My friend Joe Drabyak died this weekend. For those of you who never had the honor of knowing him, Joe sold books. Of course, that’s pretty much like saying Michelangelo painted ceilings. Joe was a bookseller with an international reputation. He worked at the Chester County Book and Music Company and was the President of NAIBA — the New Atlantic Independent Booksellers Association — where he was a driving force dedicated to the promotion, professionalism, and preservation of indie bookstores. I met Joe at the Winter Institute in Portland, Oregon in January 2007. First thing he said was “I know who you are, your sales guy gave me The Rabbit Factory in manuscript, and I’m handselling the hell out of it.” I found out later that I wasn’t the first newbie author to get that kind of a reception. Joe didn’t spend a lot of time promoting the careers of writers who were already selling books by the carload at Wal-Mart. He loved to discover new authors, and then pass them along to his customers. He also loved being turned into a fictional character. When I met him he was already in a number of books, and I was happy to use his name in Flipping Out. He said there were no restrictions, so I made him Jo Drabyak, put him in a flower print dress and then put a bullet through his head. He loved it so much that when I did a book signing at his store Joe showed up in drag as Jo. Four months ago Joe got the bad news. Shortly before his sixtieth birthday he was diagnosed with inoperable renal cancer. He tackled it with the same enthusiasm as he had for anything in life, and his email updates on his chemo were filled with optimism and good humor. But a month ago it became clear that the chemo had failed. Joe was out of options — except for a few extraordinary measures that might prolong his days, but most likely leave him clinging to life, but totally debilitated. He decided against them and opted for as much quality of life as he could get. “I want to go out as Joe,” he told me. Two days ago he did, displaying his characteristic humility, dignity, and grace to the very end. He leaves behind his mother, his sister, his fiercely devoted wife Reggie, hundreds of grateful authors, thousands of loyal customers, countless friends and colleagues, and a lifelong legacy of commitment and contributions to the retail book industry. One final word: Joe always hoped that fifty years from now scholars would discover his name in dozens, even hundreds, of books. “I’d like to be the South Park Kenny of popular fiction,” he said. “Killed over and over again, and always resurfacing.” So if there are any authors reading this, consider using the name Joe Drabyak in your next book. And if you want to kill him, that would be fine with him. Because what you’ll really be doing is helping keep Joe alive. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2010/08/in_loving_memory_of_joe_drabya.html http://www.karpkills.com/2010/08/in_loving_memory_of_joe_drabya.html Sun, 29 Aug 2010 02:24:50 +0000 Bloodthirsty, I knew where my research would take me. My two main characters, Mike Lomax and Terry Biggs, are homicide detectives with LAPD. My murder victims are all A-list A-holes in Hollywood. There was no question that the people I was killing off were all going to end up in the same place. The LA County Morgue. And so would I. Having lived and worked in Los Angeles for several years, I have a basic grasp of the geography, the pulse, and the culture. And while I don't provide the same palpable details of LA that Mark Twain gives us of the Mississippi, I do a fairly adequate job of describing the city where my stories unfold. But since I live 3,000 miles away from my characters, I need help. My friend Matthew Diamond (despite the fact that his directing skills have won him multiple Emmys and an Oscar nomination for Dancemaker), happily acts as my LA location scout. I also write with a Thomas Guide of LA County at my side, and Google Earth at my fingertips. Even so, the only way to write about the busiest morgue in the country is to actually spend time there. For some of you that might be a real treat. But for a guy who won't watch ER or Grey’s Anatomy because they're too graphic, this was not a fun road trip. Why not just make it up? you may ask. At first I did. Would you like to read something my publisher never even saw? Here's an early draft of Victor, a morgue attendant, accompanying a grieving couple to identify their teenage daughter's body. He picked them up in the waiting room and escorted them to The Vault. He loved watching the faces of people when they got their first look at that wall of stainless steel drawers. Grief stricken and scared shitless at the same time. Victor, of course, had his Official Morgue Face on. Not out of respect. It was strictly for the cameras. L.A. County had videocams recording every move, every word. It was, after all, a way station for a lot of crime victims. He pulled the lower lip of 37-B and the silence in the room was broken by the whir of steel casters, and then by the mother's gagging sobs. As I later found out, every word of it turned out to be totally bogus. What I had created was a television morgue. In actuality there is no stark, sterile room. No wall of stainless steel drawers. No somber attendant sliding open a drawer, unzipping a black body bag, then closing the drawer with a gut wrenching metallic thunk. That's a description of the set of Law and Order. Here's the description that ultimately made it into Bloodthirsty: In real life, the morgue looks more like something out of Edgar Allan Poe. No steel drawers, just gurneys. And no body bags. They cost too much. The cadavers are wrapped in sheets, heads and feet sticking out at either end. The air is ripe with the smell of disinfectant, formaldehyde, and decomposing humanity. The recently deceased don't smell so bad. But if Granny died in bed July Fourth and nobody found her till Labor Day, she's gonna stink to high heaven. Gurneys are parked everywhere. On the loading dock, at the admissions desk, in the hallways, waiting to be weighed, fingerprinted, sliced, diced and gutted. At times you can't walk ten feet without seeing a toe tag. It's one big, crowded, waiting room. Everyone's waiting for the doctor. It's not a pretty place. Which is why next of kin are not invited — not even to identify a body. Instead they get to look at Polaroids. When I contacted Craig Harvey, whose business card reads Chief Coroner Investigator & Chief of Operations at Department of Coroner County of Los Angeles, and asked him if I could schedule a private tour, he wrote back offering me a choice of 9am or 2pm. I got the feeling that Craig has escorted more than his share of writers, producers, and other film types with the same pressing need through his facility. And yet, I've never seen on the screen what I saw up close and personal. I spent the first half hour of my visit to the morgue in Craig's office. According to the coroner's daily inventory sheet, on that morning of