Miscellaneous

Valentine’s AFTERMATH

There is only one thing worse than the day before Valentine’s, and that is–

DUN-DUN-DUN!

The Aftermath of Valentine’s Day, otherwise known as the day people leave their chocolates out too long on the kitchen counter, the day someone forgot to water their flowers, the day we decided we don’t give a shit about St. Valentine, only those who stole our hearts. Ah, how sweet–you want some syrup with that? Maybe some cinnamon?

I love watching couples in my high school on the day of affection as compared to the following one. In the morning, as I was walking in from the parking lot, there must have been–gee–twenty or so guys, some of them dressed up pretty snazzily, carrying gifts bags and Russel Stover chocolate hearts; of course, they went up to their girls and shocked them. I am sure they were hoping for kisses, but, as the world is strange, only received the typical “Oh, you are so sweet!” and a partially affectionate hug.

In that situation, I would have said, “Yeah, you want some syrup with that, baby?”

Only jokes on my part; however, because, you see, I have yet to kiss a girl myself. Oh, boo hoo, boo hoo–let’s get back to the post, shall we?

On Valentine’s Aftermath, same place, same me walking in from the parking lot, I see the same couples chatting happily away and practically groping themselves in the corner where they think teachers will not see, and the mood is mellow, to say the least. Gone is the romantic, pubescent tension that makes the rest of us, including me, puke a little in my mouth–did I eat carrots today?–and eradicated is the duty of the man to gift to his woman a lifetime, maybe more of an eight-hour school day, supply of delicious chocolates and roses that have a peculiar smell.

Where did you pick these up, honey? They smell funny.

Ah, you know, I went to Wal-Mart, grabbed a batch from this old guy outside the store. Great deal.

One thing I wish that changed from Valentine’s Day is the amount of smooching and I-must-kiss-your-neck-like-a-dog. Some were grabbing each other’s asses–what, is there a Staples button from the early 2000’s implanted in her butt cheeks? You like hearing “That was easy” so much you hired a plastic surgeon to mold its shape and a computer geek to install wires?

Farting must be hell, seriously; it’s like Yoda squeezed his way in there and said “well, shit, this ain’t Dagobah, but it’s my home now. Ooh, Staples button!”

Do I wish for too much? Is my Fairy Godmother hitting the trail because I’m pressing her budget? Sorry, Oprah Winfrey; I guess you don’t make all my wishes come true. Time to call back Betty White.

Even though the Aftermath has its perks, I still love the classic: the hugging and the kissing and the I-love-you’s and the I-hate-you’s–

Whoa, where’d we go there?

I think some of my nightmares leaked into my dreams.

Or is the other way around?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Four Ways to Rap Effectively

I have recently come across the cultural world of rap, the hangout of all the great artists like Tupac and Eminem and–I don’t know any others yet. I’m new at this, cut me a break!

There is something to be said about how fast their mouths move, especially in Rap God. I swear, Eminem has to have some kinda cloning device for duplicates to have his mouth move so fast and so fluently. It’s like they’re the brainchildren of auctioneers and debaters. How the hell do they do it?

I asked myself this, while working through Lose Yourself about seven times in a row. Of course, being dumb like I am, I rapped while suffering from a sore throat–ahem, in other words, I win dumbass of the year award. And so I thought. And I thought. And I eventually came up with a list of how, maybe not the methods of those famous rappers, to rap effectively.

There are four sure-fire methods:

Holding your breath underwater
- Go to your bathtub, fill ‘er up, and stuff your head in there! Not only will this teach how to hold air in your lungs for prolonged periods of time, but it will also help you survive Swirlies, if they should arise.
Wear a lot of heavy bling-bling
- For some reason all these rappers wear giant chain necklaces and rings and belly piercings and nose piercings and eyeball piercings and–anyhow, proven in a study by myself, a reliable source, the rappers with the more jewelry tend to rap faster. Dunno why. Maybe it helps keep them grounded. Gravity and all that.
Learn how to twirl your tongue
- No joke, I’m reasonably sure the one reason Eminem is able to pull off Rap God is by flicking his tongue around like a Cirque Du Soleil act. It’s not too hard. Until your tongue stops listening to you and moves wherever it wants.
Rap about what matters
- To you, especially; if that means your raps center around how many ways to fry a chicken or flying a plane upside down, then go for it, you ambitious young sprout! Get out there and show those other rappers what you can offer with your next single, Frying A Flipping Bird in Kentucky.

