Why I hate phones.

It probably began with a phone call I received, or had to make, back when I was a kid. It was most likely one of those “It's grandma's birthday Mark. So give her a call and wish her a happy birthday!”

After some huffing, sighs and protest, I relented I'm sure. My dad dialed the number, I heard the echoing rings from our old rotary phone in my young tender ears, than, after a while, someone picked up.

“Happy birthday grandma!”

“Who's this?”

“It's me. Mark.”

“Oh. Thank you Mark.”

First off, I am an only child, so no brothers or sisters would be calling saying “Happy birthday grandma!” Just me. Second, after extending to her my forced birthday wishes, she would then go on about her hip problems, vision difficulty, the marvels president Reagan was accomplishing and how I never call or visit.

“OK,” I said. “Bye.”

It was because of a traumatic event such as that, I'm sure, that my loathe of the telephone was seeded.

My dad usually had me answer the phones on Fridays because he feared work might call him in to pull a shift on a weekend. So, when they did, I always said “He's not here but I'll give him the message.” On Mondays, my dad would be all “What? I never got that message. That darn kid of mine!” Then reward me later with a Star Wars toy and hamburger. So, because of that, the phone is an instigator for childhood lying.

In later years, around high school really, the phone became the enemy for a whole new reason. If the phone rung sometime around dinner, you might here this on the other end:

“Hello. This is the principal of (high school). Your son or daughter has missed one or all of their classes today. Please contact us as soon as possible to clear you child of any truancy. Thank you.”

Yep. Up until high school, I was an alright student. But when those hallowed halls of severe bullies, unintended boners, magnificent zits, staggering awkwardness, rejection from all walks of girl life and having your locker stuffed with trash took hold, I took heed. Basically, I cut a lot.

At this time, skateboarding, thrash metal and playing Dungeons and Dragons were my focus. High school, for me anyway, was a mess. I was a mess. So at the end of the day, when my dad and I sat down for supper, and that rat bastard phone would ring, I'd make a mad dash for it and answer. If I made it in time, I'd pick up, say “Hello?” then pretend the person on the other line either A) just wasn't there or B) a wrong number.

Unfortunately, sometimes, my dad would answer and get that recorded call. Then I'd have some quick explaining to do. “Oh? What? Uh...that's weird. Hmm. Well, wrong Mark Whittaker I guess.”

Thanks phone. You just got me grounded.

Once I was out on my own, the phone became an annoyance on all sorts of new levels. Creditors calling demanding I pay off maxed out cards. Employers calling to say I didn't get the job. Roommates calling to ask for the rent. The city of San Francisco calling to advise me never to park my car on the lawn in front of the federal courthouse. Girlfriends calling just to say “God...fxxk you! It's over!”

After a while, I just turned the darn thing off and checked voicemail now and then. Ah, that sweet sweet silence.

Plus, and here's a funny thing because I am a writer: I really don't have anything to say to you. Honestly. Like, I'm not one of those guys that's all, “Dude, gonna call the Chadster and Big Greg and we're gonna chat it up bro!” No. Not gonna happen. The internet is a gawdam miracle for a kook like me. I can type better than I can speak and I am a horrible typist. You wanna talk to me? Email baby. Simple as that.

That's why the idea of having a cell phone frightens the living pants off of me. Having a phone with you ALL THE TIME? What, are you crazy? It's bad enough I have one of those monsters looming on my desk at home. That one red beady eye letting me know that at any moment, at any given time, the outside world can just dial those numbers and then “BEEEEP!”, scare me half to death because I usually work in silence.

Gone are the days of phone machines. Those things were the shiznit. Mute the phone, do what you do and if someone calls all you hear is that click and your buddy going, “Uh...hello. Mark? Are you home? Dude...pick up. I know you're there!”

I am. But I'm halfway through a pint of cookie dough ice cream and watching “Star Wars”. So, suck it!

Now that I am in my official “adult years”, I don't like the phone for one basic reason.

Telemarketers.

Oh man. Now that bills and crap are in my name, those unimaginable assholes call not just first thing in the morning, but at lunch and dinner time. Check it out. I'm in bed, sound asleep, when in the very early morning the phone rings. Of course I'm gonna answer it. Could be an emergency. I mean, really, who calls at this ungodly hour?

“Hello?”, I say into the receiver, groggily.

“Yes, hello,” chimes an unfamiliar voice. “May I speak with a Mark Whi...takk...ker?”

