For those of you who might be interested, I thought I’d mention that my novel is now out in paperback. So if you were curious about it, but not curious enough to blow 25 bucks on the hardcover, here’s your chance.
You can find the book in pretty much any bookstore, or on Amazon.
And, as always, if you miss the College Survival Guide and want to read my new blog, you can find it over here.
Welcome to Your College Survival Guide, where we celebrate the saying, "That which doesn't kill us, makes for a great story to sob quietly into our friend's shoulders the next day."
I asked readers to send in stories of the worst dates they've ever been on, and we got some whoppers. You know what I didn't get? Stories from guys.
Seriously, I didn't get a single letter from a guy. This implies to me that all the men in these date stories think that they're the slickest players ever.
Hi Pat,
While this is not the worst date ever, I assume that it makes it into the top 100 of worst dates to happen in the universe, ever. The boy was marginally attractive, nice and was an exemplary student. So when he asked me out on a date, I figured "why not? He seems like a catch."
But for some reason, he was Hell bent on spending the entire evening at my house. I figured that this was okay, because we could rent some videos. Cool.
We watched a DVD. Yet, he seemed oddly disinterested. Later, a mutual friend of ours informed me that he really didn't even enjoy talking to me. The exact words he used to describe me were "insipid bitch". His main priority was spending time around my dad.
Now this is bizarre, so I'll spell it out: he was not attracted to me. He was attracted to my father. He did not want to go on a date with me. He wanted to go on a date with my father.
I was insulted on more than one level. It was the suckiest date I ever had.
Oh, also. I feel it's necessary to clarify that my father did not reciprocate; he likes my mom.
Liz Leighton
[Hairline divider]
Just after high school, a guy I'd a crush on for a long time asked me out. We'll call him Jeff.
On the night of the date, Jeff picked me up for movie and dinner. It was a good movie and I'd wanted to see it for a while. I'm of the old tradition that if you pay $10 to see a movie, you should be watching the movie! However, Jeff decided that it would be "cute" to throw popcorn at me and try to engage in conversation during the entire thing. By the end of the movie I was mildly irritated but, being as I was on a date, I was on my best behavior.
We decided to hit the local Shari's for dinner. I was ready for some good conversation, expecting the usual funny anecdotes that come with a first date. Instead, I got regaled with the story of how he lost a testicle in an accident and how all his friends now call him "Pepsi One". I didn't have much of an appetite after that.
The rest of the evening, I was subjected to stories of all the girls he had ever slept with and how good they all said he was. The date ended soon after when I demanded that he take me home. He tried to make some smooth comment about my eagerness, but it was stifled by the patented Wendy-Taylor-Look-O-Death and the threat to change his nickname to "Pepsi Zero".
There was no second date.
Wendy Taylor
[hairline divider]
And a few highlights from some of the other stories that were sent in.
We ended up getting stoned. REALLY stoned. Then we went to watch the movie "Seven." It was possibly the least romantic experience in my young life.
[Hairline divider]
He tells me how often he masturbates and when. He even admits he once penetrated an apricot and prefers to masturbate with fresh fruit, asks me what my favorite fruit is, and so on. I try not to laugh. Was he trying to be funny? I don't know. It was one of those situations where I was getting too much honesty too fast from a first date.
I haven't been able to eat an apricots since.
[Hairline Divider]
I spent that half hour finding out that this admirer had nothing in common with me. He was twelve years younger, wasn't spiritual, he liked monster trucks, smoked a lot of weed, and races mini remote-controlled trucks. Even worse he had no money to take me out with and even had the balls to ask me to provide the money for a date with him. He offered to give me oral sex as a pay back for taking him out.
And lastly, this year's winner. The most touching story of unrequited love that I've heard in years....
Dear Pat,
When I was a freshman, I purchased a live aquatic frog from Wal-Mart. I put him in a tank with a betta. This frog lived four years, and outlived several such tank companions.
Last year the frog died, his name was Dinky. His tank companion at the time was a male betta named Rainie. While the frog was alive, Rainie would come down to the bottom of the tank every morning when the light was turned on and invite/attempt to herd Dinky to Rainie's bubble nest at the top of the tank. A bubble nest is something male bettas make when they want to have babies. When Dinky died, Rainie would visit the castle Dinky lived in every morning just as usual, but there was no frog there.
Finally, one day my mother was cleaning the tank and she removed the castle and replaced it with another such decoration. Rainie swam behind the filter of the tank and refused to come out, even to eat, for two weeks. When he finally emerged, he had turned a dull gray color, a giant contrast to the former bright blue and red that he had been. He still refused to eat, and died with in the next week.