July 10, 2006, there were 129 bodies waiting to be processed. Just another average day at the morgue. As Craig likes to say, "That's how we keep our prices so low. Volume." I used that body count and his quote in the book. I then got a tour of the forensic labs, the historical archives, and saw Polaroids of some current residents, victims of gang vengeance. Finally, it came time to suit up. Nothing fancy. Some of the dead are bio-hazards, so they have serious hazmat outfits for the pathology team. All I got was a pair of booties, rubber gloves, and the lowest level of protective masks they have. I'm not sure what it protected me from, but it wasn't the smell. Craig used a key to take the elevator to the basement. The first thing that hits you when the door opens is that you cannot escape the dead. They're everywhere. We worked our way through an obstacle course of bodies who were at various stages of working their way through the system. Then there's the equally inescapable smell. "It's riper in here than usual," Craig said. Eventually we came upon a big, bloated guy — head, legs, and one arm exposed, a large, bloated belly lifting the sheet several feet off the table. "Ah, there's the culprit," Craig said. "He was probably dead a few weeks before he got here." "Oh, you mean that black guy over there," I said, taking a girlie peek and quickly looking away. Craig laughed. "He's not black. If you look closer, he's green. Once upon a time, he was white." The books I write are either categorized as "police procedural" or outrageously funny. For me, funny is easy. The procedural part is the hard stuff. If I still have a captive audience I'd like to show you something else no one has ever seen. In that earlier unpublished description I had Victor the morgue attendant showing a body to grieving parents. As gruesome as that is, I'm a big believer in cutting the tension with humor. Here's what I wrote (only to be seen by the three people who venture this far down into this blah-blah-blog). He pulled the lower lip of 37-B and the silence in the room was broken by the whir of steel casters, and then by the mother's gagging sobs. Victor stood by quietly, waiting for the woman to regain her composure, when he felt it. Oh God. This one was really uncomfortable. No, it was worse. It was unbearable. Victor had the world's worst wedgie. Those damn Bugle Boy thongs. They strapped his balls up like a rodeo bull, and crawled up his butt crack like a gerbil on the lam. The fact that Victor bought thongs that were Size Medium for an ass that was Size Fat never crossed his mind. The father finally spoke. "She graduated high school in June. It was only five months ago." Victor's face scrunched up as he suffered through the incessant rectal flossing. He hoped the pained look passed for empathy. Is a wedgie funny? Yes, if it's someone else's, and he's in a situation where he can't extract it. But what really gets a laugh every time I talk about it is this. After I finished the tour of the morgue, I went upstairs to their gift shop. It's funny, but it's true. They have a gift shop. Years ago they had a medical examiners convention and they gave out coffee mugs with the LA Coroner's logo. After the convention, they started getting calls for more mugs. The following year they gave out T-shirts. It caught on, and today they sell key chains, shirts, windbreakers, coffee mugs, and all kinds of fun stuff with the coroner's logo on it. The day I was there, several people were shopping. One woman drove 30 miles because she had to give her brother the barbecue apron for a birthday gift. It says "Spare Ribs. Spare Feet. Spare Hands." The signs on the door of the gift shop say "Shoplifter's Next-Of-Kin Will Be Notified," and "To Cash A Check You'll Need Two Forms Of Identification Or Dental Records." The morgue, like the cops I talk to, all agree. If you can't find humor in this grisly business, you'll snap. That, (allow me this one plug) is why the books I write are, to quote reviewers and readers, "irreverently funny." If you don't live in LA or you're too creeped out to visit the morgue to do your holiday shopping, they have a website. The profits help fund their Youthful Drunk Driver Visitation Program. When a young kid gets arrested for driving drunk, the court can sentence him to spend three hours in the morgue, where he'll get an education he'll never forget. I know I won't.]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2010/03/authentically_dead_in_la.html http://www.karpkills.com/2010/03/authentically_dead_in_la.html Wed, 10 Mar 2010 02:18:56 +0000 It’s the end of the year. I’m tired; I’m lazy, and I really don’t want to come up with a whole new blog. So I’m borrowing a time-honored tradition from my days in television. It’s called a clip show. Essentially, you pull together a bunch of crap you already shot and bookend it with and intro and a closing. Today’s crap is a random selection of my daily Facebook status posts. For those of you who follow me on Facebook, these may not be funny the second time around. That’s because most of them weren’t funny the first time around. ******** I’ve been told I’m a great kisser. But let’s face it — guys in prison have such ridiculously low standards. Is there no privacy? Some asshole posted directions to my house on his website! Who is this Mapquest guy anyway? I tested positive for performance enhancing drugs. But it’s okay. It was only Metamucil. My new book is called 27 Theories For Winning An Argument With A Woman. So far all I’ve got is the title. I have an appointment with the acupuncturist. God, I hope the bastard is sober this time. Sarah Palin was 90 minutes late for a book signing in Iowa. Hundreds of people were still waiting in the freezing cold. I showed up late for a book signing once. Both people left before I got there. You’d think my parents could’ve waited five lousy minutes. They say the Swine Flu will peak early in the season. They’re considering changing the name to the Boston Red Sox Flu. I called the Butterball Hotline and the lady asked if I were lonely. She said for $3.95 a minute she’d talk me through the X-rated version of how to stuff a turkey. President Obama’s first visit to China and he’s asking them to cap their greenhouse gas emissions. Good luck. It would be smarter to ease into it. Maybe start with could you cut back on the lead paint and hold the MSG. I just wrote a really hot sex scene for my next book. I thought it was pretty good, so I decided to read it out loud to my wife. She fell asleep. But the dog started humping my leg. Maureen Dowd in The NY Times says The White House has become an All Boy’s Club. Not true, says Obama. Those urinals in the ladies room were all Hillary’s idea. I clicked on Medical Marijuana on Amazon, and it said customers who bought this also bought Medical Sex and Medical Rock and Roll. What kind of parents let their kid take off in a helium balloon? Oh, no wait — he never was in the balloon. He was hiding in a freaking box in