life

Who Is My Role Model?

What’s happening, people? Hope you are all having a great day doing whatever it is that makes you happy. That comes straight from the heart, dudes–and dudettes–so don’t take it for granted.

I wanted to talk something dear to me. I know, I know, all of you are saying, “what is not dear to you?” Well, everything matters to me–even though it may be hard to be seen on this rugged surface.

See, I get a lot of people telling me how much I inspire them, or how I’m a role model; and sometimes that’s hard for me to see in myself. Everyone, I think, has trouble seeing that special quality about themselves that makes people stop and watch because somehow they’re doing something right, or they’re doing something that no one else would dare to do because they’re strong: their strength is infectious and it affects all those around them.

I have my own role model, of course; I mean, who doesn’t? I have my own someone that makes me want to do better than I can, to do better than I ever have, because nothing I do is going to amount to how inspiring they are in their casual routine.

Isn’t that funny? We go around the world, hunting after a purpose or a goal; and, along the way, we unintentionally move others to be more they can be. It sounds impossible, but it happens everyday.

Look around: they’re out there, being superheroes in broad daylight, the ones who don’t need capes to prove their speed, the ones who don’t need powers to prove their strength, the ones who don’t need bulletproof suits because their heart is armor, an impenetrable defense that protects those it reaches out to.

Sounds like fiction, I know. You’re asking yourself, “How are these people real?” Truth is, the best ones don’t need a spotlight to cast over their good deeds. They have a trophy. It’s the warmth inside that fuels their every step, their every action.

Whenever these people tell I’m their role model, I thank them–it truly does mean a lot; but then, I also think to myself, how on Earth can I be as good as my role model? I would have to be three times the man I am.

Honestly, I don’t know how she does it, but it is inspiring every time.

You go, girl.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

Interview With A Blogger

Tell me something, chaps. Tell me who you really are.

No, I don’t mean the you in public or the you in school or the you around your family–I mean you, the actual living and breathing sack of flesh that you are. Maybe with a bit more personality thrown in.

You don’t want to tell me?

Oh, I guess you don’t know me that well. Here, my name is Will, nice to meet you. A little more introduction? I’m a senior in high school…I run a bit…I write a bit more…and sometimes I frequent television, mostly Netflix.

That’s your name? Great name! Might give it to one of my kids–if I ever have any. See, a joke, I just broke the ice a little. Tell me a bit more about yourself. Okay…uh-huh…I love doing that, too! We’re like twins–except not at all!

Allow me to continue:

I like to eat cheeseburgers–love me some bacon!–and my favorite TV shows have got to be Mad Men and Breaking Bad. I’ve written a couple novels and recently I got third place in a writing contest, got some money off it. Family is also pretty important to me–hanging with those people, well, maybe not 24/7; but I plead the teenager rule.

Now you go and tell me all the happy things in your life. Doo-doo-doo…and boom, we say our good-byes and part ways. Life continues on as it always has, will, and is–hey, that confused me.

Say we reverse. Say we go back and, instead of telling all about the happiest parts of our lives and acting as if we are all living in a Leave It To Beaver rerun, we take a chance and spill our guts.

Second Go:

Oh, I guess you don’t know me that well. My name is Will Boswell, a name I happen to really really like. Little more introduction? I’m a senior in high school and cannot wait to be shot of this crappy joint, I mean it is bugging the hell out of me, all these tests and the homework. Oooh, gimme a break.

Your turn! What? Not feeling as up to it as you were the first time? You say you’re a tad uncomfortable? I’m not what you thought I was when you first talked to me? Interesting how our perceptions can change when we say we know a person through and through, but, as it turns out, we don’t…at all.

What if you told me all your secrets? All your taboos?

Hell, I might ditch you then and there–but, then again, I might not. It depends.

That’s a smart ass answer. 

Yeah, it is, but you are lying to yourself if you say you’re not wondering about that question.

I do; in fact, quite recently, I decided I hate it when people assume they know me, when they say I’m perfect. Hey, if a can of Pringles can’t be perfect, then I can’t either. We’re not gods here. We’re all humans–like I said, living and breathing sacks of flesh.

Then why, why do people freak when they learn you’re not all you’re chocked up to be?

It’s like we enjoy staring at a portrait covered in drapes. We can eat our snacks and drink our drinks and watch–just watch it be covered. But, take off the drapes, we leave. Jack Nicholson walks into the room and says, “We can’t handle the truth,” then he morphs into Jack Torrance and butchers all us remaining folks with a friggin axe. Redrum…Redrum…

What would happen if we took off the drapes in the first place?

You have an answer? No? You just created another secret, added another drape.

End of session.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

 

Haircut From Hell!

Has everyone seen that picture on the site? The one of me with a bushy head of hair, hair to keep me warm on cold days, hair to swing around like I’m some kind of discount Fabio? Except without the Russian accent?

Yes…well, that hair is gone. I cut it two days ago.

Oh, stop crying, it wasn’t your hair. Too many people are living reciprocally through other people’s hairdos these days. When Elvis had the pompadour, wannabe rockers dropped to their knees and begged the Rock n’ Roll God to bestow upon them a bee-u-tiful head of oily locks. But those rockers begged too much and got the Fat Elvis treatment.

Thank you, thank you, thank you very–ooh, a doughnut!

Not to say I don’t like this new hairdo. It fits me, maybe not the free floating strands that, when they get in my eyes, piss me off and make me want to throw a chair at a wall. Kidding, that’s a bit much. I have to be careful or the Anger Management Police will lock me up for attitude.

Son, it’s the brig for you.

What for? I’m seventeen!

You wanna say what for again? Or do you wanna say what for, sir?  Stuck up little millennial. 