Do you think that my fish killed himself out of love?
That's all for now folks. I don't know how often I'll be back on this profile, but remember, you can always find me HERE.
Moving in has always been a bit of a hassle for me, since I tend to forget almost half of my stuff at home (important things, like the TV remote). Well, I sat down one night in my dorm after move in last week, and I was hungry. Being the lazy person I was, I didn't want to venture down to Debot, so I settled on eating some Ramen noodles.
I got everything ready and while I was waiting for them to cool down, I realized I had no silverware. Nothing remotely sharp or spoon-like in my whole possession. My roommate was gone, so I couldn't ask her for any, and, as I pointed out, I'm lazy so I didn't want to go out and find some.
With the Ramen already cooked and waiting to fill my angry, empty stomach, I knew it couldn't go to waste. The noodles seemed to cry out to be eaten, so I searched around my room for the easiest substitute. I ended up going with a pen. It had the handle of a fork or spoon but lacked the really important part that helps get the food into my mouth. Sadly, I don't know how disease-free this unsterilized pen was, but I was hungry enough not to care. Also unfortunately, I suck at using chopsticks, so it took much longer and a bit of crying on my part to finish the entire frustrating bowl.
My question is, what would you have done in this situation? Magicked a fork into existence? Called upon your fanboys and fangirls to go on a quest and get you a spork? Eat with your fingers?
Thanks,
Sami
Sami, the story of you sitting in your dormroom, alone, hungry and crying as you try to eat your Ramen with a pen has got to be saddest thing I've heard in years. And believe me, after writing this column for almost a decade, I've heard a lot of pretty wretched stories.
True, a lot of that wretchedness was caused by your own profound laziness. But the laziness itself is so impressive that you score points there, too.
What would I have done if I were caught without a spoon? Let me think.
If I were hungry enough, I would just have eaten the ramen raw. It's like a big, dry noodley cookie. I have a Japanese friend who refers to dry ramen as "Asian Ritz." I also have it on good authority that the consumption of dry ramen wafers is a sacrament in most orthodox Pastafarian churches. So you're in good company there, too.
The problem with eating the noodles dry is what to do with the flavor packet afterwards. It's a sin to waste flavor. Not only that, but I don't get my RDA of MSG my heart ceases its incessant hummingbird-like flutter and settles into a weird lub-dub lub-dub rhythm, which I find pretty disturbing.
You can make broth with the flavor packet, but broth is boring. On the other hand, if you simply eat the flavor powder, you're in for an... event. When I did it, I experienced a sharp ringing in my ears, the room got really bright, then the next thing I remember is a deep voice speaking to me.
At first I thought it was God, then I realized god probably wouldn't have to ask what I was doing laying on one of the picnic tables at the park. God probably also wouldn't have had to ask where my pants were. God knows these things already. Since the voice didn't know, I was eventually able to deduce that it was coming from a protective services officer.
But that, as they say, is another story. However I will mention as a side not that that particular evening's events are the reason that my friends still refer to that particular park as "Flavor Country."
What were we talking about again?
Oh yeah. The leftover flavor packet. I don't recommend snorting the stuff, unless you like re-enacting the needle scene from Pulp Fiction. You could cook the stuff in a spoon and shoot up, I suppose...
Ahhh... but that brings us back to the beginning, you see. You don't have a spoon. It's kinda like that hole-in-the bucket song.
Anyway Sami, my best advice is not to live in the past. Move on with your life, learn from your mistakes, and steal a spoon from Debot.
In order to help put this traumatic event behind you, I have recruited the help of the column's generous sponsor. There's a new candy store downtown called Sugar cubed. They have the best chocolates I've ever eaten. Seriously, I wouldn't lie to you. Well... okay. I would lie to you. But I'm not. Not about the Chocolates.
Anyway Sami, for your lovely letter, I gift you with a $10 Gift Certificate to Sugar Cubed. The best part? You can eat their truffles with your fingers. No utensils required.
*****
Some of you already know that my book won the Science Fiction/Fantasy category of the Quill awards. Which means you'll get a chance to see me in a tux on NBC a toward the end of October.
However, some of you may NOT know that the grand prize of the Quill awards has yet to be decided. The Book of the Year award is a great battle royale between me and the winners in the 18 other categories.
The good news is that it's decided by popular vote, which means that if you read my book and liked it, you can vote for it to win OVER HERE. (Click the link, then click again on the "vote here" link.)
Anyone interested in some old-fashioned College Survival Advice?
Category: School, College, Greek
Hello everyone,Sorry I've been gone so long....
