humor

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

Writing is the New Running

It should be obvious by now: I like to write. If I hated writing I would not do it; however as it is my favorite hobby I devote what little time I have to its pursuance–perhaps one day as a career. It is calming and acts as a source of release for me; all the pent up issues in a day are blown out in 500 or 600 words a night.

But you know what else is calming?

Running five six or miles. You know how it feels to strap on your shoes–okay, who actually straps on shoes? we all have laces for a reason–and leave your driveway or apartment staircase and go jogging inside a mental marshmallow. At first you may hate this feeling–and then you will grow to love the runner’s high received from running comfortably for a long period of time. It has nothing to do with drugs.

The thing is, running and writing are not as separate as they seem: they both require excessive mental endurance; they both act as forms of release from stress–although some stories can be stressful–and for both pacing is key.

What do I mean by pacing?

A story needs conflict and character–action and rest.

A race needs sprinting and running–action and rest.

To master each form you must understand them. I’m not about to spout some Mr. Miagi be-one-with-the-story junk; but when excelling in writing and running you have been through the ringer with them; you have sat down next them on the bus and fired up an emotional conversation in which both parties shed at least one tear; and you have been versed in all of their likes and dislikes throughout life.

This sounds more serious than it is, you say. Perhaps on that you are right, but are you willing to step out there and get to know these activities, to cherish them fully for what they not only appear to be but truly are?

Running and writing are buddies; their friendship is unmatchable even on the standards of Frodo and Sam…or the pilots in Top Gun. If you happen to do both take them out to dinner some time and observe the fluidity arising from their sudden union. Buy writing breadsticks…and get running a platter of salad–he is always on about his diet.

And get this, I ask him, “Hey, Running, you want some chocolate cake?” He turns slowly in his sweaty singlet and gym shorts–all the while he is staring with those grassy eyes of his–and replies, “Have you forgotten I am in your head? You’re not even talking to a real person!”

Joke’s on him, I guess…

Bye for now. I’m going to invite Drawing to the art museum–he’s a quiet guy.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Talking Like A Sailor–Not Swearing

One of the things I love most about Moby-Dick is its realistic dialogue: while reading of the endeavors of the crew of the Pequod and the ballistic Captain Ahab you feel as if you are stowing away inside the ship and listening to the commonplace interactions between sailors–except there are no rats, nor are there leaks…unless you like to read in the bathtub.

The words they use sound lifelike–granted, sailors have a special lingo like that of businessmen: instead of data they say stowage; instead of bathroom they say poop deck; and while these words are enjoyable they are nothing compared to a good ol’ Aargh! or Shiver me timbers!

But I am talking about whaling sailors, not cartoonish pirates. Here’s looking at you, Blackbeard.

Ahab is by far the most articulate individual aboard. Whenever he comes into the next chapter a shiver runs down your spine–and as you change your drawers you hear aloud his insulting orders towards Starbuck–hey, isn’t that the coffee place?–and Stubb.

My favorite line is from Ahab: “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.” To me that sounds supremely badass. I picture a muscle bound Ahab with a gold casing on the tip of his peg leg soaring on a white whale bone sled towards the jeering sun. Not enough badass? Give him a harpoon gun fueled by the blood of Moby Dick that fires high velocity water torpedoes. And a dragon–put a dragon at the front of the sled.

I am reasonably sure there are sailor dictionaries out there in the wide world of this-book-is-random-but-it-is-still-loads-of-fun-to-read sections. If I checked out the comedy section in Barnes and Noble it would likely be stowed between a copy of training a crocodile to drink tea and the Klingon dictionary–my uncle can converse in the language.

Take this as a book recommendation. Go find a copy of Moby-Dick to educate yourself in the cultured dialogue of whalers, if not to savor the knowledgable bits on the actual topic of whaling. Herman Melville knew his stuff…

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Cars: The One First Everyone Remembers

They come in varying shapes and sizes and colors and scents and tastes and– to put it simply they are the chariots of the American Dream; a customizer would sell his or her family to obtain a classic beauty and jazz it up; some children believe it their rite of passage to be handed those jingling keys and the dependability which accompanies them.

Old men love them. Old women love them.

Young men love them. Young women love them.

Teenagers drool over them: what would you do if your dream vehicle all of a sudden appeared in your driveway? There is your parent holding the keys over your trembling head–as a matter of fact it is your sixteenth birthday, and you did pass the driving test yesterday. No coincidences in this situation.

Of course I am referring to cars.

What is the first image popping into your head? A Volkswagen beetle, or even better a van; although nowadays those prices are steep. A hot rod–my neighbor owns a loud one. A pickup truck…not a bad choice. A Jeep.

Hold on. A Jeep?

Please tell me you’re lying; someone put to you up to this. Were you double dog dared?

I see–triple dog dared. Okay, go ahead and sit down in the back…yes, we’ll talk later.

Geez, man, Jeeps? Can you believe that guy?

Back to the point:

There is something to be said about the thrills received from driving aimlessly across the interstate system. Towns you never heard of appear instantaneously on the sides of the road; for example you see a sign reading Kimbolish and beneath it in blue letters, 4 miles, but you realize Kimbolish sounds like the dumbest name for a town and you stopped to take a leak not five minutes ago. So grab a t-shirt, a mug with the town name spelled in foam letters upon the ceramic…call it a day. But if you forget to try their local burger joint, then stop off at Fernaningo–the ghost town fifteen miles ahead. I heard they specialize in mystery meat.