Follow my list and you are guaranteed to be on your way to stardom in the rapping community. Be the next Eminem. Be the next Tupac. Be…well, be who you’re gonna be.

I’m not here to give out nicknames.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Welcome To Super Bowl 2078!

I don’t generally think of myself as a football kind of guy. Sure, I used to watch my fair share of the Redskins and Oklahoma Sooners–go OU!–but to sit down in a chair and watch a game that lasts between three and four hours is a trial, I gotta tell ya; and I thought Interstellar was a long time to stay seated and let my ass go numb.

The Super Bowl I can stand; in fact, there is a sort of tradition in my family to join up at my grandparent’s house and chow down on Totino’s pizza rolls and pigs-in-a-blanket and wings and all the other snacks you are counting off in your head right now because you have the exact same kind of Super Bowl party. So we don’t get points for originality–at least the grease tastes good when it’s sliding slimily down your throat…am I right?

It all started back in 2009–when the Greenbay Packers won the Bowl…

Doodalado-doodalado-doodalado–

Flashback time….a big ass glimmering cloud just popped into existence above my head.

Actually, forget the flashback–I can hardly remember that far back.

Instead…we can discuss the games in the early 1980s –boy, those were the ones to see. Everyone was still recovering from the disco era, you see, and so everyone had an afro–it didn’t matter if you were black or white, it still made you the coolest cat on the infield. In between the plays you could hear George Michael playing over the speakers: pretty soon the players would start singing along to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go; they all had Wham shirts under their jerseys. And–

Excuse me–just got a call from the Past. They said they’ll shut down Thoughts of A Southpaw if I keep blabbing stuff about the 1980s; apparently exposure to this kind of truth can cause severe nausea and nosebleeds and paranoia and schizophrenia and the feeling that your brain is going to implode if you continue reading all these nonsense side effects to a nonsense disease from a nonsense thing called the Past.

Doodalado-doodalado-doodalado–

Future time…the glimmering cloud turned bionic and it sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Everyone thinking of the Super Bowl in 2078? I am. That is going to be a fun one. It’s going to be the Raiders against the Giants–calling it now–and they’re all gonna be wearing jetpacks and shooting laser guns and throwing metal footballs; the NFL theme song is going to be a dubstep remix of the Star Wars opening credits theme. The Heisman Trophy will be constructed of mayonnaise and tomato slices…in the future they have serious budget cuts–

Excuse me once again–just got a call from the Future. They’re pissed.

Doodalado-doodalado-doodalado–

2017? You serious? Nothing happened at that game.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Under Construction

A Southpaw here,

Recently in my postings I have come across an uncomfortable feeling, that of staleness and a little bit of boredom–a thing which should not be happening if I am to continue this blog.

I still love posting things. I still love writing on my schedule.

The thing is–something needs to change.

I don’t like becoming bored with this blog; hell, it was started because I thought it was fun. And I want to keep that enjoyment; and if it means switching things around on the ol’ Southpaw Industries, then I will gladly do so.

They won’t be major changes; no, not at all–what they will be is needed. I will probably make it more appealing–the front page has become a little bit of an eyesore, to me, and the posts will be varied…more so than they are now.

It’ll be fun!

I am sorry if these changes make any of you reconsider following me–they won’t be too big anyway–but, I see this as a way of improving content and shifting to a higher grade of whatever-the-hell-I’m-trying-to-pull-off-by-writing-these-things.

I would love to hear opinions, though; if you feel you up to it, speak your mind.

And keep chugging on that Thought Train.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

My Oh, What the Hell Moment

We all have these moments–these decisions we make that, at the time, made complete sense…or we thought we were going bat shit and sought a psychiatrist, dressing up in Batman costumes, marrying that person–ahem, apologies for the bluntness.

I like to call them The Oh, What the Hell moments.

