Month: March 2017

Almost An Adult

This just in–my eighteenth birthday is on the approach! I need cake, presents, and a whole lot of guests; and I want it done double time, soldiers! I want you moving so fast you can hear brain juice sloshing around in your head! And if any of you wise guys get nauseous, it’s fifty laps for you!

Sorry about that, folks, just up in arms over this birthday thing. I mean, I’m just turning eighteen, which is nothing, right? Another age in the span of our super long lives, with the exception of twenty one…if you know what I mean. I at least understand its significance, that of becoming an adult, a man, or so they say, who pays bills and files taxes and works a job, otherwise known as all the boring stuff that comes with adulthood.

I’m like Peter Pan, but not as insane. See, Peter wanted to stay young, and everyone was cool. They said, “Hey, you go, Pan. We’re gonna be over here finding success and making families.” Then Peter got freaking weird and stole other kids from their homes so he wouldn’t be lonely in Neverland. If I remember correctly, Peter butchered the children who grew older than him.

Talk about stunted puberty.

All of you adults out there, I’m sure you know that superior feeling of independence you also get from adulthood. One time I went out to the movies, by myself, and bought a ticket, by myself, and watched the movie, by myself–and a bunch of other strangers who farted and laughed at weird parts of the movie. Then again, that might have been me the whole time.

It was The Conjuring 2, a horror movie. If I’m laughing out loud because there’s a super obvious hint to the ending of the plot, and no one else laughs, then there’s probably something wrong with me. It’d be a good idea to go see a psychologist, or a psychiatrist–I’m not too sure which is which anymore, but I know they both do screwy things to your already screwed up brain.

Birthday party’s gonna be kicking, though, ’cause I’m inviting all these epic rock bands and they’re set to play their greatest hits until midnight, then, when they’ve finished, we’ll shoot off those professional fireworks you always see in New York–those damn New Yorkers get all the fancy crap–and eat chips and salsa until everyone crashes on the lawn.

So, sort of the best party in the history of anything.

Can’t wait to be eighteen! If any of you cultured people got any tips of what to do once I cross the  big eight one–wait, I mean one eight, then please, do let me know. I’ll follow some of them, then trash the rest.

Kidding, of course, but I’m not eighteen yet, so I can still lie and get away with it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw


What is Smart?

How do we measure intelligence? Why, seriously, do we care? Most of the time a number doesn’t determine how smart someone can be, or how much they can accomplish with what they have to offer.

Smartie pants, what we call people who rank, I guess, between the high 190’s and the 230’s. I’m kinda making up numbers now, so follow along if you can–it’s okay if you get lost along the way.

List of famous Smartie Pants:

Albert Einstein

Nikola Tesla

Thomas Edison

Bill Gates

Steve Jobs

Ronald McDonald

You get it. Lotsa smart folks walking around the world, inventing new-fangled thingamabobs and questioning the norm. They’re not typically looked on as so smart in the beginning; in fact, many of the people on that list are social outcasts, with the exception of Ronald McDonald: he has all those young adults to sit on benches with him in his restaurants.

But, I am asking, honestly, how is it measured? Any of you can do a Google search and give me the answers. Um…it says here, they pull you into a nondescript building with a nondescript medical professional who has nondescript Rorschach tests. Fair. Okay. Not the answer I needed, but o-kay.

We put certain people on pedestals, those we think to have a certain level of intellect; we call them Einsteins and Edisons–and why? They can recite Newton’s Laws while standing on their head? They solve Calculus equations on ham and rye sandwiches–ew, by the way–then eat it after explaining the Theory of Relativity in French? Points for whoever can do that last thing.  You are an impressive human being.

Do some individuals automatically acquire this aura of genius about them; but, because our collective eye is so blurred and foggy part of the time, we mistake them for average? For the typical klutz? I am puzzled by that–it’s why I asked you all the question, how is it measured?

I don’t believe it’s the way many others do. What they think is up to them. What I think…well, perhaps intelligence–real spunk–is not about how much a person can hold, but how they can use what little they know with tact and creativity. Use, not storage, is what I believe is the true measure of intelligence.

It’s not how well someone does on a pop quiz.

It’s not how high you score on an online intelligence test.

It’s the present, the future, and the past: what you have done, have created, to make someone think or act to make themselves change, for the better, or for the worse. Intelligence is the popsicle stick house of kindergarten, the argument with your friend at eight years old. It has substance and texture. It has a voice and hands. It has a personality. It’s like us because it is us.

What is smart?

