Foblog

Surprise!

2007-04-23T00:31:00.001-07:00

.

Boy! I'll bet you didn't expect me to post here! Ho ho ho!

Remember Me?

2007-02-09T12:44:00.000-08:00

I guess it has been a while since I last posted. Ever since Master Fob left the library and Provo. But I am now working at West Jordan Library and I am over the book group. So if anyone would like to be a part of a blog book group just go to the link www.westjordanlibrary.blogspot.com. How is everyone?

Foblimericks

2007-01-23T22:38:00.000-08:00

Sir Jupiter told of a man vying
a beautiful chick to be lying.
But--not even the sages
in US Weekly pages
could know that the man would be dying!

Tolkien Boy slyly derailed us
with superheroes. How they regaled us!
But unless he corrects
this absence of sex,
oh! How the fellow has failed us!

Master Fob--well, what can we say?
He's always been sort of "that way."
It's not so much the bangles,
but, yes, the hard angles
that help us to know that he's gay.

Weed knows that pure elocution
can often be cause for confusion.
Abstinence, that's the thing,
so he neglected to bring
any writing, to gain absolution.

My Descent Upon America

2007-01-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

Let it be known to Fobs far and wide that I, the Queen Zippergut, will deign to visit my subjects in the United States in the state of Utah commencing on March 27, 2007 and ending on April 17, 2007.

Yes, this is during the Easter holiday and yes, that means that you should all come running, flying or driving to see me during that three week window.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

That is all.

Testing

2007-01-21T14:29:00.001-08:00

Do you suppose this works now?

Fourth Fob

2006-12-28T08:14:00.000-08:00

On the fourth day of Christmas,
My true fob sent to me
Four times a-fobbing,
Three Moral Persons,
Two Costco cakes,
And a starling in Tehachapi.

Third Fob

2006-12-27T11:08:00.000-08:00

On the third day of Christmas,
My true fob sent to me
Three Moral Persons,
Two Costco cakes,
And a starling in Tehachapi.

Second Fob

2006-12-26T17:45:00.000-08:00

On the second day of Christmas,
My true fob sent to me
Two Costco cakes
And a starling in Tehachapi.

The First Fob

2006-12-25T21:51:00.000-08:00

On the first day of Christmas
My true fob sent to me
A starling in Tehachapi.

A Prelude to the Twelve Fobs of Christmas

2006-12-25T21:48:00.000-08:00

It's not going to be as good as I thought it would be when first it occurred to me. Perhaps I should have heeded Tolkien Boy's warning.
"My true fob" can be substituted by "Your mother" at any point.

Foblic Service Announcement

2006-12-20T20:23:00.000-08:00

The Foblog has been upgraded to the new Blogger (no longer in beta). This means that those of you who post here will have to upgrade in order to post. Apologies if I've paved your paradise and put up a parking lot.

PhD ruined the surprise

2006-12-18T16:54:00.000-08:00

Happy Christmas anyway.

Santa?

2006-12-16T22:58:00.000-08:00

.

This was more work for less payout than I expected, but I though I would post what I have, four portraits as presents to four Fobs.

If I can gather myself up again, perhaps I will make more.

As it is.....

Well, Merry Christmas, anyway.

Suspense...! Intrigue...! Exclamation Points...!

2006-12-14T02:22:00.001-08:00

You know, we here at the FOBlog often post summaries of what happened the night before, but we never catch other readers up. This is why I have taken it upon myself to provide this group with a great teaser clip to start today’s FOB:

>>NARRATOR (with deep, gruff voice. Possibly Don LaFontaine from all those movie trailers): PREVIOUSLY ON FOB!

>>MasterFob: Our mutual boss said that you left the store unlocked overnight.
>>Tolkien Boy: You take that back!
>>Sir Jupiter: Hey everyone, I brought a cheesecake!
>>Foxy J: [glares suspiciously] Strange…I was under the impression that I was supposed to make brownies.

[RANDOM GIANT EXPLOSION]

>>Foxy J: Hey look, a plucky neighbor boy. Perhaps he will add comic relief.
>>Plucky Kid: Or perhaps I will add intrigue by somehow blackmailing you and you won’t see it coming because I’m only nine years of age.
>>Master Fob: Wow, for a child you’re rather articulate.

[CLIP OF TOLKIEN BOY PEERING FROM HIS CAR…NOT SURE AT WHAT]

>>Mr. Weed: I’m so amazed at the miracle of childbirth.
>>Mrs. Weed: But are you sure the baby is even yours?
>>Mr. Weed: [raises an eyebrow]

>>NARRATOR: …AND NOW FOR THE NEXT EXCITING INSTALLMENT!

*cue theme music*

For Master Fob, Merry Christmas

2006-12-11T22:55:00.000-08:00

An Acrostic Poem

Master Fob is
Awfully swell, for
Sometimes he will
Teach us well, about
Each thing we
Really want to tell.

Fiercely and clearly, we sound accolade!
Always, we ask him, our stories to aid!
Be with us forever, until we get...paid!*

Merry Christmas, Master Fob!

*original wording emended. --ed.

The Great FOB Gift Exchange

2006-12-10T10:59:00.000-08:00

WHEREAS the Fobsters are flung wide throughout the country, following their own muses and making their own messes (which they will clean up when they're done with them, thank you very much); and

WHEREAS this holiday season is a time when people remember those whom they love, including self-described egoists, medaevalists, and hymenealists; and

WHEREAS the combined FOB love each other, up to but not including Jeph, whose appearance in the FOB Pantheon was for the sole purpose of acting as a foil, anyway;

THEREFORE, Tolkien Boy (hereafter referred to as "the party of the first part") proposes that during the Christmas Season (being technically the period between midnight on Thanksgiving Day and midnight on December twenty-fifth, but lasting "all year" according to some country-western songs) the FOB united (hereafter referred to as "the kickin' parties of the second part, who sound eerily like a aeronautics industry") focus those energies not wrapped up in buying gifts for family members and friends (hereafter referred to as "those parties which are never as fun as FOB parties, somehow") in providing gestures of goodwill to other FOBsters via the Internet. Thus,

Introducing the GREAT FOB GIFT EXCHANGE.

1. All "gifts" must be able to be posted on the FOBlog. This can include accolades, reminisces, your-mom jokes, pictures, poetry, short works of fiction, and what-have-you.

2. Anyone who can post on the FOBlog can participate.

3. Anyone who can post on the FOBlog should participate.

4. No one should be left out.* If the moderators feel that someone is being left out, the party of the first part will write a stinging rebuttal.

5. If Theric and Tolkien Boy are the only ones who contribute, Tolkien Boy will seriously consider getting a joint blog with Theric and giving up on the FOBlog. No stress.

6. References to the word "moist," "pelvis," and "lumpenproletariat" will make the party of the first part shudder.

7. Humorous renditions of the "12 Days of Christmas" are not welcome.

*The moderators realize that some of the FOB do not read the FOBlog. It is okay to leave these B.A.'s out, as they are a disgrace to FOBdom.

The Fobriarchal Order

2006-12-04T22:53:00.000-08:00

In the beginning, there was Master Fob.

Master Fob=Fob 1 Manifestation 1

And Master Fob said, it is not good for Fob to be alone. So he pulled a rib from his side, and from it formed Theric.

Theric=F2M1

Then, from Master Fob's spleen and Theric's left big toe came Queen Zippergut, and together the Fobs said, let there be FOB.

Queen Zippergut=F3M1

Late as usual, Melyngoch finally RSVPed in December.

Melyngoch=F4M1

For a season the Fobs enjoyed peace and prosperity, but then came the Great and Terrible day of Theric's passing to another plane, also known as California. The Fobs weeped and wailed and gnashed their teeth, and then, in their ignorance, created a golden idol in Theric's image, and called him Jeph.

Jeph=F2M2

Jeph was a busy Fob and quickly found he had no time for fobbery. And so he too passed, and his passing gave light to Tolkien Boy.

Tolkien Boy=F1M3

Again, for a time the Fobs prospered, and in their prosperation there was much your mommery to be heard throughout the land. Then came another Great and Dreadful day in which Melyngoch and Queen Zippergut followed Theric on to the next level of existence, the former in the state known as Indiana and the latter in the state known as Marriage. Before they left, though, they each blessed the earth with their holy spit, and from that union of saliva and clay were born two new Fobs, editorgirl and the Marchioness.

Marchioness=F3M2
editorgirl=F4M2

In the age of the new pantheon, Fob enjoyed more multiplication and replenishment than ever before, as Happily Married Straight Friend of Gay (ex)Boyfriend Chick and Edgy Killer Bunny were called down from the cosmos, and Petra was sculpted from the collective feces of all Fobs past, present, and future.

HMSFGBC=F5M1
Edgy Killer Bunny=F6M1
Petra=poop

At the height of this bold new era of fobbiness, Master Fob looked down on his subjects and saw that they no longer needed his watchful eye, and therefore saw it fit to create a new world in the previously unorganized space known as Seattle. Though all were invited, only the most loyal Fob, Tolkien Boy, followed his master to the New World. There, Master Fob and Tolkien Boy touched their fingertips, recited the sacred mantra--"Wonder Twin powers, activate!"--and with a great thunder entered Weed and Sir Jupiter the King of Queen Anne into the world, and a new FOB was born.

Weed=F3M3
Sir Jupiter=F4M3

Let it henceforth be known that the diads of Third and Fourth Fob are now triads, and offerings therefore are raised 150%. Make checks payable, as always, to Master Fob.

FOB MAD LIBS SPECTACULAR

2006-12-03T10:58:00.000-08:00

The game is finished. Thanks to all of those who contributed to the FOB MAD LIBS rush--the results are both startling and hilarious. And also presented here.

ORIGINAL
The original was fairly standard Tolkien-Boy fare--rollicking prose style, little confusion as to referrents, too many speaker tags and comma splices:

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a looks snob. Most of the girls I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the supermodel or even the cheerleader type. But I’ve never understood how girls can fall for guys who are so apparently--geeky. Which is what Justin Gesset was. He was the skinniest kid I think I’ve ever seen, so bone-thin his clothes looked like they were suspended from hangers. He had on a ratty T-shirt with some spiritual saying on it that I couldn’t read, baggy khaki shorts, and, to complete the ensemble, black socks shoved into his beat-up white sneakers. He walked out onto the porch with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, found the couch almost by accident, sat down and began strumming his guitar.

From such a normal piece of prose, however, came a variety of wild, wonderful, and strangely insightful stories.

MASTER FOB
Master Fob demonstrated his originality and mastery of the thesarus in his submission. Not much else can be said for his work except that you should note his sensitivity to racial issues in the end of the penultimate sentence.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a mommish your mom. Most of all your moms I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the”your mom” or even the “your mom” type. But I’ve never mommed how your moms can fall for your moms who are so apparently—mommish. Which is what Your Mom was. She was the mommest your mom I think I’ve ever seen, so mommish your mom looked like she was suspended from your mom. He had on your ratty mom with some mommish saying on it that I couldn’t mom, your baggy khaki mom, and, to complete your mom, your black mom shoved into your mommish white mom. He mommed out onto your mom with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, mommed your mom almost by accident, mommed and began strumming your mom.

EDGY KILLER BUNNY
Despite his denial that he's not a talkative prostitute, Edgy nevertheless managed to couple a mildewy G-string with a pole dance--which seems right, somehow. We at FOB wonder, however, what exactly he is "masticating" after he jumps the puppy. Hmm.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a loquacious geisha. Most of the stability balls I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the rotunda or even the sweater vest type. But I’ve never electrocuted while fire extinguishers fall for gemstones who are so apparently—prepubescent. Which is what the Dalai Lama was. He was the tiniest heat wave I think I’ve ever seen, so luminescent his paystubs looked like they were suspended from stun guns. He had on a ratty g-string with some lichenlike saying on it that I couldn’t pole dance to, a baggy khaki rain slicker, and, to complete the paint can, a black belt shoved into his smiley white bobbysocks. He skied out onto the New York New York casino Las Vegas with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, jumped the puppy almost by accident, masticated and began strumming his battery.

eDITORGIRL
Blissfully unaware that one of the FOBster's real name is Alex, editorgirl created a most unusual picture of said FOBmember. Personally, we do not find the outfit she described "cute" in any way, but we must allow for her personal taste. Or, rather, we should convince said FOBmember to come to FOB (at his convenience) wearing said outfit and then we can decide if he truly is the bestest lamp we've ever seen.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bright frog. Most of the rubies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the doll or even the duck type. But I’ve never ducked while picture frames fall for cows who are so apparently—cute. Which is what Alex was. He was the bestest lamp I think I’ve ever seen, so sexy his Q-tips looked like they were suspended from thumbs. He had on a ratty vest with some plaid saying on it that I couldn’t dance to, a baggy khaki skirt, and, to complete the phone, a black scarf shoved into his nasty white belt. He typed onto India with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, hit the computer almost by accident, jumped and began strumming his ladder.

GINSBERG
The brilliant poetics of the writer Ginsberg, so oft-heralded in the brilliant poetics of the writer editorgirl, here show a definite pop culture influence. The words "grood," "frickin'," and "scrumtulescent" can be found definied at Urban Dictionary for those not well-versed in popular neologisms. Be warned, fair reader--Gob Bluth is superlatively claimed as sexy, and there is a description of hobbit sex.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a scrumtulescent pumpkin pie. Most of the amigos I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the hippopotamus or even the “your mom” type. But I’ve never rocked while Beatles fall for cats who are so apparently—frickin’. Which is what Gob Bluth was. He was the sexiest cheerleader I think I’ve ever seen, so grood your moms looked like they were suspended from the Man. He had on a ratty bandanna with some Mormony saying on it that I couldn’t apostatize to, baggy khaki sexy Velma glasses, and, to complete the surfer girl, black fishnet stockings shoved into his nice white pencils. He slept out on Kansas with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, fumbled the frozen banana almost by accident, snogged and began strumming his hobbit.

MELYNGOCH
With her inclusion in the FOB MAD LIBS fun, Melyngoch has become the first person in the history of the English language to write stiltingly about an action figure of Old English antiquity. Personally, though, it seems like a khaki codpiece would chafe so...

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a Lumpenproletariat hepatitis. Most of the nubs I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the grunt or even the mustard seed type. But I’ve never moaned while prepositions fall for protuberances who are so apparently—maladjusted. Which is what Beelzebub was. He was the geriatricest Venerable Bede action figure I think I’ve ever seen, so nubile his hummus looked like it was suspended from flamingos. He had on ratty leg warmers with some pygmy saying on it that I couldn’t palpitate to, a baggy khaki codpiece, and, to complete the eyebrow tweezers, a black sweater-vest shoved into his disheveled white fishnet body-suit. He gasped out onto Limbo with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, panted on the pepper grinder almost by accident, heaved and began strumming his shrunken head.