The only reason I bring this up, truly, is because I like to take trips down Memory Lane, remember all the good times and the bad times–a Dickens in my own standing–and laugh at my stupidity or cleverness.

One time: I was six and living in Montana; liked to play with my friends, especially while bouncing on the sweet trampoline across the street–the kid who owned it ended up breaking his leg jumping.

This day, this specific day, we were bouncing and having fun…and then the new kid appeared: he lived in front of the Trampoline House, none of us had introduced ourselves yet. He showed up, all eager to make friends and impress us–admittedly, much of this is hard to recall–and called to us from his fence, some kid crap..who knows.

I think I waved, then continued bouncing as my friends, and my sister, circulated around the interesting neighbor. I was content with the trampoline…the others? they jumped in glee when neighbor kid invited us to his house to see his toys.

Southpaw say what?

What’s even more outlandish was their reaction…a resounding o-kay; and before I knew it all of them were walking through the fence and talking and laughing and surrendering themselves to freaky neighbor kid. Me? I was still bouncing…until I saw my sister leaving; then I decided oh, what the hell and followed.

Freaky neighbor kid took us to his basement–a single room with a lone bulb; there were model airplanes swinging from the ceiling and toys littered the concrete floor…it looked like the childhood play place of Norman Bates. We took our choice of toy and sat and played for, maybe, thirty minutes–then, oh, then, we heard his mother call us upstairs.

We found nothing less than a mob of pissed off parents, one of the moms had her hair still in rollers and was wearing a bathrobe; their arms were crossed and everything–if they had been angrier storm clouds were liable to shoot out of their asses.

Everyone was scolded by their parents…except me and my sister.

My parents hadn’t shown up at the door.

Put yourself in our shoes, running back to the house, praying so fervently that our grounding would be merciful– please be merciful–and then finding they had had no idea of the incident in the first place.

I asked: “Are you going to ground us?”

My father, watching the television, “What for?”

“Uh…nothing. What’s for dinner?”

And we never ever ever spoke to freaky neighbor kid again.

So, you see, Oh, What the Hell moments aren’t all bad; in fact they can make excellent stories.

But seriously, watch out for those new kids…they’re weird, man.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Brain Vomit: Pantsers and Seaters

All you writers out there; yes, I am even talking to you, Man Who Uses A Fountain Pen On All Of His Manuscripts, I have a revelation–writing is a flooding of the mind, the gates open and the brain is drowned in tidal waves of words.

That sounds badass when I put it that way, not to toot my own horn–

Any who…

All of us have varied methods of writing, some like to write a certain number of hours or minutes–two hours is a good amount for me–and others prefer a trusty word count limit between 1000 and 2000 words…some go to 6000, those are the outliers…don’t tell them I said that.

Whatever methods we use work for us; well, they have to–what the hell is the point of organizing all this writing shit if it turns out to be Dumpster material in the end?

Of course, organization can take its own forms. Most like to call them Seaters or Pantsers–I am wondering who came up with those because the latter seems like it was meant to sound immature…I identity with the Pantsers, just unbuckle that belt–but I am kidding…in reality a Pantser could not give two coal heaps about a written plan and decide to, like the Hippies of old, go with the flow, dude–cause, why not?

In a world of Seaters I have been criticized as a Pantser–not many like to take a leap of faith and rely on the good ole’ Muse to supply with them a Pass Go and Collect $200 dollars card. Those who do know how relaxing, and, unavoidably, how stressful, it can be. For Chrissakes, you’re writing in your underwear, how can it not be more stressful?

But I am not here to convert writers to the dark Pantser side of the Force.

Sometimes, and this has happened frequently to me while writing novels, I curse my Pantser beliefs and decide to migrate to the realm of the Seaters; but each time I get freaked because I’m worried the story is going to suffer from my change of perspective.

It is difficult to plan out a novel, let alone a short story, and I commend the writers who take the extra time to do so. Being a Seater means sketching out the characters and the setting and the conflict all before actually writing the first draft–I wonder they don’t get bored from figuring out how the story ends and who the characters are inside and out so early.

See, for every fifteen Seaters, there are thirty Pantsers.

The writing world has to have both perspectives to ensure different types of literature; one can never be the same as the next, as they say.

