The Final Fobutah (pronounced "fuhBYOOtuh")

Sadly, Marchioness and Happily Married Straight Friend of Gay Boyfriend Chick didn't make it. And, you know, Th. and Melyngoch and Queen Zippergut abandoned us long ago. And now Tolkien Boy and I will be abandoning us. The end of an era, folks.

I love my Fobs.

Regarding Rejection

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It occurred to me this afternoon as I stood in line to buy $1.98 in postage to send "Devin in My Bedroom" to Seattle, that I have become desensitized to rejection--rejection is simply my routine--which realization reminded me that it was not always so. It used to be that a rejection meant months before I could send something else out--even though I was not hurt per se, there was still some recovery time required for the dashed expectations.

Now I'm to the point where I can be chatting with Tolkien Boy and email an Emily Dickinson spoof to The New Yorker at the same time--because hey, why not?

Yes, I try to match my work with each outlet, but eventually I have to send stuff out or nothing will happen. I have to believe that no one else here would rack up the zillion rejections I have without earning more than ten dollars. I would have to check my list, but I believe I have twelve pieces out right now. Not bad. Each has been rejected at least once before. Some as many as five times.

There is no inoculation against rejection. You have to work through it. But coming out on the other side is not impossible. Nowadays, I don't even blink at rejection. Someday, when something is actually picked up for real money, I just might die of shock--success is the last thing I'm expecting right now.

I don't know if zero expectations are good or bad. But at least they allow me to keep the USPS in business.


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WWAG (a serious post)

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Long before Fob (about three years), I was part of the Writer's Guild, a group with a shamelessly plagiarized name that met on BYU campus and complimented each other. Sort of the antithesis of Fob, in other words--precisely the sort of writers' group decent writers warn you against.

I used it, however, in forming my idea of a proper writing group to be called WWAG (Writers With A Goal, the goal being publication), a group with totally awesome franchising possibilities.

Fob is essentially a WWAG, inasmuch as genuine criticism is shared and work comes out of Fobbing better than it went in.

However, I don't think Fob is WWAG enough. It occurred to me just now as I was rescaninng Tolkien Boy's year in review that he (and the rest of you) are writing good stuff. Publishable stuff. It's ridiculous that we haven't more publication credits to our good Fob name.

I think we need to start getting more serious about the Goal. Part of Fobbing needs to be the discussion of markets and the reporting of sendings. I've gotten a rejection and a this-market-is-no-longer-alive this week. I'm not boasting of rejection, but think about it. Let's start with editorgirl:

You all are constantly talking about how brilliant she is and et cetera. I have only had the pleasure of reading a couple pieces so I'm not fully educated on the wonders of editorgirl, but I trust Fob's analysis. I want to know how many times she has submitted to Poetry or Ploughshares or The Sun or wherever. And if that number is low, I want to know why the hell the rest of Fob hasn't pressured her into mailing more.

Melyngoch! Now here's a poet I'm more familiar with. A poet of skill and beauty who demonstrates to me just how stuck in prose I will remain. How many submissions, Mel? What about Jonah--you sold that yet? Why not? It's brilliant.

And Mr Fob himself. You are a prolific and excellent writer of YA novels. Why don't you have an agent yet?

Look, Fobs, we're not getting any younger. I just hit thirty and you kids will be there soon enough. When were you planning on winning the National Book Award?

The time is now.

I want some accountability. I want to know where stuff is going and I want to see lists of rejections. If we need another Unspeakable Contract with Evil, sobeit.

"Sobeit"--I like that.

Anyway, I am Theric. And I have more rejections than Dr Seuss.

Note: Do to time constraints imposed upon me by the Albany Library, this is another rough draft. Forgive me.

All around the world

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I'm just using Tolkers's list of Fobs, so if some one is missing or misnommed, blame him.

Jeph will have West Xylophone, because he doesn't really exist either.

Queen Zippergut can have Qatar because dropping the U is an excellent place to start.

Happily Married Straight Liberal Friend of Gay Boyfriend Chick? This is a real person? Am I supposed to believe in someone whose name is Happily Married Straight Liberal Friend of Gay Boyfriend Chick? Whatever.

Theric gets Thutopia. A place beautiful and wonderful and which no one else seems to be able to find on a map. Typical.

The Marchioness gets Britain because I figure that's where Steventon is. If it's a real place at all....

To Edgy Killer Bunny goes Canada. Because you knowhe wants it.