the attic for two hours. Much better parenting. I’m confused. The guy in charge of two wars gets the Nobel Prize for Peace. So who gets the Nobel Prize for Fidelity? Letterman? Letterman’s ratings are going through the roof. Told my wife I’m willing to have sex with younger women if it will help my book sales. I’m doing my part to sanction Iran. I just defriended Ahmadinejad on Facebook. You realize, of course, that if Sonia Sotomayor gets confirmed, Ruth Bader Ginsburg will no longer be the only smokin’ hot babe on the Court. “We’re doing so well, my administration. My administration’s accomplishments, they speak for themselves. I love my job and I love Alaska.” And now I quit. Sarah Palin is to speech writing what the Titantic was to transatlantic crossings. Michael Jackson opened up a total can of worms. Now my kids want to be left to Diana Ross when I die. And if that's not bad enough, my wife asked if if I could leave her to George Clooney. I don’t know why the Republicans are being so tough on Governor Sanford. I would have thought they’d be happy that one of their boys was doing a little offshore drilling. You know what would be a great iPhone app? A taser. Random rule of comedy — avoid the obvious. If the menu says Prix Fixe, the waiter has probably heard all the jokes. Why do they insist on calling them Reality Shows? I can’t think of a single one that resembles my reality. Okay, Wife Swap, sure. But besides that… Last night I went to my first meeting of Agoraphobics Anonymous. Nobody else showed up. Did you see the latest accessory for Malibu Barbie's Dream House? It's the most adorable little foreclosure sign. That Barbie -- she's just so in tune with the times. Today’s the anniversary of the day Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. Think I’ll celebrate with a Chateauneuf de Pape and S’mores. I was thinking that my wife never pays any attention to me, but then I realized… of course she does. How else would she be able to point out all my mistakes? Joan Rivers kicked ass on Celebrity Apprentice last night. Proving once again that she's so much more than a pretty face. I was looking for the perfect thing to say on a Mother’s Day card. So I Googled “Moving Quotes.” I got quotes from Allied Van Lines, Mayflower Movers and U-Haul. My wife doesn’t want me to have knee surgery. She said for that kind of money, she’d rather redo the kitchen. I always try to make other people happy. In my wife’s case, I have to leave her alone to do it. Some asshole I can’t stand borrowed fifty bucks from me, and then, bam — he disappeared. I never saw him again. Now I’m lending out fifties to every asshole I know. A hot blonde stops me—are you Marshall Karp? Yes. The author? Yes. And your new book Flipping Out just came out? Yes, yes, yes! Your fly’s open, asshole. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you…” Oops...sorry, just reminiscing about my wedding vows. A PUBLIC APOLOGY TO MY WIFE: Sorry, dear. I really have to learn to stop talking when you're interrupting. A psychic charted my past lives. She told me I was a horse thief, a derelict and a Hun. It’s OK, she said. At least none of those assholes was on Facebook. I just tried smoking crack for the first time, and man, it is soooooo addictive. It’s like — I don’t know — Facebook. My wife thinks all men are assholes. And yet, she derives some sort of perverse pleasure in telling everyone that she married their king. I got a GPS for my car. Guys, it’s great. Now even if your wife isn’t in the car, you can still have a woman’s voice telling you how to drive. Does this status post make my ass look fat? I’m leaving Facebook forever. I just unexpectedly came into a humungous sum of money, and I’m on my way to Nigeria to collect it. So long, suckers. I took some homeopathic medicine last night. My cold is gone, but in the morning I broke out in sequins If my stimulus package lasts longer than 4 hours, do I call my doctor? Or my Congressman? I taught my dog to sit, stay, heel, fetch, and not pee on the floor. (Same basic commands my wife is trying to teach me.) I’d like to clarify a misconception. I’m totally straight. What I said was, I’m a GRAY American. I just figured out how to say WTF in Spanish. It’s QTF. My Hungarian grandmother gave me her secret recipe for chicken soup that tastes incredible and costs practically nothing to make. First you steal a chicken… My thermometer just hit Zero. Oh no, wait... that's my 401(k). I have a ton of snow, so I’m shoveling, and shoveling, and shoveling, and thinking, finally, all those years in advertising have paid off. I told my wife that I had more than 300 friends on Facebook. She said, “I guess the other 200 million people just don’t give a shit about you.” ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/12/marshalls_2009_facebook_clip_s.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/12/marshalls_2009_facebook_clip_s.html Thu, 31 Dec 2009 02:18:06 +0000

Dear Awesome Lady, You were only in my life for twenty seconds, but I’ll never forget you. I was the harried grandfather standing in the bus stop on 85th and Lexington, a stroller in one hand, a four-year-old Boy in the other hand, and no Metrocard in my wallet. It was Friday at 5:30. Rush hour in Manhattan. We only had to go six blocks, so we could easily have walked. But the Boy wanted to go by bus. The fact that Papa didn’t have the means to get on a bus didn’t register with him. Everybody has a Metrocard. “Or quarters,” the Boy told me. “You could use quarters.” $2.25? In quarters? What am I, a Laundromat? The bus was ready to pull out without us. I stood there wondering who would melt down first, me or the Boy. And then you spotted us. You ran up to the bus and said “get on, I have a Metrocard.” The Boy and I got on. You followed and swiped your Metrocard for us. I couldn’t wait to tell you how much that simple gesture meant to me. And then, you totally threw me for a loop. You got off the bus. I called after you. “You’re not getting on?” You smiled and said no. I started frantically digging in my pocket to pay you back. You waved me off. You didn’t want the money. Hopefully, the happy grin on the Boy’s face and the look of profound gratitude on mine were some small compensation. “I’ll pay it forward,” I yelled as the driver closed the door. And I will. Awesome Lady, you looked like you might have grandchildren yourself. You were handsomely dressed, with a broad brimmed black hat, and a jangly necklace that looked like gold coins. But what I remember most is the joy in your eyes as you rescued us with your magic card. I know you’ll never get to read this, but I had to write it and toss it into that vast Internet Ocean. Thank you. I’ll never forget you. And I’ll be retelling this story over the years. So the Boy never forgets you either. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/10/note_in_a_bottle.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/10/note_in_a_bottle.html Mon, 19 Oct 2009 02:17:30 +0000 On Divorce 