PETRA
Petra, in her convincing way, provides us a vision of an alternate history than we learned in grade school. Here, Napoleon, a grasping bit of keratin, wears three hats while getting up to his old Empire-building tricks--this time attacking an innocent, if quondam, avid.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a pedestrian dickishness. Most of the monster truck rallies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the lesson or even the ulcer type. But I’ve never perforated while bras fall for loves who are so apparently—squeamish. Which is what Napoleon was. He was the neediest fingernail I think I’ve ever seen, so serrated his comments looked like they were suspended from cameras. He had on a ratty fez with some sparkling saying on it that I couldn’t equivocate about, a baggy khaki derby, and, to complete the misanthrope, a black top hat shoved into his whispery white pith helmet. He entailed out into the Ritz Hotel with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, subjugated the ex-parrot almost by accident, blogged and began strumming your mother-in-law.

QUEEN ZIPPERGUT
From the Land of Eternal Chilly Fog, Queen Zippergut favored us with a non-American alternate of the passage, giving Tolkien Boy's writing a sexy British feel. We do worry, however, what excesses of light deprivation would lead anyone to want to lick his lorry.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not squidgy rubbish. Most of the wellies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the marmite or even the squash type. But I’ve never drunk while plasters fall for Christmas stockings who are so apparently—naff. Which is what the Archbishop of Canterbury was. He was the stinkiest toast I think I’ve ever seen, so flabby his duvet looked like they were suspended from sausages. He had on ratty knickers with some rubbish saying on it that I couldn’t skip to, baggy khaki trousers, and, to complete the soap, a black jumper shoved into his red white wellies. He vomited out onto Windsor Castles with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, stumbled on the thumbtack almost by accident, licked and began strumming his lorry.

SAMANTHA STEVENS
Sam's contribution to the project made the most coherent sense to Tolkien Boy, for reasons which are apparent. We definitely agree with her condemnation of Hercules, for example, and we assume that most of Hercules' pants had some sort of libidinal saying on them. We should tell him, however, that it's a fashion faux pas to shove one's shirts into one's underwear--no matter how nonexistent that underwear is.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a cute trial. Most of the dreams I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the logic or even the style type. But I’ve never smiled while reeds fall for wings who are so apparently—stupid. Which is what Hercules was. He was the sleepiest tharynx I think I’ve ever seen, so fragile his bile looked like it was suspended from swords. He had on ratty pants with some libidinal saying on it that I couldn’t rile, a baggy khaki robe, and, to complete the statue, black flannel shirts shoved into his naked white loincloth. He flicked out onto the Eternal City with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, writhed on the neck almost by accident, fled and began strumming his stomach.

SIR JUPITER
The many, many entendres evident in Sir Jupiter's writing (or, so we assume) are evident in his totally random MAD LIBS experiment, as well. We wonder at him resisting the charm of "drive shafts" and "baskets." We shift uncomfortably to think of bananas suspended from hookah pipes. We clear our throats to read of clambering over Space Needles. And that's not even mentioning the thrusting of produce or the worrisome horse problem...

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a shining Blackberry. Most of the food stamps I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the drive shaft or even the basket type. But I’ve never sauntered while swiffers fall for revolvers who are so apparently—uncanny. Which is what Treasurer was. He was the grandest pizza pie I think I’ve ever seen, so disquieting his bananas looked like they were suspended from hookah pipes. He had on a ratty cummerbund with some dank saying on it that I couldn’t sashay to, a baggy khaki top hat, and, to complete the ensemble, a black brassiere shoved into his glistening white knee-high socks. He climbed out onto the Space Needle bathroom with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, thrusted the coconut almost by accident, rode and began strumming his Clydesdale.

TH.
Th. gave us a probing look into the modern political and literary scene with his ground-breaking accusation that Proust was, in fact, Communist. Though explication of this claim will no doubt be clamored for by the many literary and political critics who read this blog, we are more interested to know where on Earth one can find baggy khaki nipple rings. It seems the perfect stocking stuffer.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not an anemic carjacker. Most of the thoughts I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the fish or even the fishsteaks type. But I’ve never eaten while divers fall for fingers who are so apparently—devious. Which is what Proust was. He was the most Kafkaesque friend I think I’ve ever seen, so red his Wisconsins looked like they were suspended from statues. He had on a ratty cummerbund with some quaint saying on it that I couldn’t ream, baggy khaki nipple-rings, and, to complete the frog, black argyle socks shoved into his blunt white fedora. He steered out onto DC with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, stuck the dweller almost by accident, sought and began strumming his telephone.

More FOB Fun

2006-12-01T12:58:00.000-08:00

For those who are still interested, there's still two days left in the FOB MAD LIBS game. Those who have participated already and want to play some more, never fear...there will be more participatory fun in the month of December!

FOB November 30

2006-12-01T12:06:00.000-08:00

After well over a month of non-FOB-activity, the FOBs returned from their various sojourns in the challenging world of ice and snow that is Seattle, a bit less certain in their footing, perhaps, but as witty as ever in their condemnation of poor writing. Master Fob began the meeting by promptly leaving to attend to "business" in the back room--perhaps, dealing with a young, religiously maniacal Gwyneth Paltrow? (and a tip o' the hippo to you, Sir Jupiter)--and so the rest of the FOBs frittered time away on such subjects as the weather, the weather, and--um, the weather. Fortunately, after a mere forty minutes had passed, Master Fob returned and the meeting began in earnest.

Master Fob continued his foray into derivitave fiction by chronicalling the thoughts of scary Crow meandering through a landscape that most of the FOBs didn't think was in Kansas anymore, Maggie. Most of the people in the short section were angry at each other, but this problem was quickly overcome by an entire squadron of mice on motorcycles who happened to be--by choice, not nature--transvestites (take that, Beverly Cleary!). This, somehow, made everything better, though Weed pointed out that most mice don't carry two helmets in their saddlebags, if you get our drift. Fortunately, this oversight on Master Fob's part was excused--mostly because, hey, he likes Karen Carpenter, so he can't be racist.

Weed then regaled the combined citizens of FOBbery with the story of a teacher who expresses a "specific interest" in providing one of his students with a "special project." Concerns about pederasty were raised--the FOBaction paused momentarily while Tolkien Boy looked up "pederasty" in the American Collegiate Dictionary--but were swiftly resolved when Weed proposed to add as a character a cross-dressing pedophilic teacher named Ben to act as a foil. Much recitation of Tolkien Boy's brilliant poem ensued, though Master Fob claimed that he would be willing to overlook the disconcerting prose if Weed rewrote the teacher to be more excited, physically. Drawing on years of mass consumer television programming consumption, Sir Jupiter reccommended the inclusion of a plucky neighbor kid or talking animal as a panacea, which the FOBs responded to by going to Tolkien Boy's piece.

Tolkien Boy's submission to FOB was, surprisingly, in present tense--a thing which will no doubt surprise the Marchioness, given Tolkien Boy's usual vitriolic opinions on the subject. In it, two young men run into a fire hydrant with their car and a brick wall with their hearts. After the reading, much discussion about the concept of "bastard" ensued, with Master Fob leading the discussion by drawing diagrams in the air. The collected FOB claimed that there are those who do not judge parties by alcohol content, which is ambiguous in Google searches, and that the Ford Focus line of motor vehicle was native to Europe until the 2000's, which Google verifies. Those who wish to know more about these subjects are encouraged to seek out a local information professional.

Sir Jupiter then announced that his brilliant story had been left in a Taco Bell on his way to FOB. If any of our readership knows of a Taco Bell employee who is attempting to have groundbreaking work published, let us know, so we can begin the plaigarism accusations immediately, before the general rush.

Other than that, we hope that you and yours are having a very Merry December, indeed, and the new year will be a creative one for all.

Get your vocabulary right, you Big Appler!

2006-11-29T20:51:00.000-08:00

.

(If you haven't responded to Tolker's post yet, do that first. I just had to get this off my chest now, while I'm still annoyed.)

.

I am currently reading Miss Misery by Andy Greenwald and it's a good read so far. He's a good writer (even if he shares an irritating habit with that other good writer, Ben) and the book is interesting so far. But I'm pissed off about something.

I knew from reading the bookflap that one of the characters was a girl from Salt Lake. Then, in the opening pages, that girl said this:

"It felt like when I went to temple with my parents when I was still too little to start hating it and I believed whatever I heard there came directly from a higher power."So then I thought oh cool, a Salt Lake Jew. That is New and Interesting.

Dozens of pages later I learned that her parents intend a BYUcentric future for her and I realized that no, she's Mormon, just this Greenwald yahoo didn't even bother to do a simple google to see if he had his vocabulary straight.

Oh, I find that annoying.

I don't have anything against people writing Mormon characters, but I expect them to be Mormon. Is that too much to ask?

Because I belong to a much-screwed-up religion, I may be extra sensitive to this. But whatever the reason, I am sensitive and I try hard not to make mistakes like suggesting Mormon kids "go to temple." For instance, in my current project, I have a Nazarene character and she mentions seeing her pastor/minister/whatever. I'm not sure. But you can be sure I'll consult Google to find out what the heck that guy's called before anyone else reads it. Fortunately, we don't see the any scenes where they get churchy, so my research can end there. But if we did, I would make every effort to make my Nazarene readership feel like I had done my homework. Ideally that I must be a Nazarene myself.

Grrrrrr.....

I hope you're all doing your homework....

Love,

Theric

In Which We Focus (For Once) On Tolkien Boy's Writing, Darn It

2006-11-29T16:35:00.000-08:00

Hi, friends. While we're waiting for the thrilling conclusion of the FOB MAD LIBS (trust me when I say it's worth the wait, as it's already given me at least an hour of enjoyment), I wondered if I might take a moment to talk to you about something near and dear to all of our hearts.

I am referring, of course, to Tolkien Boy's writing. Most specifically, the writing that he has already written. I'm getting to the point that I realize that it's not only a self-affirming activity for me to publish--it's also enormously beneficial to my career goals. Hence, I need to become more serious about my publishing activities. I would bring this up in FOB, but many of you that know much about the writing world--coughThericEdgyeditorgirlcough--aren't here. I hope that by opening it up in this more geographically-inclusive format will get me answers that are more conclusive.

I have a number of finished stories, and I wonder if you have any suggestions where they could be sent as per publication. At last count, I have:

A serious science fiction story about a woman in a futuristic society whose high-tech outfit convinces her to kill her best friend.

A humorous story about a young married couple who turn into animals at night, and have to find a way out of their dilemma.

A serious, even dark, story about a girl who creates a love potion to seduce a young man who in actuality loves Karen Carpenter (so to speak).

A serious, realistic story about two young men deciding whether they love or hate each other.

A serious science fiction story about a young man coming of age in a post-apocalyptic world (in this case, the apocalypse is a plague).

A humorous, fairy-tale-like story of a powerful but clueless king of the sky who falls in love with a milk maid.

A serious, slightly melodramatic story about a young man who saves another young man from suicide and then becomes emotionally wrapped up in his despair.

If any of you could reccommend magazines or other formats where these stories might fit, I'd really get a leg up in the quest for publications to send to. School work is dying down some, and I finally have the time I need to focus on this.

And, for those of you who don't have a suggestion, remember there's nearly half a week left in the MAD LIBS rush! Tell your friends and neighbors. Well, your friends, at any rate.

FOB MAD LIBS

2006-11-26T12:37:00.000-08:00

All right, everyone. As we haven't had FOB for weeks now, and as I'm beginning to get scurvy from lack of the citric-acid criticism I'm used to, I thought we might have some fun playing some FOB MAD LIBS. So, if you want to play along, either post your answers on the FOBlog or email them to me.

FOB MAD LIBS
from "Danette, Me, and the Messy Kiwi of Love"

Adjective:
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Superlative Adjective:
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Article of Clothing:
Adjective:
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Article of Clothing:
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Article of Clothing:
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Article of Clothing:
Verb:
Place:
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This special, limited-edition FOBlog fun will only run a week--so be speedy, and be clever!

Help with Egotism

2006-11-21T11:19:00.000-08:00

I vaguely remember a quotation, probably from my creative writing theory class at BYU and possibly from The Fourth Genre (though a scan of the book did not produce the desired quotation), to the effect that it takes a special sort of egotist to write memoir/personal essay--the idea being that you have to assume that people would be interested in reading about you. Does this ring a bell (speaking to editorgirl specifically but to the world generally)?

This is just to say

2006-11-15T00:04:00.000-08:00

I took Theric's challenge, sent in my poetry and SASE, and yesterday I received my first rejection slip.

It feels good.

The Broken Arms (a gushing review)

2006-11-01T18:55:00.000-08:00

.

Tolkien Boy, that bastion of the perfectly sculpted internet essay, has released a copy of his personal favorites in book form. Besides being the first Fob to (finally) investigate POD publishing, he has single handedly saved the Ottoro economy which, previous to this moment, had seriously considered giving up Christmas 2006 as a lost cause, there being no decent Fob paraphernalia to give their loved ones (having given each other the Master's essay last year). (Although one wonders what they have against tshirts.)

At any rate, the book has an excellent introduction (which I recommend) and a fine dedication (which I can't stop reading) and is a necessity for every Fob Lover's collection.

(also available in paperback)

FOB October 26th

2006-10-29T19:50:00.000-08:00

Fox 13 Salt Lake City, that bastion of good taste and high morals, has slithered yet again down that slippery slope of shameless ratings-mongering and featured Master Fob and his lovely family in one of their reporting spots. Yes, Ottorians, FOBWashington is now FOBWashington--As Seen On TV! Of course, and to the disappointment of many fans, the devilishly handsome King of Queen Anne, Weed, and Tolkien Boy were not part of the cast of thousands that performed this epic miniseries, but adherents were allowed a glimpse of the Fobcave, where the bulk of fobwork is performed. Additionally, Master Fob was able to assuage his mammoth ego, knowing that somewhere, someone was writing angry retributive things about the immorality of his chosen lifestyle.

Immediately after this reporting romp, Tolkien Boy arrived with his comically enlarged contribution to the weekly work, which he shoved under the couch, knowing full well that anyone with the eyesight of a cataracted octogenarian could read the script in full at fifty paces. Master Fob, Foxy J, and the irrepressible S-Boogie kept him company until the eleventh-hour arrival of the equally irrepressible Weed and his family.

