Post time

From 2006 through 2009, I was a regular pop culture columnist for the now defunct Cleveland Free Times and later, the Cleveland Scene. The following essay ran on May 17, 2006. 

This was one of the first piece of creative nonfiction I ever sold to the paper, and one of a few precursors to the "Rainy Day Woman" column. Eight years seems like it's yesterday--and like it's a lifetime ago. My, how things have changed.

Riding High, Breaking Even

Smoke hangs low and thick in the cavernous concourse. Guys chewing stogies lean into the bar as they scratch away at the daily racing program. They sip scotch. They sip beer. One shoots a clandestine look over one shoulder, then the other before turning to the guy next to him and begging the question of the moment: "Who do you like in the fourth?"

"The 10 horse is the horse that's in form," says his compatriot in a voice rough as gravel. "I like the 10 horse in the fourth."

There are 50 men to every woman, maybe more.

When the fourth gets underway, all eating, drinking and talking stops (smoking continues). Eyes move to one of the myriad televisions or the outdoor track.

The orgiastic yelling commences.

A man in a droopy cardigan and chinos rises from his seat by the concession stand. "Slow down, Jackson Point! No, Jackson Point! Let that two horse by!"

"Bring it on to the house, nine!" croaks another. He takes a furious drag of his cigarette and stamps out the butt. "Kissy, kissy, kissy, nine. Your daddy's waiting at the house!"

The gravitational pull of the race is inversely proportional to the distance of the pack from the finish line. Men suck in close to the screens or step up to the railing that surrounds the track. Their fists clutch programs, now rolled into tubes, would-be weapons. They beat their palms, the bar, the betting desks. They implore and curse and berate until finally, the horses thunder across the finish line.

There are two eventualities: One is characterized by a victorious hand thrust into the air ("Chatcat is my angel!"), the other by a disgusted throw of the program to the floor ("Goddamn that five horse.")

Their yells disintegrate into murmurs. They pick up the offending programs, check official results and turn to the business of who they like in the fifth.

I have crossed a plenum and entered the world of Thistledown. It thrums seven days a week with races live and simulcast, one ejaculation after another.

Guys wear hats. Guys use canes. Guys talk track.

"It was eight to one, he went off at," says one. "Eight to one!"

"Eight to one?" answers his compadre. "Son of a bitch."

I am a jellybean floating in a mug of draft beer.

"Why can't I just bet on the one with the name I like?" I ask. "Or one wearing my favorite color?" My husband and his associate exchange a wordless look.

"Not the nine horse, that's a maiden," says my husband, ignoring me and tapping the cryptic program.

"The seven horse is a good horse," says his associate. "The seven horse took 21 races last year."

I lose two dollars. I win four on a horse that comes in third. ("Don't say third," I'm instructed. "It's called placing.") I lose six. I bet three. I lose. I try to place a bet too late. I miss this race, that one.

The last race of the day looms. My husband and his associate commiserate over some mysterious phenomenon called the trifecta. I pick the horse whose silks are described as "purple and pink halves."

"My favorite colors," I say.

An old-timer approaches my husband and his associate and gives them each a meaningful look. He circles the six horse on a program.

"You watch the six horse," he says. "Hear me? The six horse." He shuffles back to his seat. My husband and his associate nod slowly and hunker over the program.

The call-to-post bugle rouses a man lying on a bench. He bounds up and begins to dance. He is dressed in a black suit, black tie and black hat.

"That's a good sign," I say.

I watch the horse festooned in purple and pink, number five. He goes from third to second.

I am on my feet. "Come on, five!" I am running to the rail. "Five! Five! Five!" I am slamming my program into my palm. The jellybean is transforming into an old guy with a pocket full of Viagra.

"Five!" I scream. He hears me. He lurches in front at the final moment.

Victorious, I turn to see my husband and his associate still seated at the picnic table. "I won!" I say. They do not respond. They are watching the track with befuddlement.

One horse is rearing and whinnying at the fourth furlong of the five-and-a-half furlong race. The jockey has dismounted. Staff and an outrider approach.