The summer has been busy. Some of it's just ordinary stuff (work, dicking around, moving into a new place) but other parts of it have been new and exciting. Book signings. Readings. Updating the blog on my other, "real" webpage. I've been going to conventions and speak on panels.
In short, these doings have been success-related, and therefore strange and unfamiliar to me.
Most of the reason I haven't been spending much time here at the College Survival Guide is that the novel has been doing very well. Really Really Well. We've sold a butt-ton of books, the lion's share of the reviews have been embarassingly flattering, and I've even been nominated for an award or two.
Holy shit. I just went looking for a link for the quill awards and found a press release instead. I knew I was nominated, but I just found out I won the quill award in the Science Fiction/Fantasy category for this year. I'll be going to some fancy red-carpet bullshit out in New York now. You'll be able to see me on NBC.
I even have a snowball's chance of winning the book of the year if enough people vote for me.
Yeah. That's the sort of summer I've been having. In fact, the novel has been so successful that it has made the College Survival Guide something of a collecter's item. Here's a place in the UK selling signed copies of the guide for about 80 bucks each.
It's a wierd world, especially considering the fact that I couldn't hardly give copies away half a year ago....
Anyway, the school year is starting back up, and I'm considering resurecting the College Survival Guide. So stay tuned if you're interested in reading it. And if you have college survival questions, message them along to me and we'll see if we can find you some answers.
An online discussion about the upcomming Harry Potter, featuring Orson Scott Card and... Me?
Category: Writing and Poetry
Due to a surreal series of events, I've been invited to have an online discussion with Orson Scott Card about the upcoming conclusion to the Harry Potter series.
So... yeah. One of my favorite authors and me talking about the biggest fantasy series ever. No pressure, right?
Over the next two weeks, both of us will be posting several blogs on the subject, leading up to the release, and following after.
If you're interested in reading it, and participating in the ensuing discussion, c'mon over. The first set of blogs have just been posted OVER HERE.
For those of you who haven't read the book, that red-haired fella climbing onto the throne is my main character, Kvothe.
Look at Harry. He seems so sad. Don't worry Harry; we'll always love you. But you better move aside now. Seriously. Kvothe looks like he might be willing to kick a little ass over this...
So yeah. I just thought this was pretty funny. Wanted to share.
As most of you know, I've been busy working on revising my second novel to meet a deadline, leaving me little time for writing of the funny over here. Sorry about that.
For those of you that are really hurting for it, I am doing semi-regular blogs up over on my official website. They aren't usually Survival-guide funny. But they have their moments. The comments can be pretty good at times too....
Anyway, I just found something that I thought you should all know about, if you didn't already....
I don't drink, as a rule. Alcohol just doesn't do much for me. I also don't drive much. I've lived the majority of my life in a smallish town where you can get anywhere important by walking less than a mile. For about twelve of my fifteen years living here, I've never even owned a car.
This, combined with a tendency toward losing things, mean that I rarely carry a photo ID on my person.
These are the things you need to understand if you're going to appreciate this story.
I was in the grocery store buying food because I had company coming over. A few of the students I have come to know well in the last couple years are graduating soon. One of the best of these is leaving this Sunday. She and one other particularly bright and shining student have been good friends to me this last year. We go to each other's houses for dinner, watch movies, and talk honest talk into the late hours of night. We are comfortable and loving and non-judgmental with each other. They are graduating and moving on with their lives, and I am staying here and moving on with mine.
This, I think, will be what makes me leave my job as a teacher eventually. Not the low pay, or the high workload, or lack of professional respect because I don't have enough letters behind my name. Those things are familiar and bearable, like the smell of the papermill when the wind blows from the south. But good friends are rare to me, and I have no knack for letting go of people I care about. I can't imagine what will happen to me if this happens every couple years for the next decade.
But there will be plenty of time for me to be melancholy when they are gone. So now I'm simply glad of their company when I can get it, and I'm trying to catch as much quality time with them as I can before they leave.
Hence the grocery store. This is a purely recreational shopping run. My house is already stocked with everything I need to survive: ramen and pasta and microwave burritos. I have simple tastes, but I want to be a good host. So I buy cherries and apples and cheese and bread. I buy pistachios and chocolate and soy ice cream for the friend who has a lactose intolerance.
Then I think to buy some wine. My friends enjoy wine and I enjoy being a good host. I also occasionally like to try a glass of wine, like a child playing dress-up. It's fun for me because when I drink wine I get to pretend that I'm an adult.