Q. If you and Mommy get divorced, who will I live with?
 A. We won't get divorced. 
Q. But what if you do? 
A. Then you'd live part time with me and part time with Mommy. You'd have your own room and your own toys in each house.
 Q. That sound O.K. Do you think you'll ever get divorced?
 A. No. We can't afford it. On Physical Differences
 Q. How come you have hair there? 
A. All men have hair there. It's the law.
 Q. Will I get hair there? 
A. Do you want hair there?
 Q. No.
 A. Then you won't get any. On Racial Differences
 Q. How come some people have black faces and some people have flesh colored faces?
 A. I'll tell you when we get out of the elevator. On Language 
Q. What's a bastard?
 A. It's a bad word.
 Q. I know, but what does it mean?
 A. It's a person whose mother and father aren't married.
 Q. Are they divorced?
 A. Ummm...it's more like they never got married in the first place.
 Q. You mean you can have a baby even if you're not married? 
A. Only if you don't eat your vegetables. On Trust
 Q. Is there really a tooth fairy? 
A. How do you think the money gets under your pillow?
 Q. Gregory said your mother and father put it there. 
A. Did he ever actually see his mother and father put money under his pillow?
 Q. No.
 A. Then there's a tooth fairy. On Relationships 
Q. Guess who I met today?
 A. I give up.
 Q. Marcy's Mommy's boyfriend's first wife. On Breast Size
 Q. How come that lady has big boobies and Mommy doesn't?
 A. What lady?
 Q. The one you've been staring at.
 A. Oh...how about if Daddy buys you some ice cream? On Animals
 Q. What are those two dogs doing?
 A. They're practicing to be acrobats. If they get three more dogs and they make a pyramid, they'll get a job in the circus. On Economic Status
 Q. Are we rich or poor?
 A. We're middle.
 Q. What's middle mean?
 A. It means we can afford ESPN on cable, but Mommy's gonna have to drive the Toyota for another year. On Parental Restrictions
 Q. How come I can't see that movie? 
A. You're too young.
 Q. How come Jeffy's father let him see that movie?
 A. I told you yesterday, Jeffy's father is totally irresponsible, morally corrupt and has no idea how to raise children in today's world.
 Q. I told Jeffy's father you said that, and he said he's coming over to talk to you right after his karate lesson. On Sex
 Q. Did you and Mommy do it before you were married?
 A. Never.
 Q. Not ever?
 A. Absolutely not. Daddy wouldn't lie to you about something like that. On Idols
 Q. When I grow up, can I dress like Amy Winehouse?
 A. Over my dead body. Next question. That was just a small sampling. There are a million and one other questions a father should brace himself for. Some of those include: What happens to people after they die? What does God look like? How come people in Chinese restaurants have crooked eyes? If smoking is bad for you, how come you do it? What's a hooker? If I'm not allowed to pick my nose in public, how come Uncle Phil can? Do you and Mom still have sex or did you stop after I was born? How many times a week do you do it? If you believe in God, how come you never go to church? Did you ever cheat on your income taxes? What does S&M stand for? Did you and Mom ever smoke pot? The questions will come at you fast and furious. Even when you're tempted to lie, don't try it. Today's kids are much too smart. Better to be prepared with some stock answers, which work for almost all occasions. These include: Shut up and eat your broccoli. Have you done your homework tonight? Daddy's busy now. Here's twenty dollars. Go to the mall. I'll tell you when you're older. And finally, when push comes to shove, there's always Old Reliable. You're sitting on the sofa watching a football game, and your cherubic little five-year-old climbs onto your lap and says, "Daddy, how do you make a baby?" you can always do what I did. Reach deep down into your male heritage, and like your father before you and his father before him, turn gently to your child and say, "Go ask your mother."]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/09/hey_dad_how_do_you_make_a_baby.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/09/hey_dad_how_do_you_make_a_baby.html Thu, 17 Sep 2009 02:14:35 +0000 Who needs another murder mystery at a time like this? I adopted a new approach to life. Live every day like it’s September 10. That doesn’t mean live for the moment, for tomorrow you may die. You may well be alive tomorrow, but the world as you know and love it can change in the blink of an eye. I don’t remember a single thing about September 10, 2001, and I don’t want any more days in my life to pass as anonymously as that one did.