The FOBs began with a rollicking story by Tolkien Boy in which a conflicted couple seek relief from their woes of incompatibility, and end up resorting to the kiss of a prince who charms the wife but freaks out the husband. Much umbrage came from the collected FOB concerning Tolkien Boy's remarkably top-heavy prose, but as no one made unflattering comparisons to Dolly Parton, Tolkien Boy's confidence was largely unscathed. Scathing occurred, however, when the peach-business-suit-wearing professor was called "too cute," and Tolkien Boy went into a snit that lasted at least ten seconds.

Master Fob surprised us next by delivering a tripartied story in which a weepy black man (straight, for interested parties) was put on a "list" by a motorcycle-driving mouse in drag, a girl walked out of a poppy-laden field to the skirt-stirring refrain of a dry, dusty wind, and a lion carried a puppy on its back. Rightfully claiming the work to be a new triumph in children's literature, the FOBs quibbled over whether the word "gibe" was appropriate for a work of such towering significance. And whether the obvious inferences surrounding things of towering significance applied to Master Fob's writing.

Weed then regaled the FOB with a story about a father's death and a teen's intervention. This confused Tolkien Boy, whose only experience with an intervention came in the form of of a play about reparative therapy written by Carol Lynn Pearson, and so when the teacher in the story bearing Tolkien Boy's name began making meaningful smiles at the teen in question, it all became murky until he learned that this happens often in junior high schools. Academic intervention, that is, not the other stuff of towering significance.

FOB hilarity grew even more hilarious when the King of Queen Anne arrived, though his arrival was met with the reduced hilarity of the Weedfamily, as they left when he arrived. Correlations to the King's hygiene habits and the Weeds's hasty departure were not made, but we're fairly sure Master Fob was thinking them. The depeleted and additionalied FOB stayed up till midnight, recalling the good times and forgetting the bad.

Of course, this wouldn't be a proper fobpost without a shoutout to all our kith and kin scattered across the globe. We hope you all take time out of your busy schedules to watch Master Fob and his family express mixed orientation bliss on your television sets or Internet-capable computers. Remember, it's the least you can do to make sure that FOB continues healthy and strong. WRITERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE!

Going to the experts

2006-10-25T10:15:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of my fiction unit for 218. And let's face it--everything I know, I learned from Fob. I've done a decent job of teaching character and character development, but I'm having a hard time teaching plot. It's just not my thing. . . and apparently my attempts have not been successful. Here are some of the questions/comments/concerns I've gotten from my students:

I usually know how I am going to begin and end the story, and I always know the climax and maybe one or two other scenes, but I never know how to write what comes in between that.
I need help writing good, satisfying endings.
How do I make my storyline both believable and entertaining? Are both equally important?
Where does plot come from?
What are good ways to begin a story?
I can create characters that are complex and developed, but I can't seem to be able to do anything with them.
How do I balance plot and character development?
How do you come up with the idea for a plot?

I know you are all brilliant, brilliant writers, because I've spent hours going over your writing. So what advice can you give my students, and what advice can you give me to teach these things? Or writing exercises that could help? Anything?

P.S. I love you all, and your wit, but I really need serious help here. Thanks. eg

?

2006-10-24T17:17:00.000-07:00

.

According to the Dashboard, someone posted to this blog today, yet no one did. Unless I am blind or crazy.

I'm not blind.

Appropriate to the date

2006-10-17T16:49:00.000-07:00

.

I currently have 17 stories/essays/queries/books out to magazines/agents/publishers. This is a personal best.

I say this not merely to boast, but, well, because it seems to be my job to remind you all to try and sell your work as well.

I mean, seriously.

We have seen what heroines and heros you have lying around, waiting for general acclaim. Let's give it to 'em!

Love,

Theric

A Brief History of FOB Heroes, Including Gay Men But Not Including Jeph or Queen Zippergut, Who Appear to Have Not Written About Men

2006-10-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

FOB HEROES - A FAIRY TALE

Once upon a time, there was a young man who was very, very angry with his father. No, he was not just a little angry, as heroes in stories so often are, but very, very, very angry--so angry, in fact, that he was gay--or perhaps he only had a friend who was gay--but in any case, he or his friend very much enjoyed staring at the slowly revealed backflesh of his scout leader. And this was all, of course, because he was angry at his father (well, everyone, really). Which was unusual, because he was a test tube baby. This caused him to cry a lot (the father anger thing, not the test tube or gay thing), which demonstrated that he was black.

Now, this young man did a lot of sitting in gardens with snow on his lap, contemplating the order of the universe. At times, he was even uncertain as to whether he was himself, or whether he was a bunch of abstract stripes. The only time he could really be certain of himself was when he felt up his own scapula, or flew around on his wings--which strangely never seemed to work quite right. Sometimes, he worried because he was balding, but when he saw his shining (0ne might even say lambent) face in the mirror, he felt better.

This young man seemed to be mostly a bit player in other people's lives. He had a girlfriend that was a bit difficult to understand, as she would announce, variously, that she was a Wholly Moral Person (this was new, when she brought it up), and that she was morally irredeemable. Fortunately, not being religious himself, he passed no judgment upon her, and was even able to steeple his fingers and look at her over his glasses from time to time, spouting sporadic wisdom and semiotics.

Deciding to get himself another girlfriend, the young man moved to another city and messed up his apartment, certain that this was the way to seduce the purple-glassied women he ran into frequently. To his surprise, his foul-mouthed, foul-minded, and fowl-eating ex-wife appeared, determined to ruin his every chance for happiness. Eventually, her tactics prevailed, and he ran from her, uncertain whether he was in the present or the past. So confused he was that got a side job interviewing men who were incongruously gay, or gaily incongruous--he could never be sure. So affecting was the experience that, forever afterward, whenever he thought something was funny, he would chortle: "Byuck, byuck, byuck."

Around this time, a phone call from his mother reminded him that he was, in fact, in the family of Emily Post. This was remarkable, and he remarked upon it.

Having thus clarified things, the young man began to have vivid waking dreams in which he stalked a young woman and discovered magazines of salacious and Karen-Carpenter-loving material in his car. Transferring some of his rage to his mother, the young man declared that he would no longer be trapped by linear time and then went out to throw a baseball around with his friend.

Having thus declared his independence, he decided to retreat to English Austenian time and spout various witty archaisms, focusing on those which could be easily misconstrued as seduction while said in complete innocence. Then, reminding himself that he was, in fact, gay, the young man decided to help his friend get through a difficult bout of Crone's disease.

Having these medical experiences awoke the young man's sensibilities, and he decided that it was high time that he start producing little versions of himself. In short order, a new baby was born--messily--and the young man cleaned it up and noted how intensely, intensely hungry it was. He further reflected how much this intense hunger would have frightened his irredeemably moral, former girlfriend.

The young man demonstrated his supreme dedication to family life by dropping his new baby in favor of journeying to a far-off land to slay a sarcastic monster. Once there, however, he fell in love with a milkmaid and nearly killed her in trying to woo her. Driven to deep depression, he kissed a suicide victim and then nearly committed suicide himself. Scared by these disasters, he started into a series of highly volatile dating experiences, each one demonstrating how pathetic and yet clever he was. He reached his limit when a girl shot him because he didn't like her dress, and declared that he would never date again--at least, not for three months. A run-in with Death, however, got him thinking about mortality, and he was seduced in short order by a devil and then a witch, remembering too late that he was, in fact, gay.

And that, really, it was all his father's fault.

THE END

A Brief History of Fob Leading to the Creation of Fob Northwest

2006-10-10T23:14:00.000-07:00

Just a little over three years ago, Th. (who I knew well), Queen Zippergut (who I didn't know well), and I (who I knew quite well) gathered at the then-Fobcave (though not yet named as such) for the first meeting of Fob (also not yet named as such). This was a rather scary experience, as I knew that Th. and I meshed well as far as writing and critiquing styles go, but QZ was for the most part an unknown--particularly, I didn't know how she and Th. would work together, as they had never met, and I feared they would hate each other. My fear, of course, was unfounded. That night a beautiful thing was born, a sort of mutant love child of three deranged writers. Or, perhaps, a reincarnation of the American Idol judges, with the Queen as Paula, Th. as Simon, and me, naturally, as the big black guy.

Four months later, Melyngoch made our literary menage-a-trois a menage-a-quatre. Again, I was concerned that she wouldn't get along with Th. or that QZ would resent no longer being the token female, but again, I had no reason to fear. It was about this time that we adopted our nom de group, an acronym for the Friends of Master Fob (who was still not yet named as such) and a nod to the new immigrants in my homeland of Hawaii, so lovingly referred to as Fresh Off the Boat.

Eight months after that, Th. had the nerve to pick up and move to California. I might forgive him for this, someday. We tried to replace Th., perhaps too quickly, and Jeph had the misfortune of having to live in a great man's shadow. He also had the misfortune of making it to only about one in three Fob meetings, and it wasn't long before he withdrew himself from the group completely.

At this point I was especially hesitant to branch out again, but I also felt we needed another male presence and Melyngoch assured me that her friend Tolkien Boy was a perfect match for Fob, and indeed he was. A new Fob was born, and we are all the better for it.

Then, a little over a year ago, Melyngoch had the nerve to move to (of all places) Indiana, for which I will not forgive her, and about the same time Queen Zippergut got engaged, which effectively removed her from all things fobby, and eventually removed her even more than effectively, as she moved to England to live with her hubby.

So here Tolkien Boy were without anybody to fob with us, feeling quite sorry for ourselves. So what better to do than invite a couple of complete strangers to join? Okay, Marchioness was not a complete stranger to me and editorgirl was not a complete stranger to TB, but they were, in fact, quite strange. It took a few Fob meetings to figure out our new dynamic, but once we did, Fob was again the love of my life (in a mostly nonsexual way).

Then came the well-documented Fob Explosion of '06, in which we went from four members to six members and a mascot, welcoming Gay (ex-)Boyfriend Chick's Straight Liberal But Happily Married Friend and Edgy Killer Bunny into our ranks, and adopting the ever loveable Gay (ex-)Boyfriend Chick (whom we affectionately refer to as Petra) as our cuddly, adorable mascot. ( I'm not sure exactly what it means to be a writing group's mascot, but perhaps Petra can elaborate on this deep mystery of life.)

Alas, this SuperFob met its end during the Great Fob Migration of '06, in which Master Fob and Tolkien Boy both moved to Seattle (and, you know, Petra moved to Indonesia, but really, this story is about me--let's not lose our focus here).

So TB and I had been planning for quite a while to start up a new branch of Fob here in Seattle, and we were happy to know that our frequent gym collaborator, Weed, was also moving here. So tonight we were planning the first meeting of the new Fob Three, and randomly Tolkien Boy decided to invite Sir Jupiter to observe Fob in action, and then randomly, after the evening went well and we all seemed to jibe nicely (we also jived nicely), I decided to invite Sir Jupiter to join Fob permanently (and when I say "permanently," I mean he better know there's no escape now). And he accepted the invitation. So we are the Fob Four. Welcome to a new era of Fob, my friends. Can you smell the testosterone?

PS Melyngoch will be happy to know, even though we have yet to recruit a straight black man into Fob, Tolkien Boy did write tonight about a "black brick wall of a man" who is, apparently, good in bed.

PPS And then it turned out that I was gay.

PPPS the above PPS will not make any sense to anyone who was not here tonight. I would explain it so as not to leave out my non-Northwest fobs, but really, once you explain something it just isn't funny anymore.

PPPPS Which is not to say that it's funny now, with you not understanding it at all.

FOB October 10

2006-10-10T23:08:00.001-07:00

At long last, the vagaries of vagrants and vissicitudes of vissicitudinals have calmed down, and FOBWashington is in full swing here in the dripping and cold pine forests of the Pacific Northwest! In reaction to the news, a parade was instituted in Ottoro, Maine, where the United Order of Housewives for Amicable Fobbery (UOHAF) commissioned floats, a town hall dance, and Lauryn Hill as Mistress of Ceremonies. Residents as far away as Mumford and Bildings Romane attended the festivities, and an official statement of support of FOB was drafted, ratified and hung in a gilt frame in the local courthouse.

Spirits were no less high at the home of Master Fob and Foxy J, where the newly consituted FOBWashington group met, partook of fudge ripples, and argued about the relative ickiness of the phrase"around her ankles." Tolkien Boy and newbie Sir Jupiter technically arrived first, but a quest for Oreos led them to Bartell's Drugs (motto: "Convenience in the Form of Single-Wrapped Cookies"), QFC (motto: "Despite the Name, We Are Not a Fast-Food Chicken Franchise"), and finally Safeway (motto: Use Our Card or Face The Mutated Aardvarks of Death"), and so they arrived both before and after the Weed family, but as their later arrival was laden with both the aforementioned Oreos and ice cream, they were greeted with relative joy and thanksgiving.

After introducitons and a quick round of "your mom" jokes to prime the pump, Master Fob described the intricacies of the rock, paper, scissors ritual, and the new acolytes were indoctrinated and then invited to join the rite. The sanctity of the practice was called into question somewhat by Tolkien Boy, who revealed that Master Fob consistently repeats the same sequence in his ritual performance. Due to this, the order of the evening was less than randomly organized.

Since everyone was rock-shy, Master Fob started the action off with a lengthy treatise on what can happen to a closely-knit group after a telephone pole comes through thier pickup truck. Despite a depressing lack of tags, the story of Master Fob managed to communicate an important message, and that message was...he turned out to like Karen Carpenter.

Following on Master Fobs heels (or would it be fobollowing?), Weed read a poem about childbirth that would have sent Melyngoch screaming towards the nearest mountain for safety. There was much question as to whether "munching on nipples" was a sympathetic way of typifying newborns, but as said Melyngoch was not present, discussion was free and easy. To commemorate the poem, Tolkien Boy drew an oviraptor (for ironic effect), which Sir Jupiter one-upped by drawing Barney.

Tolkien Boy then startled the Fob with a horror story that failed to horrifying, but instead included a Harlequin-esque sex scene that included, much to the author's chagrin, the phrase "trapezoidal muscles." It is hoped that any further output by the author will be limited to humorous fairy tales.

FOBWashington parted with many a promise to meet together soon, promising that the many, many fans in Ottoro will not have to wait too long for a reunion tour.

Fobutah Vignettes

2006-10-04T09:15:00.000-07:00

"So, this rabbi, a priest and a Mormon bishop walk into a bar. You'd think that one of them would have ducked. Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck."

"I really don't think that it's realistic to expect your male character to do so much child-rearing. That never happens in real life."

"You really shouldn't hate us so much, even if we are the sexiest things to hit the Provo scene since...well, since Brigham Young."