Smart is doing what you did yesterday today; and, tomorrow, doing one part of it a little different.

Think daily,

A Southpaw



Southpaw and Abercrombie

Will the real blogger please stand up?

Will the real blogger please stand up?

Looks like we’re gonna have a problem here. This guy can’t come up with anything original. Yeah. He says he’s not musically inclined–whatever the hell that means. I can be musically inclined whenever it pleases me, just walk up a hill of trombones and tubas….eh, you get what I mean?

Sure, they get what you mean. Now scoot over and let me have my place at the microphone. There we are…yep, go on back to the techs. I think they need you to wash off the keyboards or something. Okay. Yeah, I hate you too. Oh, what a guy, that Abercrombie.

‘S happening, folks? I am pleased once again to be your deejay for tonight, this special night of March the twenty-third. You can call me Southpaw, or just plain Southie. Whatever works for you cool cats.

While we are in a lull of songs, and while you are stuck listening to me drone unless you change the station, let’s talk about music. I know a bit, never played an instrument in my life; but I know a bit. Let’s put it this way, I have learned how to rock the piano up to London Bridge–and that’s stepping into Ray Charles territory.

Good music is a hard to find commodity these days, at least I think it is.

Says the man who listens to the same two radio stations everyday.

Shuddup, Abercrombie! I thought you were mopping up vomit back there?

This job sucks. You never let me spin the records.

It’s because we don’t use records, you idiot! It’s the twenty-first century!

Yeah, well…I still have a record player. 

Big whoop. So do I. Think that makes you unique? You and your tiny ass My Little Pony record player?

It’s not My Little Pony. It’s…It’s Carebears.

Abercrombie, would you leave, please? You’re making my head hurt.

It’s Carebears.

We get it, pal. Is he gone? Thank the musical gods. I can never really finish a talk when he’s barging into the studio. But we were talking about music, good music and how it’s hard to find.

With most bands, I tend to appreciate a live version of a song, over a studio version. I have been recently listening to a lot of Nirvana to find that their band sounds truer, more authentic, when they play such songs as Smells Like Teen Spirit or About A Girl. When Kurt Cobain, especially, is singing on the Unplugged album–

I like Nirvana too. 

Abercrombie! How long have you been standing there? It’s like you’re stalking me!

Can I talk on the microphone? 


Just three seconds?


Two seconds?

What did I tell you?

One second?

Abercrombie, that’s impossible.

Fine. I guess I’ll leave then. 

O-kaaay. Good, he’s gone this time, walked straight out the studio door. I got four minutes left. As I was saying, when Kurt Cobain, especially, is singing on the Unplugged album, it sounds as if he’s singing from inside, from his soul, as compared to the studio versions they play on the radio, where a man with a much deeper voice throws Kurt off the microphone and ties him up in the back roo–

Do you want something from the diner?

Good lord! I’m going to die of fright.

It’s just that…well, my tummy keeps growling. I didn’t want to seem selfish. 

That’s it. I’m ending early. Good night. Enjoy your new-age music.

Think daily,

A Southpaw





Running: A Short Tribute

This is officially my last year of running competitively in school, that means no more Cross Country or Track in college or anywhere else for that matter. Why? I’m thinking I’ll be a little busy writing stories while attaining a degree–doing fourteen miles a day and stretching takes away some precious time.

That said, I wanted to perform a sort of tribute to the whole shebang of running like a maniac–and some people do call me a crazy man. The feelings never seem to go away, which is what I’m clinging to, hoping I’ll at least remember some of my best races when I’m in my seventies and living in a retirement home.

I have had my fair share of good times and places; but, to me, what matters most is the race itself. The pounding of hundreds of shoes on the dirt or the asphalt or the track. Heavy breathing right behind you, or even beside you. An explosion in your chest: the aftermath of a thousand atomic bombs detonated inside your lungs.

See, I started running in seventh grade. It was not at first my choice; in actuality, my mother persuaded me to join the Cross Country team at my middle school. This meant instead of spending weekends playing video games and/or reading, I had to be out on the road, with my mom, jogging a mile and a half. I would hardly even call my style jogging–at the point I was about as fast a hog when it sees a corn cob on the other side of its sty. My mom beat me every time we went outside.

Then, I joined the Cross Country team, a newbie with glasses and a horrid running form; and, of course, I got fifth place on Varsity. Wait, what? Rewind. You made Varsity as a runner with no experience and the worst form of all the members on the team? Insane! Impossible!