Dude, and I mentioned this in my first book, most people that don't know me have the worst time pronouncing my last name. Why? Because I have two T's instead of one. When you see the surname “Whitaker”, it gets pronounced correctly. Whitaker. But that extra T in mine? Forget it. Turns most into stuttering idiots.

“Whit...ttttt...taker?”

“Dude. It's early. What's this about?”

“Yes, I am calling to offer you this important one time deal...”

“GO DIE!”

Click.

So, basically, combined with all of the evidence proven for the case against the beatitude of the modern telephone, can you now see why I don't ever call you up? Why I rarely, if ever, pick up? Phones are just annoying, almost as bad as air travel. But I mean, I have to have one. I just get astounded at people that say they can't live without their phone. Or those chumps that have one permanently attached to their ear. Or that Blue Tooth business. Oh man. Usually the worst kind of human monster wears one of those. Who you calling dorkwad? Your stylist? Because those acid washed jeans and tee shirt with a wolf on the front, combined with that bleeping piece of plastic in your ear is all the rage this season!

But, here's the thing. If you get a call from me, consider yourself lucky. That means you're in my top circle of responsibility. My folks, my She-Ra, my close pals, sure, they get me dialing now and then. For the rest of you? Well...

Keep reading!

Sunday, March 14. 9:30 am.

The kids book is done. Now what?

For the last two days or so I've been on a self appointed “hiatus” from writing...from writing anything. Not a good idea. Sure, it's good to lave the big project behind for a spell, you know, to regroup and charge the batteries before the uphill battle of editing, getting an agent and getting published begins. I can't even begin to imagine the terror. It was bad enough trying to sell my first book, “Rabbit Every Tuesday”, which is a far cry from my kids book “In The Thicket”, and I'm not looking forward to going through that again.

But not writing anything? Bullcrap! That's like telling a musician you can't play guitar for a week. Or some nerdy kid you can't play video games for a while. Or my friend Hillary you can't watch “LOST” for a month. Just imagine the misplacement they must feel. Well, enter the dragon of my disease kids. Due to the fact that I hate phones and can't really speak very well, the great and mighty magnet has given me the disorder of wanting to write. I just wish I could type better...

I was a wreck yesterday at work, Like really ornery, pissy even. Halfway through the day I realized two things: 1) I am totally missing the Tucson Festival of Books; couldn't get the time off, mainly because I'm taking some time off when She-Ra gets back in town (next Sunday!) and 2) I haven't written since Thursday, which was, like, two days ago. I miss hanging out with the characters in that book, following them on adventures, watching mysteries unfold. Again, it's like ordering a painter to stop painting. If the hands wanna move along with the brain, they're gonna move. I just chose to watch breakdancing movies and drink beer. That got boring...really fast!

Plus I need that extra company of writing to keep me going. Being left alone for a month or so, even being the perennial 'loner' that I am, is rather tough on the constitution. I don't sleep as well when She-Ra is gone, the dog and cat can only understand a scant of what I say, mainly “sit!” and “get off the table!”, and going out by myself is ridiculous. I'm not gonna pony up to my favorite dive bar alone. No way. Why? My fridge is stocked with food and beer and I don't wanna carry a conversation with some toofless cracky about some sport or 'Nam. The safety of our lil' homestead, packed with movies, cable, internet and books is just fine with me. Plus She-Ra is great protection. Those boobs of hers are like armament; two big shields to thwart any harm coming my way. Thanks baby!

Point is, (sigh), I hate to say this but...I'm a writer! Published, paid or not, its what I do and what I am. Can't stop it now, in too deep my friends. My day job is the hobby here, not the act of sitting in front of the machine, opening up a word file and typing till my fingers are sore. That's the real gig, the A-train to Happy Island. So forget what I said about “taking a break” from this act. I have some books to write.

Now, what was I saying...?

Friday, March 5, 2010.

So where would I be without writing? That's a weird question. Answer is: Who cares?

It's in my personal belief that everyone is handed ONE thing by the great Mystery (no, not the Pick Up Artist douche) and it's up to you to either run with it or flush it.

I've kinda done both.

Basically, writing got me in both trouble and amenity in school. I remember writing a short one page story in the 4th grade, for St Patrick's Day, an assignment, that had my teacher, Mrs. Walker, call up my dad with concern. See, all the other kids wrote about happy leprechauns and four leaf clovers granting wishes and blah blah blah. Mine was about vengeful leprechauns that were sick of everyone stealing their gold so they formed the L.A.F. (Leprechaun Attack Force) and bombed major metropolitan areas with their planes called the Green Snakes. My dad has it in a scrapbook somewhere. When I find it I'll scan it and you can see for yourself.

