• I Already Said I Would
• I Don't Believe In The Little Drummer Boy
• Learning to Fly
• Validation! I Crave Validation!
• Is this a 'Misguided Column'?

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I Already Said I Would
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005

How badly do you have to screw up your wedding vows so you need to do it all over again?

The diamond industry is hoping you did. And that you have to buy another expensive ring while you're at it.

The latest marketing campaign from the diamond industry and ADiamondIsForever.com is their "I Forever Do" commercials, where a guy asks his wife to marry him all over again. It's not as funny as the Family Guy parody ("She'll Pretty Much Have To"), but it's nearly as entertaining. I've seen two versions: a shorter commercial that most people have seen, and the longer one with more twists and surprise endings. You can find the longer one at the ADiamondIsForever.com website.

In the commercial, a husband and wife are in London on a family vacation. It's just the two of them, so either they have no children, or they left the kids with her folks. The two frolic around a fountain in front of some steps, where dozens of people are lounging and watching this little scene unfold.

Then, in a fit of spontaneity belying his otherwise staid existence as a tax attorney, the husband -- we'll call him Stan -- says to his wife, Lisa "You know, I think I'd marry you all over again."

"What do you mean, you think?!" Lisa says half-jokingly. "He better do more than just 'think,'" she says to herself.

He ignores her jibe: "We could do it right here. All these people as witnesses."

"Yeah, right." Meanwhile, she's thinking "Is he high? Is he having an affair? Did he steal from his clients?"

Lisa looks out at the crowd of onlookers and voyeurs, and someone very familiar stands up.

"MOM?!" Lisa gasps, wondering who's watching the children.

A man sitting next to her mother is holding a newspaper in front of his face. He lowers it, looking slightly disgusted. Could it be another suitor there to battle his nemesis for Lisa's heart? Could the mother have brought him here because she secretly hates Stan and wants to get rid of him?

"DAD?!" she gasps again. Mystery solved, as is the reason for the man's look: it's a mixture of annoyance that she's marrying this jerk, not once, but twice, plus relief that he doesn't have to pay for it this time.

Meanwhile, Lisa is just relieved to find her mom and dad in Europe together, which has allayed her fears that Dad was having an on-again-off-again fling with a French barmaid.

In the extended commercial, another woman stands up: Stan's lover to battle Lisa for his heart?

"JEN?!" No, it must be Lisa's sister, although the look on her face makes us wonder if she really is Stan's lover as well. Her expression of regret and longing says "That should have been me. Why won't he tell her the truth about us?"

Lisa overcomes her initial reluctance to Stan's idea and turns to find him kneeling before her. She nods an affirmative, much to her father's growing disgust and mother's unstoppable weeping. (Mom just hasn't been the same emotionally since undergoing The Change, and finding out that her husband's "business trips" have actually been to rendezvous with Ingrid the German hotel clerk.)

The rest of the crowd rises to its collective feet and bursts into applause, as the camera zooms out and fades to block. The announcer says, "This time, tell her 'I Forever Do.'" The unsaid message comes through loud and clear: "Because you didn't do it right the first time, you wiener!"

Every time my wife and I watch this little morality play, we have to wonder what exactly did Stan do that his vows from just a few short years ago needed a booster. And will it stick this time, or will he have to whisk Lisa off to Prague with her parents, grandparents, and half-cousin Louise? We figure he must have done something pretty bad -- like messing around with his father-in-law's bit on the side, Ingrid -- that requires repeating his vows and buying yet another expensive ring.

Regardless, the diamond industry doesn't seem to be helping the sanctity of marriage, since they're implying that 1) marriage vows aren't necessarily permanent the first time you did them, and 2) the only way to insure your marriage will last -- at least until you're caught with Gertrude the Hungarian concert promoter -- is with another Kobe Bryant "I screwed up again, but THIS time I promise it's the last one,"anniversary ring.

Just make sure someone is watching the kids.

=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 2nd, 2005)

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I Don't Believe In The Little Drummer Boy
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005

Christmas is fast approaching, and that can only mean one thing: Erik is waiting until the last minute to do his shopping again. That gives us a chance to run his favorite Christmas column.

Christmas is one of my favorite times of the year. My birthday, my anniversary, and any other occasion where people give me presents are also big favorites.

To get myself into the Christmas spirit, I listen to Christmas music. I hit the department stores around August to hear "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bell Rock." It's a wonder most sales clerks haven't killed anyone by mid-November.

I love the classics -- "Jingle Bells," "Silent Night" and the Sex Pistols' "Have Yourself a Merry $%@&! Christmas." But there are a few that, given a choice, I'd rather run my radio through with a pitchfork than listen to them.

One of my least favorite songs is Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Claus is Coming To Town," which is nothing but 20 minutes of Bruce singing "Santa Claus is coming to town" over and over and over. By the time Bruce finishes with his Yuletide droning, Santa is back home, slamming Upside-Down Margaritas with the elves.

