funny

Sticking To Your Guns

So, I got into Film a few days back. You know, Film. Movies. Screenplays. Trailers. Special FX, which I used to think was an acronym for an alternate Fox TV channel. I had a desire to make a movie, to film some weird crap, and other random stuff.

Then I stepped right back out.

One thing I have always known I wanted to be is a writer. A legit pen-smith–hey, it’s the best I could come up with. The writing thing is my life; tis’ my breath, and a bunch of different Shakespearean linguistics.

We have film, and we have writing.

I could devote time to teaching myself the art of making films and directing movies, or I could continue to devote my time to pursing a career in writing, one of which I am heading towards as fast as possible. There is a decision, then–what is the answer?

Now, before all of you start shouting at the top of your lungs to tell me your viewpoints, your varied and seasoned perspectives, look at the decisions you have made in your life thus far:

Are each of them making you happy?

Are you good at what you have decided to do?

If your life were to be just that, and only that, would you be satisfied–at least for the first three days?

Writing makes me happy. It is my dream to never want to retire because I am doing what I love to do, so long as I keep up the hard work and strive to be the best, in my eyes. Plus, I’d be satisfied for the first four days before I went looking for people to watch and listen to.

Hint-Hint: We’re writers. It’s what we do.

Not much of that would be true for film, and; in thinking about it from an outsider’s point of view, why shouldn’t I want to stick to what I’m good at in the first place and become a professional in it?

I’m sure there’s tons of people out there who have followed their dreams and followed their talents, cause’ why not? We’re supposed to be better at certain things and worse at certain things. If we were one way or the other, we probably wouldn’t be human; at best, we wouldn’t be from this planet…at all.

Imagine tons of aliens walking past you everyday. The guy at the water cooler today, the one who made the burbling noises right when the cooler was doing so? Yeah, definitely a spacer.

Oh, and the guy who stole your donut off your desk this morning.

Never mind, actually, he’s just of the species Asshole.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

Photo Credit: Boris Vallejo

An Introvert’s View of the Bar

TV’s everywhere–that’s the way it was at this wing/burger/bar joint thingie. I think it was called Buffalo Wild Wings, or something like that; a pretty insignificant place, if you ask me. Who just eats wings? Hello! Stomach overflow equals throat posing as a sewer drain, except it all goes out, rather than in.

People must like sports, since that’s all I saw on the screens. Baseball and wrestling–two sweaty dudes growling at each other, when they could kiss and get it over with–and golf–I think–and gambling and cock fighting. Don’t worry, I’m kidding on that last one: no poor chickens have to suffer being televised while they fight for their lives and attack with their pointy, grain covered beaks.

There was also a Katy Perry advert, but who cares about that?

I got to see varieties of people; in fact, diverse would sum up the experience. Halfway through dinner, I watched this crap load of folks sit down at two different tables–and they filled both. Musta been a family reunion; that, or they’re scheduling business meetings really late nowadays.

Ah, and now we will discuss the pie chart on page 3480. Please take out your pens–

Sir?

Yes, Schreiber?  What on Earth have you done? Get that barbecue sauce off my hand-drawn graphs!

I ate quite a bit, too. For those who don’t know, window washing can slim you good. I have to’ve lost eight pounds in the span of two weeks! Talk about working overtime…

No? Didn’t get it? Me neither. Wasn’t supposed to be funny.

Heh.

Speaking of funny–

Nope. Got nothing.

Desert was mighty tasty, a delicious platter of ice cream and cheesecake balls–surprisingly, cut from actual cheesecake animals–as well as a couple cinnamon tortillas to finish it all off. Hungry yet? I hope so: that meal description was a bitch to get right.

The verdict, though? Bars, while enjoyable, are not a necessity of life, despite what Greg believes. Oh, and, uh, Greg, is the guy who slipped on those beer stains and decked his head smack dab on the tap. Ouch is what I say; and, if I were older, fill ‘er up.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Photo Credit: Fabian Perez

The Old Song and Dance

I heard the Mexican version of A Devil Went Down to Georgia today, and I have to say it was pretty impressive, despite the howling vocalist who, whenever the fiddle went into its solo, cried to the moon.