Melyngoch can have the rest of the Commonwealth and good luck with it.

editorgirl [sic] can have her choice of ecuador [sic], egypt [sic],el salvador [sic], equatorial guinea [sic], eritrea [sic], estonia [sic], ethiopia [sic], europa island [sic] or bloody eivissa [sic]; but I would recommend estonia [sic] because they have the best berries.

Tolkien Boy receives, by my grace and my grace alone, Hobbiton, a place of fantasy and joy and friendship and crumbling plaster and chipped paint. I rather think he'll like it.

Master Fob gets nothing. 'At'll learn 'im.




Do to library constraints, this post was not edited.

Tolkien Boy's Votes

Appendix - Jeph

A holdover from days when the Fob ate grass like the common antelope and needed extra organs to deal with digesting the tough stems, Jeph served no purpose in the modern-day Fob and was quickly excised after he became infected. Thanks to plastic surgery, the scars from his removal are virtually invisible in today's Fob.

Heart - Queen Zippergut

Never ceasing to be upbeat, Queen Zippergut pumps out cordial feeling to the rest of the FOb, even when others are heartless. There was, in fact, no coincidence in the incidence of her being concerned about her husband's heart health, for she needed in a conjugal partner a similarly strong ticker.

Skin - Master Fob

As the largest and easily the most visible member of the Fob united, Master Fob has a number of responsibilities--he hosts the other Fob members inside his house, regrows new members of Fob when other members have been scraped away, and handles all the touchy-feely stuff, most importantly rejecting virulently sappy writers from attempting to infiltrate the bgroup.

Facial Hair - Happily Married Straight Liberal Friend of Gay Boyfriend Chick

Described often in terms of his lack, a small dose of Gay Boyfriend Chick's friend nevertheless made Fob more logically appealing to straight women. He also disguised the fact that Fob has no chin.

Ear - Edgy Killer Bunny

Insisting on a well-balanced approach in both sense and style, Edgy's voractious reading habits have allowed him to hammer at times on the anvil of stubborn artstic hubris. His aversion to water notwithstanding, he's given many a Fob a stirrup in their endeavor by translating their inane babblings into understandable messages for the general public.

Spleen - Thmazing Theric

Though praised for his unusal name, no one is quite sure what Th. is all about. In a practical sense, however, he is excellent at determining the difference between nourishing prose and awful offal, and his position far from the "boobies" and yet close to those organs which can be "penetrated" (depending on one's relative comfort and personal convictions) reveals the middle-of-the-road attitude that helps him digest whatever writing comes down the tube.

Kneecap - The Marchioness

Demonstrating her bent to keep the Fob flexible, the Marchioness has joint ease in sharing with the Fob her prose or her poetry. Further, she writes frequently on the Mormon experience, asking us to question whether kneeling is, in fact, the most effective form of exercise (especially when repetitive squats have so much more a visible effect upon one's social standing).

Abdominals - editorgirl (sic)

As the most sexy member of Fob, editorgirl (sic) often supplements her writing with a six-pack of Diet Coke that is enjoyed by every member of Fob. Even more importantly, she holds the stomachs of the Fob in her hands, strengthening and supporting our ever-addictive need for all things chocolate. You might say, if you had a literary bent, that we're umbilically connected to her.

Pituitary Gland - Melyngoch

Like the pituitary gland, Melyngoch is responsible for Fob's growth (she introduced Tolkien Boy, after all), blood pressure (when she insists that shitting is a proper epithet), breast milk production (in defense of her own blood), sex organ functions (neither male and female members of Fob are immune to her charms), the conversion of food into energy (most specifically, anything caffinated), and osmolality.

Mouth - Tolkien Boy

Basically, Tolkien Boy is adept at three things: eating, kissing, and a lot of talk.

Poll

If Fob were a body, which part would each of us be?

Chapter 30 and a half, or Come Hell or High Water

Melyngoch was the first to push through the thick blanket of snow that had avalanched upon the FOB. She wriggled out of the tunnel and stepped out into the biting wind, gritting her teeth. Whistling, she looked out over the ruined valley's white landscape.

"A fire, I think, is in order," said Tolkien Boy in a strained voice as he struggled from the snow tunnel he, Melyngoch, and Petra had been digging for the past hour. "Petra and I could use some warmth on our hands before the fingers fall off, and I'm sure that the seven down below have burned whatever energy was left in that pan of brownies."

"Six down below," corrected Petra as she, too, slithered from the tunnel. "Don't forget that Jeph met his untimely demise two days ago."

