Author: A Southpaw

Welcome to Thoughts of A Southpaw--the place where thoughts and other crazy nothings go down.

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

The Halloween Stereotypes

As in Christmas there are those who either despise the song and dance or enjoy it so much they start inserting their Bing Crosby CDs on the evening of Thanksgiving and shake their legs like Rosemary Clooney–there are as well types for Halloween; call them characteristics attributed to certain kinds of people on the scariest night of the year.

Most can think of one or two types: the Halloween Humbug and the Lunatic Decorator, as those are common personalities when it comes to celebrating holidays; however I know of so many more which identify solely with All Hallow’s Eve.

Presenting the Halloween Stereotypes! And live from New York it’s Saturday–never mind…nothing to see here…

Moving along:

The Halloween Connoisseur: These are the people who show up to your party for one reason: to educate everyone on the traditions and did-you-knows of the Halloween season. Their facts range from the truth behind turnips as pumpkins, the use of masks to scare away ghouls, and every type of candy ever used in this marketing craze.

Identifiable by these traits:

Does not wear a Halloween costume to the party
Wears instead Halloween themed clothing
Chats up anyone within ten feet of them
Drinks five cups of the orange flavored fruit punch
Leaves halfway through the party

The Movie Maniac: This is the best friend who has a collection stuffed with boxed sets of Nightmare on Elm Street; Friday the 13th; Halloween; and unfortunately Leprechaun–damn it, Warwick Davis! When it comes to celebrating Halloween they prefer lounging on the couch with bowls of candy as they re-watch their favorite scary movie…for the thirteenth time.

Identifiable by these traits:

Wears shirts depicting slashers chasing after their victims
Hangs horror movie posters on any empty space in their bedroom
Says, “We all go a little mad sometimes” in the awkwardest situations
Prank calls people using a Ghostface voice changer
Has slasher masks set on pedestals around their home

The Candy Hoarder: Those individuals you tend to find milling endlessly around the candy aisles at Wal-Mart or Target; all Halloween is to them is a sweet fest; a sugary rush. They will not hand out their treats because they will be eating them themselves. Expect candy hoarders to steal the bowls off the doorstep…

Identifiable by these traits:

Has chocolate smudges on the corners of their lips
Has a Choco-Belly–the term describing the gaining size of stomachs from eating candy
Sticks snack sized treats in their pant or coat pockets
Goes to the store to stare at the shelved candy

Three stereotypes down, twenty nine left to go…you get it?

Do you know of any holiday stereotypes?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Christmas–Bring On The Songs!

Halloween is right around the tombstone! See what I did there? The thing with the corner…and I said tombstone…Why don’t you laugh, people? You’re not supposed to be grim for another week. You keep it up, and I may not pass out candy this year…

That’s right. Laugh your ass off.

With Halloween coming so quickly; however it brings to mind the remaining holidays: the Stepchild and the Movie Star, otherwise known as Thanksgiving and Christmas, specifically Christmas Morning. Before you know it you will have gobbled the turkey and demolished the presents–in that order; and then it is on to the New Year and boring holidays, with the exception of Easter and St. Patrick.

So to lengthen the stay of Christmas–who honestly cares about Thanksgiving?–and its wallet eating tendencies I have prepared a song for all of you to hum in your head while you decorate your trees and unwrap your presents. It could be addicting and will likely end up on the Billboard Top Ten within the next, give or take, four days.

Prepare yourself for…

Shopping Hell— sung to the tune of Jingle Bells:

Shopping Hell, shopping hell!

Curse this holiday!

Oh, the pain of bringing children to the mall to play-ay!

Shopping Hell, shopping hell!

Egg nog, please, I’ll pay!

My migraine is starting and I still have pies to ba-aaake!

Check it out in the papers–it’ll be an instant hit.

And never stop humming.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

What Makes Detectives So Enticing?

The other day I was reading over my mystery novella and while I encountered for the fourth time the central detective–the guy is a class act smart ass–I wondered why his snappish personality stuck out more than the rest of the characters. By fictional nature detectives are ofttimes those arrogant people who no one wants to engage in conversation in fear of coming across as unexperienced and, well, dumb; but maybe I am only thinking of Sherlock Holmes. What a prideful–oh, never mind, he stole the words already.

But why are they such charismatic strangers?

Phillip Marlowe comes first to mind. The slumming star of The Big Sleep is a one of a kind wordsmith; he knows so many ways to twist a simile that your mind gets as rattled as a pissed off rattlesnake. Second to his creative skills are his tricks with those dangerous ladies of Hollywood–in The Big Sleep alone he flirts with three dames, all of whom entangle him in near death situations (good thinking, Marlowe), but do eventually bestow upon his sarcastic lips a smooch.

For Marlowe it is easier to tell: he is after all the dirtiest detective in Hollywood; and everyone knows what dirty laundry lurks behind those towering white letters–his unwashed underwear from three weeks ago.

Then you come to someone like Sherlock Holmes, who is the best wisecrack in the biz; if not for his spectacular observation skills he would be starting laughing fits along Baker Street all evening long…and perhaps a gun shot or two, because, c’mon, it’s Sherlock Holmes–who doesn’t want to silence his jabbering mouth?

