Category: WWdN in Exile

How about if I wait six weeks to call. I could tell her I found her number while I was cleaning out my wallet, I can’t remember where we met. I’ll ask her what she looks like and then I’ll ask her if we fucked. How about that? Would that be money?
    -Mike, Swingers

There aren’t any real developments on the Sci–Fi hosting front, and I only have one really great Fark Cliche left, which is why I haven’t written about it recently. Like I said before, I have to just let go of these things after a certain point, accept that it’s entirely out of my hands, and keep moving forward with everything else in my life.

But so many people sent me supportive e-mails and left supportive comments, I didn’t want to leave you all hanging with nothing, so here’s what I know: we followed up last week, and found out, for certain, that the people responsible for the show really liked what I did. As far as I know, I’m at the top of their list for the job. But we haven’t heard anything from the network people, who are ultimately responsible for making all the decisions.

And that’s where we’ve been, sort of floating in the doldrums on the Sea of Waiting. As far as I know, the show is still going to happen. As far as I know, when it does, I’m one of the first guys they are going to talk to about hosting it. And as soon as we open the box, I’ll let you know if the cat is dead or alive.

Until I know something new, let’s all ponder the meaning of life with these owls:

Shane posted this picture of a mystery hotel in his blog over the weekend, and I suggested to him that it would be cool to have writers post short stories that it inspires.

I’ll be honest: I’m terrified right now, before I hit publish and send this out into the wild. I’m not the best in the world at brevity, and whenever I attempt fiction, I feel incredibly self conscious.

I also made the mistake of reading Otis’ story after I wrote mine, and I feel (like I often do when I read Otis’ writing) like a kid who belongs at the card table, pretending to sit down in the dining room with the adults.

So now that I’ve managed to lower your expectations to UPN-like standards, please enjoy. . .

Room 302
by Wil

Farnsworth frowned as he shuffled the photos. He dropped them on his desk and looked over the top of his reading glasses.

"I can’t use any of these, son. I can hardly see the men, and there’s too much whitespace in here." He picked up one photo and pointed at the tin ceiling. Martin recalled how brightly it had reflected the flash, and how the younger man had flinched in the light. 

"Mr. Farnsworth –"

"Look, you’re a good kid, and even if your photos aren’t always front page material, you rarely let me down."

"Thank you, sir."

"I know that you have a baby on the way, but I can’t pay you for photos that I can’t use." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. "Hotels don’t stay in one family and celebrate their hundredth anniversary every day, though, so it’s news that I need to run. So why don’t you go back to the hotel, get a closer shot of the Ellisons, and I’ll pay you double for it." Farnsworth smiled, and put the photos into an envelope.

"I’ll see what I can do, sir. Thank you." Martin took the envelope and traded the quiet of Farnsworth’s office for the chaos of the newsroom.

Martin needed the money, and it was important to keep a man like Richard Farnsworth happy. Evelyn was due in two months, and these freelance newspaper jobs were all he had.

But he wasn’t going back into the Ellison, today or ever. There was something very, very wrong there, and Martin felt it in his soul when he walked up the stairs into the second floor lobby. Those men were terrified, and Martin wanted to get out of there before he found out why.

He took the number five bus home, and left the envelope on the seat when he got off. The sooner he could get way from it, the sooner he could begin the long process of wiping that feeling from his memory. He hugged his wife tightly when he walked into their apartment and felt his unborn son stir between them.

Back at the Ellison Hotel, the tenant in 302 woke and rang the front desk. Father and son looked at each other.

It was time to eat.

Nolan just called me from school to tell me that he got an 88 on a history test that he was really nervous about even passing.

He was walking down the hallway from one class to the next, and I could hear the sound of his peers swarming around him, in that dull almost-roar that fills high schools between classes before the campus drops back into near silence for 48 minutes.

I told him how proud of him I was, and how happy I was that he took the time to call me and tell me about it.

"I called mom, too," he said, "but now I have to go into class so I gotta go."

"Okay," I said. "I’m really proud of you, Nolan. Have a great weekend at your dad’s. I love you."

"I love you too, Wil." He said. "Bye."

I love it that my 14 year-old told cared enough to call me and share good news about his grades, and told me that he loves me, even though he was surrounded by his peers.