"Untimely?" muttered Tolkien Boy under his breath, but Melyngoch and Petra were already both searching for firewood and so, shrugging, he went to join them.

When at last they had a merry fire blazing in the clearing, Melyngoch leaned over the tunnel and bellowed for the other Fobs to join them. editorgirl (sic) came out first, blinking in the snowy sunlight and clutching an empty brownie pan.

Th. was close behind, a ragged look on his face. "They're drawing lots down there to see who gets to carry Jeph through the tunnel," he said. "I tried to convince them that he'd be easier to carry in pieces, but I was voted down four to two. They've got your name in the drawing, editorgirl--just thought you might like to know."

"If you think for one second I'm dragging that carcass up that tunnel," started editorgirl, but she was quickly drowned out by Edgy's grunts as he came backwards out of the tunnel, dragging Jeph's body by the feet. The Marchioness made up the rear of the strange procession, grimacing as she pushed Jeph's shoulders through the narrow opening. "It's a bit like giving birth, isn't it?" she asked cheerfully.

"I hope not," said Melyngoch feelingly. "Bloodsucking babies are scary enough. Bloodsucking babies that look like Jeph are justifiable infanticide."

The Marchioness was followed by Queen Zippergut, who was followed after a short pause by Master Fob, who was still licking brownie crumbs off of his face.

"How does it feel to be reborn, brother?" quipped Edgy as Master Fob sat down wearily by the fire.

"A bit like it did the first time," said Master Fob. "At least, as far as I remember."

"Justifiable infanticide," murmured Th., just loudly enough for the Fob to hear.

"What do we do now?" asked the Marchioness, throwing a stick in the fire.

"Well, first we figure out where we are," said Master Fob.

The rest of the Fob turned to Petra. Sighing, she said, "The angle of the sun and the fact that these trees are Asian furred poplars indicates that we are still somewhere in the mountainous regions of Tibet. Interestingly, the Asian furred poplar is also commonly called the 'toupee tree' among botanists in England and the United States, mostly through a corruption in translation of the Tibetan word toupeetan, which means a clever ruse."

"I a-rused your mom," said Tolkien Boy, yawning. "Cleverly."

"I don't see how you can be so cavalier about 'your mom' jokes, considering all that's happened," said editorgirl.

"I leered at your mom's calves," said Melyngoch quickly. "We can't back away from our calling, editorgirl, no matter how dire the consequences. We need to carry the banner forward."

"I was forward with your mom's banner," said the Marchioness wearily.

"That's the spirit," said Melyngoch, glancing uneasily at Jeph's frozen, lifeless body.

"Well," said Master Fob, "now that we know where we are, we need to figure out some way to get home."

"We could make a raft of Jeph's body," volunteered Queen Zippergut. "I learned how to make corpse rafts during my last stint as a Relief Society president."

"One body isn't going to be enough for all of us to ride on," pointed out Petra.

"We'll have to kill someone else," said Th. wistfully. With a more alert tone, he then said, "I vote Master Fob."

"Maybe we can just alert someone to rescue us," said Edgy.

"But how would we explain the fact that one of us is dead?" asked editorgirl.

"We could act play it up as an accident," mused Queen Zippergut.

"Or pretend to be surprised," enthused Edgy. "They'll say, 'Hey, that guy is dead!' and we'll say, 'What?? No wonder he's been so quiet!'"

"Sure, no one's ever tried that before." The Marchioness rolled her eyes. "Maybe we could pretend we just found him like that."

"And the fact that he's wearing the official FOB T-shirt, now available for only $12.99 in select stores, won't make anyone suspicious?" asked Master Fob.

The Fob were interrupted in their discussion by the sudden arrival of a hunched gypsy woman, who stared at them huddled around their fire with her one good eye.

"Begging your pardons," she said, "but would you spare room 'round your fire for an old gypsy woman?"

"No," said the Fob as one, leaving Edgy to add, "Sorry, but we've had no luck at all with one-eyed gypsy women. They usually give us more problems than we need."

"Love you, ducky, I'm no stranger to problems," cackled the old woman. "But these ancient ears couldn't help but overhear that you're trying to cover up the suspcicious death of one of your members."

Petra snorted. The rest of the Fob looked at her, shrugged, and looked away.

"Well, it seems to me," continued the old woman, "that the easiest thing to do is to say he perished of the bitter cold here in the Tibetan mountains while the eight of you were vacationing."

"That's...plausible," admitted editorgirl hesitantly.

"It's brilliant!" cried Master Fob. "Any idea how we can get off this mountain?"

