November 10: The Weather Outside Is Frightful, Storm, "Web" Dip

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful."

Yes, it is.  Starting around noon, the day has slowly turned to crap.  Wind.  Snow.  Drifting.  More snow.  When I got home from work, I spent an hour snowblowing.  For my disciples from southern climates, that means that, for sixty minutes, I was pushing a snowblower up and down my driveway.  By the time I was done, I was head-to-foot ice and snow.  I looked like Big Hero 6.

And it isn't over yet.  The National Weather Service is now predicting between 24 and 36 inches by storm's end.  Three freakin' feet of snow!  That means that I will be up at 5 a.m. tomorrow, hip-deep in drifts, digging out my car.  I am already tired of winter, and it hasn't even started yet.

My daughter just found out she has no school tomorrow.  She let out an audible whoop and then started texting like crazy.  I'm sure the substance of her texts went something like, "Suck it!  I don't have school tomorrow."  We have mac and cheese, ramen noodles, hot dogs, and Doritos--all the supplies required for a snow day in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I'm a little jealous.

I wouldn't mind this storm if I could just stay...stay in bed.  That's the best part of a blizzard.  Letting everything go to crap outside while sucking down hot chocolate inside.  Unfortunately, I have to be on the road by about 7 a.m.  Which brings me to my Web dip question:

Are we actually going to get three feet of snow?

And the answer from Charlotte is:

"That remains to be seen.  But I am going to save you, and I want you to quiet down immediately.  You're carrying on in a childish way.  Stop your crying!  I can't stand hysterics."

That remains to be seen?!!!  That's not very definitive.  That's like an answer I would give my daughter.  Her:  "Daddy, can I have an iPad for my birthday?"  Me:  "That remains to be seen."

Saint Marty's going to keep his fingers crossed.  Maybe his legs and toes, too.

Me, after snowblowing

November 3: Publication, Tough Teaching Day, "Web" Dip

Well, first things first:  I received notification this morning that an essay I submitted for publication was accepted.  In fact, the exact words of the editor were, "This is really beautiful." 

It's a Christmas essay, and it's going to be published in December.  I'll post the specifics when they become available.  I'm really excited about this acceptance.  It will be the first prose piece I've ever gotten published.  I've been writing short stories and essays since high school, but I've only ever submitted a couple of short stories to local writing contests  (with no success).  So this news is really affirming.  Times like this make me feel like I really am a writer.

I really needed this good news because I had a really tough teaching day.  I can't get into specifics, but, suffice to say, I had to put on my stern professor persona.  It was very difficult.  The situation isn't completely resolved yet, but I think everything is going to turn out fine.  I found the whole ordeal a little exhausting, however.  I stressed about it all day and then, afterwards, felt completely drained.  If I were a drinking man, I'd be on my third or fourth gin and tonic by now.  Instead, I'm sitting here, typing a blog post about how much I want to drink.  Does that make me a virtual alcoholic?  Or do I have to virtually black out a few times first?

It is Web dip Monday, and I do have a question that's been bugging me for a while now:

Is life ever going to get any easier?  (Imagine me dragging myself out of bed at 4 a.m. for work, this question on a repeating loop in my mind.)

And the answer from Charlotte is:

"That remains to be seen.  But I am going to save you, and I want you to quiet down immediately.  You're carrying on in a childish way.  Stop your crying!  I can't stand hysterics."

That is not a clear answer.  It's more like the answer my mother used to give me when I was a kid and asked stupid questions.  Instead of saying "no" immediately, my mother would say, "We'll see."  She left the door open just enough for me to believe anything was possible.


Saint Marty appreciates that open door policy.

I ain't afraid of the po-po, neither

October 6: Struggle Builds Character, Crock of Sh#@, "Web" Dip

A lot of people have told me that struggle builds character.  That which does not kill you makes you stronger.  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

I am here to say that all of that is a crock of shit.

Struggle sucks.  When I'm coming down with shingles because of struggle, it sucks.  When I leave work with my shoulders and neck full of little fists of worry, it sucks.  When I look through a pile of mail and find only bills, it sucks.  None of that builds my character or makes me stronger.  It just gives me sleepless nights and weary days.  Crock of shit.