Yes, exact same thing I said; but, guess what, once I got the place, I was determined to keep it, even if it meant tripping over a hill at my first race and scraping my arm–hey, I didn’t cry–and finishing at about the middle of the pack. But it was exhilarating. I wanted to go again and again and again. And I told myself I would…until somebody told me I could not.

Hint: they never did.

I found some of my best friends, even I’d say, my best friend, while running. They stuck by me. I stuck by them. We had fun–excuse me, are still having fun; although, not all of my friends have stayed the line of running. That doesn’t mean we’re not still friends–but now I can’t fart everywhere and have them punch me on the arm.

Back in middle school, about a year after I started running, I was one of the top dogs, along with a couple of my friends, and I felt like the bomb. But don’t we all? Then cut to high school. Instantly my throne was shattered and I became a frightened puppy because the hounds were whupping my ass.

I had to relearn what it felt like to be tiny, a smaller runner in the shadow of those better runners; but one thing I never did was tell myself I could not beat them. So what they were faster now? Give me some time and I’d be right beside them, maybe ahead of them. A couple I did beat. Others I did not beat. I still gave it my best shot at each go.

That’s what I tell the other runners to do–to give it their all and not care whether another guy is faster than them, because it is in them to be faster than the opposite runner. I know most look up to me now, things like that humble you, they really do; and it is always hilarious to watch how shocked they are to find out I was in their shoes when I first started.

This is to those runners.

This is to Cross Country.

This is to Track.

This is to anyone who told me I could do whatever I wanted.

I’ll miss you.

Thank you.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Note: I’m the one who looks like he got punched in the gut.



Does This Post Make You Laugh Out Loud?

There is something to be said about a sense of humor, specifically when it is appropriate versus when it is not. Who determines that? I don’t know, the fuzz? No, likely not the fuzz;  no, it’s those guys and girls who don’t like jokes.

But who doesn’t like jokes, you ask.

Who knows? We’re not talking about those people today. They can go back to their boring old statistical books and the manual of HOW TO KEEP ONESELF FROM UTTERING A CHUCKLE. Who’s it by? Oh, Anonymous. I can see why. Go ahead and put the pitchforks and the mob signs away, guys.

I like to think I have a sense of humor. Now, like all sense-of-humorists, I have my greatest hits and my burn outs; see, if I wanted to be most of the hair bands in the eighties, I’d have more of the latter than the former. But, I am not Cinderella, or her Twister Sister.

Like all good things, sometimes too much can be deadly. How do I mean? I can easily get away from myself, not like, “ewwww, get me away from me! He’s so disgusting and unfunny!” I mean losing sight of a stopping point and exhausting myself to the point where, when I’m laughing at my own jokes–what a doofus–I almost collapse out of tiredness.

Mostly it occurs at home–geez, I can a hear a British announcer for the Discovery Channel narrating that sentence–and least of all at school. I like to think I could spin a few doozies, hit a few home runs, squirt a few patties with ketchup, fill some cups with milk…how about I stop with that analogy? Yeah? Okay.

I must admit though, whenever we have a informational video streaming in class, it is a trial to shut my mouth and not say anything that might cause people to bust their guts laughing–just as long as it doesn’t come out the other end. I want get my MST3K on, know what I’m talking ’bout, people?

If you don’t that’s all right. That show was popular before I was born.

At home, of course, I get a few chuckles. I get a fart, too; but I don’t think that’s from me. Most times my family looks at me weird, then they do the “oh-we’ll-laugh-to-make-him-feel-good” bit, and go on back to their work and get onto me for lazing in the armchair in my underwear and skimming through a knock-knock book for ten year olds.

C’mon, you can’t believe that. I am an advanced sense-of-humorist. Who uses knock-knock books when there’s all these yo-mamma pamphlets circulating the corners at my local elementary school?

Yo mamma so hungry, she–

Johnathan Alexander Whitby! Finish coloring your math homework!

Yes ma’am…[in a whisper] she eats the stick off a corn dog.

Poor Jonathan Alexander Whitby, cursed with a terrible name created by mua.

It could have been worse. It could have been–

Think daily,

A Southpaw



Who Is My Role Model?

What’s happening, people? Hope you are all having a great day doing whatever it is that makes you happy. That comes straight from the heart, dudes–and dudettes–so don’t take it for granted.

I wanted to talk something dear to me. I know, I know, all of you are saying, “what is not dear to you?” Well, everything matters to me–even though it may be hard to be seen on this rugged surface.

