Month: November 2016

The Life of Rice–Ballad of Loneliness

Meet Rice.

Nice guy, right? He has that slim body so hounded after in modern society; his texture is always smooth and…well, a bit slimy; and his acclaim–why, everyone loves Rice; he should be an American icon…but for that he came originally from China…

Rice is in need of a good ear, no, not Goodyear, the tire manufacturer, a good ear! Get your hearing fixed, would ya?

He has started to feel inferior in his social life: all around him his relatives and friends are experiencing what he refers to as, “a grand old time;” while he is trapped, as it were, in a hole of alike faces. There is Rice Junior; Brown Rice; Uncle Ben; and each one of them are exactly as he imagines himself…but better.

I don’t know how many of you are psychologists; but perhaps you could tell me, and Rice here, what it means to understand yourself. Rice is having a hell of a time–from nine to five he basks in a cooking pot for that special slimness; on weekends he is restrained to a black storage container wherein sleep his equally bored brethren; however he never finds the time to examine this…life, or as he calls it the Scalding Oven.

I want anyone reading this to invest some time, right now, in aiding Rice in his quest for self acceptance. Remember he’s not a big guy–at Rice Training Center, when he started smooching on Missie Soy Sauce in the–whoah, Rice, calm down! Anyhow, at Rice Training Center they had him lifting peas and swimming four laps in a salt pool.

Put it this way: he looked like the same skinny, no-good, dry piece of rice–

Okay, okay, sorry, Rice! I was trying to make them feel bad for you, and I guess I got a little carried away. Would you go back to your cooking pot and sulk in there? You’re getting salt on this nice beige carpet.

Good God…he is…

Oh, still there. Right. Rice is such a sensitive person, you know; you say one thing and he takes it as a threat to eat him.

Rice, ol’ boy; what else is there to say about him? He cares a lot about the environment. He also likes to sunbathe; get a little tan on his starched white backside. And he is always, always, putting others before himself, like the time when he let his friends jump on to the orange chicken in that one restaurant…yeah, they loved it up until the Fork showed up–silver pronged bastard.

Whenever you find yourself in a rut, a seriously deep rut, kinda like if your hand fell off; I want you to remember Rice and his self esteem issues. Tell yourself, “Man, Rice is an example of how screwy life can be; but he somehow makes it work, spending the majority of his time avoiding overhead death from those bastard forks.”

And then, once you have climbed out of that rut, throw away any bags of rice–this goes to all you Uncle Ben lovers–for the sake of preserving the mental health of Rice and others like him around the world.

Rice! Come back and say bye to the nice bloggers!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Day The Turkeys Went Bird Shit

Ugh. That is the sound my stomach is making right now; well, actually, it’s beating out the guitar solo from Free Bird–too bad there wasn’t a the in the middle, or I might have let the   poor sucker go home–and I am enduring insanely incredible, yet painful, string pickings.

Anyways, before I collapse into a coma for, who knows, seventeen weeks–in turkey language this is seven hours–I have something to say. No, kidding, nothing to say; but I do have to give you a package. Can you all take electronic mailing? Geez, I hope so; the darn thing needs a signature.

All right, I’ll forge it for you guys.

And…everything else seems to be in order here. You should have your own box cutters–careful, it’s heavier than a bloated turkey! Maybe it is a bloated turkey? Some dude at the gas station handed this off to me; yeah, he was wearing a pilgrim costume–little gold belt buckle and all–and I thought to myself: what the hell, it’s Thanksgiving, and I said I would give it to all of you.

Christmas came early?

Obviously not buying it…I can tell by the turkey basters in your hands.

Call me later, huh? I feel the need, the need for a nap…and some pie, in that order.

Enjoy. I guess.

(Inside the box)

The Day The Turkeys Went Bird Shit

A Script

[A small Native American village in which the Native Americans and the Pilgrims are together enjoying their second Thanksgiving dinner. Laid across the tables are yams, potatoes, corn-on-the-cobs, and…roasted turkeys.]