 Little by little, like the rest of America, I came back from 9/11. I was lucky enough to find Vitamin Angels, a charity that saves the lives of millions of children around the world by providing them with the vitamins and nutrients that we take for granted. I still work with them today. At some time I’ll tell you a lot more about what we do. In 2002, I went back to that novel. Much to my amazement it was published. I’m now finishing my fourth book, and some of the people who read them have told me I’m pretty funny. So you’re probably wondering who wrote this piece. What happened to the guy who makes us laugh? Sorry. Every now and then the closet philosopher gets loose. Since 9/11 I’ve managed to live every day like it’s September 10th. And what better time to time to pass on the message than today? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to call my daughter and hug my new dog. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/09/live_every_day_like_its_septem.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/09/live_every_day_like_its_septem.html Thu, 10 Sep 2009 02:13:25 +0000

A big piece of my heart died this morning. Jett and I had only been together seven years, but she was my daily shadow, my nightly therapy, and my 24/7 soulmate. I’ve chronicled our life together, and her sudden swift battle with leukemia, and now I’d like to find some closure by sharing her last 24 hours. Yesterday was bittersweet. Jett’s farewell party was as great a sendoff as any dog could get. From 9 in the morning until 5:30 in the evening, the house and the yard were filled with a constant stream of people and dogs coming to say goodbye. The menu was simple. Soft drinks and cookies. Water and biscuits. Jett, who was on a prednisone driven diet to keep her strength up, got small meals throughout the day. It was a long, tiring, cathartic day for all of us, and despite the fact that Jett was waning, her primal instincts kept kicking in and she managed to soak up the event and venture out from time to time to play with her friends. For dinner I grilled her a shell steak. My wife and I couldn’t eat. She had a difficult night. On the bed, off the bed, with bouts of rapid panting. At 4:20 a.m. she barked once from downstairs. It’s not something she does often, especially in the middle of the night. But I know the code. Wake up and open the door. I have to pee. I did. And she did. Dignity to the very end. Nobody slept very much and breakfast started with five biscuits instead of the usual one. Then ice cream — two cups of Frosty Paws. For dessert she had fresh roast beef, turkey and a bone stuffed with peanut butter. No meds. After breakfast we sat together, our eyes locked, our foreheads pressed together, and I repeated the message her trainer asked me tell her. I put her leash on and we walked to as many of her favorite spots on the property as she could. I unplugged the electric fence, but it was strictly symbolic. She hasn’t needed the collar in ages. Jett made it into the back seat of the car on her own and my wife sat beside her. Normally, when we drive to the vet or the dog groomer I tell her we’re going to Disney World. She falls for it every time. But this time I told her the truth. I have to warn you — these next few paragraphs will be difficult to read. I have to write them, but you certainly don’t have to read them. The vet escorted us to the back room, told us what was going to happen, and my wife and I sat down on the floor. I held Jett in my arms and her head rested in my wife’s lap. I sang her the song I had written for her, and then wailing and sobbing out of control, told her how much she meant to me. First, the anesthetic, and a minute later, with my hand pressed to her heart, the vet gave her the final injection. A second later her heart stopped. My wife and I held her, and when the vet finally took her from my arms I looked at her face. It was, as it always has been, beautiful. But in death the stress and the discomfort that I had been staring at for two weeks were gone. Jett was, after this valiant struggle, finally at peace. My wife and I are not. But we’re working on it. Thank you to the many people who posted messages here and on Facebook offering us their prayers, their love, and their support. Thanks to the friends and family who called, wrote, or came to the house to say goodbye. Thanks to Dr. Howard Rothstein and the entire staff at Saugerties Animal Hospital for their dedication and understanding throughout the years, and most especially since that morning on July 4. Thank you to Kyle Warren, our gifted trainer, whom I have known and trusted for seven years. Early on, Kyle taught me that the key to a successful human-canine relationship was not what he could teach Jett, but what he could teach me. And finally, to my sweet girl, Jett. Thank you for letting me think I rescued you, when it was you who rescued me. Thank you for seven years of unparalleled joy and unconditional love. Thank you for teaching me so much about myself. I will love you, cherish you, and hold you in my heart forever. And I know that when I take my final journey, you’ll be the first one to greet me, racing, as always, to welcome me home.]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/07/jett_january_1_2000_july_19_20.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/07/jett_january_1_2000_july_19_20.html Sun, 19 Jul 2009 02:12:31 +0000 How the hell did I get here, how do I get out, and should I sink my fangs into that old white guy’s neck before I go? And there stand I, the old white guy, heart racing, chest tightening, sphincter loosening. My office is separated from my bedroom by a glass door. I shut it. Then I did what any red-blooded man of action would do. I called the cops. As you read this, understand that I live in a small town. DISPATCHER: Hello, what is your emergency?
 ME: There’s a bat in my bedroom. 
DISPATCHER: Marshall, is that you?
 ME: Oh hi, Carol. There’s a bat in my bedroom. Can you come over and get rid of it. I’m freaked out, and I’m not too embarrassed to ask a woman. 
 DISPATCHER: I’m just going off duty. I’ll send someone else.
 ME: I don’t care if you send your grandmother. Just make sure she has a gun. Ten minutes of terror later, I see the flashing lights in my driveway. I yell out the window that the front door isn’t locked. The cop comes upstairs. If he tries to give me a lecture on how dumb it is to leave the door unlocked, I’m ready for him. How else would the cops get in if there were a bat attack. Thankfully, it doesn’t come up. He searches the house. I call my wife who is in the city. She laughs. Her main contributions to the conversation are, “glad I’m not there,” and “make sure it’s gone before I get back.” The dog was no help either. The cop comes back upstairs. COP: I opened the front door, then I searched the house. I didn’t see it. He must have flown out.
 ME: He didn’t. They never do. He’s waiting for you to leave. Please shut the door before you let his whole damn family in. He shuts the door, then offers to walk through the house with me to prove that it’s safe. I grab a hat and a blanket and we go from room to room. ME: Sorry to call you. I can deal with snakes, spiders, mice, bears, anything. But bats creep me out.
 COP: Me too. And then I see it. A dark brown wood beam over an upstairs window has a dark brown fuzzy lump on it. ME: Do your duty, officer.