My husband is studying his shoe. His associate chews a fingernail.

"Oh lookie," I say, "it's the number six horse. That one of your trifecta beauties?"

They don't say anything. The rogue horse snaps his head and stamps his feet.

The trainer finally coaxes the protesting horse down the track. He passes the finish line reluctantly. "There he goes," I say. "There goes the jockey. Too bad he's in the sag wagon."

"Did you have to say it out loud?"

We slosh down the remainder of our warm drafts, step through the empty concourse. Porters sweep piles of bet slips up like dried leaves. We pass a fellow as he trudges up the stairs, cigar dangling from his hand.

"How'd you do?" I ask.

"Broke even, sister."

* * *

Rainy day redux vol. five: ambivalence in the happiest place on Earth

From 2006 through 2009, I was a regular pop culture columnist for the now defunct Cleveland Free Times and later, the Cleveland Scene. The following "Rainy Day Woman" column ran on Aug. 13, 2008.

The Reluctant Mouseketeer

We slide the Disney World vacation-planning DVD into the iMac. My kid and I watch over my husband's shoulder as a diverse group of people talk about their dreams as Tinker Bell flits around them. "I grew up wanting to be Cinderella," says a skinny blond chick.

"I grew up wanting to change my name to Moose," I say.

Hostess saluting Cinderella castle

Then a pasty man in a uniform tells us, "There's just so much to experience."

I push pause. "Honey," I say, "take a good look at him."

"Why?" says my kid.

"Because that's what a flesh-eating vampire looks like."

The video gives way to happy children running toward an open-armed Mickey. Twirling princesses, not-so-menacing pirates, affable "cast members" and a sea of dazzled faces all aim to verify that dreams really do come true.

"It's like a death sentence," I say, then lower my voice. "Ms. O'Brien, we're sorry to inform you that you only have about six months until you go to Disney." My husband responds with The Look. I sigh, stand with resignation and totter off to the garage for a beer. (It was December. This is Cleveland. Where else would the Budweiser be?)

As the Days Until Disney dwindle, my dread and trepidation mount. All too soon, I am pried from my computer, dragged clawing backward through the house and muscled into the backseat of the car. I'm on my way to five days and four nights of Mouseketeer fun.

"The horror, the horror," I lament as we pull out of the drive.

One thousand miles later, we reach the acres of desolate Florida grassland that buffer the land of the Mouse from the rest of the world. It's like a penal colony, I think, you can't even run away. I am taken at once to a place called Hollywood Studios.

"Rock 'n' Roller Coaster!" cheers my enthusiastic party.

Goat and friend

OK, fine. We take a turn at the giant "Sorcerer's Hat," hurry down "Sunset Boulevard" and bustle past the menacing "Tower of Terror." Our frantic dash concludes at the line for the coaster, the corral for which is housed in a cavernous dusky-rose structure. Unseen speakers pump out Aerosmith's "Pink."

To my chagrin, something I never expected wells up in me: respect. My first bona fide Disney experience has me slowly penetrating a giant vagina with none other than sex-king Steven Tyler providing the soundtrack: "Pink as the bing on your cherry ..."

Soon enough, a blast of icy AC heralds the interior part of the line. More Tyler and flashing lights. We pass through a door fashioned from abacus-style beadwork. I run my fingertips along its inviting surface, as does everyone else - vrrrrrrrt. We spill out onto the loading deck and the ride is finally visible.

And when your humble author - whose childhood was punctuated by her father's mandate to watch every Indianapolis 500, Can-Am race and Grand Prix - sees a roller coaster tram take off from a dead stop to 60 mph in less than three seconds, she does exactly what her father would have done.

"Holy SHIT!" I bellow.

A family clad in identical "Donahue Disney 2008" shirts turns to see who just plopped a turd in the community punch bowl. I cast my eyes down apologetically as the bovine-like queue moves thankfully toward the blasting trams.

I am on my way.

Let's go again and wait! Space Mountain and the Haunted Mansion. Sure, I'll have giant turkey leg. Get a Mickey-shaped Dove bar while you're at it, baby. Splashing in a turquoise pool. Yeah, that's my face spreading into a dopey smile as fireworks explode above Cinderella's castle.

