life

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

Brain Vomit: How To Write

I am a writer. Shocking news…I know; please, don’t all of you have a heart attack at once–I cannot stand writing induced heart attacks. Look at all those other writers who caused heart attacks: Stephen King; Guy De Maupassant; Bram Stoker…Dr. Seuss. It goes on for a while…

I am a writer and I like writing.

Enough said.

Time for the “Think daily”–what’s that? I didn’t talk about writing? Of course I did–I mentioned how writing is an escape route; and, in a story, it is not you who controls the characters but the characters who control you. Dun Dun Duunnnn! Excellent B-horror movie material for all you fledgling movie directors…enjoy, be merry; but remember I accept checks of up to 200 dollars. Toasters just ain’t that cheap any more, folks.

Not as if I wrote a list or anything: I may have some pointers; but, listen, I’m a seventeen year old–what the hell do I know about writing? You put a pen on a paper and let your brain vomit. I really can’t say more. Okay…maybe you scrape off the vomit–the little carrot giblets– and spread some tofu on that sucker, adding a bit of tasteful flavor to your literary work. I forgot–then you turn on a box fan to the highest setting and spray paint your artist studio in tofu vomit…it’ll be hard to tell the difference…Whatever picture shows up, be it a portrait of Jesus Christ or the McDonalds arches; that is the personality of your story.

Then…if you feel up to it…you take a fork from your silverware drawer, a nice thick fork; and walking up to that beauteous Michelangelo-died-of-shock wall stab those prongs into the glob and pile it into…a manilla folder–for storage.

What, did you think I was gonna say your mouth?

Get your head out of the gutter.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Love Is A Funny Thing

I say this from my soul, the bottom of my heart, truthfully and without prejudice–love is a funny thing. It’s not hilarious like a knee slapper, or chest bursting like an excellently written comedy skit..but it is funny, all the same.

I don’t laugh about it. Most of the time; however, I think I should chuckle…a little. So many people are hellbent on finding that spark, that one connection where you can snap fingers in Moscow and your soulmate can snap in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Hard pressed are most of them to uncover their searched for buried treasure: some never find a doubloon of it. Some do. And they are still, believe this, hellbent on the hunt; for them it never ceased.

I sit and I wonder and I wonder. What does it all come to? A heart shaped balloon fit to explode…a conscience the size of a grapefruit, a dry grapefruit, mind you…and a resilience that not a thrown dime can chip. Gleeful thoughts. Sad thoughts. Mood swings. A feeling of confidence–then doubt…The washing machine for the human soul, having a compartment for that too largely swelled heart.

Imagine a drawing, a drawing depicting such a description; and then, then, think of the artist commissioned to sketch it…vividly. No artist should come to mind. None of the human race can truly–though they try–express a feeling, all that are said to be real are imitations. See, just as an artist cannot paint that watercolor of heartbreak, nor can the musician compose the secretive, the personal, melody attuned to the blush inducing state of mind: a crush.

It is almost laughable, I say; and I do so because we spend our lives searching for the unknowable, those crown jewels everyone tells us to forget and leave where we found them. I laugh in delight, not mockery–if so I should be mocking myself; me, one of them fallen prey to this…but words hardly can express…it takes a greater writer to crack the block of ice. It is humanity I laugh at so proudly…that even when we fall off our tricycles we climb back on and spin the wheels again and again and again and again…until the rubber runs flat.

That is all that keeps us.

But, it is best to remember, much like a heart, a flat tire can be pumped.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Slacking In The New Year

I am not too fond of resolutions; no, that has nothing to do with some horrible incident that happened to me as a child. I didn’t become a serial killer because I failed to keep up with my resolution–it is quite the opposite, actually…I became a serial killer for an entirely separate reason.

Kidding. I am kidding. Take a joke.

Resolutions are the poor man’s laundry list, the tasks by which he must improve his life and shove the old life, like a Christmas bag of steaming hot coal, into the dumpster and forget about it…forget about it…forget about it!

I don’t do resolutions well. I don’t say them aloud to myself, nor to any members of my family or friends; and, as a matter of fact, that is the number one reason all of the world fails at committing to their resolutions. It’s like a relationship: if you keep it locked away from the public eye–not saying that’s a bad thing–because you’re not serious about it…well, you can go ahead and return the engagement ring and/or the wilted flowers.