See, I get a lot of people telling me how much I inspire them, or how I’m a role model; and sometimes that’s hard for me to see in myself. Everyone, I think, has trouble seeing that special quality about themselves that makes people stop and watch because somehow they’re doing something right, or they’re doing something that no one else would dare to do because they’re strong: their strength is infectious and it affects all those around them.

I have my own role model, of course; I mean, who doesn’t? I have my own someone that makes me want to do better than I can, to do better than I ever have, because nothing I do is going to amount to how inspiring they are in their casual routine.

Isn’t that funny? We go around the world, hunting after a purpose or a goal; and, along the way, we unintentionally move others to be more they can be. It sounds impossible, but it happens everyday.

Look around: they’re out there, being superheroes in broad daylight, the ones who don’t need capes to prove their speed, the ones who don’t need powers to prove their strength, the ones who don’t need bulletproof suits because their heart is armor, an impenetrable defense that protects those it reaches out to.

Sounds like fiction, I know. You’re asking yourself, “How are these people real?” Truth is, the best ones don’t need a spotlight to cast over their good deeds. They have a trophy. It’s the warmth inside that fuels their every step, their every action.

Whenever these people tell I’m their role model, I thank them–it truly does mean a lot; but then, I also think to myself, how on Earth can I be as good as my role model? I would have to be three times the man I am.

Honestly, I don’t know how she does it, but it is inspiring every time.

You go, girl.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw


Interview With A Blogger

Tell me something, chaps. Tell me who you really are.

No, I don’t mean the you in public or the you in school or the you around your family–I mean you, the actual living and breathing sack of flesh that you are. Maybe with a bit more personality thrown in.

You don’t want to tell me?

Oh, I guess you don’t know me that well. Here, my name is Will, nice to meet you. A little more introduction? I’m a senior in high school…I run a bit…I write a bit more…and sometimes I frequent television, mostly Netflix.

That’s your name? Great name! Might give it to one of my kids–if I ever have any. See, a joke, I just broke the ice a little. Tell me a bit more about yourself. Okay…uh-huh…I love doing that, too! We’re like twins–except not at all!

Allow me to continue:

I like to eat cheeseburgers–love me some bacon!–and my favorite TV shows have got to be Mad Men and Breaking Bad. I’ve written a couple novels and recently I got third place in a writing contest, got some money off it. Family is also pretty important to me–hanging with those people, well, maybe not 24/7; but I plead the teenager rule.

Now you go and tell me all the happy things in your life. Doo-doo-doo…and boom, we say our good-byes and part ways. Life continues on as it always has, will, and is–hey, that confused me.

Say we reverse. Say we go back and, instead of telling all about the happiest parts of our lives and acting as if we are all living in a Leave It To Beaver rerun, we take a chance and spill our guts.

Second Go:

Oh, I guess you don’t know me that well. My name is Will Boswell, a name I happen to really really like. Little more introduction? I’m a senior in high school and cannot wait to be shot of this crappy joint, I mean it is bugging the hell out of me, all these tests and the homework. Oooh, gimme a break.

Your turn! What? Not feeling as up to it as you were the first time? You say you’re a tad uncomfortable? I’m not what you thought I was when you first talked to me? Interesting how our perceptions can change when we say we know a person through and through, but, as it turns out, we don’t…at all.

What if you told me all your secrets? All your taboos?

Hell, I might ditch you then and there–but, then again, I might not. It depends.

That’s a smart ass answer. 

Yeah, it is, but you are lying to yourself if you say you’re not wondering about that question.

I do; in fact, quite recently, I decided I hate it when people assume they know me, when they say I’m perfect. Hey, if a can of Pringles can’t be perfect, then I can’t either. We’re not gods here. We’re all humans–like I said, living and breathing sacks of flesh.

Then why, why do people freak when they learn you’re not all you’re chocked up to be?

It’s like we enjoy staring at a portrait covered in drapes. We can eat our snacks and drink our drinks and watch–just watch it be covered. But, take off the drapes, we leave. Jack Nicholson walks into the room and says, “We can’t handle the truth,” then he morphs into Jack Torrance and butchers all us remaining folks with a friggin axe. Redrum…Redrum…

What would happen if we took off the drapes in the first place?

You have an answer? No? You just created another secret, added another drape.

End of session.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw



Haircut From Hell!

Has everyone seen that picture on the site? The one of me with a bushy head of hair, hair to keep me warm on cold days, hair to swing around like I’m some kind of discount Fabio? Except without the Russian accent?

Yes…well, that hair is gone. I cut it two days ago.