In high school a place where I was severely suffering academically, my AP English teacher, Mrs. Favalora, liked my work so much she helped me graduate a year early by suggesting I take this placement test, get out of ye olde North Salinas High and start a fresh at the city college. It was the best decision yet. I would have been held back a year. Skateboarding, thrash metal and D&D were my focus; I skipped class a lot. Luckily for me, I had some viable skill.

Writing also landed me in the presence of some of my musical heroes. When my buddy Max Sidman took over a small periodical in Chico, CA, 'The Synthesis', and turned it into a glossy scene mag, he hired me to cover shows and interview bands. Since I was living in San Francisco, I guess I had more opportunity to catch more fringe acts. Before you knew it, I was drinking beer with High On Fire, watching porn with Lemmy of Motorhead, talking about bad 70s movies with Fu Manchu, about our favorite books with Henry Rollins, the Spice Girls with Doyle of the Misfits and exchanging recipes with Oderus Urungus from GWAR. I even bought the boys from Electric Wizard a suitcase of beer in Austin, TX because they were so broke. We then went back to their hotel room, threw on some Skinemax and discussed Italian horror films. It was amazing. Good times.

That skill also landed me random jobs during the dot com era in SF. Before you knew it I had a desk in the Listen.com floor writing about crap techno and receiving $1000 a week. Then that would fall out from under me and I'd be in some law firm filing claims. Then back to some desk in a marketing firm writing about “bullet proof web hosting” for Cisco. So on and so on. Man, the launch parties back then? Holy crap! I should write a novella just about those...

Now it's a different race. Almost finished with my second novel, my first kids book, I am now prepared to make this my full time job and my lifelong career. Only thing is, its fairly unsteady and I have to really fight for it. Well...good. Things have been a bit easy for me for the most part. Not that I haven't had hard time, far from it, I'm lucky to be alive!, but I have had loads of opportunities fall in my lap...only for me to piss it away somehow.

What? I was young and arrogant. Didn't fully appreciate what I had. Well, now I do. Cheers for that.

On the flip flop, I can write better than I can speak (although my typing skills are shite). Essentially my brain works in tangents, so when I end up talking, I usually stammer or don't make much sense. Plus I tend to trail off into the ether leaving the listener going “I'm sorry...what are you saying?”

“I don't know,” is my usual response. “But...you know what I'm saying?”

Anyway, whether you're into politics, video games, farming, carpentry, house flipping, movie production or making the best latte ever...I say go for it! Writing isn't a hobby for me. Not anymore anyway. My job is a hobby. I show up, I have some fun, make some food, clock out, go home and receive a paycheck now and then. When it's quiet, the writing continues in my head.

I just can't switch it off. Don't want to in fact...

Time to recap!

Food: Breakfast – banana and a bagel Lunch – leftover talapia soft tacos with home made salsa. Dinner – Thai curry chicken over jasmine rice.

Booze: Some IPAs and a cocktail here and there.

Movies: Now that the Olympics are over, just some NBC Thursday stuff and TruTV crap.

Mood: Working, even on my day off.

# of pages written: Loads. It's getting good...

Monday March 1. Day 8.

OK, so you know all of those rotten films I've been receiving from Netflix? Basically just a bunch of exploitation rot from the 70s and 80s. Its only been a few days and just a few movies but, so far, all of them have a central theme. I guess I didn't pick up on it enough as a kid. Pushing 40, I'm all “Ah ha! You guys are all alike.”

Here's the thing. You take a basic premise, essentially a fad from the time, breakdancing, skateboarding (which is not a fad!), roller disco and the like and have a Hollywood studio totally mess it up. It's like you can almost see those fat cigar chewing producers looking out their windows, going “What are those crazy kids up to? What's 'rapping'? Nevermind, it's big and we can make a lot of money off of it.”

“But what about story, content, plot and...”

“You think those idiots care about any of that? I want a script on my desk by the end of the week.”

Take the skateboard flick “Thrashin'” starring, that's right ladies, Josh Brolin. This is the blueprint for ALL of these types of movies. Even new ones. It doesn't change.