It is a small world, after all.

"Let's do the Kilimanjaro Safari!" Expedition Everest, DinoLand U.S.A.; Finding Nemo and Africa; Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and Tomorrowland. I throw open my arms and run through the glorious sugar-spun delusion as though I'm filming the montage sequence for my very own Erin Does Disney documentary. We spend our last day at Epcot. What could be inside the giant dimpled ball? "Spaceship Earth," says one of my compatriots. "It's a ride."

If the Rock 'n' Roller coaster was an unapologetic ejaculation, this is a gentle swim through amniotic waters. My daughter and I float along in the Omnimover car. We swoop past the Prehistoric Man, twirl around the Islamic Empire and glide by the Renaissance. Then all goes dark, save points of twinkling light above; call them stars. I gaze up and reach out, giggling in delight.

All too soon, the stars fade. The Industrial Revolution and animatronic Phoenician merchants diminish into memory. We are delivered unto the blazing afternoon sun. Within hours, we are on our way home.

I push my forehead against the car window and watch Disney, in all of its seamless perfection, recede into Neverland. Back in Ohio we'll relish the last of the summer's sublime sweet corn as the ice and snow of winter loom. In my house of wood and brick, I'll fall into the dimensionless splendor of my husband's bed while time chips away at the asphalt roof and the concrete drive. Then, in my simple wonderland of contrast, I'll turn to my right and weep tears of joy over my daughter's laughter; I'll turn to my left and weep tears of sorrow over my father's grave.

*  *  *

Rainy day redux vol. four: Wear it Well

From 2006 through 2009, I was a regular pop culture columnist for the now defunct Cleveland Free Times. The following "Rainy Day Woman" column ran on Sept. 9, 2007. 

An Open Letter to the Person who Stole my Hat

You shitbag.

Go ahead and say I asked for it, that this is what I get for leaving the windows of my Mini Cooper open in the Famous Footwear parking lot. Were you teaching me a lesson by reaching in and grabbing my red and white bucket hat from the driver's seat headrest?

Erin O'Brien and hat in Mini Cooper

The Mini and I don't ask for much. We don't take more than we need. The hat looked good on me and when I wasn't wearing it, it looked good on the Mini. There was even a tiny Mini Cooper pin on it.

Who steals a floppy hat that you couldn't sell for a half-dollar at a garage sale? Did you take it just to be mean? You didn't take anything else, not the stack of CDs or the $5 in the ashtray. Nope, just the hat. Too bad it wasn't full of lice.

I hope that hat makes your coffee cold and your ice cream hot. I hope you have a squeaky little dick or saggy boobies or an embarrassing body odor problem. I hope that hat brings you bad luck. I hope...

Wait.

Maybe that's not quite right. No, it's not; it's not right at all. That's not who I am or who I want to be. Let me try this again. Let me take it from the top.

Erin O'Brien and hat, 2005

Here's a secret: I believe in magic. Not the rabbit-out-of-the-hat sort or the kind that compels skinny weird chicks with black hair to do chants and buy vials of patchouli-scented oil, but the sort that really delivers. My magic says if you don't clutch your money too tightly, you'll always have enough. It makes your cat purr and your dog's leg pump the air when you scratch his belly.

There is this shitty holiday cartoon Frosty the Snowman. The animation isn't very good and the music is irritating, but just five minutes ago, when I was typing about a squeaky little dick, some of that magic I'm talking about wafted over me and made me think of that cartoon. I won't go over the whole plot, but it's about a shitbag magician who can't do any magic and probably went around taking worthless stuff out of Mini Coopers when he wasn't failing at doing shitty magic. One day he throws his magician's hat away and it blows in the wind and lands on this dorky snowman. The effing snowman comes to life and dances around and makes all the kids happy.

You've got a hat and I believe in magic, so what the hell, why not try it? Go ahead, put the Mini Cooper hat on. Think of it as taking the "e" off of "hate." Presto! You're left with a hat. Don't be shy. Slap it on. I'll wait right here.