So, my questions this Web dip Monday:

Will this struggle--all of it--ever come to an end?

And the answer from the spider book:

Dr. Dorian closed his eyes again and went into deep thought.  "Henry Fussy," he mumbled.  "Hmm.  Remarkable.  Well I don't think you have anything to worry about..."

Well, Dr. Dorian, I worry all the time, and not about talking pigs or Henry Fussy.

Saint Marty needs to go take a sleeping pill now.

And it sucked.

September 29: Writing Blog Posts, Meaning, "Web" Dip

Sometimes, when I sit down to blog, I find myself staring at a blank computer screen for a very long time.  It's as if every interesting or useful thought in my head has decided to go out for pizza.  What I'm left with are observations about the weather ("It's cold and rainy today") or my physical state ("I'm so tired I can barely depress the space bar on my keyboard") or work ("Tedious and tiring--see previous observation about my physical state").  Basically, what I'm trying to say is that I'm a dry writing well this evening.

I usually have a game plan when I sit down to write a blog post.  I kind of have an idea about my subject, and I kind of have a basic structure for what I'm going to say.  If I don't have these two elements in place, I tend to ramble aimlessly, and I hate that.  I don't like writing that doesn't have meaning and purpose.  Whether that purpose is to make people laugh, think, or get pissed off, I usually have a method to my insanity.

When I find myself without any compelling subject matter, I write about it. Thus, I am blogging about not having anything to write about tonight.  It's an interesting exercise.  Short story writer Flannery O'Connor would sit at her desk in front of her typewriter every day for three or four hours.  Sometimes she wrote five thousand words.  Sometimes she didn't write anything.  The point was to be at the desk, ready for the Misfit to appear on the page.  (Those of you familiar with Flannery will understand that reference.)

That is my job this dreary evening.  To write, even if it's not very good.  Because, when I sit down to write/post tomorrow, something decent may appear.  The start of an essay or short story.  A rough draft of a poem.  This I know for sure:  if I'm not at my desk, with pen and journal or laptop at the ready, I will miss the chance of shaking hands with my next writing project.  Flannery knew that, as well.

My Web dip question this evening is:

Will I write something tomorrow with purpose and meaning?  Something good?

And E. B. White's answer is:

"Oh, it's coming all right," [Charlotte] said, lightly.  "The plan is still in its early stages and hasn't completely shaped up yet, but I'm working on it."

Hmmmmm.  Even Charlotte has to sit in her web and wait for her plans to take shape.  She's got to put in the time, just like Flannery O'Connor.

And Saint Marty.

Flannery's desk

September 15: Son Problems, Punching, "Web" Dip

Well, my son had a clean record for the first two weeks of first grade.  Today, the record fell.

While on the playground before school began this morning, my son punched a classmate in the face and got in huge trouble.  No detention or suspension.  However, he is now a marked child.  The playground aides are going to think he's a troublemaker.  His teacher sent home a note I had to sign.  The principal was notified.

While my son was taking his bath, I asked him what happened.  "I don't know," he said.  "I just got mad."  I tried to get him to tell me more about it.  He couldn't.  As he was getting out of the bathtub, he looked up at me and said, "Is something wrong with me, daddy?"

It broke my heart.  He looked worried and sad.  I gave him a hug, told him that everybody gets angry.  That he just needed to learn how to control himself more.  "I just don't know," he said, "why I do it."

He's a conflicted little boy, and, of course, I worry about him, for him.  I worry that he really has some kind of problem.  Mental illness.  Impulse control.  Whatever.  I just want him to be happy.  Have friends.  Follow the rules a little.

My question this Web dip Monday is:

Will my son have a good year in school?

And the answer is:

"Oh, it's coming all right," [Charlotte] said, lightly.  "The plan is still in its early stages and hasn't completely shaped up yet, but I'm working on it."

You know, that's a really good answer.  It reminds me how young my son really is.  He's in his early stages.  He's testing the waters, so to speak.  Navigating the social landmines of school.  He isn't completely shaped yet.  That's coming.


