Because everyone needs an agent in their life
This may be weird, but I’ve been thinking about it since Christopher Silcox put the notion in my noggin.
I should trademark that saying, right?
“It’s a Notion In Your Noggin!”
Chris, or as I call him, “Chris,” is a good guy. He suggested at one time I should take all of my writings — my musings, as it were — and publish them.
I told him, “Chris, I need an agent. Maybe you could be my agent?”
I tried to say the word, “agent” as much as possible so that maybe he would get the hint.
Real-life professional writers need agents.
See, used that word again.
Agents help you ... You know, get stuff printed in books and the like.
So, I asked Chris, almost in the same tone Mr. Rogers would have used, “Chris, won’t you be my neighbor?”
Then my cousin Tonya Spires mentioned something about me writing a book about my thoughts and perspectives on my family.
Yeah, like ...
But I thought and thought and thought and thought ...
And then I woke up from my nap and decided I should do something about all of these suggestions — the whole two of them — and I sought out an agent.
He was in a building across the river from one of the marinas on Norris Lake.
“Are you agent Stone,” I asked.
“Who the f ... what the f ...,” he shouted.
I guess agents are supposed to use foul language. I think it makes them all “agenty-like.”
Sure got my attention.
“Hi, I’m looking for agent Stone. I’m thinking about putting together a book about some of my anecdotes about my family and I was hoping ...”
“How did you get up here?” my hopefully future agent asked me.
“There was a door. Then there was stairs. Then another door, which you were behind sitting in a chair and looking out of a big camera, and ... Well, here I am,” I said.
He was silent for a minute.
I always thought agents judged your work, your talent, as it were. But I could tell he was judging me. It kinda worried me because nobody wants a washed-out old bald fat man unless he can really tell a story or two about his family.
Like, how they used to grow corn.
And pumpkins.
Stuff like that.
I confessed all of this to my new (hopefully) agent.
“This is an operation by a covert law enforcement agency, that if I told you our initials I’d be forced to kill you — or at least bully you — so, I don’t know what you want, but you have three, two ...”
“You are soooo good looking,” I said.
Now, before you get the wrong idea, I just want to say that my mother told me to always go for what you wanted. To do anything it took.
And agent Stone was clearly not happy with me.
I knew I should have brought pastries with me, but seeing how it was my first time meeting an agent, I thought I’d be OK.
See, I remember the “Seinfeld” episode where Jerry (that would be Jerry Seinfeld, about whom the whole sitcom is sorta based) says people should greet other people with something like, “You’re so good-looking.”
Well, before I could get a reaction from my new agent, to see if Jerry Seinfeld was correct in his assumptions of a new greeting, I was knocked to the floor and my hands were — I’m assuming — zip-tied behind me.
Well, you can imagine my confusion. Are my writings that bad? Did I leave out a relative?
Did my chewing gum lose its flavor on my bed post overnight?
It took a while, seven days, 17 lawyers (16 really because one was trying to defend a pedophile and no one else would talk with him so I guess he was out of my legal loop), and calling in a favor from a call girl named Carla ...
Don’t ask. I didn’t and ... I think thanks to Carla (and my 17 ... make that 16-person legal team) I got out of jail after all of my civilian liberties were, I think violated.
Or at least accosted.
Man-handled maybe.
Made fun of?
A stern-looking attorney named Beverly told me to, “Go home,” and forget about “agent Stone.”
She said if I did that I would serve my country.
“But what about my story ... You know, my late mother feeding groundhogs and stuff?” I asked.
Attorney Beverly told me she’d see what she could do.
Then she asked, “Groundhogs?”
“Oh yeah, she absolutely loved those ... Um ... Critters?”
And this is where this all comes together.
See, agent Stone didn’t care about people’s writings and whatnot. He was trying to buy something illegal from some person who had no respect for the law. Or something like that.
He probably couldn’t spell “Chiaroscurist,” if you spotted him an “a” and an “o.”
And for those of you who have ever read my columns or my reflections on my family, you know I use, “Chiaroscurist,” many, many, many times.
But Beverly, sweet Beverly, said she would sort things out for me.
Seems she has a thing for groundhogs, having been raised by them as a small child in Montana.
That’s what I love about my job: You just meet the most interesting people.
She said I could “probably find” an agent, maybe in Eastern Europe. I seem to have a knack for tracking down agents.
I hope those guys in Bulgaria or Romania or whatever like my stories.
Because I surely need an agent. Hopefully one who doesn’t use foul language all the time.
And if you see mistakes in the writing of this story, it’s because I don’t have an agent and I think they are supposed to provide a proofreader.
I’ll have to ask Christopher Silcox and Tonya Spires about that.
Once I get back from Eastern Europe.
If I don’t have an agent.
Happy Chiaroscurist, everyone!