Answer: John Watson, his one true love.

Aside from Watson; however Holmes falls short of Marlowe in the affection department, but makes up for it using his unique charm: informing the women of his dreams of their imperfections and, sometimes, old flames which they have not yet blown out.

If any ladies wish to contact Mr. Sherlock Holmes for this special treatment, then kindly visit 221 Baker Street. The door will be open and he will be waiting.

It seems the endearing quality in these literary investigators is sarcasm. Who knew they could be so good at talking? It’s not as if they interview witnesses or anything…

Think daily,

A Southpaw

First Things First….

We all have firsts–dictionary definition: the first of some thing.

There are first tastes. Say you vividly remember chomping into a juicy slice of apple pie, or hesitantly slicing off shreds from a Brussel sprout–as a matter of fact I do like those. It can be your first chocolate cake or Eggo waffle or chicken nugget.

There are first experiences. Taking the new car out for a test spin and feeling the wind blow back your hair; climbing a massive oak tree with your friends and thinking the whole time how far away the ground seems; partying with friends and living as if the world could stop at a snap of your finger.

There are first feelings. You see the girl or boy in your class glance–you are sure it was a glance–towards you and smile just a little, just enough to send you shooting headlong into sweet delirium. And then there is that feeling. That feeling you savor and which only comes around when the game pieces are precisely placed in their positions; it is called nirvana by some, but I prefer holy-crap-life-is-actually-going-perfect-for-once.

Some firsts occur faster than others; and on that you have to be careful. But if life tosses you a grenade you better not throw it back. Know why? Once the heat leaves your hand it is gone. You throw one of those grenades and at the very least you will regret it…because life has put meaning on its grenade, it may be a smiley face or a Nike symbol, but there is a reason it fell into your lap.

Take all firsts slow–we only have a one way trip on this crazy carousel.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Halloween Versus Christmas–The Terrifying Truth…[Insert Scream Here]

Can we get a picture of Jack Skellington and Santa Claus duking it out under a mistletoe? Never mind, forget the mistletoe–no one can look at that and think violence–and instead go skull crazy. I am talking six foot skeletons holding giant Grim Reaper scythes…and those creepy cow skulls you see in almost every Western horror movie; it is as if the director is whispering “Beware the cows…” into the set designer’s headset.

But to talk about the picture: give Santa some beefy arms and a biker mustache, stick him in a spandex suit with a belt of candy canes; opposite him put Skellington on a fire breathing motorcycle that hums the theme from Halloween in a never-ending loop–

We have to wait on the picture?

Fine–I suppose I can them entertained until then.

Is he gone? Good. What a piece of black licorice….

You are obviously wondering the purpose of this artful picture–not to give myself credit or anything. As a matter of fact it is the essential image of the war waged between Halloween and Christmas since the dawn of the Tootsie Roll and the stocking stuffers.

Marketing–that selfish fruitcake!

Pardon my French, ladies.

To illustrate this further I see I need to educate you on your role as a consumer in these colossal money suckers. For both Halloween and Christmas there is this feeling; and this feeling–in laymen terms we call it anxiety–pushes you, the tradition following citizen, to leave the safety of your home and venture out to the treacherous soul stealing–in laymen terms we call it your wallet–pit known as Wal Mart to purchase either latex masks and candy bags, or aluminum trees and freaky elves you like to see staring at you from the shelf…

In short: the repetitive ankle twisters of the holiday season.

Imagine a man breaks into your house; and while you are stuffing shells into your shotgun–it was an early Christmas present–he rushes up to you and twists your wrist so far you wish it did snap. He tells you the only way he is letting go is if you buy him a roll of present wrapping and a gingerbread house kit. This man is Twister Tommy–the bastardized version of your favorite holidays; and he lives on Consumerism Avenue.

Do the right thing–eliminate the Twister Tommy who intrudes on your season. This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Bureau of Protecting the Values of Holiday Fun Times.

Is that picture ready yet?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Least Miserables Book Ever… Just Kidding. It Sucks.

Do not read Les Miserables if you are afflicted with any of the following symptoms:

Depression
Deriving Humor From the Pain of Poor People
Zero Tolerance For Sometimes Pointless Tangents From the Story
Hairy Mustache
Hungry Stomach
A Tendency to Kick Baby Unicorns

I am dead serious, people. This book is classic because of its depressing storyline–well, and the play and movie it spawned…but mostly the storyline. You will leave each reading session thinking to yourself: why am I still interested in reading about this poor neglected child, or even that saintly criminal who hates himself every single chapter? What’s that? Take a break and learn about the Battle of Waterloo? Okay, why not?

My God, there are also times when I question my patience with some writers, specifically Victor Hugo and his tendency to drag on about things which do not directly relate to the storyline but for a snippet at the end of a section. Granted, he was born into a literary family, and all know with literary families there is going to be heavy doses of symbolism or deeper meanings in their works. And he was in the French Revolution–anything to take time away from there was crazily sought after.

But if you do enjoy books about the struggles of poverty stricken families–cough cough, sadist–and you can stand long trips into other realms of Paris and the warlike atmosphere, like me, then Les Miserables is your book.

And quit kicking those baby unicorns.

Think daily,

A Southpaw