"Little does he know he's going to get a faceful of flour in about ten seconds."

"I am Master Fob, the great and powerful..."

"So, if our children turn into blood-sucking monsters, will you have the guts to put them in an institution where they can't hurt me?"

"Enjoy your victory now, my dear, because it shan't happen again."

So...

2006-10-03T15:15:00.000-07:00

...does anyone want to fill in the male side of the equation, or is it up to me?

A History of Fob Heroines, Not Including the Brief Interlude Where Everyone Wrote About Men and Questions of Effeminacy Were Raised

2006-10-01T15:11:00.000-07:00

Jeph, who may or who may not exist,
touched on heroines by using his elbow and wrist.

Queen Zippergut's girlies were shallow and vain
but only half-started, so brief was their pain.

Ryan* wrote often of housewives deicieved
and shattered, subaltern, bereft and bereaved.

Theric wrote stories where girls with dark glasses
vied for attention with girls with svelte chasses.**

Marchioness's women had horrible moans
when the doctor revealed they were stricken with Crohn's.

Edgy pushed envelopes further than most
when he wrote of young women descended from Post.

Melyngoch's femmes all had bombast and flair
and a strange predilection for dyeing their hair.

editorgirl's women are half of a pair
or watching that pair with a basilisk stare.

Tolkien Boy's females are cast by the trillions
but disturbingly also are often the villians.

Master Fob's girlfriends are sidekicks supreme
and sometimes appear to their men in a dream.

And at last, Petra's women--at least, we can guess--
would be logical, canny, and hott in a a dress.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Also known as The Happily Married Straight Liberal Friend of Gay Boyfriend Chick. Poetic critics and advocates of privacy will recognize, I am sure, the enormous metric excesses I would be pushed to in attempting to include this as part of the lyric line.

** This is the poetic plural of the word chassis, here used metaphorically to represent "piano-playing fingers." Having come to the end of the line, I simply could not think of anything which rhymed with glasses, and therefore had to make this somewhat obvious leap of diction. I hope that future generations of ode writers will be able to forgive me.

In praise of succinctness

2006-09-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

Once upon a midnight dreary,
Blue and lonesome, missed my dearie.
Would I find her? Any hope?
Quoth the raven six times, "Nope."
--------X. J. Kennedy

Ahhhhhhh..........

This (!) is a bang.

2006-09-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

.

What does it say about our generation that some punctuation (punctuation!) is off-limits to us unless we arrive cloaked in our Ironic Garb? I wonder if future generations will discard everything we create as a misbegotten experimente in eXtreme iRony. I wonder if we recognize that iron is wildly common in the universe--the most abundant heavy metal in the universe, in fact! Would we worship it so much if we knew of it's ? Shouldn't we be focusing on being more mercurial or something? Commonness does not become us (I'm talking to you, Master Fob). Ergo, if irony is common, we should not seek it out. We should eschew it.

Curse you, common iron! Curse you!

And welcome Thorium.

This rant is come to you courtesy of Well Someone Needs to Post on the Foblog.

The Final Fobutah (pronounced "fuhBYOOtuh")

2006-08-31T23:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-29T19:35:00.000-07:00

.

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.

.

WWAG (a serious post)

2006-08-24T11:23:00.000-07:00

.

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

2006-08-23T13:50:00.000-07:00

.

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

2006-08-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

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

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

2006-08-17T22:41:00.001-07:00

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)

2006-08-17T19:54:00.000-07:00

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.

!

2006-08-14T21:37:00.000-07:00

.

Laddies and gentlewomen, one thousand.

Nonsense exercise

2006-08-14T16:22:00.000-07:00

.

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

2006-08-10T21:11:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-05T15:04:00.000-07:00

.

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

2006-08-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Wanted: Artist

2006-07-30T08:52:00.000-07:00

Tolkien Boy is concerned that Fob's lack of artists will prevent us from becoming the Bloomsbury of the 21st century. Apparently, the dinosaurs TB draws on our manuscripts saying "He's gay?!?!" don't count. Nor does Lady Steed, who is a graphic artist (with a BFA, I might add) and no less a Fob than the fobbiest of us. Nor Dec, who is, as his name implies, a decorator of weddings and other fine events. Nor I, whose job title for two years was Artist.

I think Fob represents a good selection of the humanities as is: besides all the writers and poets (I distinguish between the two), we have editors, librarians, teachers, journalists, linguists, and (most importantly) a gym manager! Heck, the fact that Queen Zippergut lives in England has to count for something.

However, I can humor Tolkien Boy. So if you are a capital-A Artist and would like to join Fob, please submit your resume, portfolio, and a 3000-word essay on why you belong in Fob to fobfiles(at)gmail.com. Please also submit the results of a Kinsey scale test taken in the last five years, as homosexuality is not required but preferable, as heaven knows we already have too many straight Fobs to truly compete with Bloomsbury.

Position open until filled.

Post-foibal Report, 07/27/06

2006-07-27T20:17:00.000-07:00

Master Fob: We have just fobbed. It was fun.

Melyngoch: Tolkien Boy is neglecting to adjust for inflation while being financially melodramatic. The Marchioness is feeling neglected by a twenty-seven-year-old who lives with his parents and thinks he's Gimli. Editorgirl is neglecting to include overt references to backs in her poetry, although those of us with mad critical reading skills can find them there anyway.Those of us with mad critical reading skills can also "read" Master Fob's dessert as a "text" to make up for the fact that he, like me, neglected to bring an actual text, in the sense of words written on paper. And I have no excuse. There is no excuse for me. I have neglected to come afobbing laden with either writing or excuse.

Tolkien Boy: I posit that being mildly concerned about borrowing as much money as your parents paid for the house you lived in for twenty-two years in exchange for one year of school does not constitute being melodramatic.

While the rest of the FOBs (sans Edgy) are busy discussing the many, many ways that a male caller can be inexcusably geeky, and because I know no other FOB will do it with any sort of coherent narration (trust me, I read these people's writing), I will now recount the things that went on in this FOB experience, July 27th.

In the absence of his family, Master Fob and I repasted ourselves with lasagna until the arrival of the Marchioness, who came bearing tales of occupational hazards. In this case, the worst hazard seemed to be an overabundance of compliments given, so in complete confusion I wandered to Master Fob's bedroom and worked on his computer (insert your mom joke here) until such time as editorgirl (sic) showed up, bearing not only a beatiful poem but also a beautiful bag of Reese's peanut butter bites, which I eagerly and rapidly consumed.

The irrepressible Melyngoch, meanwhile, called the united FOB to ask if any knew of a transportation device that could transport her from her house to Master Fob's demesne, to which the united FOB expressed great regret that she did not call a FOBmember from the very beginning. editorgirl (sic) and I sped hastily to the Goch home, suddenly seeing what sort of girl we wanted to be after traveling past a big black horse and a cherry tree.

When at last the FOB settled, we read a short selection from my story in which an angel and a devil get drunk after a long day of work and get into each others...file cabinets. editorgirl (sic) then wrote an explosive poem (not that sort of explosion, Ms. Melyngoch), and reminded us all that a poem shouldn't mean, but be (or perhaps that was Archibald MacLeish). Finally, the Marchioness read us some of her emails home, in which she most emphatically did not talk about either diarrhea or vomiting.

Marchioness: I have learned from Master Fob, Editor Girl, and Melyngoch that before I date anyone that I must first ask if they play Dungeon and Dragons. If the answer is affirmative, I must run in a speedy fashion in another direction. If the answer is negative, I must ask other searching questions about possibly geeky, lack of social skills problems.

Back to the fobbiness. I really liked Editor Girl's poems and I enjoy that all of her poems fly, or have wings at least. Unfortunately Melyngoch didn't bring anything besides her wit and her need to know the redefinition of good and evil. Master Fob was also unprepared but brought strawberry shortcake. Tolkien Boy continued with his hellish heaven story that is devilish good fun. Whether you official decide that Satan or Bezaylbub (spell check) is the correct name.

editorgirl: Without Edgy here, I find that it's my responsibility to correct my wayward associates. I did not bring the Reese's peanut butter bites, although TB did devour them. And Melyn didn't call the Fobcave. I called her to see if she was coming and discovered that she was in need of transportation. And finally, we didn't tell the Marchioness to ask any person about Dungeons and Dragons. Asking may result in the inference that the asker herself participates in the game, which is just a bad situation all around. Speaking of bad situations, I'm going to return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Master Fob: Hi. I have decided that I should have the last word, and it is this:

Narf.

An Ode to FOB

2006-07-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

Master Fob, in complete disregard for the facts,
writes passionate prose about men's lower backs.

Thmazing's art prose is a little mature,
but still . . . erudite? Oh, let's face it--obscure.

The Queen (when she writes) gives us words for the ages
from the minds of young girls or her own journal pages.

Melyngoch writes about girls' hearts on a shelf
who are morally troubled, a lot like herself.

Jeph's intimate knowledge of Melyngoch's neck
was enough to keep praise of his writing in check.

Tolkien Boy, to demonstrate who wears the pants,
writes fairy tale spoofs and comedic romance.

editorgirl quips from the papers she grades
and writes stirring poetry on shoulder blades.

The Marchioness's heroines are witty and chic,
and she brings us the first part of a novel each week.

The Straight Friend of Petra of prose quite chaotic
once said, "I'm attempting to be homoerotic."

EKB, an editor, still shines the most
when he writes on the Fobsters (hint, hint) or Ms. Post.

But Petra, perhaps, shines the best through the pall,
and firmly avoids bringing writing at all.

Revisioning

2006-07-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

. . . revising is dishonest.
Soldiers on the battlefield
do not have the ability to rewrite
their errant mortar fire.
Firemen are allowed no second drafts.
How often have I wished
I could return to a scene
from my own life
and pencil in a witty rejoinder,
an encouraging word, or a condom?

-----Kevin Guilfoile
(attorney's husband)

Thmazing's List of Awesome Revisioning Tips

♦ Time is money. Revising takes time. Do the math.

♠ Can you really shovel it on any deeper than you did the first time around?

♣ What smells better, perfumed tobacco smoke or burnt-out Bics? Neither, am I right?

♥ As with all things, use The Love Equation (just plug in "revising"):

Will revising bring me more or less love?

Given that revising is a sad and lonely activity, I'm going with no.

Thmazing's List of Awesome Revisioning Tips is to be used by trained, fobbing professionals only. By no means does Thmazing's List of Awesome Revisioning Tips claim to be all inclusive, all disclusive, or even all clusive. In fact, some experts claim Thmazing's List of Awesome Revisioning Tips is the opposite of clusive. That these people are idiots is fully beyond the point.

Thmazing is an imaginary construct and does not exist, speaking clusively only and without respect.

The Real Fobcast

2006-07-20T21:42:00.000-07:00

The evening is dim and growing dimmer. In a semi-lit room ringed about with cast-off shoes and emptied Pringles cans, we surround the pool of tiled graphemes wrestling (metaphorically) with the language and each other (not metaphorically).

The players: Tolkien Boy (who is male and dismisses the concept that ladies come first), Melyngoch (who is beating up TB for being male), editorgirl (who is too focused on the project at hand to beat TB up), and Ginsberg (who is watching the best minds of his generation running naked hysterical and Melyn wants to know where the naked people are).

As the play progresses, a definite power structure is developed, with Tolkien Boy being at the top of the metaphoric pyramid. Being somewhat bored with his brahmin status, he charitably offers the word ail to Melyngoch, only to reclaim it later for the more desperate-sounding flail. To supplement the steady stream of sharpened sarcasm he recieved from his co-players, he hummed showtunes under his breath, which seemed good-natured but actually was a ploy to demoralize his competitors.

And demoralize he did. This being the case, after two rounds of the much-hyped word game, our foursome degenerated into a general state of resolved depression worthy of a Hemingway narrator--a good one too, I'd pick Jake Barnes from The Sun Also Rises, personally--and turned to baking, actually.

"Foursome", also, should be taken literally.

At least as literally as you can take anything that happens at Fob. But the baking produced a "divine" cake (quoth Ginsberg), which was devoured in the company of editorgirl's sister, who for the evening was an X-box widow. Moving on, the night developed into Freud's couch. . . existentialism, damnation, and Diet Coke with Lime. Which I don't understand, but TB does, so we'll hand the fobcast over to him (and in the process apparently switch to present tense).

The party really got started when editorgirl (sic) broke out the trial-size antidepressants. Melyngoch argued that Ambien is the only true and living antidepressant, and the evening deterioriated, inevitably, into an antidepressant fight, with each participant attempting to prove that they were, in fact, the most against depression. Tolkien Boy threatened a filibuster on "happy songs," but were voted down when editorgirl (sic) decided that, a la Ginsberg, we all needed to write poems about being virgins. Melyngoch pondered on how one could poeticize about a cat that wasn't there. Much practicing of backward miaous ensued, the reasoning being that possessed cats must be as close to uncattedness as a poem was likely to achieve.

At this point, "Ginsberg"--whose namesake, incidently, was decidedly NOT a virgin of any sort--felt as if whatever was it is that has just been written here makes no sense whatsoever. "Backward miaous?" . . . cats? Honestly. . .

And some of us are, in fact, aware of the pharmeceutical uses of Ambien.

Live Fobcasting Week Two

2006-07-20T18:56:00.000-07:00

It's Thursday night and here we are at Fob, about to give you a live transcription of our meeting.

Master Fob: Master Fob here. But then you know that because I just wrote my name before saying anything.

Tolkien Boy: Hi. I have white teeth.

editorgirl: I write poetry about shoulder blades. La la la.

Melyngoch: Narf!

Marchioness: Blog? What's a blog?

Edgy: Writing? What's writing?

Th.: Hey. What am I doing here? Shouldn't I be in California saying something obscure and profound?

Queen Zippergut: And I'm supposed to be in England having sex. What's going on?

Jeph: Didn't Master Fob and Th. kill me off in a story last summer?

The Other Fob: I wish I had a blog name.

Master Fob: Oh, wait. None of those people actually said the things I've attributed to them. As a matter of fact, I'm in Vegas with the J family and hence there is no Fob tonight.

Cheers.

Required Reading

2006-07-17T21:10:00.000-07:00

I know most of you are prose-ists, but try this.

