Still here

There are some days, though, when I have to check to make sure I still exist in time and space.

No one wants to publish my SF short stories. At least, the few places I’ve sent them to lately are not interested. (Though one said, “try us again.” I’ve been told this is a “close but no cigar but you’re good enough that we’ll plow through another story sometime.”)

The agent I told you about in August has not answered my email yet. Like the rest of the world, I want to be noticed now and get an immediate response to my work. I am trying to be patient. This is a busy guy, and he likely has to snow shovel through 1000 emails a day. I probably got lost in the mix.

A week ago, my ex and I went to see Puddles Pity Party, an internet star who dresses as a circus clown but sings modern songs with a magnificent voice. We loved Puddles (kinda could have done without his “supporting” players). The show was in Glendale, about an hour from my homestead in Barstow.

On the way back on a dark and rainy busy highway, the rear right tire in my little black pony blew out. We pulled over to the side on a dark and wet part of the highway. I tried to fix it but the tire folks who put the new tire on used a pneumatic drill. I stood on the tire iron and couldn’t get the nut to move.

So I called AAA. My ex hadn’t eaten in hours and was telling me that she was going through a hypoglycemic episode. Yikes! AAA told me that we would be put at the top of the list.

Four friggin’ hours later, nothing. I called the two company three times, and each time was treated rudely and was outright lied to. The tow company is California Towing in San Bernardino, in case you ever have some rotten eggs you need to get rid of. They never showed. Never. Despite telling me and AAA they were always just a few minutes away.

As far as AAA is concerned, each time I called (I called every 45 minutes) I was assure that they were “on it.” Until they weren’t. They hung up on me the last time I called.

Mind you, these people were told there were two people in their 60s, one of which was about to go into a hypoglycemic coma, the other who was diabetic and might also be soon in distress, stranded on the side of the road on a wet, dark night by a very busy freeway.

“You have a medical emergency,” the AAA supervisor said to me. “That makes you top priority.” That was two hours into a four hour ordeal.

Finally my ex called the CHP. They sent a tow truck and it actually showed. Just in time. I was able to get my ex to a Denny’s and averted a hypoglycemic coma.

But…well once again the world treated me like I didn’t exist. Grrr.

Am I not a man? Hath a writer not eyes, lips, a stomach? Hath a writer not an ability to occupy space and time?

Or is this all an illusion and I’m in a decades-long coma?

If so, can I change the channel to a coma in which I am sexy and slim and famous and married to Scarlett Johannsen?