OWETOEP [eating some yams]:

Dear sweet Pilgrim people, you have again proven your worth in hunting down the dreaded  turkey fiends that haunt our homes. We can never thank you enough; however, we would gladly impart to you these cornucopia grenades collected from their den.

[He hands to GERALD a awkwardly shaped cornucopia stuffed with miniature bundles of gunpowder.]

GERALD:

This is wonderful, Owetoep. [He passes it around the table] Gaze in awe, children; it is a weapon of those damned dirty turkeys! Feel it! Smell it! Can you smell the powder?

[Halfway down the table a chair explodes. A small boy lies charred on the ground, his mouth full of corn.]

GERALD:

What has happened? Is Henry all right?

KATHERINE [touching the body]:

He is not all right, Gerald sir! He smelled the grenade too much! Too much!

GERALD [sweating and hurriedly eating turkey]:

Smelled it too much? But…but…it was protected! [He tosses down the turkey and looks at OWETOEP, who is busy chomping on a potato] You told us you collected them! They should have been safe!

OWETOEP:

I did collect them. [He laughs]

[Then as Gerald and Katherine watch horrified the Native Americans reach to the top of their heads and peel off their skin. Beneath are orange and yellow feathers; and on their giggling faces brown beaks! Each turkey steps out of their suits and pulls from beneath the table silver baster guns.]

GERALD:

All of you–all of you are turkeys! What terrible luck!

TURKEY OWETOEP:

You shall pay for your mistreatment of turkeys this year, Pilgrim man! We are Turkeys United: Fighting For the Rights of Endangered and Basted Turkeys! [Slowly he aims the silver baster gun at GERALD] Prepare for the most excruciating experience of your life!

GERALD:

Curse you, Turkey! I enjoyed every minute of chopping off your heads!

TURKEY OWETOEP:

Hasta la vista, Pilgrim man! BAKAW! [He fires the silver baster gun]

[There are screams and more screams and more screams…and then silence.]

THE END

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Futuristically Speaking…

I have been doing a lot–well, no, that’s a lie; I haven’t done a lot–of thinking about the distant future and [spoken in despairing soap opera tones] my purpose, my destiny in this world. Can you blame a guy? In a couple of months I am off to the stomach–the metaphorical belly of the beast…life outside of a sandwich bag.

Not too often do I consider the future. It gives me the heebie jeebies. I predict one thing, like how I am going to have a financially successful standing by the time I’m twenty-one–funny, right?–or if I’m going to own a litter of dogs or children. Busy times either way.

But when I do ponder futuristic realities…I do so with optimism.

Everybody likes to think the future is a grumpy old fart who never does what you want unless it has its beauty sleep; but to shed some savory light on this abused character–read A Christmas Carol to see how badly his Christmas counterpart is described–the future is an agreeable fellow.

It controls your lives! It controls our lives! It strums an electric guitar of epic futuristic proportions while drinking a cup of green tea! People, Mr. Future. Mr. Future, People. Introductions are out of the way.

Now consider the future as related to you:

Is it…flying cars?

Is it…robot slaves?

Is it…the death of an annoying cat?

Is it…an A plus on your next math test? Am I right, guys? Yeah, Math! Kicking its logistic ass back to Archimedes!

Okay, you obviously know what I think about. Still, see the positivism?

Grimness has its place, no doubt about it. Some examples are the apocalyptic movies we have all seen: Mad Max; Apocalypse Now; The Road; The Stand; My Little Pony; Clifford the Big Red Dog–I could go on forever…that would be an apocalypse of its own. And the Grim Reaper. What a guy. Like a dependable weatherman he forecasts your death years before it comes it to fruition; oh, such a caring member of society.

Sometimes I frequent that dark side.

I walk over there with my head bowed and look up to those black shadows and I yell at the maintenance man for not fixing the lights! He is paid hourly; and yet there are no operable lightbulbs in that section!

So, you get me? The future is bright, do remember to pack sunglasses for the many tomorrows; and when you enter the dark half tell the maintenance man to work a little harder and switch out the bulbs…so many people have hit their heads helplessly wandering.

And then–you can come back to the future and reread this post.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

Take A Load Off. Go On. Do It.