Cherry Blossoms Blowing in Wet, Blowing Snow

Tolkien Boy, Published Cartoonist

2006-07-16T14:09:00.000-07:00

FOB July 13

2006-07-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

In order to more accurately record the events at this weekly FOB meeting, and in order to gather data from a wider variety of FOBsters, we here at the Beareau of Better Blog Posts (also known as the BBBP) here present the weekly meeting of the FOB, a la carte:

Tolkien Boy: At 7:50 pm, twenty minutes after the meeting had officially started, I discovered to my shock and pain that the noodle dish that I had thought I had devoured on Monday was, in fact, completely undevoured, and was sitting under a dishcover on a long-unused burner coil, and to boot was flowering with a nice toupee of green-gray mold. Panicked that my guests should witness this shameful example of bachelor oblige, but mollifed somewhat that not a single fobsoul showed up until at least 8:00 pm, I hastily deposited the offending pasta disaster in the nearest trash receptacle and sprayed copious amounts of carcinogenic air freshener. There's no limit to the extent of neatness that I will go to for the FOB.

editorgirl: Rushed in, feeling guilty, at 8:00, only to find I'm the first one here. After establishing that nothing happened today (for me) and everything happened today (for TB), we stood around awkwardly for a few nanoseconds until we decided on a quick game o' anagrams. TB was getting his trash kicked when Edgy showed up and violated my personal space. . . granted, my personal space is larger than TB's apartment, but still. It was my space.

Master Fob: I am here. It is 8:24. I am the third to arrive, not counting Tolkien Boy who lives here. We are still waiting for Melyngoch, even though her Greek counterpart is already here. Edgy just went to get food at Lon's Cookin' Shack, but did not get enough for the rest of us. I forgive him because I am stuffed with salmon, macaroni casserole, potatoes, and chocolate cheesecake. Mmm... cheesecake...

Mely: Some of us need no excuse to say "ass" repeatedly. Ass ass ass ass ass. Ass ass. Ass. Ass.

Edgy: Apparently there's something about Mary.

Mely: Apparently, my wearing a bandana and propositioning editorgirl leads Master Chauvinist Homophobe to believe that I'm a lesbian. People are more than manifestations of stereotypes, people.

Tolkien Boy: That's Master Chauvinist Homofob. Get it right.

Edgy: You still haven't told us whether or not you arrived tonight in a big rig. Or was it on a Harley? Stereotypes exist for a reason, people.

Tolkien Boy: We just finished reading my somewhat adverb-laden story and everyone was very nice and didn't even point out that I suck. And there are a lot of reasons for that, too. Me sucking, that is, not them not pointing it out. Anyway, Melyngoch is now is singing Celine Dion songs in preparation for her upcoming wedding. It could be, perhaps, that someone else is getting married, but from the way that she's currently eyeing editorgirl (sic) we can only assume that a sudden remove to Massachusetts is in the works.

Melyngoch, after determining why it was, really, no man would ever loathe her, read a the half of a story in which a man and a woman argue about cats. In this particular case, there was no double meaning in the use of the word cats, though Edgy did threaten a dramatic filibuster, including the songs "Memory" and "Jellicle Ball" sung in a nasal, romance-languaged voice (particularly impressive since "Jellicle Ball" is an instrumental piece). editorgirl countered Edgy's performance with "Mr. Mistoffelees" and "Macavity: The Mystery Cat," complete with choreography. Waiting for the return, Edgy. . .

Edgy: Do I have to return if I'm doing it upside down?

editorgirl: Yes. But luckily Master Fob distracted us all with a brilliant four pages of his latest novel featuring men named Leon, Tim, Crow, and a little sister, too. And this time a man in drag. So much for his contract with Deseret Book. But we have more important things at hand as we wait for Master Fob to decide which fob will get a chance to go to the Heaviside Layer (cat heaven. . . and yes, we mean that kind of cat).

Edgy: Last I checked, Master Fob did not name one of the men "a little sister, too," but I'll review the pages. . . . Yeah. Nobody here goes by the name "a little sister, too."

Mely: I answer to "a little sister, too," but then, my rig is parked behind Lon's Barbecue Shack.

Tolkien Boy: And here I thought that the little sister was a dog. I'm getting my pet animals mixed up. Unfortunately, there are no pet animals in the house to keep me company, and I have to rely on my mold growths. We're all now sitting around talking about how hot it is. And how hot editorgirl is.

Edgy: Your mom is hot. I just learned that Tolkers doesn't know my last name. Silly boy. It's Bunny. Sheesh.

Master Fob: And now I am going. Edgy is going to take me and Melyngoch home, and he is tired. As am I. But then I am usually tired, even when I have no reason to be. And there is always room for dessert, as Tolkien Boy's parents remind us.

Mely: Mmmmm . . . dessert . . . editorgirl . . .

The Seven Deadly Sins of Petra's Writing

2006-07-12T16:08:00.000-07:00

1. What writing?

(I've always been a martyr to sins of omission.)

editorgirl and Melyngoch make a joint appearance, which confuses them both

2006-07-10T21:03:00.000-07:00

The Seven Sins of Melyngoch and editorgirl, who are not the same person (for those who came in late), but manifestations of the same Fob goddess

5. Lack of concrete images.

2. Excess of classical allusions.

4. "There's a lot of backs." Ginsberg

1. Chronology.

7. Inability to determine which swear words take participial endings. (e.g., shitting)

6. Inconsistent hair color.

3. Excessive celibacy.

Fob it up

2006-07-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

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1. Someone arrived here looking for "fobs novel". This is appropriate.

2. There are some writers called "F.O.B.s" (Friends of Bendis). This is not appropriate.

3. These toad-head keyfobs are awesome.

The Seven Deadly Writing Sins of the Zipster.

2006-07-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

1. Not writing.
2. Writing in binges.
3. Not finishing what I write.
4. Using one word sentences. Really. Frequently.
5. Just really using "really" and "just" lots and lots and lots. Really.
6. Not making notes about ideas of what to write so I can eventually write about things that are currently of great interest to me, or were, at one time of great interest to me so that my writing might be considered the type of writing that would be classified as "interesting" to a certain "audience" should they ever be asked after reading something I wrote whether they thought my writing was 1) boring, 2) somewhat interesting, 3) interesting.
7. Writing really long sentences.

Overheard in New York honors the Fobs

2006-07-07T21:01:00.000-07:00

I'm addicted to Overheard in New York. Huge fan.

Anyway, one of today's posts honors the Fobs. Well, kinda anyway.

Guy #1: Wait a sec, what train is this? What am I on?
Guy #2: I'm on your mom. That's what I'm on.

--D train

My Thursday Evening

2006-07-07T02:04:00.000-07:00

Me? Thursday evening? Besides the obvious pining for FOB, I was sitting in an English emergency room waiting to have my shoulder xrayed. We managed to finish with that nonsense about 8:30 pm at which time I proceeded to put the children to bed, eat a little late dinner and then do some laundry all while trying not to move my shoulder too much. And later that night...well...let's just say there wasn't much talkin', if you get my drift.

At 7:30

2006-07-06T22:23:00.000-07:00

I was at the Gallivan Center in Salt Lake with Foxy, Boogie, and LD, listening to Hot Buttered Rum. Actually, I was waiting for Michael Franti and Spearhead to come on. Which they did, about 8:30, and I'll post about that at the Fobcave when I get a chance. I'll say now, though, for Tolkien Boy's sake, that there were a total of two rap songs in the entire show. But I liked it anyway.

Theric's Dangerous Life

2006-07-06T22:14:00.000-07:00

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At about 7:30 I was walking five feet up upon a precarious, thirty-foot-long cinderblock fence. The toppping was missing here and there and sometimes I was walking upon open cinder block holes.

Having finished that, I went inside my house and have been packing pritty much ever since.

I've been packing books the last three days and we still have two large Billy cases full. Sheesh.

But tonight we were mostly vacuum packing coats and bedding using specially designed bags.

It was awesome!

I am Theric.

No FOB?

2006-07-06T15:04:00.000-07:00

For those of you who are keeping up at all (and here's a big tip o' the hippo to all our loyal fans in Ottoro! Thank you, FOB freaks!), due to conflicting schedules the FOB front has decided to forego FOBbing on this day of July 6th, 2006. Although we are not together in physicality, we are certain to be together in spirit.

Yet, because some of us flag in spirit when we don't have physical presences nearby (coughTolkienBoycough), the latest FOB challenge is to give some sort of accounting, literary or otherwise, for your actions today during the hours of 7:30 pm to midnight. Be you provincial in Provo or ennervated in England, you still, technically, exist, and are part of the FOB fraternity (or sorority, or gynernity, depending on your Latin affiliation). Therefore, it is incumbent upon you to fill us in on what you did instead of FOBbing on this Thursday night.

So, what did you do? Did you have, as Melyngoch frequently suggests, wild crazy monkey sex? Did you bake a cake for George W. Bush's birthday? Did you dance the funky chicken on your seventy-fifth wedding anniversary? Did you have a multitude of unlikely dates and determine that they are why, truly, no man will ever love you? Did you leave your troubles on the doorstep and head west on the sunny side of the street? Enquiring minds want to know.

So, when you're done with the monkeys or the men, let us know. When the cake is eaten and the country is occupied, write a quick blog post. Don't delay - this offer is limited to this week, after which Tolkien Boy will find something else to encourage people to participate.

The Seven Sins of Master Fob

2006-06-30T08:35:00.000-07:00

1. His plots consist mostly of people wandering aimlessly, staring at each other's waistlines.

Jacob and Spencer had been hiking through the forest for days now, as you know because you've read the last fourteen chapters, but still Jacob could not take his eyes off the sliver of pale flesh between Spencer's shirt and his pants. Spencer lifted his arm, causing the shirt to shift, revealing an inch more of his back. Jacob stared. They continued to hike.

2. His prose tends to be dialogue-heavy and everything else-light.

"So now we're here."

"Yes, we are. What should we do?"

"Let's talk."

"Okay, talking would be good, especially because we're here now."

"Yes, we are. Look around you--isn't this place amazing?"

"Yes it is. But I wanted to talk about my stepfather, who has been ritually abusing me and cheating on my mother with her sister."

"Oh. Yes, let's talk."

3. His characters feel no emotion.

"You see, he dresses me in black every night and takes me to the bell tower, where he cuts off random body parts." Gina raised her left hand, which was missing two fingers. "See?"

"Yes," said her boyfriend, who loved her very much. "I see. That is bad."

"Yes," she said. "It is."

He stared at her silently.

She stared back.

"Yes," he said. "That is bad."

"You should also know," Gina said, "that I killed your mother."

"I see. That is also bad.

"Yes." She stared at him.

He stared back.

4. He is inconsistent in his willingness to allow characters to swear.

"You darn little piece of shit," said Henry. "Go to heck, bitch."

5. He has a tendency to make unintentional sexual references (in addition to the intentional ones).

Rocko's pregnant wife laughed, rubbing the bulge.

6. He finds parts of his writing laugh-out-loud hilarious when no one else does.

The poop-streaked condom stands in my way, shaking its rubbery little head and saying, "This path is not for you, my friend."

7. His characters share his own obscure obsessions, making them a little hard for normal people to relate to or understand.

Jimmy lay in bed, reading the latest issue of Fallen Angel while listening to Michael Franti and the Gift of Gab rap about the evils of war. He is disappointed to learn that Lee is not, in fact, Linda Danvers, but happy to know that Gab can still spit a verse like no other. He wonders whether he's more concerned by the worldwide economic effect of Wal-Mart's continued expansion or the hopeless situation of gay rights, particularly the rights of gay men married to straight women. Then he thinks about Lauryn Hill, for no particular reason.

8. Master Fob is horrible at showing versus telling.

I am horrible at showing versus telling. This doesn't count.

9. His lists are usually not the length he says they'll be.

FOB June 29

2006-06-30T07:05:00.000-07:00

An anonymous note written with disappearing ink left between the back of my refrigerator and the wall informs me that this site is continually monitored by the government for purposes so insidious the entire monitoring process has it's own acronym in White House parlance. Therefore, to give "the boys" something to do, I will make an accurate and faithful account of all my days in Fobdom. Well, yesterday, at any rate.

FOB was once again held at the demesne of Tolkien Boy, who quite self-consciously cleaned the whole place as well as sprayed industrial-strength air freshener to mask the fact that he lives in BYU-approved housing. Despite his best efforts, however, the holy feeling of the apartment permeated the evening throughout, and many a comment was made on how sexually subdued the proceedings were. This gravitas helped the FOBsters focus on the point of the evening, however, which was, of course, Tolkien Boy's burgeoning, piebald muscles.

Edgy Killer Bunny arrived early, which in this case meant a minute after on time, full of tales of moving misadventures. Minutes later, the Marchioness made her usual sweeping entrance, followed - after a short, confirmatory phone call - editorgirl (sic), who regaled us all with tales of her 30-year-old student stalker. Master Fob was nearly a half hour later than his promised hour late, but brought everyone granola bars to make up for it, the flavor of which was eaten so quickly it was somewhat forgettable. Which was precisely what Melyngoch proceeded to do; namely, forget it. For you see, she never arrived.

There was much that made this a historic FOB session. For example, there was no rock-paper-scissors nonsense. The Marchioness mentioned that she would have her story read first, and after that people volunteered to be criticized in a manner not unlike patriotic testimony meetings. For her part, Marchioness chanelled the soul of a naked five-year-old with a pink-haired mother with a penchant for expensive chocolates (the five-year-old, not her mother). Fortunately, there was no reenactment of the actual horse-riding event, as Tolkien Boy's large picture window was much trafficked during the evening, but Master Fob did mention that he was both torn and lying naked on the floor.

Unlike Melyngoch, Th. was there in spirit - but because of his lack of corporeality he felt none of the restrictive religosity inspired by BYU-approved housing and so shared with us a sordid tale of whorish wives and prim proprietors. The combined FOB agree that they will never view the verb pierce the same way again, and Tolkien Boy has threatened a filibuster on approaching the dip issue. Despite the delightful lilt to the prose, the FOB were fuddled, wondering how the filthy female ever found anyone to love. The story had, however, the unexpected benefit of giving Tolkien Boy hope for his future.

Finally, Master Fob shared with us a story in which an intellectual, a hick, a fat man enamored of Karen Carpenter, an aspiring actress, and a girl who is probably a dog (literally) argue over the specifics of ficitve rap music. Hilarity, lubricated no doubt by the copious amounts of Diet Coke being consumed, knew no bounds when the group suddenly realized that the characters in Master Fob's novel were none other than correspondences for - you guessed it, the FOB united, though Tolkien Boy took some umbrage at being so type-cast, and editorgirl (sic) was so offended she absented herself before the proceedings, a feat which, until that point, was believed to be quantamly impossible (more so because Melyngoch was not there to argue for its possibility with her wealth of quantam phyiscs knowledge).