He's a good looking, talented “rebel”, that everyone seems to like but is a bit of a loner. There's the “bad guy” faction, usually with spray painted hair and some kind of chain dangling from a denim vest or ripped jeans, with stupid gang names like The Daggers, Snakes, Vicious Crew and the like. They're into the same thing as our hero, BMX biking, breakdancing or in the case of “Thrashin'”, skateboarding.

Then there's always some greedy big whig that want's to shut down the local hangout, a club a roller rink, etc. The only way to save said hangout is to raise money. But how? Sure they got talent, but they can't rub two pennies together.

Bring in the love interest. She's cute, she's sassy and she plays by her own rules. Bonus point: Daddy is loaded. Not so good point: Her brother is the leader of the warring faction.

What to do? Oh what to do?

Doesn't matter, love conquers all. Rich chick (who is also quite talented in exploited fad as well) falls for good guy hero which, of course, daddy does not approve of and sets evil brother off to no degree. I mean, daddy was going to put the funds up to save the hangout but, well little missy, now that you're dating, whats-his-name?, that rebel!, I'm going to tear up this contract and forget about it.

She runs to her room and cries. Brother gets more upset, there's some kind of altercation one that can only be settled by, yes!, the big contest. Turns out that contest hands out enough prize money to, that's right!, save said hangout. Oh...the plot thickens.

Whether it's a big breakdancing battle, rap off, skateboard rally or BMX bike race, the spunky underdogs almost don't make it, because the bad guys are just that much better, but then, suddenly, the good guy comes through right at the very end, because good always wins over evil, and the prize money goes to save the hangout, dad forgives daughter, mean guys run off in a huff and good guy kisses girl.

The End.

So, after reading this, you can apply the formula to almost any cheesy exploitation film. If there is a fad to be had and made a profit off of, you can be sure Hollywood busts out the template, screws up everything that is right and good about the central theme, shoves it into your local multi-plex and pop culture has been born.

Hollywood, I hate you, but, man are those movies a lot of fun!

Let's recap!

Food: Breakfast – cheesy quesadilla. Lunch – lil pizza with loads of veggies and bacon. Dinner – veggie pasta with lots of garlic. (Yeah, I know this day was carb-tastic but running around for 8 hours made me crave them so...don't hate!)

Booze: Couple of beers.

Movies: “Rappin'” and “Thrashin'”

Mood: Really tired; burned out.

# of pages written: 1 but sketching for the big ending went on too.

February 27 & 28. Days 6 and 7.

Let's get something straight here. Now, my job right now, being the daytime pizza chef at Old Chicago here in Tucson, isn't a dream job at all. Oh no, it's not what I studied for or championed to win or even dreamed about as a lil kid. “Oh daddy, someday I will work in a kitchen in Tucson Arizona, putting cheese on dough and yelling at a dishwasher because my knives come back crusty.” Not even close.

BUT!, and there's the thing, I actually really like my job, otherwise I wouldn't have stuck with it for three years.

Let's go back 5 years shall we? Yes, we shall. Okay, after driving all day and into the night to get to Tucson from San Francisco to be with my one true love She-Ra, I spent a week detoxing and a month riding on what very little $$$ I had saved up. My then insurgent bravado took hold and when I stepped out to hand out resumes, all at local publications, radio stations and even clubs, I thought for sure I'd be snatched up immediately and be paid the big bucks. Why? Because I'm Metal Mark dammit! I'm from San Francisco and LA! Tucson? What's so big about Tucson? I'm gonna take over this town!

Yeah, well...didn't quite happen that way.

My first job was bartending (which is what I did back in SF) at a place on 4th Avenue called The Hut. I quit after my second shift because I didn't know smoking was allowed in bars in Arizona. A busy Saturday night and there I was choking and tearing up. Since I've never smoked a cigarette and lived in California my whole life, I've become quite sensitive to smoke. So when my boss said I was taking too many breaks (just to step outside and breathe!) I threw down my towel and walked out. Funny thing was, She-Ra was on her way to visit me at work and found we walking, quite upset, and picked me up and took me home.