Because repetitiveness is just plain dull.

Writers reading this, tell me one thing–when you are Pantsing, that sounds bad, or Seating, your stories, when does it get to the point where you ask yourself, “What the hell am I doing?” and change faiths on a dime? Or does it ever get there?

Now, if you’ll excuse me–I have to get back to Pantsing.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

What Is Life Without Friends?

I value many things–home, food, a family, my many, many pets, and perhaps, most of all, my friends. Dictionary definition: these are the people in whom you can confide; they listen and…sometimes…they offer advice: of which it is your choice to follow or disregard. They have no Insert Cash Here buttons to make a little compensation off your worries–no; in fact, wealth is the farthest thought from their mind.

For true friends it is.

You know how there can be artificial friends? I like to think of them as one dimensional blankets: you seek their comfort and cherish it…until you stab at them once, mistakenly; and their front is compromised. They bolt. In tatters. In scraps. In the mind they never want to speak to numero uno you again.

Luckily I have not frequented many thin blankets in my time; however, all of us, at least once, have met people, people we call our friends, who, when the shit hits the fan–literally…although that’s gross–those somewhat thicker blankets smile and run and bury their heads in the sand.

Nothing wrong with it. Not at all. I just happen to appreciate genuineness. Sound like a snobby art critic, “Yes…this work was..ah, it was a fake…look at the way the watercolors smear and the brush–oh, the humanity!”

When you get the real friends–well, you just know. I like to call it a connection, see, because as humans we connect, or disconnect, with thousands, millions, of people everyday of our lives. With real friends that connection surges all the time. It is as if the two of you are fused together on a circuit box the electrician forgot to disassemble; and each volt shooting through those wires is felt simultaneously.

Woah. And a bunch of other crazy existential shit…

I hope–I honestly hope I am not speaking to a brick wall. I’ve done that…it gets boring.

Most everyone has a friend, most everyone values their friend.

I am not trying to say–actually, I am saying not all of us value our friends. We need to–it’s an epidemic, larger than the Black Plague or…or the H1N1 virus–stupid swine–and those of us who have taken the cure: pat yourself on the back; you have earned your friends.

Here:

Think of a life without friends.

What life is that?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Life. It’s A Toughie.

Full disclosure here:

I am not a hater of this whirlwind called life…however…I do become irritated with it.

Life. It makes you want to take a deep breath, and, at the same time, stick a plate of razor blades down your throat. Too dark? Let me power up a lightbulb.

I can cope with life–everyone reading this should, by now, understand I have a pretty positive viewpoint on most things: wrestling puppies, chocolate, flowers–and hell yeah to the hippies! Whooh! Adrenaline! Life is a rocking and rolling thing; so, what up, home-slice?

There are unfortunately some grievances to rainbows; you see, sometimes, the world does not make a lot of sense. I look at the platypus and think, what the hell? I go to places only powered by solar panels and think…anyway, that joke got stale. Racking up the dry humor points tonight!

What is ludicrous to me is not to others–this I must remember.

Problem is…I am one jealous crackpot. And I know I am not alone…at least I think so.

You all understand where I’m coming from–hopefully. It’s one of those conundrums in life that don’t make no sense; but, as a loyal friend who cares deeply about what happens to his other friend and whether or not she is going to be A-okay and that she is going to make her own choice, well…I can only be a watchful guardian.

Sounds like some Batman crap there.

I trust this girl because she is stronger than I can be.

What’s that? Do I see tears springing to your eyes? I brought tissues–take one, or, sure, sixteen…I’ll give you all a second to collect yourselves and talk out your deepest struggles. Maybe a traumatic experience on the jungle gym…a swirly in a urinal…yuck.

Well, boy, I got that off my chest. Feeling better, lighter…a marshmallow.

I leave you with advice–none of you have to follow it; it is not written in stone or Sharpie, so plug your ears with Kleenex or turn your hearing aids up to maximum volume: Never assume a friend cannot find their way by themselves. Many are much stronger than you think; and when you step aside and let them choose what, for them, is that which makes them happy, then…you have been all you can be.

Inspirational? Or mediocre?