What I do know about my son:  he loves to play.  Has a great imagination.  Cares about people.  Cries when he sees somebody else crying.  Will share his chocolate bar.  Gives the best hugs.  Loves unselfishly.

Saint Marty knows his son is a good person.

My son--the future saint--and his sister

September 8: Poetry Meeting, Office Time, "Web" Dip

Greetings, disciples.

I am sitting in my office at the university.  My windowless office.  At 6 p.m., I have a meeting with the grad students who will be poetry editors for the literary magazine this year.  It is my first official appearance as poetry editor, and I'm hoping the poets will be on board with the direction I want to go this year.  I have no idea who the poets are.  I don't know if they will like me or think I'm unqualified for the position.  It's either going to be great, or it's going to really suck.

I must say that I'm not a big fan of my new office.  It has that new office smell.  Sort of like new car/new furniture/new carpeting.  I think it's a combination of paint and rug glue.  I am no longer in the quietest corner of campus.  I'm sort of in the thick of things.  Smack dab in the middle of the English Department.  There are always people in the hallways, conversing, holding forth, socializing.  It's not my thing.  I much prefer a ninja approach to office time.  Get in as quietly as possible.  Do your time.  Slip out without anybody noticing.

But I can't go back to my old office.  All species of the English Department are to be housed in the same zoo now.  If I want a view, I have to walk across two hallways to see the ass-end of campus.  No private reveries sitting at my desk any more.  No watching the sun set as I blog.

I am trying not to be maudlin here.  I don't think I'm succeeding.  So, I guess I'll just ask my Web dip question for this week:

Am I going to be a successful poetry editor of the magazine?

And the answer from the great book of Charlotte is:

"You're terrific as far as I'm concerned," replied Charlotte sweetly, "and that's what counts.  You're my best friend, and I think you're sensational.  Now stop arguing and go get some sleep!"

Well, I'm going to be terrific, according to a little fictional spider.

Now, Saint Marty just has to convince a group of graduate students the same thing.

Not feeling it just yet

August 25: Watching the Emmy Awards, Shallow Stars, "Web" Dip

Here I sit, watching the 66th annual Emmy Awards.  I've been bathing in the glow of self-congratulatory back-slapping and vapid humor.  There the shallow stars stand onstage, looking winded and shocked, saying things like, "This is just too much.  I don't believe this.  I didn't think I was going to win this year."  Then they dig into a sleeve or pocket or bodice and remove an acceptance speech.

Every year, I watch these awards shows.  Emmy Awards.  Oscars.  Golden Globes.  Tony Awards.  For me, it's an exercise in mockery and envy.  Beautiful, rich people who have everything possible awarding each other gold statuettes for being better than other beautiful, rich people who have everything possible.  That pretty much sums it up.

I haven't seen anything too surprising.  The same actors are winning this year who won last year.  So, it's like watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory on TBS.  It even has Jim Parsons.

So, my question is:

Will I ever win some self-congratulatory, back-slapping award (Pulitzer, National Book Award, Nobel Prize, Blogger of the Year, Best Father Who Made His Son Cry a Little Tonight Award)?

And the answer from E. B. White is:

The crickets sang in the grasses.  They sang the song of summer's ending, a sad, monotonous song.  "Summer is over and gone," they sang.  "Over and gone, over and gone.  Summer is dying, dying."

Well, that's depressing.

Saint Marty's gonna call this post done.

Really?  Again?

August 18: Beers, Reality, "Web" Dip

Went out for a couple beers tonight after work.  Yes, that's right.  I said beers.  Two very large apple beers at a local pizza place.  By the time I stepped away from the bar, I was pleasantly...happy.

The occasion was a visit with my friend, Matt.  Great guy.  Fantastic writer.  Foodie extraordinaire.  He just got back into town from his summer book tour.  We talked about books and rodent phobias and Ferguson, Missouri.  We dished about the upcoming semester at the university.  Matt and I share a similar take on higher education (that it's full of elitist, privileged babies).  He has been lucky enough to get a full-time, tenured position in academia, but he doesn't ever lose sight of his roots.  (He spent years working in the food industry before he went to college.)