After FOB there was the usual cheery conviviality, with much mockage of Tolkien Boy's soap-operatic relationship life, great good wishes for Edgy's deluxe domicile decision, and an invitation from Master Fob for us to join him in a night of self-inflicted torture, also known as rap music. All in all, it was a rather successful FOB, though there has been some despair that the FOBs will not, despite being positionally proximate, ever all meet under the same roof. However, hope is high for the next time, and the government remains ever-vigilant that the actions of the group will be left to go their own way. At least, for the time being.

Theric's Sins

2006-06-26T18:40:00.000-07:00

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Following the inestimable Tolkien Boy's lead, here, for public disclosure, are my sins (I couldn't legitimately stop at seven):

1. Inscutability

"Saying I'm inscrutable is about at fair as when we will lose our minds in spring. It's lousy. That's what." The young boy followed this outburst with pouty lips and a glance at the star carved into the walk by BC and EJ, 2002. The stars had fallen. The time was now. I'm totally faking this inscrutability. I think it's just something people say.

2. Strange Names

Martinlone MacRadams knew perfectly well that the Goose Master (real name: Tookaloo Ribswell) was the murderer--who else had both motive and opportunity to slay that rascal Milly Whoot? No one. That's who. Unless.... Unless Elbon Zinner was back in town!!!!!

3. Beginnings that reveal the author put pen to paper before he hadany idea what he was writing about

Broom the Third nodded at the young woman leaning out the window. He had seen her before--daily since that egg sandwich thing went on sale--but still he knew no more about her than the name on her tag and the simple fact that she alone would be responsible for the death of millions. He hoped it wouldn't be on purpose. He was falling in love.

4. Strangulating characters to keep them from swearing

"I'ld like to . . . meet your mother," said Ted, hiding an auspicious smirk. "Oh yeah?" retorted Frank. "Well I'ld" and then he said something naughty.

5. Jokes that not only are not funny, but which no one outside my head will ever be able to figure out why they can even pretend to be funny

Boltman! narrowed his eyes to 1.78:1--an appropriate ratio for someone is his line of work.

6. Ending stories too early

Jake jumped up and looked around. He frowned. He heard a sound. He ran outside. The door closing behind him. Footsteps falling behind him.

7. Creating his own rules of grammar, punctuation, and spelling

"It's not like I do this everyday--I pritty much stick to established rules. But all is not black&white--I see shades of grey everywhere. Nevermind what some other people say; I'ld think twice before assuming they know everything." Nerl smirked and gestured to his opponent. "Wouldn't you . . . ?"

8. Writing characters who know about all sorts of stuff I don't

Ronald Fitzfadden disliked this particular style of surgery--sure [name of pioneering surgeon] was impressed by the innovation, but sometimes Fitzfadden just did not want to remove [name of important-sounding but obscure organ]s. He would rather be driving his [name of ritziest sports car of 1989] down [name of important drag in KC, MO] and right out of town as [big single of late summer / early fall 1989] blared through the speakers. At least he had time to go to his [spot like locker for doctor's personal effects] and grab his [metal teabag thingey] and prepare a cup of [expensive import tea] before the surgery.

(&c)

To Those Continuing to Contribute (I mean YOU, Mr. Thmazing), a Challenge

2006-06-23T18:38:00.000-07:00

The Seven Deadly Sins of Tolkien Boy's Writing

1. Excessive adverb use.

She was interested in the way he carefully held his fork - was interested madly, avidly, bemusedly, brokenheartedly. He was fondling it expressively, his fingers crooked archaically around the thin silver handle.

2. Vague, amorphous plots.

Carruthers was a man of infinite patience, a construction worker from Merrie Olde England who drank his tea atop a steel girder and swore in clipped, ringing tones at the swallows which built their nests in the eaves of the I-beams. Despite being a character so round that it would make Dickens drool with envy, he never actually does anything but drink tea and castigate birds.

3. Overuse of dialogue tags.

"I sincerely doubt I'd be happy dating a buzzard," said Sally seriously. "I mean, one can imagine a dinner date," Sally said.

"Will it be carry-out or carrion?" quipped Roger. "And may I suggest duck under tire tread?" queried Roger.

"Cute," affirmed Valerie. "And, speaking of bestiality..." continued Valerie.

4. A tendency toward combining words for clever effect.

And you and I, togetherturning,
under milkmoon and fingerclasped
will silversigh a lonesomelonging,
allalone and loveaghast.

5. Brilliant beginnings and flat endings.

Once upon a time there was a rich, redheaded queen who spent her mornings embroidering heavy brocade and her evenings divining the secrets of the universe in a deep, blue pool until one day she was overheard by her husband's meddling minister, a thin, envy-eaten man who used his newfound knowledge to turn her seven sons against her and soon the country fell into civil war and anarchy, all while the the queen attempted to learn the one secret that would stop all suffering and bring peace and love to her kingdom again.

And then, everyone caught the plauge, and died.

6. The propensity to fill my writing with inside jokes.

Algathor, minor demigod of a world with barbaric Nordic tendencies, was arguing with his wife Algathora over their breakfast grapefruit.

"What I am saying, dearest, is that it should have gone to committee." Algathor was a great believer in committees. "You can't just up and decide to give humans free will without consulting someone, you know."

Algathora was a major goddess in the pantheon, and she often had occasion to regret marrying a beaurocrat so obviously beneath her. "I can do what I like, Algathor," she said, tossing a flaming curl of auburn hair out of her eyes. "The council would have batted the question around for centuries. Besides, the humans are so - pathetic. You've seen them, mucking about in the primordial soup. They touched my heart."

"I touched your divine mother's heart last night," muttered Algathor viciously, stabbing his spoon into the pink fleshy heart of his grapefruit.

7. The prediliction to halt the writing of a story's middle in favor of another story's start.

Devon could not have been happier with his television set - the fact that it was haunted only added to its appeal and gave it a sort of old-world charm so sadly lacking in the sleekly chromed appliances he normally filled his house with. "Besides, it's not as if it were a malicious spirit," he said to his mother consolingly when she called at great expense from Florida to see if he were quite sure about inviting a soul of uncertain religious affiliations into his household. "I know it's beneficient because it likes Karen Carpenter," he continued when his mother registered faint disbelief that any piece of inhabited technology could be anything but malicious. But -

When Benny left to the post office, she surprised herself by building a fort out of couch cushions and blankets in the living room. She hadn't done that since she was almost eleven, and the intervening twenty-seven years had wreaked havoc on her creative ability.
She kept getting the blankets confused with the cushions, because she couldn't quite remember if the cushions provided the walls or if they made the roofs and the draped blankets sealed it shut. In the end she had to enlist the help of the mailman, an unnaturally thin man with four girls at home with minds still clear of the clutter of twenty years of domestic bliss. He looked at her strangely when she made her request, and when she brought him into the living room to help correct her creation he looked downright alarmed, but in five minutes he had rectified the situation and the fort was ready. Then -

The rain started at just after the darkest part of night. The bells of old Kethedras had rung the midnight prayers when the clouds that had been building in dirty round billows all day rumbled back, the gutteral growl of an angry god. For a moment the earth stopped its breathing, the chicking night birds stopped their incessant clacking, even the throttled thrum of the insects in the trees quieted under the irritated grumbling of the clouds that sat like sluggish living entities on the horizon. In the quiet, brooding air, somewhere a dragon squirmed in its cave, woke with a sudden unshuttering of near-metallic eyelids. However -

All right, there's my seven. What are yours?

FOB (?) June 15

2006-06-15T21:52:00.000-07:00

Local Writing Group Discusses Changing Its Name

Provo, Utah. In a move that shocked two housewives in Ottoro, Maine, the writing group known as FOB convened today to discuss changing its beloved acronym from FOB to FOD.

"It's a aesthetic decision, really," said Tolkien Boy, speaking in behalf of the group's leader, Master Fob, who was suspiciously absent from the proceedings. "We've discussed it as a group, and the - ahem - private poll we took definitely shows a strong percentage of the group favor the change." When asked what the newly-proposed acronym stood for, Tolkien Boy shrugged and quipped, "I figure it's short for the Foderation. You know, like a collection - in this case, a collection of good writers."

The reason for the change seems to have been inspired by the recent convening of the for-now FOBs to the home of Tolkien Boy, which has never before hosted a FOB-related event. The group, which meets every Thursday night to discuss writing that has been done by the members of the group during the week, gathered this week to review one story, one screenplay, and one poem.

Despite the absence of Master Fob, the collected FOB still began the festivities with their ritualistic hand gestures which are meant to represent the holy triad of rock, paper, and scissors. Edgy Killer Bunny won the contest, which meant that he immediately channeled the spirit of Th., who read to us half of a story in which a mallshop curator gets rather excited about a room strewn with newspaper clippings, if you know what we mean (wink, wink). Th., a one-time physical presence at FOB, was then alternately praised and mocked - his most egregious mistake, of course, being that he used the adjective everday to modify the verb come when EVERYONE who has EVER had an ENGLISH CLASS knows that ADVERBS, in this case the TWO WORD ADVERB "EVERY DAY," are the things used for modifying verbs. Despite this crippling fault, and despite the fact that the universe combined to keep Th.'s story from being read (in the form of ringing phones, distracting conversations, and dying air conditioners), the storyline was praised, the artistry was envied, and the purple glasses worn by the main character were coveted. Melyngoch added a touch of intellectualism when she informed all of us that Mobile, Alabama, was not, in fact, a city in South America, but rather a semantic prototype. True to his everbudding form, Edgy made a your mom joke on this, sadly unpublishable.

After Tolkien Boy's prescriptivist body was revivified, the FOBsters slogged through the synopsis of his screenplay, in which Carpenterites work through their various issues to find love, harmony, and the secret of art (hint: it ain't the sacred feminine), all while trying not to get too emotionally involved with each other. Because he had preambled his rushed reading with an announcement that he was feeling especially vulnerable, the FOBsters were kind to Tolkien Boy and gave him a popsicle. Actually, that was the Marchioness.

Speaking of the Marchioness, and we will, she finished the evening with a poem parallelling Maya Angelou's poem "Phenomenal Woman,"taking the poet to task for creating an unfair and sexist standard of gender-specific behaviors and attributes that the modern woman simply cannot keep up with. The poem was a howling success, not the least because it actually mentions bra sizes, a feat which not even masters like Whitman or Dickinson ever mastered properly.

When asked about their feelings about the acronym change, the other members of FOB were violently various. "Mems how I was in Yuba recently?" said Melyngoch, speaking in a language we must assume is Slavic in origin. "People shrug too much," said editorgirl, obviously making a statement on the recent rise of apathy in the voting public. "I can't parallel park for the life of me," replied the Marchioness, indicating that she, for one, had no such apathy. Edgy brought the whole thing to a head, however, when he swore to write the next chapter of the awe-inspiring story of the FOBbers (or perhaps the FODders) within the next three days.

Meanwhile, the acronym battle rages. Will it be the conservative FOB that carries the day, or the fresher, younger FOD? In either case, the future of FOB is destined to be one that we, as reporters, and you, as our readers, are going to watch closely in the weeks to come.

Hey!-or-You guys suck!

2006-06-13T20:08:00.000-07:00

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As I've been reading the reports of the weekly Fob meeting, I have longed for those days of mutual foberation and said to myself, you know, I should get "Perry" or something rewritten and send it into Fobfiles so I can get some feedback. Surely Perry only needs one more rewrite.

Then, this evening, as I was doing the dishes, I remembered: "Perry Was an Artist" is already on Fobfiles! It's been there since November!

So next time only one person brings something to Fob, pleasepleaseplease read that, will you? I need something new to send out into the publishing ether.

With much love and zero suckiness,

Theric

A palindrome, which decries the fact that our fans in Maine have taken to a local watering hole and left Foblog behind. Don't they know we need them?

2006-06-13T19:57:00.000-07:00

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Yo! Fob up, Ottoro! Rot to Pub of Oy!

FOB June 8

2006-06-11T14:01:00.000-07:00

I hereby post, with a sense of dogged determined duty, the proceedings of the Fobsters on the eighth day of June, on the two thousandth and sixth year of the "Roman" calendar. I do this solely for the purpose of hearing myself type, as this site shows definite signs of entropy.

The reknowned editorgirl absented herself from the proceedings, making this the fifth Fob in a row that we have failed to reach full capacity. There was much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth on both sides, though beyond that the two groups differed somewhat: editorgirl went to the ashes extreme whilst the Fobsters dabbled somewhat in sackcloth. Her clear voice of reason was missed greatly, and each of the Fobs took a moment to euologize her in a variety of creative ways (not soon will be forgotten Edgy's interpretive dance entitled "em-dashes for editorgirl").

Conversation around the Fob floor centered upon that ubiquitous subject - sex. Indeed, so free and loose was the conversation that even Tolkien Boy, who by all accounts has a rather miniscule conscience, felt badly afterwards and wished that he had not said half the things that he had said. Or, perhaps, thought. Though there was a lot of talk, however, there was very little action, and so there was no occasion for awkwardness afterwards.

The Fobsters were graced by the presence of non other than Foxy J herself, and her insightful comments elevated many a tangential discussion concerning the pooping habits of newborns and toddlers.

Surprisingly, none of the Fobs but Master Fob himself brought materials to be abused, so the majority of the time in Fob was spent criticizing Master Fob's excellent prose without giving him the opportunity to retaliate. Though an excellent strategy for warfare, this unfair situation where Master Fob gives and the rest of us castigates cannot go on for long. It is hoped that next Fob will see a reflowering of of the literate arts.

Following Master Fob's chapter, there was great debate on whether people who like Karen Carpenter and are fat and hairy are allowed to wear Hello Kitty T-shirts. Edgy was most decidedly against, while Melyngoch and Tolkien Boy argued for. Master Fob provided his reasoning in his lucid way, and the Marchioness and Foxy J collaborated on a sacred feminine scheme to take over the world with nothing more than Jane Austen novels and knitting needles. By the end of the night, the score stood exactly the same, but each Fob inwardly committed to search their soul and the Internet for people who like Karen Carpenter and Hello Kitty T-shirts. The results are expected to be revealing.

Fob culminated (one might even say climaxed) when Melyngoch ran to Smiths and brought back no fewer than three different kinds of cookies in varying species. Inevitably a fight broke out over the soft chocolate chip genus, and Dec came from Salt Lake to officiate. With Dec's help, the Fobs ended the night still as friends, but Edgy is not likely to reach for a soft cookie at the same time as the Marchioness ever again.

And so, again we leave you from within the shadows of the everlasting hills (pun intended). May Fob be with you this day, and always.

Little Boy Blow

2006-06-07T09:51:00.000-07:00

.