"Well, unless I'm mistaken," said the old crone as she turned to hobble away, "at least six of you have cell phones that get excellent service high in the mountains."

The old woman smiled to herself as she heard the heavy sound of six hands simultaneously smacking six foreheads.

Fob in Mono (a poem)

Melyngoch has been taken back to her secular world
Tolkien Boy has bid Provo farewell
Editorgirl is with her family
Doing something.

Edgy is taking his mother-in-law out for dinner
Marchioness is working
And the rest
Don't count.

So
I
Fob
Alone.

!

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Laddies and gentlewomen, one thousand.

Nonsense exercise

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Habba davva. Excuse me. Yes.

Time to sing the song
the song
the song
the song

Sometime I like to have the artichokes on the side

the thorns
they cut
the thorns
they cut
the thorns

I think we should
stop
and go to

I think we should stop

Here

Are the

Here are the

The times that all men

That all men and sometimes women

Women who are

Who are

Who are

Who are

Who are here
there
here
there

Now

Now is the time

I am here

The time

I am the time

Here

I am

I am the time

Here


No one was coming, said the

Said the

Said that no one was coming

I heard it

I heard it said.

FOBlog

I head it aloof

I heard it said

I love you said the

Now

Now

Now
is the time

I said

The FOB Report, August 10th

Nobody brought anything to read. This is very sad. I briefly considered printing up part of the book Th. and I wrote a draft of last summer, starring such characters as Darryl Street and Angie Vanderherff (who have not been merged into a single Darwin), but when I opened it--for the first time in almost a year--I decided it is not yet ready to be read by anyone other than Th. and myself. So we ate apple pie and ice cream (provided by the Marchioness) and watched the Simpsons.

In other Fob news:

• Edgy is thinking of adding a Dec to his house, which is confusing because he already has a Dec.
• Melyngoch devirginized a pair of lips this week.
• Tolkien Boy did not go to Seattle today, as several of us pointed out in shocked dismay.
• Editorgirl (capitalized at the beginning of a sentence) found out who shot Mr. Burns.
• The Marchioness had to leave early to close the mall.
• Tonight was the last night of Summer Fob, as Melyngoch will be returning to the state named after Mr. Jones next week. Tolkien Boy is now on his way up to Ogden, so his Fob attendance over the next month, until he goes to Seattle, will be sporadic. After I go to Seattle next month, who knows what will happen to Fob Utah? I'd like it to go on without me, but that's really not up to me. Sigh. I am, however, happy for the coming Fob Northwest, spearheaded by TB and myself, and hopefully supplemented with some Weed. The important thing, of course, is that eFob lives on.
  

Good night, my friends. Fob on.

Marketing advice

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1. Come up with a snappy title. (Killer Rats!, good. Rats that Sometimes Kill People Particularly at the End of Chapters, bad.)

2. Get a memorable hairdo. (Flock of Seagulls, good. Senatorial, bad.)

3. Get the attention of major new organizations without getting the attention of the law. (Tightroping from the Chrysler Building to Newark, good. Driving over the YMCA's Toddler Park Day, bad.)

4. Have a snappy quote to be your trademark. ("Hoop! hoop! huzzah!" good. "I like children," bad.)

5. Be polite and kiss people's cheeks like a socialite. ("So nice to meet you," good. "My word, your cheeks taste good!" bad.)

6. Be "artistic." (Ancient corduroy jacket / hair beads / paint-stained jeans, good. Football uniform, bad.)

7. Accidentally let slip a tendency to engage in an otherwise unknown sexual habit. ("Why, just the other day, Larry, my lover and I were teacupping and--oh dear! Did I just say that on national television?" good. "I like ponies. Huh. Huh huh huh," bad.)

8. Start a public feud with a better established writer. (Norman Mailer, good. Your neighbor's precocious kindergartner, bad.)

9. Publicly announce that you are giving up a favorite food because of a greatening spiritual awareness. (Nougat, good. Human flesh, bad.)

10. Praise Theric. ("Why, if it weren't for Theric I would still be living out of my van," good. "Why, if it weren't for Theric I could still be wearing my football uniform," bad.)

Fobby, Fobby Night

It would appear that I, Edgy K. Bunny, get to start the narration of this evening's fobbery. This is somewhat appropriate in that I was kinda the first person here, assuming you don't count editorgirl (Tolkers would put a sic here, but I don't adhere to said conventions) or Melyngoch, who was being domestic in the kitchen, baking a cake in honor of the Marchioness's pending anniversary of her birth.