It is going to take some getting used to–this hair of mine. Honestly, it’s hard to resist the urge to slap on a ball cap sometimes, got this sweet OU hat–Go Sooners! Woo!–and it finally fits on my gigantic marble of a skull. But, for all I know, my mother would get mad at me for covering it up.

One sure thing I miss is the warmth. This is a near buzzcut I got going on. See, in the military, they don’t expect you to wear a scalped Chewbacca on yer back; back in my day, all we had was beaver skins, beaver skins and towels–those damn, dirty towels.

Sorry, got into my Old Man From ‘Nam routine there.

Hair! What do you do about it? You comb it, wash it; you get it sticky with syrup sometimes  and a dog comes to the rescue as a personal vacuum. Yes, lick, lick; it’s all you’re good for anymore.

Or, when you go to bed with a mere cowlick, you wake up in the morning and it looks like God staged a hurricane on your head. You find Moses standing in your shower and, instead of a staff, he’s holding a shaving kit. He says, ” Hair, you shall not part”–oh, wait, wrong bearded dude.

Eh, it’s all the same.

They both got beards and staffs.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

Here Goes The Post-Pubescent Teen…

So, I’ve got a cheap band-aid wrapped around my thumb. It’s irritating the hell out of me , not only because it’s hard to wash my hands, but it does not seem to be doing its job of stopping the soreness. While you’re reading this, imagine me in mortal pain: the tears, the blood, the guts–oh, dear Lord, someone get an ambulance!

I’m kind of in a pissy mood though. Generally, that doesn’t happen me too much, as I am a  pretty optimistic dude–and I almost misspelled optimistic, this is going great–but sometimes you gotta bite the onion and breathe in someone’s face.

That’s a weird image. Don’t do that.

You ever like someone and–

Oh, here the Teenager goes…blah-de-bloo…so sad romance…boo-hoo. 

Anyhow, as I was saying, you ever like someone and tell yourself: well, I suppose this is the one, the one I’ll wait for, the one I’ll spend money on, the one I’ll ask to dances, the one I’ll be able to fart around. You know? And then life bitchslaps you and says, You got it wrong, son! It’s snake eyes for you! Then you want to punch life in its happy little face because you’re so angry and depressed and demotivated and tired and hungry and overworked and overpaid and–okay, back on track, I promise.

If you haven’t felt that, go feel it. You’ll think someone dropped a bowling ball on your heart.

What I am pissed about, and I know all are listening with bated breath, is–at last breaking free of that one sided game of Tag, You’re It…but then, sooner than you think, coming right back to it because a stinking piece of hope crept back into your brain and said:

Oh, heeeey, remember that one girl, you know, that one, the one you said you were done with for all eternity, not including loopholes? That one? Thaaaat one?

Yes, but why are you bringing that up again? I was thinking about Rocky Road ice cream. 

This is just me, you know, speaking out loud, but, you know, you might, maybe, have a little–a teensy bit, a smidgen, really–chance, or, opportunity, at, well, having a shot with them again? So, sign here on the blue line and seal your life away! Ding-Ding-Ding! We have a winner!

Yeah. That happened to me. It sucks. Know’s what worse? It’s still happening.

And, for the holy, high school, almost a graduate, life of me, I can not get the thought out of my head. I think God took a bottle of Gorilla Glue, laughed, and lathered it on the back of that puppy before slapping it on my brain. Hey…maybe that’s why I had a headache last week.

Or I ate too much ice cream. I’m a fiend for it.

Sorry, God, you can go back to shopping at the Hobby Lobby in Heaven.

Oh, girls, or boys, if you’re a girl reading this post, they can make you soooo–

Oh, ah! Brain Freeze! God, come back–quit fantasizing over coupons!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

That Traveling Life

At the moment, I am not stationed in Southpaw Industries; as a matter of fact, this post is being written from the dark sitting room of a Holiday Inn in the Panhandle. It’s a bit creepy–I appear to be the only one down here and keep imagining a clown will come bursting through the Exit door on my right.

But enough of my irrational fears. We’re here to talk about stuff.

I have been traveling, cramped and grumpy and extremely constipated, in a small Volkswagen all across this great state of Oklahoma–any of you reading from Oklahoma, gimme a big high-five, ’cause I was born there.

Off the radar and out of wireless connection is where I have spent these last three days, my  only eating choices being fried meat…or fried vegetables. BLECCHHH! Excuse me, have to wipe some puke off the keyboard. Does anyone else think this is starting to sound like the beginning to a really effective horror movie? No? Just me?

Oklahoma is actually a great place. There’s tons of bathrooms: you step behind a tree and…you know; and if you’re ever searching for well-done chicken fried anythings, the millions of Cracker Barrels will fix you up like that.

I could do without the crappy gas station restrooms, specifically the toilet seat off which someone forgot to wipe their piss, making it look like a sparkling yellow platter of snow. That, and the constant spitting of tobacco everywhere–I feel like I have to imitate Michael Jackson to avoid those white stains.

Whoo, boy, I tell ya.

A side note: this is the second hotel in three nights. Lord help me if I have to sleep on another spring trapped mattress, that, when I wake up in the morning, leaves these swirling spring marks on my chest. I’m not an X-Man, and I have no desire to be.

Thankfully, this’ll be it for the week, then it’s back to Southpaw Industries, where I will sit and eat Twinkies and Ding-Dongs–and do none of that because, in actuality, I am quite healthy and am obsessive compulsive when it comes to running. Go figure.

I better get out of this sitting room before someone suspects I’m a creep who looks at his laptop in dark rooms.

Oh, wait.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Note: Apologies for the lateness, but I was attending a funeral the past few days and had little time to sit down and plug out one of these posts. Hope you all are doing well.

 

 

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

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

 

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