It is getting close to the time of year when laziness is not as frowned upon as in earlier seasons, like, say, Summer, or Spring–it is Winter, my friend, that cold burglar of energy, and the moment in which cookies and cakes and pies and television seem to be deemed…okay–for now.

Not that a long run won’t do you some good, because, hey, getting out on your favorite course and breathing in the chilly air, the type that burns your lungs, is a sensational experience. Side note: if you have not already done so, go out and run…I can wait here…trapped eternally in cyberspace…

Laziness does have its perks. Personally I can’t stop moving all day–the idea of sitting in front of the television and watching three shows straight through is mind boggling; however those of you reading this probably have different perspectives on the whole laziness versus fitness discussion. And maybe you have some fair points. It is possible.

I can think of at least one good thing to come out of laziness. Go on and guess.

Bzzzzzz! Wrong answer!

I was actually going to say…

Huh. I have no idea what to say. Let me do some more thinking here–talk amongst yourselves.

(In the background)

Okay…hm…hot chocolate is an option, oh, and so are movies…maybe squeeze Netflix in there. Let’s look at the notes…doo da doo…a ha! fireplaces! Wait…fireplaces? The hell do fireplaces have to do with laziness? Something about soothing flames–forget it! I hate these notes! There’s nothing on them but pictures of snowballs and chocolate! I’ll take a swing at it on my own…

You still here? Good. Oh…you’re still waiting for the answer. Right…well…

How does next Saturday sound? You open for ten o’ clock? I was thinking we could grab some coffee and talk it over.

You disagree. This is not going how I anticipated.

Excuse me a moment.

(In the background…again)

They said they hated coffee. Yes. They honestly hate coffee.  Well, I don’t know; I didn’t say if it was going to be Starbucks or not. What’s that? No…I was sort of thinking Dunkin Donuts. Geez! All right, all right, no cheap coffee! I get it! Look, would–would you–shut up for a second! Would you please give me some ideas? Okay, pen and paper…and go. Uh-huh…good stuff…yep…definitely! Thanks much.

Apologies for my distracted nature today. I happen to be suffering from a cold…cough-cough. Anyway, I got the goods. Let me unroll this paper…

And now, the one perk about laziness is…

Dang, out of time. Looks like I’ll have to tell you later. Business and all that…

I’ll catch you later?

(In the background…a third time)

Boy, are they dumb….I wonder what I’ll watch on Netflix tonight? 

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

A Date? Do Clarify, Dear Sir.

Welcome to the Dating Show! Today we have our contestants–the Businessman; the Jerk; and the Brainiac–all competing for the lovely hand of one jaw-dropping madame. The contest: bob for caramel apples in a barrel the size of an ant!

It ever seem like that to anyone else?

You see a painted target–the painted target you have been eyeing for some time–and luckily you still have a good number of arrows in your holster; but are there arrows enough to compensate for all the target has to offer?

Maybe an arrow is flat. Maybe your bow string snapped a second earlier.

It is impossible to account for all the mishaps which may occur in the course of pre-going-places-with-another-person. Hm, sounds catchy.

The thing to remember; however is not the name of the game, but the game itself. Too many people focus on labels–the urge to slap a title on a flowering relationship; and this can be destructive…hastily destructive.

Artificial cookies never taste as good as the cookies baked thoroughly in an oven to the point of a crisp browning–mmm, it makes the mouth water; and yet eagerly these cooks crank the dial on the stove and heat those suckers up, because, honey, the chocolate is only ever tasty when it’s melted.

Or so it appears.

That said, the dates themselves are to be savored. Yes, the browned cookies are going to be eaten; you have watched that timer run its ticks and its tocks for a satisfying desert. But when will the timer run out? No one can know.

All is left to do is sit and wait and enjoy what is served until it does so.

Truthfully, despite the difficulties and the doubts which can arise it is a ride worth taking; for as in any journey the most meaningful memories are contained within the steps it took to reach that red carpeted end.

Go ahead and dunk your face in the barrel! Whoever said caramel apples came easy?