Anyway, moving right along, wrapping myself in my own narration because I think I'm lost in the discussion not understanding why exactly it is that Agnes is Death but not Death, since I was actually on time for a change, which means much earlier than many others, I joined editorgirl in watching So You Think You Can Dance, watching to see [hmm . . . apparently Melyngoch and editorgirl are going to be all sorts of sexy together tomorrow night . . . I'm lost] who would get booted this week. (Fortunately, it was Ivan and Natalie, who deserved to go, leaving the door wide open for Travis, who can actually dance, and Benji, who is limited in his dancing but can perform and thereby fool the average American audience, to battle for America's favorite dancer. May Heidi win.)

Umm . . . I'm really lost now.

Eventually fobbery started. The Marchioness got to begin it with an intermediate novel that is alphabetical in nature with a princess who has too many names that may prove difficult for the target audience.

Then we moved on to Melyngoch's opaque (her word) story with cultural references above my head and not enough speaker tags for me to keep up (but I'm slow that way). But I should just throw in a note that Mely is brilliant, even if I don't get it without an explanation.

Now we're on to editorgirl, which just demonstrates how slow I am when it comes to narration, which is why you should be fully understanding of the delay in the progress of the Foblog Novel. Poetry is cool.

Fobby and Tolkers are fighting now. And editorgirl is threatening arson. Such a violent evening. It's likely because Tolkers will be abandoning us within a week. Jerk.

Happy flower moments are grossly overrated. Whatever workshop suggested this to editorgirl must have issues.

Tolkers isn't quite so good at the jive talk. It leads to much amusement.

And how did you get mono?

Oops. I just confused Tolkers's "Good Riddance to You" song with the Marchioness's "Happy Birthday to You" song. How embarrassing.

Marriage = Death. Just so you know.

If trees are the answer, what is the question?

It is demoralizing for the great white eagle to be raped by robins and pigeons. (Don't ask, because from what we can tell, the moral of the story is to napalm the children.)

Last week, we solicited artists for the Fob. We would like to be more specific at this time and clarify that we would like a straight black guy. Apparently there is also an offer on the table to trade one gay guy for five straight guys, two of whom will be black.

Reviewing Fobby's novel's characters can be a bit confusing, especially when the conversation detours to He-Man and his hairy speedo.

Please join us in the mantra, "Fobby, nothing is happening. Fobby, nothing is happening." Thank you.

Fobby's writing produces a visceral reaction--toe jam . . . yum. And Tolkers's tongue retracts.

Fobby also writes such that he gets to sing to us.

Read Jane Austen in Boca. The Marchioness says so. Apparently it's Pride and Prejudice with seventy-year-old Jewish women.

Extranational Romanian adoption, anyone?

There is narfing going on, and Fobby and I are lost.

The Marchioness would like our straight black guy to also be tall and noncommittal.

Tolkers is thinking about Fobby's raspy oobs.

Please excuse the intermission wherein Edgy visits the necessary room. Editorgirl's necessary room is like walking into a whole new season.

Fobby gives editorgirl pity points. And we listen to cool covers of standards, namely "Over the Rainbow/Wonderful World," by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole as featured at the end of Finding Forrester.

Apparently I missed the eighth grade, because I'm not understanding why the first line of Tolkers's writing tonight is so funny.

And Tolkers doesn't know why his own characters have watches. We're not supposed to talk about that.

Have any of you ever heard delicate or refined snorting? If so, please send a description to the comments.

Tolkers's story left Fobby cold and unfeeling, sucked dry by a blackhole, as it were.

There is no such thing as too much fun, but there is such a thing as too much alliteration. Especially if it brings a country song to the Marchioness's head.

Discussion has ensued as to how to appropriately spell law archaically. Your options are: a) lawe b) lau c) lavve. Possibly more.

And now the fobbery is over. It's late, and Edgy must return to Salt Lake. Mely must acquire a ride home, preferably to her own. Fun and food was had by all.

Wish the Marchioness Happy Birthdays on Monday.

Oh, and I'm having a housewarming party a week from Saturday. Details will be forthcoming.

So that's all. Good night, and good luck.


As a note, you may be wondering why this entire post was written by me--Edgy--but it was posted under editorgirl's login. In theory, we were going to all contribute to the foblog as be normal; however, I just got going, and then Fobby noted that this is the most I've blogged in weeks (nearly two weeks, if not more, to be honest), so I just ended up narrating the entire evening. Be upset if you want, but I don't care. Neener neener neener.