Anything happen?

Did your hair grow 2 feet long? Did you instantaneously become ticklish? Did you get the urge to sit cross-legged? Or blast Iggy Pop and dance madly backwards? So do it.

Do all of it.

Look at the grocery clerk's name tag and say, "Clara is a wonderful name." Why not? It's true. Smile at the crunchy old bus driver. I promise he will smile back. Abracadabra! He is beautiful. Gimme 50 cents and I'll show you how to make it rain M&M's.

No, no, don't take the hat off now. You're just getting started. Take a big breath, fill your lungs all the way up. Then close your eyes and let it out as you open those peepers slowly. It's not your imagination. Euclid Heights Boulevard really is a rainbow. Coventry is a pot of gold. The old shoeshine man is Frank Sinatra and the lunch waitress is Bettie Page. Of course those are real diamonds sparkling atop Lake Erie in the sunlight. Why don't they sink, you ask? It's the magic, you doof!

Calling you doof is more fun than calling you shitbag.

The falafel sandwich you're eating as you walk down West 25th Street tastes like the best thing you ever ate because it is the best thing you ever ate. And even though that guy sitting on the step can't play a tune to save his life, drop the change and crumpled-up bills from your front pocket into his guitar case. Now turn the other cheek, baby, and I'll give you a kiss.

I can't stop laughing either.

Blow out all the candles or find a glittering star. Make a wish. But the flickering flame and star are just for show. The power is in the wish.

What? You already knew that? Then the mojo is really smokin'.

Hey. I've changed my mind about the whole thing. Go ahead and keep the hat. When you're ready (don't worry, you'll know when you're ready), slip it over your driver's seat headrest. Leave all the car windows open while you go buy a new pair of shoes. Maybe you'll bring a snowman to life in Cleveland in September.

I just did.

* * *

Rainy day redux vol. three: finding sexy in the most unexpected places

From 2006 through 2009, I was a regular pop culture columnist for the now defunct Cleveland Free Times. The following "Rainy Day Woman" column ran on Feb. 6, 2008. 

The Way You Move

It is a humid summer morning. My husband is working all day. My daughter is not yet two. But I have a plan to break up the long day before us. I pile the kid and her associated gear into the car and head downtown for Parade the Circle.

Crepe-paper streamers and papier-mâché masks peek from a white tent behind the art museum, but other than that, there isn't much action on University Circle. No kids on decorated bikes, no booths touting "Best BBQ Pulled Pork," no Good Humor ice cream carts.

A poster for Parade the Circle on a telephone pole informs me that the event is the following week. No wonder I nabbed such a great parking spot. I slump in disappointment and maneuver the stroller around only to see a man on stilts approach, his glorious dreadlocks bouncing 10 feet in the air. I blink at him in disbelief.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," he says.

"Guess I missed it by a week," I say, feeling like an idiot.

"Yeah," he says. "In fact I'm on my way to practice. You can come back, no?"

"I'm afraid we'll be out of town," I say. My kid stares at him, fascinated. He smiles down at her. And then he inflates with magic.

He starts to undulate and sway, swoop and lunge. His arms are graceful wings, his dreads are swinging tendrils. He is a swan, a dolphin, a gazelle. My daughter gurgles and coos, pumps her tiny fists in the air. I am just as smitten.

He bows deeply in conclusion. I thank him again and again through a toothy grin. In character now, he silently nods goodbye and turns away, his body waving like a frond in the wind.

I am stymied in the vacuum of his energy. His confidence, his kind smile, his stunning control of the stilts, his masculine physique all combined into something extraordinary.

Sexy.

Without so much as one whisper about inserting tab A into slot B, he had it in nines.

An epiphany bloomed for me that day. After years of battle with a beleaguered self-esteem, I ceased to be intimidated by glittering starlets, Cosmo cover models and Playboy centerfolds. Sex might be everywhere I turn, but sexy is still rare and elusive.

