The Song Between Her Legs

The first thing you must be wondering is why the cover of this book is so crappy. Well, I'll tell you. I threw this together quickly to give the general idea of what I wanted as the cover but the more I thought about it the more I wanted the cover to look crappy. I wanted it to scream SELF PUBLISHED. I didn't want to pretend that this book is something that aspired to be read by the masses.

I know what you're probably asking yourself ... Doesn't he know that most people judge a book by its cover?

Believe me, I do. But most people won't enjoy this book. It's definitely a book geared more for the people that don't judge a book by its cover. Over the years I've had publishers and agents contact me with helpful advice and tips on how to improve my writing and be more accessible to the general public and they always seem at a complete loss when I tell them to piss off. They just can't process that someone doesn't want to be a best seller.

Just because there isn't a demand for obscure writers doesn't mean there isn't a need.

I know my limitations. I am incapable of writing some epic, transcendent story about fabulous people doing fabulous things, meticulously researched and rich in detail. I'm literally struggling to get through this introduction.

How long do these stupid things have to be anyway?

And yes, I know that you probably figured out that not judging a book by its cover is also a form of judging a book by its cover.

Life is funny. And dumb. And sad. And scary and absurd and rude and weird. That's pretty much all I'm trying to capture. The human experience is wildly erratic and I won't pretend otherwise.

Here's the thing ... if I could sing I'd have much rather been a songwriter. If I could draw I'd have much rather been a cartoonist. I can't do either so here you sit reading an introduction to a book that is one corndog away from being an odd little carnival tucked away where you least expect it.

I hope you enjoy some of the rides.

a stinging bug by any other name

The other day it was partly cloudy, which doesn't make a great opening line but it does go a long way in explaining why when a bug landed on my nose it couldn't be said to have been out of the blue. It was partly cloudy ... as I just mentioned. Rarely does a bug land on someone's nose out of the partly cloudy.

I like to believe that I've evolved as a human being because I reacted very differently than I did the last time a bug landed on that particular spot. The last time I acted under the false premise that my nose was constructed with indestructible titanium and not the very structible bundle of nerve endings that it actually comprised.

I slugged myself right in the nose and left it all red and swollen and was forced to walk around the rest of the day sporting this testament to my poor decision-making.

The problem then, as it was the other partly cloudy day, is that while the bug did not wear the distinctive yellow and black colors of the notorious villains of the insect world, it sat on the end of my nose and, while my eyes are outstanding at gathering information from a variety of distances, the close proximity made the bug blurry.

Try as I might I could not make heads nor tails of what exactly was perched on the end of my snout.

This is where being a writer makes one susceptible to unfortunate flights of fancy. While most people would stop at a small number of insect suspects, the writer, given his or her training, can come up with a cornucopia of winged menaces that could have hypothetically plopped down and made themselves at home.

I guess this is a cautionary tale of sorts.

Everybody thinks they can write and most people aspire on some level to put the ol' pen to paper and take it for a spin on behalf of their fellow man. What they don't appreciate is the terrible toll it takes on your imagination. Scientifically speaking, I believe every time you think of a new odd idea you build a new neural pathway. You make a new connection which in turn allows you to make a similar odd connection more easily the next time the desire for weirdness takes hold. The odder you start to think the easier it is to continue to think of odder and odder things until such a time as you are sitting at a dinner party making small talk when all of a sudden you look up to find everyone else at the table staring at you with their mouths wide open in shock and bewilderment at what you thought was a pretty innocuous observation.

Some people don't think this part through, the dangers that lurk in thinking oddly. Once you slip to the odd side, it's a long road back. Book signings might be tedious but they are nothing compared to the horror show of lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with a writer's mind.

So instead of lashing out in fear I took a composed breath and tried to imagine all the whimsical circumstances that could have brought this noble creature to my nose. All of a sudden I was one with the universe. Connected with all living things. How two separate but equal beings such as me and this blurry little fellow could have found our paths entwined began to play out my head in great detail. Each scenario getting progressively more poignant.

I slowly pointed my head towards where the sun would have been, had it not been partly cloudy, as if showing the universe that I was a much better person than the last time I punched myself in the face. I was beaming and imagining my friend doing a little basking itself.

Perhaps I'd truly found some deeper appreciation of the beauty of life in all its many forms.

That's when the insect stung me and left my nose all red and swollen.

Well played, universe. Well played.

lost in transmutation

If people hibernated then I'm sure there would be a medical term for what Greg had but as Greg was a frog and people don't hibernate I'll just have to describe it as best I can.

Disappointed in the name Greg for a frog? Expecting him to be called something whimsical like Gribbit?

Be reasonable. First of all, there are literally millions and millions of frogs and they can't have all names that are whimsical. Second, if you take a moment to examine the existence of a frog you'll find a decided lack of whimsy in their lives. Granted they start off as tadpoles and it's tough to top that if you're looking for whimsy, what with the tail and the swimming around and all, but eventually the tail departs, to be replaced by legs, as they move from an aquatic lifestyle to a more half and half land approach, and after that they are strictly business.

So, the condition Greg was afflicted with ...

Although perhaps the word afflicted is a bit harsh. While it did drive him a bit mad, it could be argued that the thoughts that run through the heads of both people and frogs are really the only proof that we exist at all and thus this so-called affliction added at least thirty five to forty percent to Greg's existence.

His condition was this: while all of his amphibious comrades slipped deep into the mud and went to sleep for the winter months, Greg slipped into the mud and was awake the entire time.

A bit of a mixed blessing.