So I go to the liquor section and browse around. My knowledge of wine could very easily be written entire onto the palm of my hand, so my choices are based on educated guessery and how cool the bottle looks. I pick out a swirly bottle and something with Asti on the label, because I'm pretty sure that means sweet. I like sweet.
When I get into the checkout line, I realize I don't have my ID on me. This usually ends up being an issue whenever I get it into my head to buy liquor. Sure, I look like I'm of age, but looks don't count for much. Once, when I was 26, I had an undercover policeman pull me out of a liquor store and ask to see my license. When I showed it to him, he raised a surprised eyebrow and shrugged, vaguely apologetic. "You weren't acting like you were old enough to be in there," he said. I took it as a complement.
So there I am in the grocery line with booze and no ID. I've been in this situation before. As I've mentioned, I rarely carry one. I never think of it until I get into the checkout line carrying a bottle.
I have a number of strategies for dealing with this. Normally I just play it cool, hoping that if I act like I buy booze all the time, they'll just let me through and not ask any questions.
This is my first line of defense, and it works about half the time.
When people ask to see my ID, it's usually all over. At that point my strategy varies depending on what mood I'm in. If the booze was an impulse buy, I usually just put it back. If I'm feeling particularly cussed, I'll argue. This doesn't work, but I do usually achieve a vague moral victory wherein I get the teller to say something along the lines of, "I'm only following orders."
Once, when somebody asked to see my ID I just raised an eyebrow and gave the teller a look. It was a look that said, "Come on. Just look at me. Witness my full and manly beard. I'm not some punk kid buying a bottle of strawberry Boone's Farm. I'm an adult." She gave me a sheepish, apologetic grin, and scanned my bottle of Baileys.
I smiled and said, "Thanks." But inside I was jumping up and down thinking, "Ha! I fooled you! I really am a punk kid! And I have a bottle of strawberry Boone's Farm at home in my fridge!"
So, again, I'm in the grocery line, running through my options and trying to pick my best strategy. I get to the front of the line, and I'm getting ready to try the raised eyebrow thing again, when the teller looks at me and says, "So when is book two coming out?" She scans my bottles without asking for any sort of ID.
I try to play it cool and say something suave about my revisions. But the truth is, I'm thrown by this. I'm not used to it. In the last month I've had people come up to me in at the DMV, at Best Buy, at the video rental place, and at the local ice cream shop (twice).
I know it's just a local phenomenon. Stevens Point is pretty small, and there have been a handful of "Local Boy Does Good" articles in the papers with unflattering but rather accurate pictures of me. Once you know what I look like, I'm easy to recognize. Generally speaking I look like a Russian dictator, or a Harry Potter character. Or a homeless guy. Or a Muppet.
That's all. I just wanted to share my surreal moment with you all. As with all my stories, I've wandered, but we do have an ending. This is the good place to stop if you want a happy one. There, at the store, things end with me feeling famous and cool, though somewhat flustered and uncomfortable. Possibly the first time in my life I've ever had anything resembling a fame-related perk.
If you keep following the story later into the night, the ending is bittersweet. A nice evening. Talk. Food. Wine. But it's the last evening, and the three of us know it.
Keep going and it the story ends dark. All stories do if you follow them long enough. One friend leaves sooner, the other later. We promise to stay in touch, but we don't, because that is the way of things. We'll try e-mail, but it won't be the same. Distance doesn't allow for intimacy. You can't chat over e-mail. Not really. You can't drink wine. Or hug. Or pretend to be grown-ups. Or pretend to be kids. They won't call when they're bored, and we won't get together to watch movies and give each other backrubs. They won't come over and ask for advice and bitch about the transient, incompetent men in their lives. I won't be able to lay on the couch with my head in someone's lap and cry because I miss my mom.
Early on it will be hard, and the absent ache of them will be constant, impossible to ignore as a missing tooth. It will get easier, because that is the way of things. Moving on is what people do. We're designed for it. We'll forget the feel of it, the closeness of dimly lit conversations, the smell of each other. In time we'll only remember each other in a vague, colorless way. Then even that will fade, and we won't realize that anything is missing from our lives at all. Goodnight all,
I'm guessing that a large portion of you are JossWhedon fans. Specifically, that you have watched, loved, and thoroughlygeeked out to the the pure joy that is Firefly.
(Can I please assume this? I like to think of you all as intelligent, sensible people. If I discover that y'all haven't watched Firefly, my little world will begin to crumble.)
So, because we're all part of the same cool kids' club, please let me direct your attention to THIS....
Yes. It's an opportunity to see Serenity on the big screen, AND the money goes to support a worthy charity at the same time. It doesn't get any better than that....