But the worst Christmas song ever, the song that makes me want to sleep straight to Easter is "The Little Drummer Boy." Not only does it repeat the same phrase over and over -- pa-rum pum pum pum -- but the song just isn't believable.

I realize songs about a fat guy sliding down chimneys or a flying reindeer with a halogen nose aren't believable either, but at least they're grounded in reality.

First, drums do not go "pa-rum pum pum pum." As any parent knows, drums are loud percussive instruments. They do not make pleasant little melodies sung by children's choirs. They make headaches. Drums go "KA-WHAM WHAP WHAP WHAP!"

When the Little Drummer Boy asks Mary if he could play a song for the Baby Jesus -- pa-rum pum pum pum -- no one says, "Wait a minute! That kid is just going to pound a drum. Somebody stop him!"

The gift of music is one of the greatest gifts, because it comes from the heart, unless you really wanted that big screen high-definition TV instead. But when your newborn baby has finally gone to sleep after screaming for 6 hours because his bed is made of straw and smells like cow poo, do you really want someone going "ka-wham whap whap whap!" at him?

And what did Mary do? She just nodded, -- pa-rum pum pum pum -- listened attentively, and smiled quietly to herself. Not being a mother, I can't speak for other mothers. But I'll wager your Christmas gifts that if you've been riding on a donkey for several days, and then spent the last 36 hours in labor, you wouldn't want some snot-nosed kid showing up to beat a drum at you. The song would be more accurate if it said "Mary leapt off her stool and chased the little brat away, pa-rum pum pum pum. "

Did the ox and lambs really keep time -- pa-rum pum pum pum? Not likely. Oxen are tone deaf and lambs don't have a well-developed sense of rhythm. Besides, the drum in question was probably made out of oxen or lambskin, so they would not have appreciated the irony of the situation.

Then He smiled at me -- pa-rum pum pum pum? I have an easier time believing the ox and lambs doffed top hats and did "Puttin' On the Ritz." How would you feel if you had been removed from a nice warm womb and stuck in a bed of itchy, smelly straw so some jerk could beat a drum at you?

Here's a test. Go find a newborn baby and start pa-rum pum pum pumming on a pot with a couple of wooden spoons. If he smiles, he's colicky.

I'm all for the magic and wonder of Christmas. But I know mothers. And I know babies. And I know that mothers don't want anyone pounding drums around with their babies.

Gift of music or not, beating on a lambskin stretched over a hollow log is not something a new mother wants to deal with. I realize we're talking about Mary, the mother of the Messiah, but everyone has a limit to their patience. And little drummer boys aren't pushing it, so much as ramming it with a large wooden cart.

If you're ever in the mood to serenade a newborn baby and his mother with anything noisier than a single blad of grass, don't. Just trust me on this. If you really want to be helpful, give the mom something useful, like a set of earplugs and a weekend's free babysitting.

=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 9th, 2005)

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Learning to Fly
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005

There's a question I often ask people: "Would you rather have the power to fly or become invisible?" Your answer is supposed to provide some insight about who you are as a person.

I've noticed a lot of people who choose invisibility do so for less than ethical reasons. They would spy, sneak, and do mischief if they could do it unseen. But the flyers talk about saving time, saving gas, and avoiding traffic.

I'm a flyer.

Not one of the plane flyers though. I've never had the dream of flying my own plane or becoming a pilot. That's just not the same. Flying on a plane isn't like flying through the air like Superman. There's no sense of motion or movement, there's no food anymore, movies are sterilized into mediocrity, and the kids won't stop screaming.

I would rather be the Superman-type flyer who takes off with a shout of "Erik Deckers awaaaaay!" I would soar through the air, hair blowing in the breeze, playing tag with birds, buzzing through the clouds. Real flying. None of this namby-pamby plane stuff for me.

I've wanted to be a flyer since I was a kid, when I first tried to become airborne in my living room. Like most people my age, I learned things by watching TV. And at four years old, I had learned several important things about the way the world worked.

Like if I rolled a piece of paper into the shape of a rocket, it would fly when I set it on my front porch (it didn't). Or if I ate a lot of spinach, I would immediately grow huge muscles like Popeye (I didn't). Or if I flapped my arms, I could fly.

After a steady TV diet of Superman, Scooby Doo, and Bugs Bunny, I had become convinced that if I tried really, really hard, I could fly around the house. It was just a matter of speed, velocity, and willpower. They did it on TV, so I should be able to do it myself, right?

I chose the highest point in the house -- the arm of the sofa -- and leapt into the air, holding my arms out like Superman. No luck.

A-ha! I thought. I need to flap my arms. So I remounted my launch pad and tried again, flapping my arms furiously.

Still nothing.

I tried several different flapping styles, long armed, bent arms, hands only, but no luck. All it earned me were some sore feet and a request from my mother to kindly "KNOCK OFF THAT JUMPING!!"