Smoking might have been the dumbest thing I ever did. I looked awful whenever I stuck a butt in my mouth and smelled worse for the entire 10 years. But when you would lean over and flick your Bic at the tip of my Marlboro Light, the sideways smile I sent over in return had nothing to do with that filthy habit and everything to do with a different little flame that ignited between us.

The way you handled your money: sliding bills toward the bartender to cover a round at the Riverwood when no one was looking. Slipping an extra five under the sugar bowl despite the bad coffee and hamburgers that tasted as though they hadn't said "moo" in a long, long time. You didn't hold on to your money too tightly, yet you always had enough. It's about the same with a woman.

And the fact that you don't take that for granted makes it even better.

Although I laughed until tears squeezed from my eyes when I pulled it out of my Christmas stocking, I was thinking that when a man like you buys a toy like that for a woman like me, baby, that's saying something.

Don't say that. I disagree completely. In fact, I love your work clothes. I love the way the rough chinos hug your hips. I love the striped shirt and the way the embroidered name patch rests just over your heart like a promise.

Come over here. I'll unbutton it for you.

Let me look at you: the shape of your lips, your eyes when you smile. Dear sweet Jesus, just let me look at you.

My god, how I love this bed. I'll take thick comforters, lush sheets and soft pillows over a chest full of diamonds, rubies and gold any time. Nestle in here with me and I'll show you a real treasure.

When you take both my hands in your hands like that, pull them up above my head and hold them there, all the tears I've ever cried evaporate.

The perfect velvet blue of dusk will be gone in an instant. It's slipping away already. But I know a secret way to hold onto it: Lace your fingers in mine and put your mouth on my mouth until the edges between us blur. Don't think too hard, just make a wish.

Now close your eyes and I'll make it come true.

* * *

Rainy day redux, vol. two: who pays thousands for lifelike RealDolls?

From 2006 through 2009, I was a regular pop culture columnist for the now defunct Cleveland Free Times. The following "Rainy Day Woman" column ran on May 30, 2007. 

Guys and Dolls

RealDoll is one part sex, one part Madame Tussaud attraction, and one part Barbie, a life-size, anatomically correct silicone doll that weighs between 85 and 115 pounds. She is manufactured by Abyss Creations, which ships about 400 units per year, mostly within the US. The privilege of her company costs $6,500 to $10,000, with customizations going as high as $50,000.

Owners of the eerily realistic dolls are the butt of jokes and the subjects of unsolicited psychological analysis and feminist soapboxes worldwide. Nonetheless, RealDoll fascinated me and I smoldered with curiosity about those who admire her.

Abyss is fiercely protective of its client list, but referred me to an online doll forum, wherein over 19,000 members talk all doll, all the time. I opened an account, introduced myself as an interested writer and began asking questions. The exchange that ensued was jaw-dropping.

Rules of conduct are prominently posted on the home page. The first forbids pedophilic discussions. Derogatory statements about other members and those demeaning women are also not allowed. The rules are adjacent to ads that feature photos of phalluses, dolls, lubricants, etc. The synthetic vaginas, either on dolls or amputated torsos, bothered the hell out of me. I don't know why. Perhaps because they were so symmetrical and colorless and well-behaved.

Things started off well enough. Men told me they love the beauty of the dolls. They dress, pose and photograph them and pretend they are real. Some enjoy the feeling of sleeping next to someone. Most agreed that the sex is not as good as the real thing. Members are married and divorced. Some are virgins, at least with real women. Many have difficulties with relationships.

Then things got ugly. I was labeled a troll, there to bash and vilify doll owners like so many other writers had done in the past — if I was a writer at all. I posted links to my home page and published articles. They were promptly ridiculed. Then a member asked me some questions.

"Do you want to have sex with a doll? How would you feel if your husband bought a doll so much more beautiful and sexually attractive than you could ever be and began having sex with it on a regular basis, leaving you to look in the mirror at your middle-aged body with stretch marks, menopause rushing in on you." The barrage went on and on. Then I garnered a few hang-up calls as the online badgering continued. Enough was enough. I excused myself from the exchange. "Aloha!" cheered one member.