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

 

 

Talk To Me When You Get Older

Age is such a drag; I mean why can we not just get over the whole inexperience comes with youthfulness crap? I mean, seriously! The world is at our fingertips as much as it was yours when you were sixteen something–God, what an image that is…I feel sickened to my tummy.

They call us losers, and I am sitting here telling them they need to fly straight, wingman; but do they listen? Nuh-uh. They walk around with those irritating grins and stuff their hands in their pockets like they got some kinda cash machine in them silken vaults. For them the sun has not stopped shining since they opened their first window.

Let me tell you, misters and missuses, you got some powerful confidence walking up to us lazing folk; and if I were you I would watch where you set them hands–do not grab my shoulders and tell me about the happiness of aging. I live to be young; I will be young, no matter what secrets you want to keep from me.

Betchoo barely remember what it was like to have youth: it is not some green scrap you hold in your soft hand, nor is it a ring o’ keys to that shiny new convertible; youth is immaterial, my dear old hat; it is completely immaterial.

As a matter of fact the complications involving youth are not as taught in Business-Logistic Academy; they are indisputably our own and we wish to maintain their sanctity through a little devilry we call fun. Would you be so kind as to accept this deal and let us frolic as it pleases us?

I have signed here on the dotted line–this is unquestionably a legitimate document telling all naysayers to stop in their tracks and return homewards with their tails between their legs.

You get what I’m saying, dog?

I will slice you up with the pen if you do not sign this sheet. You are gonna be cottage cheese, ya hear me? You gonna be food for the rat-a-rats. And don’t think this pen is weak either, because it can hold up to the weight of your oppressive arm all fine and dandy.

 

So…

Puh-lease.

Please.

Please and thank you.

Please, dog.

Quit telling us we need to grow up!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Something’s Rotten In The State Of Literature!

Say hello to literary fiction:

This is Hemingway; Dickens; Thackeray; Melville; Dostoyevsky; Shelley; Hawthorne; Wilde ; Joyce; and a bunch of other people whose books have become the gospel of literature. When folks talk about literary merit they are referring to the novels and short stories which have won the acclaim of critics.

Repeat that? Won the acclaim of critics? Boy…they must be skilled–hard enough time it is to work a compliment out of them on a piece of popular fiction…mainstream.

Allow me to introduce popular fiction:

This is King; Koontz; Rice; Rowling; Straub; Dickens–he’s a special guy–and the names written on the novels advertised on the shelves at Wal-Mart. They are good stories: each one–not every one–has well constructed characters and conflicts. Their entertainment value is never-ending.

The problem?

According to literary fiction…popular fiction is trash; it is crap.

That teen vampire novel you finished reading? Crap.

Every dystopian young adult series, excluding The Giver? Crap.

The wonderful wizarding world of the boy who lived? Crap.

Anything not written with symbolism, profound themes, and/or meaningfulness in relation to this whirling torpedo we call life is utter crap; as somewhere along the literary historical timeline one person set a divider between the world of entertainment and the world of meaning.

But the popular writers have their two-bit, as well: apparently all literary writers are snobs who care for nothing but the works which inspire in them eternal meaning–I have used that word a lot; but it is the premise of many a good piece of literature. They like commenting on how those writers never frequent their genres…save for a good laugh at its quality.

The separation is uncanny. Can we not write together?

[Commence playing Why Can’t We Be Friends? by War]

You should; however notice I never said unbreakable divider.

We are all writers here. We are all chasing after ideas–sometimes those ideas can be considered insane; take Poe for instance, he was a creative genius with some questionable ideas. And we have all dreamed of seeing that brilliant letter declaring our acceptance into the publishing realm.

I see it as two children bickering on the playground. The one with the wide rimmed glasses and dress pants is insulting the child wearing Hammer pants and mismatched socks; and the Hammer pants child is criticizing the effort at tidiness taken by the other. Such a battle has no worth to sustain its longevity. Let the kid wear his darn Hammer pants; sure they went out of the style in the 80s, but Shakespeare has been out since the Renaissance.

Put simply: we need to move past those artificial barriers and focus on the real reason for writing, which, as we all know, is enjoyment. We need to go to our writing sanctuaries and write because we love doing so; and then perhaps the desire to criticize will be drowned out by quiet restfulness.