He's a rapper I just made up. I think it's a pretty great name. The kid's got street cred out the wazoo. His trademark is the clouds of dust raised as he freestyles across the stage.

What upsets me, however, is that the jerk won't give me a backstage pass. Now that he's made it big he's forgotten the people who made him.

Literally.

FOB June 1

2006-06-03T21:33:00.000-07:00

For those who continue to read, despite this site’s increasing indulgence in Tolkien-Boy-centered philoscriptus, I provide for you (as yet, free of charge, but times may change) the minutes of our last FOB meeting.

Tolkien Boy redeemed somewhat his extreme lateness and equally extreme absence from FOB the past two weeks by arriving first at editorgirl’s house for FOB. As no one else was present, he spent his time reading the most affecting parts of his newly-checked-out book on editorgirl’s swing and nursing his raging headache. Edgy Killer Bunny arrived next, joining Tolkien Boy on the swing, and they discussed finances, which made Tolkien Boy’s headache worse. Master Fob arrived next, making it a porch swing trio, and the three harmonized on the greater hits of Gershwin until the arrival of the Marchioness, who brought both cucumbers and an actual conversation. Finally, editorgirl arrived, fashionably late and very much in fashion, and let the FOBs into her house.

There was discussion on the regrettable absence of Melyngoch and whether her warning email had mentioned she was roasting both humans and flesh or simply roasting human flesh. Much joking on Melyngoch’s cannibalistic tendencies ensued, but in deference to Mishkin no one called her a maneater. Many oreos were consumed, the cucumbers having been devoured earlier.

Tolkien Boy began the festivities by reading from his sequel novel, in which a lecherous Lenny touches various inoffensive portions of the female anatomy and ruminates upon the experience. Comments mercifully stopped just short of mentioning Tolkien Boy’s lack of experience in said subject matter. The Marchioness then finished up her short story in which people who like Karen Carpenter express concern for people who poop blood (demographics which, we can reasonably assume, do not often interact). editorgirl (sic) then presented us a snippet of poetry in which a Month (sic) was used as a verb. Much thought was given about the benefits of verbing months, and in reaction Edgy novembered, Master Fob juned, and the Marchioness exploded in a flurry of februaring. Finally, Master Fob served up his concoction of ingenuity and parody, which brought a tear to Tolkien Boy’s eye (surreptitiously wiped away).

Throughout the action, Master Fob dominated the stuffed chair and looked patriarchal, editorgirl puttered away on her cell phone, the Marchioness lolled on the beanbag, Edgy leaned wittily against the couch, and Tolkien Boy lay on the couch, making dire predictions about the possibility of his own survival.

And Melyngoch ate people. Which is why no man will ever love us.

If no one else is going to post

2006-06-02T22:44:00.000-07:00

.

then I will.

Edgy.....

Elegy for Edgy

2006-05-31T08:40:00.000-07:00

Now as the month of May her long and languid novel ends
we celebrate the passing of one of our dearest friends.
For Edgy, mighty Edgy, hero of the modern age
has been full far too absent from IM or blogging page.

Who thought the month of May would be the month of his demise?
'Twas a tragedy the most prophetic never could surmise.
Not even Mr. Brown, with all his knowledge of the past,
could guess this devastation that has left us all aghast.

O, Edgy! With your editing, you kept the Fobsters sane,
and steered us from the tangents to discussions more germane.
Your comments were regarded with the greatest awe and joy,
especially when you disagreed with stupid Tolkien Boy.

The things we could have shared with you! The things we could have done!
Your "your mom" jokes were getting good, you made many a pun.
We could have fed you veggie dishes in all sorts of disguise,
and finished it with slices of vinagary pies.

Alas, no more! Your month's deceased!
We laud the summer goddess now with every picnic feast!
The lusty month of May is passed, and with it goes your fame
no longer will we spend each morning chanting out your name!

O, Edgy, come, return to us, and grace us with your wit!
We've gone so long without you, and we're not liking it.
We long to know just how the pumpernickel is our bane
and what editorgirl did for us against looming domain.

O, Edgy, Edgy, Edgy! The tears pour down our cheeks,
We've spent the last week missing you, and missing really reeks.
If you're alive, please let us know, for we hope that it's true -
besides, we've already buried Jeph; let's not inter you, too.

Paid for by the Friends O'Edgy campaign.

Who's Who in the Justice League of Fob

2006-05-28T15:23:00.000-07:00

Left to Right:

The Atom = Jeph
Like the Atom, who is so small that sometimes you forget he's there, Jeph's time as a Fob was so short that sometimes we forget he's there. But we still love him.

Hawkman = Editorgirl
If you aren't sure why editorgirl is the superhero with wings growing out of his shoulder blades, you need to read more of her poetry.

Aquaman = Marchioness
Like the King of the Seven Seas, the Marchioness of Steventon is noble, strong, and likes to change her look frequently to spice things up. See here, here, and here.

Flash = Edgy Killer Bunny
Not because he's flashy, but because he runs.

Wonder Woman = Queen Zippergut
Amazon Princess meets British Monarch. And I've heard about QZ's star-spangled panties.

Superman = Theric
I know, I know, Aquaman's orange shirt was a natural fit for the Thmazingest Fob of all, but Theric was a reporter. And have you ever seen him without his glasses on?

Batman = Master Fob
Just because.

Martian Manhunter = Petra
Like the Justice League of America's mascot, the JLF's mascot is super-intelligent and just might come from another planet.

Green Lantern = Tolkien Boy
He's green, he has a magical ring that does whatever he wants it to, and his costume accentuates his buffness.

Green Arrow = Fob #5 (as yet without a blogonym)
If you are not a comic-book geek, you may not know that Green Arrow is the loud-mouthed liberal of the JLA. I wouldn't call #5 loud-mouthed, but he does have a strong voice at Fob meetings and he was introduced to me as Gay Boyfriend Chick's Straight Happily-Married Liberal Friend. And he's probably the Fob most likely to grow a goatee. (Not counting Edgy's soul patch or Theric's attempts, no more successful than Master Fob's attempts at facial hair.)

Black Canary = Melyngoch
Fishnet stockings. Any questions?

In Tolkien Boy's Absence...

2006-05-26T10:45:00.000-07:00

Since Fob's self-appointed secretary wasn't present to take minutes at last night's Fob, and since we are still waiting for Edgy's chapter, I will present you, faithful reader, with a recap:

Marchioness arrived early so that she could order pizza from Papa John's, which is not Papa Murphy's, and so that she and I could discuss things that I will not blog about, lest I be Dooced.
Melyngoch arrived next, five minutes early though she thought she was twenty-five minutes late. She proceeded to the inner sanctum of the Fobcave, where she used the Fobcomputer to print something, and possibly to take over the world. She left her jump drive on the Fobdesk, but I can't figure out how to open it, or I'd discover her secret world domination plans.
The pizza man arrived next, while Edgy chatted on his cell phone outside. He overcharged us. The pizza man, that is, not Edgy, who clued me in on the latest from his espionage mission to discover the true fate of Don Quimby. And by "us" I mean Marchioness, who paid for the pizza.
Having been informed that editorgirl would arrive late, we started. The ancient and dark ritual of Rock, Paper, and Scissors determined that Melyngoch would be fobbed first. She presented a story about a character of dubious gender who wants to make out with a hobby named Aster. We proceeded to fob it. We spoke briefly of The Fob Who Loves Karen Carpenter.
Editorgirl arrived, bearing (or baring) lime Coke (not coke), cream puffs, and chocolate satin pie, minus the vinegar. Sadly, she bore no poetry.
Marchioness read the first three pages of a story about a girl whose best friend, a male medical student who loves Karen Carpenter, touches her thigh.
Master Fob read the latest chapter in his saga about the friends of Dorothy. Edgy compared Fobby to Dan Brown and Lynne Gardner, but in a good way (supposedly).
Foxy J joined us in the outer sanctum to discuss Harry Potter, childrearing, and underwear. After the Official Fobs left, we, the Blood and Marriage Fobs, watched the last half-hour of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, graciously provided by Edgy after the library copy magically lost its last half-hour.

Now, don't you feel as if you were there? Tune in next week, same fobtime, same fobchannel.

Counter

2006-05-26T03:04:00.000-07:00

I want one on my blog. Make it happen for me. Someone. Otherwise, why the heck do I belong to this club?? HMMM??

Ooo! Looky here! She's Foblogging!

2006-05-26T02:48:00.000-07:00

I think whoever likes Skinny Dead Karen is A-Okay. "If I Were A Carpenter" (I think that's what it's called) is the name of an album where lots of modern, cool-ish people sing covers of Carpenters songs. It's worth a look-see. Er...um...a look-hear.

Oh, and this is to let you know that I finally figured out how to officially join the FOBLOG. Though right now I feel very far away from you and a little pouty about it. Meetings without me. And with pie. Telling your mom jokes. Reading all your fancy-shmancy "literature" stuff to each other. And you call yourselves my friends??

I think there must be a way for me to get to read your stuff, but I don't know how. I think it involves some form of Harry Potter-ish seeing eye thing that may not exist in the real world, but I'll figure it out. With help. Lots of it. Master Fob??

And I don't have 70 children, though it feels that way at times. I am SO loving the story and so very awed by the creativity contained in the FOB world herein.

(Does anyone else use herein?)

And, I want to get comments in my email, if that's possible. Even if I don't know you, Edgy, I feel close to you, especially if you can perform acts of technology that benefit me.

I'm just getting caught up, so I may have a haiku to add. I don't think I've ever told you that I am an accredited Haiku master, or, as those of us in the higher levels of Haiku conciousness call it, Haikuticai.

Hai!

Ottoro Haiku

2006-05-24T14:56:00.000-07:00

Well, it was only a matter of time...

Ottoro, the Haiku

A city in Maine.
Stuffed with bored housewives.
Really, just a hoax.

Ottoro Acrostic

2006-05-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

.

O is for your ogling eyes
T is for your tush
T can also be your tears when ogling much too much
O is for your oblong soul
R is 'cause you're rad, but
O is 'cause you're here again to read and sigh so glad

We love you.

Limerick of Ottoro

2006-05-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

Ottoro's charms multifarious
are erudite, novel, and various.
But the housewives who log
every day on this blog
have sanity somewhat precarious.

*thanks to Optimistic for providing the adjective "novel."

Ode to Ottoro, Maine (Part II)

2006-05-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

Ottoro, Shmottoro
I ottored your mom's O
Last night.

Ode to Ottoro, Maine

2006-05-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

.

O, Ottoro!
Ottoro Ottoro Ottoro!
We all to Ottoro go!
Ottoro! Ottoro! Ho!

someone take a stanza

FOB, May 18th

2006-05-21T08:08:00.000-07:00

While we wait with bated breath (which means, coincidentally, not laced with something tempting but rather held back, as in abated) for the world's most deadly rabbit (read: unspeakably fatal) to write the precedent proceedings of this puzzling plot, I thought our loyal readers (two housewives in Ottoro, Maine) might be interested to experience the minutes of our last FOB meeting (sans the bloody chicken sacrifices, which we don't tell anyone about).

Tolkien Boy and editorgirl arrived somewhat late, because Tolkien Boy was busy dancing to Michael Buble and couldn't be bothered to check the time (sing it with me: Save the last dance, the last dance, for me...). After a couple of short detours (where they discovered a pool so enslimed that it could be walked on), they arrived at the manse of the Marchioness, where the collected FOB were, ah, collected.

Being as it were the month o' Edgy, there was much yodelling and cheering and embrassos when it was apparent that Edgy was amongst the FOB (homework assignment: does anyone outside of the Church say the word amongst? Due by next FOB). This was also a FOB to celebrate the return of Melyngoch from the flat fields of Fobindiana, and there was many a 'your mom' joke to celebrate her return (additionally, we celebrated Melyngoch's mom's return last night). We felt quite sated to be so surfiet of supporters in our scribbling spectation, but unfortunately there were too few couches and Edgy and the Marchioness ended up on the floor, where they contributed to the conviviality by criticising everyone's comma use. To top the celebration (a phrase that would not have gone unpunned on in last week's FOB), editorgirl gave Edgy a collection of three pins featuring his trademark bunny, after which there were many an exclamation of appropriateness, viz. the bunny-to-Edgy thing.

As for the meat of FOB, we read first a first chapter of the Marchioness's new novel, which was greeted with loud acclaim by all the FOB save Tolkien Boy, who had decided to be quiet after the third time editorgirl reminded him that it was not all about him (he had been confusing himself with Edgy), and therefore was forced to limit his remarks to written words and doodled dinosaurs. We then were graced with a second chapter from Master Fob's new novel, which caused us to spontaneously skip around the room singing as well as discuss the logisitics of accidents involving Hummers, as well as the proper spelling of the word uh.

We had a short break for pie, which Edgy sliced up and served to us. The benefactoress of the pie was editorgirl via the Provo Bakery. Upon taste, it was apparent that the chocolate cream pie had been dipped in vinegar, so the FOB focused on the berry pie and made various pie-related jokes (the funniest one was based on a comment made by Tolkien Boy that was so old only Master Fob and Tolkien Boy himself had read it, but they enjoyed themselves anyway. And yes, that phrasing is ironic). The berry pie disappeared quickly, but the chocolate cream pie was summarily dismissed as being unFOBworthy.

Afterwards, we read editorgirl's publishworthy poetry and partook in elite exegesis of it. We then discussed how erudite editorgirl is, really, and praised her ability to phrase a turn. Er, turn a phrase.

A few hundred sex jokes later, and it was time to depart, save for the final word, which was of course had by Melyngoch, who revealed that one of the FOB members was, in fact, fond of Karen Carpenter. Much blushing ensued, and much laughter and apologies culminated in the parking lot afterward as everyone tried to figure out if someone with so poor music taste should be allowed to continue in FOBly communion (the decision was left with Master Fob, and is pending. In this nameless person's defense, I'm almost certain that some hip-hop artist has done a cover of a Carpenter song. Heaven knows they've done almost everything else!).

And then we departed, each to his or her separate home, to sleep and gather energy for the next FOB, which promised to be even more exciting, as perhaps Melygoch, Tolkien Boy, and Edgy will actually bring something to be criticised (except, of course, for Edgy, whose writing is beyond criticism).

Chapter 30: The Pulsating Purple Pumpernickel; or, How eg Saved the Fobs from Imminent Destruction and Eminent Domain

2006-05-19T08:34:00.000-07:00

Coming soon.

Meaning, I, Edgy, hereby lay claim to and call dibs on this, the next chapter.

And there's nothing Your Mom can do about it.

