life

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

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

Shining In Shades Of Gray

Our world sees the human personality as divided into separate halves of black and white. From the moment you come into this…call it a skating rink of individuality through the arms of a nurse or a friend you have a certain shine about you. It does not mean you were dipped in a bucket of floor polish or wax; in fact the shine has less to do with the outside than it does with the inside.

Some are white. And some are black. But it seems there can be no in between. No one is allowed to switch sides. No one is allowed to grab their identification card and tear it up and say the hell with it. No one is allowed to do these things because the shades organize–they practice conformity. Follow the white light and seek out life. Follow the black light and seek out life.

But to follow the gray light?

There is a place out there, a nice place, where stands a door. What is the door? The door is what you wish it to be. Want a door made out of clouds? Make it happen. How about an old fashioned medieval head knocker? Go for it. Except the one unchangeable thing about this door is what lies behind it. Change the exterior to your content, but the interior is unknowable…until you turn the knob.

Most hesitate before opening the door when in actuality the hardest part is stepping inside the room–an empty space in which your personality must bloom and spread its seasoned tendrils from the other side.

The gray light flashes in there.

And as you are stepping carefully around the laughing blacks and whites of Our World you feel your shine slipping off your body. Watery colors leak from your clothes. Perception dwindles to a pinprick. And there comes a buzzing within your head–it may frighten you but stick with it–as if an alien is paralyzing your brain and distorting your features: it is anxiety towards reinvention.

And once you reopen your eyes you wonder how you avoided the gray for so long.

You shine in all shades–never limit yourself to black and white.

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