 COP: Do you have a newspaper or a magazine? 
ME: No, do you have a gun? We opt for the classic solution. A broom. With Ninja like precision, I get the weapon from my arsenal in the broom closet, and the cop brings down the intruder. ME: Why don’t you put him under the wheel of your squad car and back over him to make sure the little bloodsucker is really dead?
 COP: I think he’s really dead.
 ME: Have you ever read Bram Stoker? Brooms only stun them. Do you have a wooden stake?
 COP: No.
ME: How about a pencil? 
COP: Don’t worry about it. I’ll take him with me. Get some sleep. 
ME: Not here. Not tonight. Bats travel in packs. I’m calling a friend and sleeping at his house. Which I did. And the next day I called the local animal damage control guy and had the house bat-proofed. Fear of bats is called chiroptophobia. And I am not alone. In Batman Begins we learn that as a boy, Bruce Wayne fell into an abandoned well and stirred up thousands of bats. The trauma left him chiroptophobic. When he decided to fight crime, he became Batman, using his own fear to strike fear in the hearts of Gotham City’s most notorious evildoers. For me, the only thing scarier than having a bat in my house is having the in-laws fly in for a three-day weekend. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/06/so_what_are_you_afraid_of.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/06/so_what_are_you_afraid_of.html Thu, 25 Jun 2009 02:11:56 +0000 My wife and I had just checked into a Caribbean resort for a week-long vacation when she informed me that my toenails weren’t beachworthy. “Why don’t you call the spa and get a pedi,” she said. I looked at her like she had just suggested we swap clothes for the week. “I’d rather call the front desk and see if I can borrow an electric hedge trimmer from the landscaping crew,” I said. “Lots of men get pedicures,” she said. “Lots of men wear guyliner, and sing show tunes,” I said. “Getting a pedicure isn’t gay,” she said. “It’s metrosexual.” “I’m not sure I’m ready to be labeled as a metrosexual,” I said. “Well, if you show up on the beach with those feet, you’ll be labeled as a hobosexual.” I booked a pedicure. I’m sure most people know what a pedicure is all about, but for those straight guys out there who don’t, it’s like getting a shoeshine without your shoes. Marie, the pedicurist, plunked my dogs in a tub of warm water and offered me a magazine. The choices were Vogue, Elle, Allure, and W. The chick on the cover of W was particularly hot, and I’d have liked to see more, but I passed. What if someone recognized me and took my picture? Getting a pedi was bad enough. Marie made the usual hotel small talk, like where are you from, and what restaurants have you tried so far. All my answers started with “my wife and I,” just to make sure she knew these were hetero toes she was dealing with. “A lot of women would kill to have your feet,” she said. It sounded like a compliment. Or did it mean I had girlie feet? I had to know. “Why?” I asked cautiously. “Why would women kill to have my feet?” “These women insist on buying shoes that put their feet through torture. You should see some of the ugly feet I have to deal with — bunions, cracked heels, hammer toes, all kinds of problems. Your feet are beautiful.” “Really?” “Really,” she said. “No deformities, no fungal infections, and they don’t stink.” “Those have always been my three basic criteria for dating,” I said. We both laughed, and I finally sat back in my chair and started playing with the massage button options. Marie began rubbing my feet, and I wanted to drift off to sleep, but I kept one eye open to make sure she didn’t trot out the nail polish. When it was over, I felt terrific. And I over tipped, so I know it was good for her too. Then I headed for the beach to meet my wife. She waved when she saw me, and I skipped over to her chaise, singing “I feel pretty.” http://www.karpkills.com/2009/06/how_my_feet_lost_their_virgini.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/06/how_my_feet_lost_their_virgini.html Tue, 09 Jun 2009 02:10:22 +0000 My first novel was published in 2006. My third came out this year, and I just finished writing my fourth. Four books. Not bad for a guy who wanted to write a book all his life and didn’t get around to it till he was mmmmphty years old. I realize there are a lot of writers out there who are just as scared as I was, but a lot younger, so I thought a little encouragement might help. I can’t tell you how to write. But I can tell you how I write. I start with characters. Yes, I know — plot, story, dialogue — all important. But I think characters drive the bus. It’s something I learned in the television business. People keep coming back week after week because they want the Predictable Emotional Experience they get from reuniting with the characters. It can take me weeks to shape a principal character. This is somebody I have to live with for a long time. Can I get inside this character’s head? Can he get inside of mine? Most of my lead characters are kind of ordinary. Just like most people. I don’t have to give them super powers or a crack addiction to make them interesting. But I have to figure out what about their backgrounds, their dreams, or their life experience does make them interesting. So I write a character bible. The one I wrote for Mike Lomax five years ago has about a dozen pages. I knew how old I wanted him to be in the first book, so I did the math, and figured out when he was born. Not the same time as I was. Mike grew up in a different America than I grew up in. I watched Leave it to Beaver. He had Archie Bunker. We grew up in the same country, but with different politics, different values, different pop culture, different everything. I started conjuring up his childhood, his relationship with his parents, his teenage years, how, when, and why he decided to become a cop, how he met his wife Joanie, their struggle with infertility, and how he coped with his wife’s illness and her death. When you meet him for the first time in The Rabbit Factory, all you know is that he’s a cop whose wife died six months ago. But I knew a lot more. I just wasn’t going to regurgitate all that information in the first chapter. When you need to know something, I’ll let you know through dialogue or action. When I was in the TV business, there were times when an actor would say to me, “my character would never say that.” And they’d always be right. If you want to become a television writer you have to write spec scripts. Take a well-established show, and write your own episode. The producers who read it will be looking at how fresh your ideas are, how crisp your dialogue is, but most important, how true you are to the essence of the characters they’ve created. One of my favorite characters of all time is Superman. Despite the fact that he can fly, see through walls, or catch a bullet in his bare hands, he’s a totally believable character. Because his creators gave him powers, weaknesses, a mission, and a personality — and for the past 70 years, they stuck to it. Bottom line — in my opinion characters shape the book, and a well-developed character bible shapes the character. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/06/how_i_write_part_1_character_b.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/06/how_i_write_part_1_character_b.html Wed, 03 Jun 2009 02:09:21 +0000 Today’s topic is something I know absolutely nothing about. Punctuality. I’m never on time. No matter how hard I try, I’m late for everything. Some of you might say I just don’t care enough about the people I’m supposed to meet. I like to think it’s that I care too much about the people I’m with to tear myself away. Back when I was an advertising Creative Director, my boss suggested that my habitual lateness was causing logjams and offered to hire a Time Management consultant for me. I interviewed three different candidates. I got off to a bad start with the first one. I was half an hour late to the meeting. Ultimately, the woman I hired taught me very little about time management, and a lot about planning for the future. In fact, she helped me plan how to get away from the agency that was paying her consulting fees. Since then I’ve talked to several people (professionals and do-gooder amateurs alike) about my bad habit. They all agree that I don’t plan, and I always bite off more than I can chew. If have to leave the house in five minutes, I’ll tell myself I have plenty of time to check my email. Then, by the time I check it, answer the one that absolutely can’t wait, find my keys, go back upstairs for my cell phone, grab a bottle of water for the road, and get the car going, it’s taken 17 minutes and my five minute window is shattered. So lately, I’ve tried even harder. Five minutes to get out? I don’t check email. I grab my car keys and the phone rings. I check caller ID. This is a call that absolutely can’t wait. Are you picking up on the pattern? A few weeks ago, I had an important appointment early in the morning. I set the clock, and gave myself plenty of time to get up, shower, feed the dog, grab some breakfast, and get on the road. I swore to myself — no email, no phones, no distractions of any kind. The clock rang; I got up, and went downstairs to feed Jett. And guess what? There was a dead mouse floating in her water bowl. In the country a mouse in the house isn’t unusual. The exterminator leaves bait for them. They eat the bait, and then get so thirsty they have to go outside to look for water, where they die. This little critter never made it outside. He found an oasis in Jett’s water bowl. But there was only so much he could drink, which is why he was floating there on the morning I swore I wouldn’t be late. Emails can wait. Phone calls can wait. Rotting bloated rodent cadavers gotta go. Isn’t that what caused the bubonic plague? I went back upstairs for some shoes and a HAZMAT suit. I came back down, gingerly picked up the bowl, carried it outside, careful not to splash wet mouse cooties all over the house, and dumped poor Mickey in the woods. Then I washed the bowl. Not rinsed. Washed. With soap and hot water. Then I refilled it, and gave Jett fresh water. I could swear the sink had traces of mouse hair, so I cleaned and disinfected it. Then I washed my own hands. Wet, lather, rinse, repeat. Then I rubbed them with Purell. And just to be safe, I Purelled the sink. Finally I had to call my wife to tell her how my day was going. I was 25 minutes late for my appointment. The moral: The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/05/whats_that_mouse_doing_in_my_d.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/05/whats_that_mouse_doing_in_my_d.html Mon, 25 May 2009 02:08:14 +0000

Are you neat? I don’t mean anal-retentive, super-freaky, germophobic, squeaky-clean, obsessively compulsive, Tony Shalhoub crazy-neat. I just mean, when you were in school and the teacher said Neatness Counts, did you get a B-, or a C+? For me, that’s neat. Or are you – for want of a better word — a slob? I don’t mean an out and out, muck and grime, where-were-you-brought-up-in-a-pigsty, Collier brothers kind of slob. I just mean have you ever been diagnosed as genetically incapable of picking up your socks and underwear once they hit the floor? Most of us are either one or the other. So how come, once we know what we are, we spend most of our time — most of our lives, in fact — with someone who is exactly the opposite? Think Felix Unger and Oscar Madison. Or me and my wife. She’s orderly. Not certifiable, but she certainly does like things in their place. You know that old joke? The one that goes, my wife is so neat that when I get up at three in the morning to pee, when I come back, she’s made the bed. She’s not that neat. Her cut off point is about 5:30. When we make dinner, she cleans up as we go along. As we go along, people. That’s a whoop-ass helping of Neat. It drives me crazy. I, on the other hand, have always lived a life of organized chaos. My desk is a study in pre-meditated confusion. Yes, I file. But more often than not, I pile. Even my writing has always been an oxymoronic mix of spontaneity and structure. It drives her crazy. Recently, I saw one of those eHarmony commercials. Apparently they have this patented Compatibility Matching System® that — and I quote — “narrows the field from millions of candidates to a highly select group of singles that are compatible with you.” So I asked my wife, if we took the eHarmony test, do you think they’d match us up? No way, she said. (Only she said it using three words — her standard response when I ask stupid questions.) I agreed. The eHarmony computers would take one scan of our questionnaires and spit us into separate buckets, never to be part of each other’s highly select group of compatible singles. Compatibility isn’t what has kept us together all these decades. It’s our incompatibility. They say the reason opposites attract is exactly what drew Tom Cruise to Renée Zellweger in Jerry Maguire. She completed him. Which can only mean there's only one possible reason why my wife has put up with me all these years. It’s got to be all that crap I’ve accumulated. ]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/01/my_name_is_marshall_karp_and_i.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/01/my_name_is_marshall_karp_and_i.html Thu, 22 Jan 2009 02:06:29 +0000