Maybe it's the alcohol in my brain, but I find myself contemplating the reality of my life.  I don't think I will ever get hired to teach full-time at the university.  After 18 years of contingent teaching, I could fall off the roof of the science building and nobody in the English Department would notice.  (I might get a bouquet of flowers and a nice card.)  It's a difficult realization.  I really thought hard work and dedication would get me somewhere.  It hasn't.

So, perhaps I shouldn't drink beer.  Or perhaps I shouldn't ponder reality.  Or perhaps I shouldn't dream of a better life.  Let me ask E. B. White:

Should I dream of a better life?

And his answer this evening is:

"It's about Fern," she explained.  "Fern spends entirely too much time in the Zuckermans' barn.  It doesn't seem normal.  She sits on a milk stool in a corner of the barn cellar, near the pigpen, and watches animals, hour after hour.  She just sits and listens."

Dr. Dorian leaned back and closed his eyes.

"How enchanting!" he said.  "It must be real nice and quiet down there.  Homer has some sheep, hasn't he?"

Yeah, Fern is a dreamer, and Dr. Dorian doesn't see anything wrong with that.  In fact, he seems to envy Fern.  Sitting in a barn, by the manure pile, talking to pigs and geese and cows and spiders.

Maybe Saint Marty still has a few dreams left.

Doesn't mix with dreams

August 4: Technology Terror, Breakdowns, "Web" Dip

This morning, the cable guy came to our house to install our digital cable box, Internet service, and phone line.  Yes, I have succumbed to bundling.  I'm not a big fan of technology, even though I was a computer science major for many of my undergraduate years.  (I ended up with a math/computer science minor.)  Technology, however, has not been my friend for a good portion of my life.

The Internet is wonderful for some things.  It provides quick research access.  Allows me to not get lost as easily on road trips.  Lets me watch really funny videos of cats.  (Just kidding.)  However, the Internet also enables a lot of behaviors that are quite destructive.  Gambling.  Banking fraud.  Pornography.  It kind of makes sense that such a powerful tool would also be the catalyst for powerfully dangerous activities.

Anyway, allow me to climb down from my soapbox.

So, it was a morning and afternoon of trips to Office Max, Radio Shack, and Best Buy.  After much struggle (and a few tearful breakdowns), I achieved Internet connection.  My DVD player isn't working yet, but I have about 100 more TV channels that I will never watch.  I guess it all evens out.

I do question whether all of today's trips and aggravations were worth it.  Let's see what Charlotte says:

"That's wonderful," said Wilbur.  "How is the plan coming, Charlotte?  Have you got very far with it?  Is it coming along pretty well?"  Wilbur was trembling again, but Charlotte was cool and collected.

"Oh, it's coming all right," she said, lightly.  "The plan is still in its early stages and hasn't completely shaped up yet, but I'm working on it."

There you go.  My technology is coming along all right, even if it's early stages.  Just have to figure out that damn DVD player.

Saint Marty and his big-ass remote control have a date tonight.

Press TV-DVD-AUX-#-@-PAUSE-MENU-DEMAND and then cry

July 21: In Search of Publisher, Remaining Positive, "Web" Dip

My wife told me this evening that she liked it when I was trying to be positive.  I told her that I found it exhausting.  It is not easy, at the end of a really rotten day at the office, to say to myself, "Wow, what a great time!  I hope I get to do that again tomorrow!"  When I get a rejection letter from a publisher, I don't immediately think, "Well, I'm one rejection closer to an acceptance."  That's just not me.

Well, I am going to start looking for another place to send my manuscript tomorrow.  I don't want to enter yet another contest, send money off with the dream that I will somehow be anointed a genius.  First, I don't have that much spare cash.  Second, I am not a genius.  I am a hard worker.  Part of my hard work right now is going in search of a publisher.  It's not as easy as it sounds.  Poetry is not a money-making venture for anyone involved.  You have to be a little off to call yourself a poet, and you have to be even more off to publish a book of poems.