While all books are not to be read under the same light, all books should be read.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

Oh Faulkner, You Writer Genius, You…

I have finally come to a point at which my eyes can read this text without seeing a bunch of scribbly scratches. Granted, I am sitting a foot away from my laptop. Dilation can mess up a good night of reading and writing; and it can give you bowling balls for pupils–score some  strikes with these puppies…

When not handicapped by dilation; however I divulge in the classiest of literature, the creme de la creme of writing–the works of William Faulkner. Did you know he is called the greatest writer of the twentieth century? I mean, Hemingway was good, but…I guess no one likes him.

Recently I have started reading  As I Lay Dying, disputed to be his most popular and symbolic work; aside of course from The Sound and the Fury and Absalom, Absalom! This is turning out to be a faithful claim. The story is entertaining–it is also quite sad–and the characters are diverse.

Allow me a little aside to mention the extra detail put into these characters. As it is told from multiple first person perspectives the story is separated into three or four page chapters in which the characters–each with their own writing style–describe the conflicts. You catch that? Each character has their own writing style, their own favorite words. And their personalities are brilliantly sketched out through their usage of Southern dialect, such as in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and stream-of-consciousness description.

With that stream-of-consciousness technique comes mild confusion when first experiencing this novel; know you will become lost in the beginning chapters and be forced to read a lengthy passage a second or third time for understanding. That, and the descriptions and the dialogue tend to mix, making for a puzzling shift between perspectives.

As well there are at least seven characters, seven characters with difficult names switching   perspectives at random moments in the story; so if Leo Tolstoy is your favorite writer, then this novel is a guaranteed hit.

Always the thing to draw from Faulkner is his writing style because it is so ruggedly refined. When reading you can tell he created the voice so frequently imitated by Twain and Steinbeck; and it is mastered in As I Lay Dying. The Southern family sounds like a Southern family; the setting looks like a Southern background.

Be sure to pick him up if you have the chance.

And if you have the chance, or the choice, never get dilated. It feels like meat patties on the eyes.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

GHOSTS AND GOBLINS…and Nougat

It has finally arrived–the time has come to celebrate the scariest night of the year; although some would argue that title belongs solely to the evening before Black Friday; however when attending to that evil realm of the dead there is no better occasion than Halloween.

I remember my first Halloween–perhaps not my first, but the one I can recall. I was in a kickin’ Spider-Man outfit–of course I used the Tobey Maguire rendition–that contained a loose fitting mask. And when I say loose fitting I mean loose. This thing would not stop slipping beneath my eyes; and whenever I yanked it back to normal it seemed to slip further…

It was sweaty, too; if that has any relevance. It did make me feel like Tobey Maguire though, specifically the scene in which Spider-Man is trapped with the Green Goblin inside a burning building. You should have seen the puddles I made.

But being the careless child I was,and sometimes still am, I continued wearing this crappy Wal-Mart movie licensed outfit. To those of you who have visited Wal-Mart in their Halloween phase–followed a day after by the Christmas Eve phase–please do not purchase the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles styrofoam shell or the plastic Power Rangers wristband. Take it from me–the wristband does not initiate the ultimate Power Rangers transformation; as a matter of fact the plastic crinkles a little when you jab at the button.

How exciting.

Okay, okay; get to the point, right? Why am I keeping you strapped to your chair as I reminisce on terrible Halloweens from an otherwise brilliant childhood? You want candy. You want toilet paper thrown on your house. Some of you may go trick or treating tonight–I honestly have no idea; hell, I might trick or treat myself.

What you choose to do tonight is your prerogative, soldier. You can hold out those bags and scream for king sized candy bars; or you can cower in your basement as a kiddie Michael Myers pounds on your front door. Will you answer the Halloween call? Will that kid ever pass out in that unbreathable mask? The questions! The questions!

I will now release you, you candy craving captives. Go out and haunt that unfathomable night like the devilish bats you–uh-oh.

Word of advice: never eat all the candy in the bowl.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Think daily, 

A Southpaw