Chapter 31: Where editorgirl Went

2006-05-16T21:43:00.000-07:00

The night before Jeph's funeral, the Fobsters met at editorgirl's house to discuss their plan of action.

"Let's kill everyone who might know," said Th. lazily from the couch.

"Is that your answer to everything?" asked editorgirl. "Have another brownie."

"Pretty much," said Th. to the first, and "Thanks," to the second. He chewed noisily.

"We need to start by figuring out how we're going to handle the funeral," said the Queen. "Who was Jeph closest to?"

The Fobs, as one, pointed to Master Fob.

"What?" said Master Fob. "I barely knew him. Talk to Melyngoch, they were pretty friendly."

Melyngoch pursed her lips. "I'd rather not discuss that."

"Look, funerals aren't that difficult to figure out," said Edgy from his perch on the couch where he sat with his arms wrapped around his long legs. "Someone dishes up a pot of funeral potatoes,
someone does decorations, someone says some nice things, someone cries."

"Or in Jeph's case, someone laughs," mused Th. musingly.

"Ooh, I call funeral potatoes," cried the Queen.

"Decorations," grunted Melyngoch femininely.

"I guess I could say some nice things," said Master Fob hesitantly. "I am a master of fiction, after all."

"Among other things," mumbled Melyngoch slyly.

"That just leaves crying, and brother, if you think I'm going to cry - " started the Marchioness.

"Is it only me, or does anyone else remember that the only reason we're staging this funeral for Jeph is because we're attempting to hide the great secret of the 'your mom' joke?" editorgirl's voice was calm and clear above the babbling.

"Oh, yeah," said Th. "We kind of got carried away, there."

The Fobs looked penitently at editorgirl. she cleared her throat. "There's still something we need to talk about that we haven't mentioned yet," she said.

"Do we have to?" asked Master Fob.

"I know it's unpleasant," said editorgirl. "But we can't shy away from it any longer. Don't you remember what the one-eyed gypsy woman said?"

"So well," sighed Edgy. "'Wal-Mart will be the harbinger of a new evolutionary age. Buy lots of stock early.'"

"Not that one." editorgirl rolled her eyes.

"'The one that suggested I start a belly-dancing emporium in Hoboken, New Jersy?" asked Th.

"Was that one technically one-eyed?" asked the Queen. "I thought she was just caught in a long wink."

"I believe that the one-eyed gypsy woman that editorgirl is referring to is the one that told us that Master Fob would become a raging, homocidal maniac should the secret ever be revealed." Petra spoke in her usual incisive way. The Fobs said, "Oh, yeah," as one.

"So, the way I see it, we have two choices," said editorgirl. "We can kill Master Fob -"

"I vote kill," said Th. helpfully.

"-or, we can bury the evidence of the secret back in the Tibetan mountains," continued editorgirl. "That way, we'll know it's safe."

"But we'll still know the secret," said the Queen.

"I won't tell," said editorgirl.

"Nor I," said Melyngoch.

"Not me," said the Marchioness.

"I was kinda planning on blogging about it," said Edgy. The Fobs stared at him, and he shrugged. "Mum's the word."

"I'll only tell the King and our seventy children," said the Queen. "But it stops there."

"There's no logical reason to tell," said Petra stoutly.

"Are you sure we can't kill Master Fob?" asked Th.

"How do you spell 'bereaved?'" asked Master Fob, his pencil poised over the notebook where he was jotting down Jeph's eulogy.

"The point is, one of us is going to have to go back to the mountains and bury all the evidence. One of us is going to have to miss Jeph's funeral tomorrow."

"Me!" All the Fob's hands shot into the air.

"Now, that's no good." editorgirl tucked her pencil behind her ear. "Let's talk this out."

"Well, it should be someone who understands poetry," said Melyngoch. "Remember how we had to answer that poetic riddle in order to make it through that snowy mountain pass? I bet there will be one just as difficult on the way back."

"So clever, to use a rhyming sestet of dactyllic stress," murmured the Marchioness. "I imagine the way back will be something hideously hard like...limericks, or...prose poetry..."

"Whoever goes should be able to stomach large quantities of rice pudding," said Petra from the corner, where she sat hunched over her laptop, the Google screen shining backwards on her face. "According to Google, there's been a rise in activity among the rice-pudding-loving people of the Alps. Our intrepid explorer could very well be forced into a tribal competition of some sort, much like we were when we travelled to Milan."

"And yet, he or she needs to be charming enough to talk to the reclusive monks in the hills," pointed out the Queen. "Remember that jolly round man who was so excited about John Cusak? We need to be able to meet these people on their own terms."

"And proficiency in making brownies is key," said Th. "Remember how we repelled those randy mountain goats with panfuls of brownies?"

Th. reached for another brownie and stopped, his hand in midair. Slowly, the other Fobs focused their gazes on editorgirl.

"Oh, very well," said editorgirl when she saw where they were looking. "I'm always cleaning up after you guys, anyway. But if Master Fob goes crazy and destroys the world, at least everyone will know it's not my fault."

"I still say we kill him," said Th. sulkily, picking up a brownie.

Antepentultimate Adventure

2006-05-11T22:49:00.000-07:00

"So, I’m thinking that we were wrong from the very beginning," said Tolkien Boy to Melyngoch as they set out candles on the tables in preparation for Jeph’s funeral. "Who were we to think that we could discover the ultimate ‘your mom’ joke?"

Melyngoch sighed. "I suppose we thought, if anyone could do it, it would be us. I guess we were wrong." She lifted a crystal candle dish, looked at it critically. "Whose are these?"

"Edgy’s, I think." Tolkien Boy tried to balance a dish on his middle finger. It slipped to the floor with a loud clang.

"Don’t drop things, duckies," said Master Fob without glancing up from his place at the pulpit. He was scribbling furiously.

"How long has he been at that?" whispered Tolkien Boy to the Queen as she walked out of the kitchen, an enormous casserole dish of steaming funeral potatoes clenched in her loving oven mitts.

"Thirteen hours and counting," said the Queen. "Oh, isn’t this cultural hall divine?"

Tolkien Boy and Melyngoch drew themselves up proudly. It had been their efforts, after all, that had turned the gymnasium into a veritable mausoleum for the mourned. Their finishing touch had been an upsweep of black streamers over the coffin. The streamers were lazily moving in the wind from Master Fob’s furiously scribbling pen.

"Who paid for the coffin, anyway?" said the Queen.

"Master Fob," said Melyngoch and Tolkien Boy in unison. "He said he wanted everything to be perfect," added Tolkien Boy. "But I think that the coffin is rented."

"Do you two believe what that one-eyed gypsy woman told us?" asked the Queen nervously.

"Which one?" asked Melyngoch. "There’s been so many."

"Not the one who told us to invest in WalMart, nor the one who told us that skinny dipping with scout leaders was morally reprehensible."

"Oh, you mean the one who mentioned that, if we ever disturbed the "your mom" shrine, we’d be cursed by Master Fob becoming insane and eventually having a child that would eventually lead the world into destruction, chaos, and anarchy?"

"That’s the one," said the Queen. "Do you think that this will be enough potatoes?"

"I can’t imagine Jeph was that popular," said Tolkien Boy, staring at the enormous casserole dish. "And Master Fob isn’t insane, he’s just–composing."

"And Jeph’s decomposing," quipped the Queen. "I think I’ll make some more potatoes, just to be safe."

***

"We are gathered here today to pay tribute to a fallen Fob," Ben said, surveying the crowd at Jeph’s funeral. "A Fob graced with, as all Fobs are graced with, dignity, strength, and creativity..."

"Did he know Jeph?" hissed Th. to Tolkien Boy.

Tolkien Boy shrugged. "I never did."

"Before continuing, I should like to say a few words about Fob itself," Master Fob continued. "As many of you know, the recent quest of Fob has been to find the ultimate ‘your mom’ joke."

The room erupted in a buzz of whispering. The members of Fob looked at each other.

"He’s not going to tell the secret, is he?" said Melyngoch to Edgy.

Edgy gripped the seat of his chair, his forehead wet with sweat. "I sure hope not."

"I am here to report that the we have all been deceived regarding the ‘your mom’ joke," said Ben, blissfully ignoring the frantic hand gestures of the Fob from the back of the room.

"That’s it, we’re going to have to kill him," said Th.

"Strike hard and true," said Tolkien Boy. And then, to himself, "What movie is that on?"

"I can see this is going to get ugly," said Petra uneasily. "I think I’ll excuse myself and check out Tolkien Boy’s question on Google."

"No!" said Th. fiercely. "We vowed we’d be in this together.

"The secret to the ‘your mom’ joke, as we discovered in the secret ‘your mom’ shrine in southeastern Tibet, is–"

"Do something," said the combined Fob to Melyngoch.

"Oh, Jeph!" yodeled Melyngoch at the top of her lungs, causing Master Fob to lose his place in his eulogy and the rest of the attendees to turn around to look at her. "We hardly knew ye!" she continued.

"He was like a brother to me!" howled Tolkien Boy, cluing in.

"How often we sat and talked about sex!" cried the Queen.

"And the blue-footed booby!" wailed Th.

"And the latest and greatest from David Sedaris!" bawled Edgy.

"Not to mention the role of Jane Austen as a feminist of her time and an example for ours!" shrieked the Marchioness, and as one the Fobs fell upon the coffin, beating it and calling out their regrets.

In the midst of their mourning, Tolkien Boy turned to the others and said, "The fact that he would share the secret, the one we all vowed to protect, shows that he has lost his already tentative grip upon reality. There can be no doubt: he has become the horror that the one-eyed gypsy said he would be."

"Which one was that?" wondered the Marchioness, but they shushed her to look at Master Fob. Their histrionics had turned Master Fob back to his original eulogy, but there was no knowing when he might slip up again.

eg says what

2006-05-10T21:23:00.000-07:00

I refuse to participate in this story at this time. Not enough blood or shirts riding up. Come on people. (And I wanted to claim this color.)

Part Penultimate

2006-05-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

.

Master Fob paused in his elegy, choking back an unexpected tear. The rest of Fob looked at him in horror, knowing that the prophecy was true. Tolkien Boy looked smugly at the others--they could have listened to him, but now--

Now it was over.

Master Fob rushed out a few closing words and sat down, burying his head in Foxy's lap and wept. Before he could recover, the rest of Fob moved to the potato bar and made a brief plan:

Edgy: But--

Theric: I'm sorry, Edgy, but you know I'm right. Master Fob has cried for the slain Fob! This is what that old man was blabbering about! Our best bet is to kill him now. What other choice do we have? We could have averted it--

TB(smugly): Could have. -snort-

Theric: --but we didn't. And now Master Fob will descend into that terror we know he is capable of.

Edgy nodded, slowly. editorgirl and Petra each took one of his elbows and led him to an orange chair. Melyngoch and Theric looked at each other and also nodded. They went out to their old weapon stash behind the church and selected bludgeons.

"Are you ready?"

Theric nodded.

"Harder than you expected?"

Theric nodded.

"Wuss."

Theric let Mel open the door for him and they walked back inside the church only to have the Queen grab them and pull them through the stage door.

"Now is not the time!" she hissed.

"But--" they tried.

"You can't kill someone during spring cleaning! I won't stand for it!"

"But--"

Queenie grabbed their weapons and handed them to another figure in the shadows. The voice of Tolkien Boy came to them.

"We had our chance," he said. "And we missed it. Let's not mix mourning with new sorrows. Capiche?"

"Capiche?" said Melyngoch. "You can't be seriou--"

But he was serious, and she and Theric acquiesced.

Chapter Infinity: The End

2006-05-10T09:07:00.000-07:00

After Jeph's funeral, the Fobs all parted and promised never to speak of the horrific events of the last three weeks again. Master Fob and Foxy returned to Fob Island, where they raised up a great nation that would eventually take over the world. Theric and Lady Steed went underground, preparing a militia in northern Idaho for the day they knew would come, when Master Fob's power would get out of control. Queen Zippergut retired with her King to their palace, where they oversaw their subjects' continual spring cleaning. Meylngoch invited editorgirl and Petra to join her convent in the jungles of Venezuela; editorgirl accepted, but Petra declined, choosing instead to become a prostitute in Indonesia. Tolkien Boy went on tour with Michael Buble, singing showtunes and gospel music, after which the two settled down in Canada. The Marchioness, sadly, spent the rest of her days in a padded cell, reading and rereading a copy of Pride and Prejudice with rounded corners. Edgy Killer Bunny, on the other hand, had the happiest fate of all--he and Dec opened a bookstore-gym-wedding reception center in Seattle, allowing them to ride out the coming revolution in relative wealth and comfort.

Ryan, meanwhile, wondered why he wasn't in this story.

Something to Do

2006-05-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

I have come up with an ingenious idea. See, we could let this blog spiral into pointless broccoli-related nonsense (not that that's a bad thing), but on the other hand we could... well... do something else. Something that is different from what we do on our own blogs, something that takes advantage of the collaborative nature of a group blog, something that shows off our incredible writing talent. On second thought, no guarantees on that last one.

Here's Master Fob's Ingenious Proposal:

We, as a collective Fob, will co-write a story here on this blog. One of those tell-your-part-of-the-story-then-pass-the-baton things. BUT, since this is a blog and posts are shown in reverse chronological order, we'll write the story in reverse chronological order so that once it's done our loyal readers can read it in reverse-reverse chronological order, which, applying the universal law of Two Negatives Make a Positive, becomes chronological order.

Got it? Good. I'm going to write the end of the story now.

How to cook broccoli (new! improved!)

2006-05-09T20:49:00.000-07:00

.

Bring salty water to boil.

Add broccoli.

Don't cook to long!

Eat.

Salty goodness effused throughout.

broccoli | are you trying to kill me?

2006-05-09T18:15:00.000-07:00

Because I must lay claim to my color, I feel inclined to post about the evils of broccoli.

I didn't always think broccoli was evil; in fact, that is a relatively recent development. Broccoli has been one of the few foods that could technically be classified as a vegetable (except during Lent, wherein it is a tree or small shrubbery) that I would actually eat. Though you won't normally see me eat the broccoli on my plate at a restaurant, but that's only because the cookstaff destroys the broccoli by a) cooking it too long and b) adding nefarious spices to it. Regardless, broccoli has always been a favorite.

And with good cause. Apparently my genetic makeup is susceptible to Macular Degeneration and broccoli fights that. Go team! Rah! Rah! Rah!.

However, broccoli is now evil because it has led Tolkers to lay claim to the color green, leaving me with this color. And I must also squeeze another blog into my life. Sigh. It's tough being a Fob.