So I settled down to watch Scooby Doo, disappointed that I would never be able to fly around the house. That is, until I discovered the answer right there on my television. The solution to my previous failures. I watched as Scooby picked up two sheets of paper, flapped them, and actually stayed aloft.

It was my Eureka moment.

I grabbed two pieces of clean typing paper from my dad's office -- used paper isn't very aerodynamic -- and resumed my position on the launch pad.

I gripped my new wings exactly like Scooby had, leapt off, and flapped like mad. This was it! It was working! I would slip the surly bonds of Earth and touch the face of -- THUD!

Failure.

I sat back down in front of the TV and finished my show. A tear trickled down my cheek as I realized that TV had betrayed me. I never tried to fly after that, the dream all but dead. But as I tell you this story now, I finally realize what I was doing wrong.

In the cartoons, the characters are always able to stay airborne as long as they never look down. As soon as they do, they immediately plummet. This was my error. I watched the ground when I tried to fly. And in doing so, I was reminded of where I was, which caused me to fall.

So now I'm inspired to try again. I've got my own paper -- four sheets, since I'm a grown-up now -- a pair of blackout goggles, and I'm heading up to the highest point of my house for one last attempt at glory.

In fact, when they make a movie about my personal victory, that's what they'll call it: Thirty Feet to Glory.

I'll see you when I land.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 16th, 2005)

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Validation! I Crave Validation!
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005

Writing is a psychologically dangerous profession. We writers tend to be insecure anyway, which is why we choose such an isolated activity. But we open ourselves up to criticism and rejection whenever we let other people read our stuff. We send it out to be evaluated, judged, and deemed "suitable for publication" by people who believe they're qualified to do so.

These people are called editors. We writers have more. . . colorful names for them.

The problem is that writers take rejection personally. It's not just that our work wasn't good enough or the right fit for that publication. We think there's something wrong with us as people. Our souls are stained. We've got some fundamental flaw in our psyches that the editors recognized, but we don't. This is what we believe deep down in the dark places we never talk about with our loved ones, but share it with our readers in our columns.

"Don't take it personally," other writers, like Stephen King and his multi-million dollar empire, tell us. "Just resubmit it somewhere else."

Tell you what, Stephen, I'll stop taking it personally as soon as you funnel your next book advance my way. Until then, I'll shred my rejection letters, gnash my teeth, and have my payback fantasies against these nay-sayers of my life's work.

I remember, with particular venom, two editors in particular. One was an editor of a publication who decided he didn't want to be bothered with the dirty rabble of writers who distracted him from putting out a magazine. So he had a rejection stamp made, and he stamped it on everyone's submission and sent it back.

I know, because the little weasel rubber stamped "Does not meet our needs" on one of my pieces. No note, no form letter with my name hand written in, no feedback of any kind. Just a rubber stamp on my submission letter.

Other writers told me to get my own stamp that said "Doesn't know squat" (only a better word than "squat"), stamp it on his rejection, and send it back to him. I didn't, but I did take a lot of satisfaction when his magazine folded a couple years later.

Apparently his magazine didn't meet its readers' needs. I wonder if they had a stamp for that.

Then there was the guy who ran his own website 10 years ago, and listed all the humor writers on the web. I had been writing for about a year, had my own website for a few months, and was very excited to find that I made the list. A month later, I wasn't on it anymore, so I emailed him and asked why.

"You're not that funny," he responded.

Jerk. I mean, it's one thing to say "I don't like it." But it's a completely different thing to make a universal statement like "YOU are NOT funny." It's a devastating blow to anyone, but especially to an insecure writer. But I never even considered quitting. I just focused on my writing, worked at it, and made it better.

And over the past 11 years, I've gotten funnier. My column appears in print and online, and is read by over 10,000 people each week. Meanwhile, this guy's website -- a LIST of funny people, mind you, not his own work -- went under less than a year later. Now who's the funny one? The guy who creates the humor and is still published over a decade later? Or the guy who just stood on the sidelines and watched other people do it?

There's an old saying that goes: "Those who can write, do. Those who can't, edit. Those who can't edit make stupid lists about people they wish they could be."

Not that I'm bitter. I just have an overdeveloped sense of Schadenfreude about people who didn't believe in me when I was starting out.

I've been thinking about these two editors a lot as I've been working on my first book. It's a collection of previous Laughing Stalk columns, and I'm very optimistic about it. I'm nervous about sending it out because, well, I'm a writer, and we're very insecure about that sort of thing. But I'm keeping a positive mental attitude about it all.

And I'll meet these two guys again. It will be at the launch party of my book, or at one of my many book signings around the country. They'll introduce themselves, and say "Hey, do you remember me? I'm the guy who. . ." and they'll remind me of their story, and how we didn't believe in you but wow look at how far you've come I'm glad you're so successful.

I'll thank them and give them a copy of my book to show there's no hard feelings. They'll get a picture taken with me and say they're looking forward to reading my book.

Then I'll hand them my ticket, slip them a couple bucks, and have them retrieve my car from valet parking for me.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 23rd, 2005)

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