C’mon, we’re talking devils here, not werewolves.

The construction workers had their stereo blasting in one of the houses I cleaned; in fact, right when I walked into the place, a singer did the ol’ ai-yai-yai-yai! on his song. What a way to invite someone into an atmosphere is what I say–that, and the workers were singing loudly along to a couple of the songs. Hey, it made me smile. What else is there to do in that situation?

Some of these houses can be so damn filthy, you know? You’d think if the workers spent half of their energy belting out Spanish serenades, they’d be able to use the other half to not mess up a house after it has been cleaned. We then have to re-clean it, if you did not get the picture. Yes, this includes the bathroom and the basement and the garage and anything else capable of collecting dust and carpet worms, or, those pesky wriggling rug scraps I always seem to miss with the vacuum, which is comprised of a dust bag and a single pole, as if we were stuck living in the friggin eighties.

I have become somewhat of a working amateur, what with my speed at wiping out disgusting tubs in which dirt has engrained itself, as well as the craft–I meant to say craft–of window washing: a wash of a sponge, then a rinse of a squeegee. Simple as pie, or easy as cake–oh, what the hell is that phrase?

You also tend to pick up some Spanish when you’re working around Spanish-speaking folk; for example, I have added la extension and no comprende–what they usually say after I foolishly talk to them in plain English–to my vocabulary. It’s pretty easy to tell, too,   who can speak English fluently, and who cannot speak it. Heavy accents sometimes signify more of a comfort in the classic Espanol than in old-fashioned Americana chitter-chatter–vice versa for the other side.

Boy, can full-time work make you tired. Did you guys know I walk up and down stairs almost all day? It is a job in of itself! Jeez Louise and a bucket of cheese, talk about not getting paid enough. I mean, I’m sure I need the exercise, as I’m getting to the point where the Freshman Fifteen is becoming more of fact than fiction, but come on, people!

Ah, well, at least I have writing, without which I’d be liable to crack, or, you know, go completely nutso.

I hear we’re cleaning a sanitarium tomorrow.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Working Life

Guys, I gotta break something to you. It’ll be tough to hear, but here goes…

I…I have a job.

A full-time job, to be exact. I’m a window washer, dudes–no stains stand strong under the weight of my sponge and squeegee! It’s a pretty sweet gig, considering I get to see how restaurants operate before opening time, and I wear a nifty utility belt that would make Batman jealous.

Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-Batm–wait, Batman, where are you going?

To wash windows, Boy Wonder! Screw the Batarangs. I’m off to follow my dreeeam!

We have to wake up early, see, because restaurants can’t be cleaned during business hours. Such a pain, if you ask me. Don’t know why I shouldn’t wash windows and drip water all over the floor while people are eating their fresh food. God, society is so puzzling sometimes.

House calls are interesting. What a way to start a paragraph, huh? They’re interesting. Makes you wonder, don’t it? I wondered today; in fact, I wondered about the cute beagle following me around a house and freaking out when I powered on the Shop Vacuum to clean out the tracks of the windows. I wondered what his owners would have thought if I left with a dog shaped bulge underneath my shirt.

Boss is cool; granted, this is my first job, so I don’t have much experience with the work environment. We can wear what we want. We can eat what we want. We can drink what we want. We can smoke what we–hold up, I think I remember smoking be a big no-no in this job.

No, I don’t smoke–at least, I don’t smoke until I get home. Heh. Get it?

You guys are boring.

I did have my first embarrassing moment this morning, and since all of you are now dying to know what went down, what was so crushing, I shall tell you. I wrecked my shins on a table at Village Inn and almost knocked a pile of dishes on the floor. Yeah, talk about amateur…actually, let’s not talk about amateur, makes me feel worse than I already  do. Of course, it didn’t help when, right after I fell, an old man having breakfast asked me if I was okay.

Well, I busted my shins, cut up my hands, and made a general fool of myself, so…

Getting paid pretty well, so it makes the constant bruising and scratching worth it, not to mention the lifelong embarrassment and anxiety issues forever requiring weekly trips to a family psychiatrist.

Yes, and you said you burst into tears whenever you see a window?

Doc, I told you to shut the blinds! Shut ’em! I’m begging you!