Cars are also the social markers of our world. The next time you are prowling the streets–to some of you it may be an everyday routine–watch the reactions to the driver in the sports car compared to the driver of the mini van; babies laugh when one of those horns go off—and it is not the latter.

What was your first car?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Fortun(-e)ate Son. Clever, Huh?

You go to a Chinese restaurant for a number of reasons:

The dumplings.

The crazy dragon architecture–they are not spouting real fire.

And the fortune cookies; but to be honest those were the first images which popped into your head, weren’t they? Professional psychic, people; I work Tuesdays and Sundays, so go ahead and leave your check on the doorstep.

Anyhow…

We were discussing Chinese interests, choice among them fortune cookies; but have you ever wondered how truthful their slips are? See, I look at it optimistically: once you crack open a cookie the fortune listed directly relates to your life. And if your life is literally going down the toilet, perhaps the fortune will say, “Time for a deep plunge,” or if it’s one of those cheeky slips, then “Surf’s up, dude. Hang ten.”

Burn those cheeky slips. Set a torch to ’em–they were manufactured in Hell anyways.

But you know which cookies you dream of…the ones perfectly describing your tumultuous love life by saying, “Tulips are the color of your money…and your heart.” Excuse me, in modern terms, “Buy her tulips, you cheapskate.” What is that going to get you?

I got a cookie today telling me to “maintain my appetite and accept the smaller things” The thing is, I run, so unless it is referring to my current relationship–actually, scratch that, it only makes sense for vampires and cannibals. I don’t eat girls.

I might as well take it into consideration. And so should you. Go to a Chinese restaurant, drool over the dragons–maybe some of you want to take selfies under its gaping jaws–then buy rice and more rice; and take a bag of fortune cookies home with you. Read them out loud at the table…even if they say, “A trip to the bathroom is imminent in your future.”

By the way, be careful about that rice.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Talking to Girls. It’s A Craft.

You are standing right beside her and are currently tasked with catching her attention. She has to notice you–by God it was you who saw her from the corner of your eye; it was you who walked over here! If that isn’t courage, then you would be better off engaging the girl talking to the water cooler!

Take a deep breath. Loosen up a bit.

Ah, is she turning? Her eyes find you and a smile spreads on her face. She says, “Hello.”

Brilliant work, my friend. You have succeeded up to the point where others back down–walking up to the girl you’ve had your eyes on since she first walked into the room. Truly, well done; now all is left is to talk back. Go ahead. Say something. Don’t stand there stuttering! And…you missed your chance; either way she was smiling at the guy behind you…yes, that guy.

Time for review:

The first thing you missed–saying hello back, even if it was not to you. Don’t you know girls like it when you intrude on their conversations? Kidding, of course; everyone hates it when people intrude on their conversations. Take Anti-Eavesdropping 101.

The second thing–

Nope. No second mistake because you didn’t make it past the first step.

What? A retry? Sorry, pal, she walked away; and unless you cross paths on the dance floor the chances are slim she will know your name by the end of the night. But maintain hope–she’s going to have to refill her drink at some point…and would not it be a coincidence if you were standing there at exactly the same time?

Searching for her, are we? Not a bad plan…could be refined. Watch out for the tall guy carrying the tray–ouch, you probably have to pay for those drinks. Go ahead and brush past the gossipers; and–my, my, you did find her.

Okay. Take a deep breath. Loosen up a–

You forgot to loosen up! Flexibility is essential!

And now you’re reaching for her shoulder–amateur–wait, she is turning and it is a smile; and she says, “Hi there.”

Tip number one: say “Hello.” The rest is rocket science.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Tarzan–Alter Ego: APE-MAN!

I will admit my mistake:

As it turns out in the book Clayton is not the father of Tarzan. Yes, that may come as a shocker–it did to me. William Cecil Clayton is not remotely an enemy in the book either; however he is a jealous dog when it comes to the budding relationship between Tarzan and Jane. At one point he wants to kill Tarzan to get his girl…Maybe stretch the boundaries some more on English politeness a bit there, Clayton; she is after all attracted to Tarzan’s primal nature.

Tarzan surprises me. His range of abilities and strength seems never-ending; add to that the comparisons Burroughs makes between Tarzan and Apollo, as well showing him off as the penultimate athlete of the human race, and he is a near indefatigable superman. I expect next to read that he can leap tall buildings in a single bound…

Watch, he’s going to put a big green T on his chest, and tell Jane Porter it stands for Bananas. Don’t get me started on the cape–weaved of the finest jungle vines and colored with two spoonfuls of lion blood. He is Ape-Man. All obey Ape-Man. All feed Ape-Man bananas and raw meat.

Okay…he doesn’t eat bananas. Silly me, stereotyping Tarzan as an ape.

At least the Tarzan-Jane-Clayton love triangle is bearable. Although after listening to Jane Porter gush over the primitiveness of her godly “jungle man” and how it makes her feel dangerous and free; and then ditching him because Clayton jealously claims he is a cannibal, I cannot tell where her loyalties lie. Is this the Secret Life of the Woman Who Takes A Trip to Africa and Finds A Suitable Husband Before Ditching Him For A Man With the Middle Name Of Cecil?

Not that Cecil is a bad name…but compared to Ape-Man–where else are you going to find a man who has more skill than the whole of the human race? The answer: Africa.

Note: Apologies for the late post. I have had a lot of excitement the past few days and it has kept me busy; but if ever I get busy again and miss a day be assured I will post as soon as possible.

Think daily,

A Southpaw