For those of you who are not published authors, let me tell you one of the great perks that comes with the territory. A 24/7 hotline you can call whenever you run into a writing problem. Now I’m not talking about “Writer’s Block.” That’s a term invented by the media, and it is totally fictitious like The Abominable Snowman, Erectile Dysfunction, or Dick Cheney’s so called “heart.” Author Tech Support is for writers who just get a little stuck. It has always been staffed by English majors at universities in New York, Chicago, and Boston. But the economic apocalypse has forced Author Hotline to outsource its help desk to India. My recent phone call was a disaster. RECORDING: You’ve reached the Author Hotline. Press 1 for Chick Lit, Press 2 for Science Fiction, Press 3 for Crime and Mystery… I press 3 and a man with a thick Indian accent comes on. AUTHOR HOTLINE: Hello, this is Gary. What is your name please? MK: Hi Gary. My name is Chandrashekhar. AH: Ohh, my father’s name is Chandrashekhar. How can I help you? MK: I killed a woman in Chapter 5, and I thought I knew who the murderer was, but it just doesn’t work. Now I’m on Chapter 47, and I need some help figuring out who the real murder is. AH: Oh yes, figuring out who the real murderer is. OJ Syndrome. Are you sure this woman is really dead? MK: I don’t understand. AH: A lot of authors call Tech Support, but they don’t check to see if the character is really dead. She could be working late at the office. Can you please take another good look at Chapter 5 to see if she’s really dead. MK: She’s dead. I checked before I called. I need a murderer. AH: What are my options? MK: Her husband. AH: The husband? That’s Crime 1.0. You’re working in 4.0. MK: Well, how about the local butcher? She was stabbed with a knife… AH: Describe this butcher. MK: Mid sixties, white hair, big happy smile. Nobody would ever suspect him. AH: Too lovable. Women readers will hate you. Try using a jealous co-worker. MK: I don’t have a jealous co-worker. AH: There was one in the box with the original software. MK: I didn’t save the box. I figured if I had a problem, you would help me. AH: Sir, I’m trying to help. Why don’t you try rebooting your PC. MK: Actually it’s a Mac. AH: A Mac? I’m only qualified for PCs. I’ll have to transfer you. MK: No! I don’t want to start over again. Don’t transf… RECORDING: You’ve reached the Author Hotline. Press 1 for Chick Lit, Press 2 for Science Fiction, Press 3 for Crime and Mystery…]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2009/01/bad_news_for_authors.html http://www.karpkills.com/2009/01/bad_news_for_authors.html Wed, 07 Jan 2009 02:04:51 +0000 It was 8pm when the phone rang. TW: Hello, this is Betty. I’m conducting a survey for Time-Warner to see if you’re satisfied with our customer service. [Note: Time-Warner is the conglomerate that provides my cable service and my Internet hookup, Roadrunner. Betty sounded like she was 12 years old. I figured maybe Time-Warner was outsourcing their phone surveys to the Girl Scouts of America.] TW: Sir, did you speak to a Time-Warner service representative with a problem in the past three days? MK: No. TW: Our records indicate that you did. MK: No, I’m pretty sure that I — no wait — I did call tech support a few days ago. Roadrunner was down. I had no Internet connection. Yes, I definitely want to take this survey. I have a complaint that I would like to go on record. TW: Do you remember the name of the person who helped you? MK: I never got through to a live person. That’s my complaint. I wound up in Phone Automation Hell. First I had to listen to a long message about all the neighborhoods where the cable TV is out. I wasn’t calling about cable TV. I was calling about Roadrunner. And for the record, the message they played was for Friday’s outages, and I called on a Saturday. TW: I need the name of the person who helped you. MK: That’s my point. I never got a person. Nobody helped me. TW: If you didn’t speak to anyone then you can’t take this survey. MK: Wait, wait. Don’t hang up. I want to take the survey. Let’s start again. TW: Okay. [sound of papers rustling] Hello, this is Betty. I’m conducting a survey for Time-Warner to see if you’re satisfied with our customer service. [I’ll edit out the next few minutes and skip to the part where I ask Betty if I can speak to her mother or her supervisor. For the record, the supervisor, Jessica, sounded like she was twenty-something.] TW: Hello, this is Jessica. I’m told you want to take our customer service survey, but since you never spoke to anyone, you’re not eligible. MK: I may have misspoken. I did speak to someone. TW: Do you remember that person’s name? MK: I think it was Hal. He said things like Press 1, Press 2, Press 3 a lot. And if I pressed anything else, like say — Zero — he kept saying that’s not an option. Then he kept repeating himself. Wouldn’t listen to a word I said. Very rude. TW: Sir, that was a computer, not a person. We’re doing a survey to see if you’re satisfied with our customer service. MK: So then, technically, the computer isn’t part of your customer service. TW: No sir. Customer service is just real people. MK: So then what department does the computer work in? TW: Sir? MK: Maybe the computer is part of your Sales Prevention Department. TW: Sir, do you want to take part in our survey? MK: Yes, Jessica. I would very much like to complain about your lousy customer service, but since it is so bad that I never actually got through to a human being, I am technically not entitled to complain. Is that correct? TW: Yes sir. MK: Do you see the irony in that? TW: No sir. MK: Jessica, I think I’d like to speak to your supervisor. TW: I am the supervisor, sir. MK: There’s nobody that outranks you? TW: No sir. MK: In that case can you put Betty back on the phone please? TW: Sir, you’re not eligible to take the survey. Can I ask why you want to speak to Betty? MK: I’d like to order some Girl Scout cookies. Two boxes of the Samoa and two Thin-Mints. I hung up before she could.]]> http://www.karpkills.com/2008/12/at_timewarner_were_not_satisfi.html http://www.karpkills.com/2008/12/at_timewarner_were_not_satisfi.html Wed, 17 Dec 2008 02:03:03 +0000