So, I have to find some editor who has a soft spot for poems with a twisted spirituality.  That's my dilemma.  Sounds simple, doesn't it?

My question for this Web dip Monday is,

Will I ever find a publisher for my poetry manuscript?

Well, Charlotte says,

"That remains to be seen.  But I am going to save you, and I want you to quiet down immediately.  You're carrying on in a childish way.  Stop your crying!  I can't stand hysterics." 

OK, no more carrying on.  No more crying or hysterics.  I am going to be saved, and so is my manuscript.


Saint Marty needs to stop kicking and screaming and pick himself up off the floor.

I don't have no sense, either

June 30: Fat and Bald, Submitting, "Web" Dip

So, I was registering a patient at my medical office job this afternoon.  It had been a very long, busy day.  I was trying to help this older gentleman finish one of the forms for his appointment.  One of the questions on the form is "Do you wear glasses?"

I read the question to him, and he answered, "No, I have 20-20 vision."

"So, how do I look?" I joked.

"Fat and bald," the man answered.

I stood in front of him for a second, stunned.  Then I smiled and said, "Well, you look old and rude to me.  Shall we move on?"  And I finished the form with him.

I certainly could get in trouble for my response, if this gentleman decides to complain.  I don't care.  I'm a nice guy, but I couldn't help myself.  My medical office work is not a career for me.  It's a job.  Writing/teaching is my career.  It's what I love.

This week, I've set a goal.  I promised myself that every day this week, starting yesterday, I would submit my poetry for publication.  On Sunday, I sent my new book to a small press.  Tonight, I e-mailed some poems to a magazine editor with whom I have a connection.  Tomorrow, I will enter a contest.

So, my question for this Web dip Monday is:

Will I get my new poetry collection accepted by a publisher this summer?

And the answer from the little radiant pig is:

"You know," [Zuckerman] said, in an important voice, "I've thought all along that that pig of ours was an extra good one.  He's a solid pig.  That pig is as solid as they come.  You notice how solid he is around the shoulders, Lurvy?"

OK, so Wilbur is a solid, winning pig.  Zuckerman finally takes notice.

And fat, bald Saint Marty is going to get his book published soon.

Suck it, you old, rude bastard

June 16: Health, Not Wealth, How 'Bout Happiness, "Web" Dip

It's been a good day.  I got off work early this afternoon for a doctor's appointment.  I was so happy to be able to leave my job that I literally could have been having a rectal probing without anesthesia, and I still would have had a great afternoon.

My doctor's appointment was great.  I have been an insulin-dependent diabetic for 33 years.  I have no diabetic complications.  My feet are fine.  My eyes are fine.  My blood pressure is great.  My cholesterol is normal.  I'm pretty healthy, for an overweight poet.  I celebrated this news by going for a run.  It was 80 degrees, and I stopped at a kids' lemonade stand to buy a drink and a cookie after I was done.

So, I've got health.  I don't have wealth.  Happiness?  Well, that depends on the day.  Tonight, I have happiness.  I just finished a great novel, and I'm enjoying writing this post.  Soon, I'll brush my teeth and go to bed with my wife.  We'll read our nightly devotions together.  Then, my happy day will be over.

Happiness really is a choice.  I woke up convinced that I was going to thoroughly enjoy myself today.  I did.  Now, if I can do that all the time, I wouldn't have to take a sleeping pill every night.  I'd wake up excited for the day's challenges.  Choices.

My question this Web dip Monday is:

Will I have happiness this week of my life?

And the answer from Charlotte:

...Charlotte had finished her web.  The word HUMBLE was woven neatly in the center.  Nobody noticed it in the darkness.  Everyone was tired and happy.

Message received.

Saint Marty has some positive choices to make.

I'm not sure, either

May 19: A Cool Thing, Poetry Editor, "Web" Dip

So, a really cool thing happened to me last night.  I went with a friend to a bonfire.  This bonfire was hosted by the managing editor of Passages North, the university's literary magazine.  It was a wonderful night of s'mores and chips and Milky Way candy bars.  Lots of grad students and creative writing teachers in attendance.