Then I discovered that the troubling questions had come from a woman who owns a female doll. The revelation stunned me. And research proved previous journalists had indeed been one-sided and unprofessional. When other members deplored the treatment I'd gotten and urged me to tough it out, I did, concealing my emotions with varying degrees of success.

Logging on each day filled me with trepidation over what new post or private messages awaited me. I learned only to expect surprises. One came from a member who loved painting portraits but no model was patient enough for him. "A lifelike doll seemed the ideal solution. However, when she arrived, I was so taken with her realism that I automatically became fond of her." As I sighed for Pygmalion and his lovely Galatea, another member yanked away the fuzzy-blanket moment. "I do not sleep, cuddle or talk to [my dolls] and consider them more as prostitutes or willing photographic models and lastly as an interactive sculpture, no more."

Then there was this: "I love my dolls and I talk to them all the time. Every one I know or talk to knows about my dolls. Even my 5-year-old wants to have a tea party with them."

The lengthy thread was peppered with comments that infuriated me. "They keep their legs closed unless you want them open, which typically is not a trait of women after the first year of a relationship." I read this as the graphic at the top of the page offered up yet another spread-eagle torso, conveniently crafted to sit atop any table. "Real girls get old, gray, fat, full of wrinkles," added another member as a pocket vagina ad flashed at me. "They never talk back," quipped another member about the dolls. "I can find my credit cards. My checking account stays balanced. They never ask to drive my truck. They don't eat much." This was punctuated by a laughing emoticon.

Ha.

A few mirthless snorts later, I read this: "You do everything for [the dolls]. You must protect them from damage, repair any damage, bathe, clothe, and move them everywhere they need to go. Imagine a wife that has become a quadraplegic. Would it be right not to love her?"

The doll owners endeared me most when they talked shop on threads other than mine:

"Please, can you tell me what to use to make a mold of boob and what type of material to use to make boob realistic?"

"If I had to do it again I would have gotten a B7. You don't hear me complaining about B6, not at all. Her body is great, and her boobs are too. But I like a little bit more chest, something a B7 provides."

"Mix batch of silicone repair kit — enough to fill vagina half way or more (add pink color if you like pink inside). Insert mold to get a depth reading. Mark at labia or just below. Remove mold and coat entirely with release agent "

Hold that thought, boys, while I get another beer.

"Feeling this way about an inanimate object concerned me and I consulted a therapist who finally convinced me that there was nothing wrong with me, it's just something that society doesn't understand."

"I'm still a virgin with real girls. Soon, I'll be visiting a high-class escort girl to lose that title."

"I am the guy that all he ever wanted was a wife, kids, dog, cat, little house in the 'burbs and a station wagon. But after I passed 40, I was older than I ever wanted to be to start a family."

"Some [of us] were hurt in war and can't get a real girl."

The most stunning admission came from a member who was unable to engage in something humans have been doing ever since they figured out how.

"In the end I couldn't get over my hand. It just seemed dumb. I tried everything to make it work." He was unable to masturbate for 40 years. Forty years! He discovered the dolls. They appealed to him and he bought one. It worked. "The ability to engage in a natural human pastime has freed me I'm in a great space to date." But now he is terrified that potential girlfriends will find out about his secret. "I wish I could meet someone cool because I have so much to offer. I'm into monogamy, but someone has to realize that for me to give up the dolls is a huge sacrifice."

I went away hoping desperately that he would find his fair lady.

* * *

Rainy day redux, vol. one: advice for would-be scribes

From 2006 through 2009, I was a regular pop culture columnist for the now defunct Cleveland Free Times. The following "Rainy Day Woman" column ran on Jan. 16, 2008.

Actual rejection slips fielded by an actual writer who shall remain unnamed

Yeah, Write 

This is what it says:

Dear Writer, Unfortunately this submission does not meet our current needs. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it and good luck. 

- The Editorial Staff. 

But you're certain it says this:

Dear Fuckhead, 

Thanks for sending this piece of shit submission. We laughed our asses off over it! Greggers thought the crap about the broad knitting booties for the dead baby was so funny, he highlighted it and tacked the page on the break room bulletin board. Trudy laughed so hard at the blood scene that Diet Pepsi squirted out her nose. 