It made him a very odd frog when he eventually popped out of the mud and rejoined his brethren but nobody could argue that he wasn't a pretty bright frog. He'd had plenty of time to think through some issues that in the course of a typical frog year most frogs didn't have time to mull over. Frogs seem to be on the menu for almost every animal out and about in the warmer months so much of their time is spent hopping for their lives and trying to squeeze in a few worms and flies when the opportunities present themselves. Buried safely in the mud allowed Greg some peace and quiet his slimy pals didn't have available to them.

I realize at this juncture that you might be guilty of anthropomorphizing Greg to such a degree that you have him inventing things and walking erect and such but let me slow your roll a bit and remind you that he was still a frog. A really smart frog is still not as smart as really dumb raccoon and I've yet to be walking through a wooded area and see a small raccoon factory belching out black smoke and producing tiny wheelbarrows or raccoon footwear.

You're still probably dizzy with the earlier whimsy of tadpole imagery and thinking this story is destined to end up a Disney flick.

Let's try to collect ourselves and get back to Greg shall we?

For although nothing about his condition indicated that he would end up the beloved star of an animated movie, Greg had seen some things that no other frog, that he was aware of, had seen.

Snow for starters.

Every few years the ground would warm up noticeably and he would slither up topside while the rest of his frog compatriots slept blissfully unaware that there was a break in the cold action. Greg would emerge and see the grey skies and naked trees of winter but the temperature made it safe to sluggishly move around.

And while sluggishly moving around, he would occasionally see lumps of this white stuff he'd never seen before. When he got closer he could feel the chill radiating off it. Being a very wise frog he knew not to get too close because there were still hawks flying around and they could, whether it would make sense to them at the time or not, see a green frog against a white background from miles away.

The first time he'd seen it he couldn't wait to report back to all the other frogs but the following spring, when he told them of his discovery, they laughed and croaked derisive things about him so he never said another word about it.

So seasons came and went and Greg spent his winter months deep in mud and thought while simultaneously trying not to go out of his mind.

Then one December the temperatures suddenly shot up and he emerged to find the air temperature similar to a typical spring day. His blood started to flow more quickly and he made short work of exploring the frog-less world around him.

Or so he thought anyway.

For there, sitting on a section of pond still covered in ice, was another frog.

A young lady frog.

And quite a looker. Legs that went on for days. He thought he remembered her name was Amy and she had just lost her tail the previous spring.

Almost on queue he saw a hawk high above them take notice of her and he leapt into action. Please note that the fact that Greg was a frog and he happened to be leaping into action was entirely accidental and one of the more pleasant side-effects of not knowing what the next word in the story might be until it's typed.

He let out a well-timed croak and Amy was able to slip safely into the chilly water and make her escape. Moments later she slowly crawled up to Greg to croak back her thanks. Greg could think of no better way to get introduced to a female and felt his confidence grow with each suave observation he made about their winter environment. She took it all in like an eager student. They spent two solid days above ground before the temperatures started to sink again and signaled it was time to once again slide deep into the earth and wait things out.

Two magical days.

Amy was just happy to know that she wasn't the only frog who couldn't get to sleep.

Greg found himself appreciating probability and circumstances more than he could ever remember.

It was the first time he could remember burrowing where he was already anticipating the trip back topside. His heart was fluttering away, remembering sliding up to Amy just before they went their separate ways. If ever a frog felt debonair it was then. Their enormous eyes almost touching. Whispering to her and hoping that she understood.

I have to be leaving … but I won't let that come between us, okay?

the pep talk

I was never a natural athlete. Whatever gifts of hand-to-eye coordination, strength or speed that were ladled out to my peers via DNA somehow gave me a miss. Nowhere was this more on display than when I participated in youth baseball.

I don’t want to get all Wonder Years on you but somehow it seems unavoidable. That little wave of nostalgia that washes over me when I think about grabbing the ol’ bat and ball and heading out to the ballpark has me longing for a simpler time when all I wanted was a root beer and a corn dog.

And a girl to touch my penis.

Sorry. No need for that. Penis-touching aside, there was nothing about my baseball experience that would help me convince any girl that my penis was something to aspire to touching. That last sentence proving once again that try as you might to put penis-touching aside, you simply cannot. Truth is, at the age I was during this story, penis-touching probably wasn’t even on the menu but that’s yet another example of how I have a nasty habit of working penis-touching into stories even when it's not relevant. With a hyphen no less. The hyphen is where I feel I really crossed the line.

Back to the story with the usual apologies.

I was the complete package … I could neither pitch, hit nor catch. I couldn’t even figure out the point of the brim on my hat. Sure it kept the sun out of your eyes when you were looking forwards but as soon as you lifted your head to try and see a fly ball the sun immediately overwhelmed your retina and had you covering up your head and backpedaling away from the site where the small leather meteor was plummeting to Earth with ill intent.

It wasn't as if my father hadn't done his best to prepare me for baseball. Just before my first practice, he dragged me to a local pizza place that had a few batting cages out back to work on my swing. He quickly bypassed the 30 mph and the 50 mph options and threw a few coins into the 70 mph machine. Having done that, he grabbed a bat and a helmet- safety first in the ol' Manion household- and strode confidently to the plate.

He looked me right in the eye. You can’t have fear in your heart when you approach the plate so let’s get this over with right now. I heard the pitching machine growling away in the background as he leaned forward into danger zone and I knew at once he meant to get intentionally hit by the ball to drive home whatever lesson he was cooking up in his head. There are worse things than pain. For instance … a restless heart. Before I could ask him what he meant by that, the ball came hurtling forward and fractured his humerus. Despite the name of this bone, there is nothing funny about damaging it. I concluded this as I, and all the families gathered at the pizza place, listened to a smorgasbord of profanity that would have had a longshoreman covering his ears.

My dad was in a cast for