Mm-hm. That’s the life of me, as of now, and likely for the future. Thought you all needed an update, seeing as how social media is just not enough of an up-your-ass privacy invasion. No way. We have to go deep, you see? It’s the only way to go about life anymore.

On another note,

Anybody interested in having their windows cleaned?

I’m a specialist.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Graduate.

You will all now address me as The Graduate, your supreme overlord. The Graduate is the most powerful being in the universe, and with his trusty diploma, he can accomplish virtually anything–except picking up girls. Wah-Wah.

I’m kidding. Don’t say it if you don’t want to say it, but, if you are feeling generous…

Well, folks, this whole year has been leading up to this moment. I have graduated from the institution in which I have been held captive for four years, suffering the tyrannies of  the Board of Education and their malevolent curriculums! Oh, I can’t stand to think of it now, makes me shiver and tingle inside, or is that because I have to pee?

T’was a brilliant ceremony, quite sophisticated, since, as you know, I am the most sophisticated person in the world. I top Jay Gatsby in the amount of bad ass parties hosted–ahem, at least, that’s what last year’s census told me. I received my diploma with excellent poise and form, an act to make the strongest of men break down in tears of utter respect for the beauty of simplicity.

I shook hands with my teachers, many of whom smiled and gave the customary good luck, and, in the past week, I have accumulated quite the sum of money. It is a lot. I can sleep on the stuff; although, much to the contrary of what millionaires–like myself–confess, it is not comfortable sleeping on a mattress of one dollar bills.

Our family ate at a German restaurant, aptly named Edelweiss, otherwise known as the greatest German restaurant this side of the Colorado-German border–and, yes, that is a thing. Musicians played for us, an accordionist and a guitarist; in between songs, we spoke about our various heritages and how much Indian traits we had, considering the guitarist was of Cherokee descent, and I, and my mother, are from Oklahoma.

But enough of history. Shall we focus on the present, or the future?

The future is college–and I have talked about it countless times in countless posts, so I will not bore you with repetition. Rather, let’s start a conversation about how damned frustrating tassels can be, because I am sure many of have gone through the hell of flipping the tassel out of your eyes and onto the top of your cap; but, you’re S.O.L, seeing as how the cap is a flimsy piece of cardboard that does not allow to bend your neck downwards for one second.

Screw you, Cap and Gown Manufacturers, wherever you’re hiding! I have no idea how you sleep at night, and whether or not it’s on coins or dollar bills! But I stopped caring five seconds ago, so there!

Whew, that felt nice, just like graduating.

Good-bye high school, and hello college.

Dammit! I mentioned college again!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Fever Dreams

You know, it friggin sucks when you’re sick. As a matter of fact, that is why this post is a day late–I know, I know, the angry mobs are going to start busting down my door here in a minute. Just want to tell those fellas to hold on, and for them to let me get my bearings. I am, after all, ill, so…don’t expect lightning fast reflexes.

The coughing I can deal with, no big problem there–even if it feels like my lungs are exploding every thousand coughs. But, here’s a light of hope: it only hurts when I laugh. Ha ha ha…ooh, boy, that joke kinda died out quick, didn’t it?

It is the fever, this damn mind scrambler, that has me foaming at the mouth. I try to sleep today and, guess what, I have the weirdest dreams. One of them was about a dragon, at least I think so. It’s hard to tell when I’m slipping in and out of a dream state during the three minutes it takes me to fall asleep, which, as well, sort of has its perks.

I want it to break; however, I know the minute it does, those dreams are only going to get stranger, and I am probably going to wake up screaming, or in a cold sweat–oh, great, that means the fever’s breaking!

For now I sit and drink water and read books, going through this especially creepy horror novel right now. Not in the mood to eat. Not in the mood to move–to speak. Now it sounds like I’m bitching, so better cut this short before the mob really does crash in on me for whining about a fever and some seriously weirdo dreams.

Ah, life is too short for puny sicknesses, do you all agree? That’s my axiom. Anyhow, hope none of you are complete sickos right now–but, if you are, may I recommend a quick and costless cure?

Laugh a little bit. Even if it sets you on a coughing fit.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

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