Oh, stop crying, it wasn’t your hair. Too many people are living reciprocally through other people’s hairdos these days. When Elvis had the pompadour, wannabe rockers dropped to their knees and begged the Rock n’ Roll God to bestow upon them a bee-u-tiful head of oily locks. But those rockers begged too much and got the Fat Elvis treatment.

Thank you, thank you, thank you very–ooh, a doughnut!

Not to say I don’t like this new hairdo. It fits me, maybe not the free floating strands that, when they get in my eyes, piss me off and make me want to throw a chair at a wall. Kidding, that’s a bit much. I have to be careful or the Anger Management Police will lock me up for attitude.

Son, it’s the brig for you.

What for? I’m seventeen!

You wanna say what for again? Or do you wanna say what for, sir?  Stuck up little millennial. 

It is going to take some getting used to–this hair of mine. Honestly, it’s hard to resist the urge to slap on a ball cap sometimes, got this sweet OU hat–Go Sooners! Woo!–and it finally fits on my gigantic marble of a skull. But, for all I know, my mother would get mad at me for covering it up.

One sure thing I miss is the warmth. This is a near buzzcut I got going on. See, in the military, they don’t expect you to wear a scalped Chewbacca on yer back; back in my day, all we had was beaver skins, beaver skins and towels–those damn, dirty towels.

Sorry, got into my Old Man From ‘Nam routine there.

Hair! What do you do about it? You comb it, wash it; you get it sticky with syrup sometimes  and a dog comes to the rescue as a personal vacuum. Yes, lick, lick; it’s all you’re good for anymore.

Or, when you go to bed with a mere cowlick, you wake up in the morning and it looks like God staged a hurricane on your head. You find Moses standing in your shower and, instead of a staff, he’s holding a shaving kit. He says, ” Hair, you shall not part”–oh, wait, wrong bearded dude.

Eh, it’s all the same.

They both got beards and staffs.

Think daily,

A Southpaw



Here Goes The Post-Pubescent Teen…

So, I’ve got a cheap band-aid wrapped around my thumb. It’s irritating the hell out of me , not only because it’s hard to wash my hands, but it does not seem to be doing its job of stopping the soreness. While you’re reading this, imagine me in mortal pain: the tears, the blood, the guts–oh, dear Lord, someone get an ambulance!

I’m kind of in a pissy mood though. Generally, that doesn’t happen me too much, as I am a  pretty optimistic dude–and I almost misspelled optimistic, this is going great–but sometimes you gotta bite the onion and breathe in someone’s face.

That’s a weird image. Don’t do that.

You ever like someone and–

Oh, here the Teenager goes…blah-de-bloo…so sad romance…boo-hoo. 

Anyhow, as I was saying, you ever like someone and tell yourself: well, I suppose this is the one, the one I’ll wait for, the one I’ll spend money on, the one I’ll ask to dances, the one I’ll be able to fart around. You know? And then life bitchslaps you and says, You got it wrong, son! It’s snake eyes for you! Then you want to punch life in its happy little face because you’re so angry and depressed and demotivated and tired and hungry and overworked and overpaid and–okay, back on track, I promise.

If you haven’t felt that, go feel it. You’ll think someone dropped a bowling ball on your heart.

What I am pissed about, and I know all are listening with bated breath, is–at last breaking free of that one sided game of Tag, You’re It…but then, sooner than you think, coming right back to it because a stinking piece of hope crept back into your brain and said:

Oh, heeeey, remember that one girl, you know, that one, the one you said you were done with for all eternity, not including loopholes? That one? Thaaaat one?

Yes, but why are you bringing that up again? I was thinking about Rocky Road ice cream. 

This is just me, you know, speaking out loud, but, you know, you might, maybe, have a little–a teensy bit, a smidgen, really–chance, or, opportunity, at, well, having a shot with them again? So, sign here on the blue line and seal your life away! Ding-Ding-Ding! We have a winner!

Yeah. That happened to me. It sucks. Know’s what worse? It’s still happening.

And, for the holy, high school, almost a graduate, life of me, I can not get the thought out of my head. I think God took a bottle of Gorilla Glue, laughed, and lathered it on the back of that puppy before slapping it on my brain. Hey…maybe that’s why I had a headache last week.

Or I ate too much ice cream. I’m a fiend for it.

Sorry, God, you can go back to shopping at the Hobby Lobby in Heaven.

Oh, girls, or boys, if you’re a girl reading this post, they can make you soooo–

Oh, ah! Brain Freeze! God, come back–quit fantasizing over coupons!

Think daily,

A Southpaw