Hell, I’m just trying to be a good friend.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Brain Vomit: The Fragility Taboo

Hemingway once said, “You should never talk about writing.” I am, of course, paraphrasing–Hemingway said something alike to that; but I was not fortunate enough to be alive in the twentieth century. Had I been…well, let’s not consider the outcome, shall we?

I believe his words…on some level, some level deep beneath all these cobwebs and dust piles in my brain–can we get a janitor out here? I paid the damn fee, man; you think someone would tidy up.

On another level; however, methinks Hemingway was reserved–wait, that’s a lie; he wrote about anything he did, from fishing to drinking. He chose to refrain from conversations about writing because, for him, it was taboo, not the all-the-rules-of-those-teeny-tiny-writing-groups taboo…the oh-shit-my-work-is-going-to-be-ruined-if-I-spill-the-smallest-word taboo.

That taboo. The one I used to suffer from.

When you’re sitting in a room alone, with but a laptop or a word processor or–if you’re going Stone Age–a typewriter it is too easy to start questioning all of it: the word count, the story, the characters, the size of the documents, page count, the writing itself! You go deranged–quit the writing and establish a smoothie stand in the middle of the Ozarks. Maybe a tad extreme…

Questioning. You question it. The writing. The writing questions you–crap, I screwed it up.

Get this: it is not like talking sports results. I cannot go into a bar–for one reason I am seventeen–and engage the bartender in lively conversation, like, say, “I loved how the game went last night. It was so wickedly cool when So-and-so knocked the thing into that bigger thing.” Put a spin of writing on it: “Loved how the words came rolling out of my head last night…you know, I was doubting myself…but now I see…”

All is well and good if you have a person to whom you can confess your writing aspirations and failures–they must be great listeners; but the reason most writers are not too keen on sharing their favorite activity of the day is because of fear: they are frightened that any spoken word will shatter their fragile story and its routine.

The Fragility Taboo.

Just so you know, I am totally copyrighting that. You heard it here first, from me…here…in a blog…Yeah. Let’s move on to other things, shall we?

You cannot completely cure a writer of the Fragility Taboo. It’s like drinking–take away a pint for a week, in this case let the writer voice his doubts and concerns, and they will be slobbering after a cup and an area of silence. And do not try to cure them…they won’t appreciate it.

All a bystander can do is watch them think: day in and day out thought probing within themselves. If, at any point, they feel up to speaking, listen, and listen well, because they trust you enough to talk about that which makes them exceedingly nervous.

But what am I–a doctor or a writer?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Artists Get A Lot Of Crap

Artists get a lot of crap…they also have to deal with all that crap–there’s shovelfuls of the stuff. They get up in the morning and brew their coffee–or heat their milk–like the rest of us; however, they get into that mindset: the I-am-going-to-produce-the-next-Mona-Lisa mindset. Guess what: some of them do produce the next Mona Lisa; they don’t even have to put a mustache on it to make it great…no…they make it Ultimate Mona Lisa: a badass rendition of the famous DaVinci work–it is so badass I can’t think of a description for it.

Know what else?

They do it everyday.

Try that one on for size, Critic Who Never Finished His Finger Painting In Kindergarten. Too stupendous for you? Too bad. Maybe you should have paid more attention to Salvador Dali and his creepily cool mustache–pictures of him are really weird, by the way; find a book about him and stare at one for thirty minutes. You’ll either have gone insane…or, like a sane person would do, have quit the effort and gone to seek a glass of water.

The artist–excuse me, the modern artist is a creature of life: they are within the boundaries of nature and war and cities and countrysides and even that small gas station off the interstate that smells so much like chloroform it’s more than a little creepy. They love what they do…I think–well, I know a few and they seem to enjoy it…possibly…

Note this, all you non-artists, artists themselves are hard to understand sometimes. Why? They’re on a level above us: this grandiose universe filled with canvasses and a super buff Vincent Van Gogh who carries a paintbrush like an assault rifle. When the battle comes…he is ready with a water cup.

Sound a little frightening? Good. Maybe you’ll change your mind next time you think an art piece is odd. It is odd…that is the way they wanted it to be. And their interpretation is good as gold.

Be nice to artists. They can paint you any way they choose.

Think daily,

A Southpaw