The DJ thing wasn't working out at all either. Basically, most have told me, even She-Ra, that the only way to make money as a DJ here in Tucson is to work at a strip club. As the bank remained empty, I swallowed what little pride I had and my fear of strip clubs and got a job at a place called the Bunny Ranch. I worked one night there. Well, not really worked, I watched the other DJ, some beefy dude that sucked on Skoal the whole night, and when I went home I told She-Ra this aint gonna work out either. But, the pressure to bring in cash was growing. So, I applied at another strip club, a slightly “higher end” establishment called Curves. I worked two shifts there: one training, the other actually helping the DJ and the dancers. That second night the guy I was training under, this wiry coke head that always wore a fedora, had me do an announcement. So I grabbed the mic, started speaking, then burst out laughing when I heard my voice over the house PA. “Now coming to the main stage is Sinnamon! Kandy, you're up next! Guys get those dollars out and take Luscious and Vixxxen to the VIP room!” I couldn't do it. The next day I broke down in tears because of the humiliation and frustration.

Luckily, She-Ra had connections.

See, she used to be the manager and administrator to the T-Rex museum, which was a science and dinosaur themed museum aimed at kids. She quit when the owners started getting greedy with the money that was coming in (all in part because of She-Ra's genius) and were forced to move from their initial location, a big building near downtown with a huge mural of the Jurassic period on the side, to a smaller one. She introduced me to Sam, the owner, some white haired hippie with a big mole on his neck, and he basically hired me right on the spot. Perfect, I thought. I love kids, I love dinosaurs and I love having a job that doesn't involve strippers and watching little bags filled with white dust be past around. Unfortunately the hours weren't what I needed so I got a job, finally, as a DJ. Yeah, not at a radio station or even a club. I hooked up with a guy that ran a “professional” DJ company. That's right, ol' Metal Mark was now wearing a tie and getting conga lines going for weddings. Some gigs were great, others were downright terrifying. Try having bridesmaid-zillas drunk on tequila yelling at you because I didn't have some bad pop song on hand, one that literally came out two days before the gig, or teenage kids jumping on the decks when I ran to the bathroom and were actually tweaking every knob and unplugging things. The gigs I thought I would fear the most, quinceaneras and a back yard BBQ party for a well to do Latino family, were actually the most fun. I just put on cumbria and tejano mixes and drank beer with the guys. Shh...don't tell my boss!

The museum, much like what they did before when She-Ra ran it, was going broke...again. The DJ company was sparse at best. So when the museum shut it's doors I landed an editing job for something called The AZ Tourist News. Great! I was doing something I was actually trained for. It was a small newspaper that pandered to, you guessed it, tourists coming to the Grand Canyon state. I wrote a few copies, sat at my desk in this weird angular building, dealt with a boss that had slicked back hair and a leather jacket with an elastic trim, ate tacos and tortas from the roach coach parked across the street and was pretty happy. Once that edition went out my boss had an ultimatum: start making cold calls and bring in money, or get out. What? Are you kidding me? So I told him I was an editor, not a telemarketer. He cut me a check and sent me on my way.

That lead to a job with the Tucson Symphony. At first I was all “Tucson has a symphony?”, but it turns out its a nice little company and I'd be doing fundraising. That job basically turned out to be, you guessed it...calling people up for donations. Yeah, this wasn't working out...at all.

Frustrated and disappointed, not to mention not writing at all, I was too preoccupied with my current position as a fish out of California waters, She-Ra asked me a simple question:

“What do you hate about jobs?”

I told her, “Two things: an office and the general public.”

She then made the suggestion to work at Old Chicago, the place she bartended, where I was beginning to know a good section of people and had become quite good friends with. Doing what?, I asked. Work in the kitchen. The kitchen? I've never worked in a kitchen before! Weighing my options and just wanting some stability, I applied and was hired rather quickly.

Two, almost three years later, I'm now the daytime pizza chef, I'm on my second book, I'm paid fairly for what I do, have full benefits and coverage and even get free beer now and then. Plus I love everyone I work with, laugh everyday, have fun and, most importantly, I'm not in an office and don't deal with the public.

So, until literary fame comes a knockin' at my door, I'll be joyfully making pizzas, calzones, strombolis and peperoni rolls for you, five days a week, from 11-5, at Old Chicago on Campbell Avenue.

Plus, when I am published, I can't wait to explain to those that will ask: “You worked as what when you wrote your book?”

A pizza chef. And it was totally rad...

Let's recap!

Food: Breakfast(s) – toast, cereal, stuff like that. Lunch(s) – sandwich one day, pizza the other. Dinner(s) – Blackened chicken with garlic roast potatoes and broccoli one night, veggie burrito the other.

Booze: Beers, shots, the norm.

Movies: “Roller Boogie”, "Valley Girl”, most of “The Dark Knight”.

Mood: Bit strained for work but overall pretty good.

# of pages written: A few. I'm almost done...