less subtle among you, especially the men, I will.  Those of you who are over 50, or those younger who fall into one of several high-risk categories, should get an occasional colonoscopy.  You can learn more about the necessary frequency for this and other tests at the American Cancer Society website (http://www.cancer.org/).  You won’t sacrifice your dignity or self-respect - in fact, you’ll gather more of it by demonstrating what people do when they care for each other.

Thanks to MaryJanice for letting me use her blog to carry this message to a wider audience than many politicians enjoy, thanks to all of you for reading (and of course, for reading my wife’s books), and special thanks to those of you who take the message of testing to heart.  Many happy returns.