Publish it? Yeah, right. Maybe in our "Greatest Shits" issue. Ha! 

You poor chump. Are you butt-ugly on top of being a no-talent hack? Got a body odor problem? Thank Christ you're miles away in the Mistake-on-the-Lake and not in our hallowed New York. 

Why not trade in the keyboard for a nice repetitive factory job? Or you could learn how to extinguish burning rivers. Get it? Burning rivers? God, I'm killing myself over here! 

If you have any more melodramatic slop like this, do send it our way. We can always use a good laugh.

- The Beautiful, Thin, Copiously Published Staffers of Machete Magazine

Now baby, I know you've honorably honored their no-simultaneous-submission policy for the 17 months they've had your story. I know that, per their 42 submission guidelines (which you had to request via USPS with a self-addressed stamped #10 envelope), you used 11-point Lucinda Grande font on 24-pound bond paper with the inclusion of your name, address, Social Security number, age, weight, height, sexual orientation and dental records (on the title page only). I know you sent the submission 12 weeks prior to their annual reading period (Nov. 1-7) as directed. Hence, I understand why you want to respond to this rejection with a letter that begins with "Dear Cocksuckers."

Resist this urge.

The writing world is small. You do not want to find yourself in front of "Dear Cocksucker" as his eyes narrow to slits and his lips curl into a thin smile. "Oh yes," he'll slowly purr. "I remember you." Not good. But I understand that you need to do something, so I offer the following suggestions.

1. Eat. 

Cheese is a good theme. Kraft Pimento Cheese spread. Cheetos. Schuler's Bar Cheez. Comfort food is what you need. Hey, I know! Cheese fondue! Mmm, dunk that chunk of bread in there and horf it down. Let the hot cheese drip down your chin as you go for round two: a half-pound blue cheese bacon burger with a side of curly fries doused in Cheez Whiz. Top it off with a fat slice of Oreo cheesecake. Nummy-num-num. Comfort yourself enough and maybe you'll land a spot on The Biggest Loser. Who doesn't want to be harnessed to a medicine ball as Jillian screams, "Keep crawling. Come on, crawl! You can do it, crawl!"

2. Drink.

Best to do this at a dark nameless bar heralded only by a neon "COCKTAILS" sign that glows blood-red in the window. Accept the ministrations of a thoughtfully nodding gent named Nick or Johnny or Sam who swabs down the otherwise empty bar with one hand while pouring you a shot of Dewars with the other. Say things like, "They wouldn't know a double entendre if it bit 'em in the ass." Then put back the shot in one deliberate motion and swallow it with a grimace. While the low jazz thrums in the background, stare intently at your empty glass for a meaningful beat. Then shake your head in disgust and defeat and say, "Pour me another one, Johnny."

3. Screw. 

A solid roll in the hay is one of my favorite ways to dampen the hard edges of rejection aftermath. Unlike the cheez-a-thon, it's carb-free and will not act as a suppository for your aorta. Unlike option 2, you can do this at home and you'll remember it. So go find a willing partner and break out the Batman suit and Crisco. As you lie upon the bed with smoky-eyed satisfaction, take a moment to congratulate yourself for succeeding at something. And hey, if you need to do it alone in order to circumvent any additional rejection, that's fine too. Just don't tell anyone about the Batman suit.

~~

Now that you've amply soothed your fragile ego with gluttony, booze or sex, it's time to step out of the self-pity cloud.

Get a steaming cuppa something and sit down at the computer. Open that short story and print it out. Read it. Yeah, that second section is anemic. Cut out all those modifiers and let the verbs do the work. Delete, delete, delete. Fix the language at the end and give the main character a perfect detail, anything to help flesh him out (maybe he loves cheese fondue to a fault). There you go. That's much better. Now sleep on it.

In the morning, go over it one more time and polish. Pull out your Writer's Market. Run your finger down the pages. Stop at the first literary magazine entry listed after Machete Magazine.

You know what you have to do next.

* * *