As I was eating my first of several Milky Ways, Jen, the managing editor/host (and a sweet, wonderful person to boot), said, "So, Marty, would you be my poetry editor?"

The current poetry editor for PN (and another great friend) is retiring.  I knew that was happening.  I've been the senior poetry editor at the magazine for the last three years.  It's been a great time.  I've had a hand in publishing a lot of great poetry, including work by Donald Hall and Norman Dubie.

I was humbled and thrilled by Jen's offer, and I accepted it.  Of course.  I'm not an idiot.  In the fall, I will officially be the Poetry Editor of Passages North.  I guess my title right now would be Poetry Editor-elect.  Or something like that.

My question for the Good Book of E. B. White this evening is:

Will I be a good Poetry Editor of PN?

And the answer from Charlotte is:

"Special announcement!" said the loud speaker in a pompous voice.  "The management of the Fair takes great pleasure in presenting Mr. Homer L. Zuckerman and his famous pig.  The truck bearing this extraordinary animal is now approaching the infield.  Kindly stand back and give the truck room to proceed!  In a few moments the pig will be unloaded in the special judging ring in front of the grandstand, where a special award will be made.  Will the crowd please make way and let the truck pass.  Thank you."

Well, there you have it.  If a pig can get a special award, Saint Marty can surely hold his own as Poetry Editor.  Even if Charlotte's not around to help with the proofreading.

Seal of Approval

March 10: Motivation Drought, Jobs, "Web" Dip

Every day I work at the medical office, I find myself struggling for motivation.  I show up with the best of intentions to accomplish a great deal, but, pretty soon, I fall into a line of thinking that goes something like this:

• You are a good employee.
• It really doesn't matter whether I'm a good employee or not.
• People are counting on you to do your work.
• But those people are taking your job away from you and making your life a little hellish.
•  I can't feel proud of my work because it just doesn't matter.
• Is it lunchtime yet?

It's a motivation drought.  I've been experiencing it for the last couple weeks.  I don't feel like doing anything, especially hunting for a new job.  The very thought of it makes me tired.  I can't convince myself that this is some kind of wonderful opportunity to stretch my limits and try new things.  I'm even struggling to string sentences together for this post.

Perhaps this bout of ennui has something to do with daylight savings time and the fact that I lost an hour of sleep last weekend.  Or it could have to do with the fact that it feels like my life is slowly being dismantled, one occupation at a time.

I'm going to do a Web dip, but I'm not sure that E. B. White has the solution to my problem:

Am I going to start feeling more motivated soon?

And the answer from White and company is:

After lunch, they stretched out and fell asleep.

OK, that sounds like a great idea, but it certainly doesn't inspire me to greater heights, loftier goals.


It inspires Saint Marty to take a nap.

Mmmmm-hmmmmm

February 24: Displacement, Exhaustion, "Web" Dip

Well, this morning I found out that I'm being "displaced" from my job in the medical office.  Some change in policies, and now I have three months to find another position within the organization.  Organization.  That's what the managers and vice presidents and CEOs and CFOs call the huge health care system for which I work.  I don't really want to work for this organization any more, but I need to make money and have insurance.

I'm still adjusting to the news.  I've moved from sheer panic to incredibly pissed.  I told my wife when I called her with the news that it feels like God's been kicking me in the ass for about 14 or 15 months now.  If I knew the meaning behind my divine ass-kicking, I'd probably be a little more accepting of this whole situation.  But I can't seem to get a break.  Ever.

There's not going to be a silver lining to this post.  Sorry, folks.  I'm not going to try to make a silk purse out of this sow's ear.  My goal today is to make it through my film class and my poetry workshop without going completely crazy.  Then I'm going to go home and go to bed.  I'm exhausted.

My question for this Web dip Monday is:

Are things ever going to get easy for me?

And E. B. White's answer is:

...The cool and kindly breath of evening entered through doors and windows.  Astride her web, Charlotte sat moodily eating and horsefly and thinking about the future...

Well, that's not really an answer.  More like a description of how Saint Marty's feeling at the moment, minus the horsefly.

I'm not sure if I'm the spider or the fly