message watch from The Spy Who Loved Me. Or the digital radio watch from For Your Eyes Only. Or even the Geiger counter watch from Thunderball—you can’t have too many Geiger counters around the house.
SAFETY TIP
Careful you don’t lose any fingers when you reset for different time zones.
Remember: You’re never too old to play with toys. Especially explosive, potentially deadly, extremely expensive toys. Just think about how envious your friends and family will be when they see you driving around in your sporty new BMW 750 iL with the electrified door handles, bulletproof glass, re-inflating tires, and rear nail ejectors.
Go ahead. Think about it. Because that’s as close as you’ll ever get to owning one, spy-boy.
Now go boil your seagull snorkel—that thing is riddled with germs.
A story about being a writer. It’s humorous, but there is a lot of truth behind the jokes.
“W hat do you think?”
I was a cup, waiting to be filled with praise. Instead I got silence. She sat there, my pages in her hands, staring at a point over my shoulder.
“How about that ending?” I prodded. “Weren’t your surprised?”
Miranda clucked her tongue. “I guessed the ending.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. And I really don’t think you need the first few paragraphs.”
“Hold on a sec.” I motioned time-out with my hands. “The first paragraphs set the scene.”
“Sorry—I didn’t think you needed them.”
I looked away, then back at her. My friend, wife, companion for eight years.
“Did you like anything?”
“Joe, you’re a wonderful writer. But this story—I think you were just trying too hard.” She brightened. “I thought the middle part was funny.”
My eyes narrowed. “When the character died?”
“Yeah. It was cute how you did that.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”
“Oh.”
There was a ticking sound. The hands of my watch. Miranda tried on a smile.
“I like the title.”
Great. I remembered how much I loved her, and somehow found the strength to thank her for her opinion. Just because we were man and wife didn’t mean we had to agree on everything.
This particular piece didn’t speak to her, but that was probably a matter of taste. I was certain that others would view it differently.
“It stinks.”
“Excuse me?”
Gerald pinched his nostrils closed. “The story stinks, Joe. Sorry, but it isn’t your best.”
“What about the surprise ending?”
“Saw it coming.”
“You did?”
“It was obvious.”
I took the story from my brother’s hands and paid too much attention to lining up the sheets of paper.
“You probably guessed it because you know me too well.”
“I guessed it because it was cliché. The middle part was kind of funny, though. What did Miranda think of it?”
“She loved it.”
“Well, there you go. My opinion probably means nothing, then. I liked that other story you did. The one about the otters.”
“I wrote that in second grade.”
“Yeah, that was a good one.”
I looked at my bare wrist. “Damn, I gotta run, Gerald. Thanks for the input.”
“It’s a good title, Joe. Maybe you can write a different story using the same title.”
“Wow. Great story.”
“You liked it?”
“Loved it.”
The relief was better than a foot massage.
“How about the ending?”
“Terrific.”
“What was your favorite part?”
My mother’s smile faltered for a split second. “Oh—there were so many.”
Mr. Dubious took over my body. “Mom…?”
“The middle part. I have to say that was my favorite. Very funny.”
So much for my relief.
“You thought the death scene was funny?”
Caught in the lie, her demeanor cracked.
“No, not that. But there were some other funny parts.”
“What parts were funny, Mom?”
“Well…you had some pretty funny typos.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Did you like anything?”
“Joe, I’m your mother. Everything you do is precious to me.”
“How about the title?”
Mom shook her head
SAFETY TIP
Careful you don’t lose any fingers when you reset for different time zones.
Remember: You’re never too old to play with toys. Especially explosive, potentially deadly, extremely expensive toys. Just think about how envious your friends and family will be when they see you driving around in your sporty new BMW 750 iL with the electrified door handles, bulletproof glass, re-inflating tires, and rear nail ejectors.
Go ahead. Think about it. Because that’s as close as you’ll ever get to owning one, spy-boy.
Now go boil your seagull snorkel—that thing is riddled with germs.
A story about being a writer. It’s humorous, but there is a lot of truth behind the jokes.
“W hat do you think?”
I was a cup, waiting to be filled with praise. Instead I got silence. She sat there, my pages in her hands, staring at a point over my shoulder.
“How about that ending?” I prodded. “Weren’t your surprised?”
Miranda clucked her tongue. “I guessed the ending.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. And I really don’t think you need the first few paragraphs.”
“Hold on a sec.” I motioned time-out with my hands. “The first paragraphs set the scene.”
“Sorry—I didn’t think you needed them.”
I looked away, then back at her. My friend, wife, companion for eight years.
“Did you like anything?”
“Joe, you’re a wonderful writer. But this story—I think you were just trying too hard.” She brightened. “I thought the middle part was funny.”
My eyes narrowed. “When the character died?”
“Yeah. It was cute how you did that.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”
“Oh.”
There was a ticking sound. The hands of my watch. Miranda tried on a smile.
“I like the title.”
Great. I remembered how much I loved her, and somehow found the strength to thank her for her opinion. Just because we were man and wife didn’t mean we had to agree on everything.
This particular piece didn’t speak to her, but that was probably a matter of taste. I was certain that others would view it differently.
“It stinks.”
“Excuse me?”
Gerald pinched his nostrils closed. “The story stinks, Joe. Sorry, but it isn’t your best.”
“What about the surprise ending?”
“Saw it coming.”
“You did?”
“It was obvious.”
I took the story from my brother’s hands and paid too much attention to lining up the sheets of paper.
“You probably guessed it because you know me too well.”
“I guessed it because it was cliché. The middle part was kind of funny, though. What did Miranda think of it?”
“She loved it.”
“Well, there you go. My opinion probably means nothing, then. I liked that other story you did. The one about the otters.”
“I wrote that in second grade.”
“Yeah, that was a good one.”
I looked at my bare wrist. “Damn, I gotta run, Gerald. Thanks for the input.”
“It’s a good title, Joe. Maybe you can write a different story using the same title.”
“Wow. Great story.”
“You liked it?”
“Loved it.”
The relief was better than a foot massage.
“How about the ending?”
“Terrific.”
“What was your favorite part?”
My mother’s smile faltered for a split second. “Oh—there were so many.”
Mr. Dubious took over my body. “Mom…?”
“The middle part. I have to say that was my favorite. Very funny.”
So much for my relief.
“You thought the death scene was funny?”
Caught in the lie, her demeanor cracked.
“No, not that. But there were some other funny parts.”
“What parts were funny, Mom?”
“Well…you had some pretty funny typos.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Did you like anything?”
“Joe, I’m your mother. Everything you do is precious to me.”
“How about the title?”
Mom shook her head
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