When I attended Taekwondo, a Korean martial art, every Christmas our class broke boards–these are thick boards, too; at least two inches in depth–and on the front each member had to write a New Year’s resolution. Some were challenging; and as I sit there watching people read aloud I am thinking to myself, “Boy…I am so glad I did not have to write a resolution.”

Did I mention only the members who were testing for stripes wrote resolutions?

Yours truly was not the best tester. It’s not as if I didn’t practice–I did what I could with two hours after school and before dinner time; slapped myself in the back with nunchucks; hit my nose so bad I thought I broke it with this tall metal staff. I still have it. It’s badass–super badass.

Yes, I sat and watched and talked to my friends; but never did I consider writing a resolution. I was twelve. I thought they were boring! Seat yourself at a table and pencil out a method of self improvement–yawn, give me a TV remote and a disc of The Greatest Hits of Spongebob, love that little square. I sat and screwed around with my brown belt…real mature stuff coming from a kid whose mother was performing a badass double nunchuck routine, making spinning helicopters and crap…

You expect me to have changed; but, sorry to disappoint, I am the same immature twelve year old who disregards resolutions and would rather stare at the sun instead of writing anything close to that on a piece of paper.

Wait, I lied. I’m seventeen now.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Note: Thanks for noticing last week’s post about bullying. I had no idea putting myself out there so blatantly could be received so well. I hope you all had a Happy New Year and watched the ball drop…or drank a lot and passed out at midnight. Either way…

How I Became Silent In A World Of Noise

People always say silence is golden–personally, I have never seen one yellow spark come shining off that thing; but, hey, we all see life a little bit differently than the person sitting next to us. They say it is golden, methinks, because in a world of noise quiet is a sought after quality: whoever talks the most shows the most; whoever talks the least shows the least.

Think of it this way–those who choose silence are wearing a cape; these people are the tightlipped among us…for a reason. This reason could be embarrassment or anxiety or not feeling strong enough to show themselves…

But you know what else it could be…

Bullies. The kind of people who we should give pity; why? they have such a shitty life they want to hurt others to achieve a wholeness. They wander the world in these large spiked boots and stomp upon anyone who looks a tad–no, a lot–weaker than they are. No one stops it–barely anybody steps in to say, enough!

I am silent because I was bullied.

Middle school. Sixth grade–had a fresh way of looking at the next three years of my life; struggled with grades a bit, but who doesn’t; and there were so many new people I figured I could entertain with my rambunctiousness. Make them laugh. Find some new friends.

I tried to be nice to everybody–people tell me now they don’t think there is a mean bone in my body–and it turned out…not many wanted to be nice back. They called me weirdo; sixlet; and a whole bunch of other names that thankfully have not stayed with me–with the exception of weirdo.

Class started–initiate the teasing. One guy sat behind me in math class, made fun of my glasses, my ears; and guess what? I yelled at the dude. I yelled at him in class, a total of three times. And the teacher standing there, who knew exactly what was going down…he did not do a damn thing to stop this kid.

None of my teachers said anything.

None of my classmates said anything; in fact, I began to think most couldn’t stand me.

Alone and bullied I went into myself. Gone was the loud kid who liked being funny and hoped others thought so, as well; and in his place was a kid who kept his mouth shut and assumed the world was out to tease him. A role reversal, some may say; or a shedding of old skin.

I became silent. Throughout the rest of that year I did not try to be funny or loud.

Thankfully my parents were the SAVIORS OF THE DAY; and rode up to that school and talked to that principal and told them, you need to get your shit together; this boy is being bullied and no one is stepping in to stop it.

And they did–they called up those boys and handled them…no idea how; however shortly afterwards the bulling came to a halt. It was a blockade on their tyranny; and I was so relieved…even though…my bullies had changed me.

For a long time I thought it for the worst: I couldn’t be funny; I couldn’t talk; I couldn’t be me…

Then I started writing.

These short nine page stories in a notebook–at the moment it is atop my desk–ranging from Batman to Call of Duty; fan fiction, if you would. And, hey, don’t bash me! Everyone has to start somewhere! I just happened to…you know…go the route of least resistance?

Anyway…

I wrote them in frenzies, these small three story series; and once I had finished I read them aloud to my parents and relatives–because screw editing at eleven, right…eh? Parents told me they loved ’em; if they hadn’t I wouldn’t have cared–I loved them enough for three dozen people.

Kidding–I got serious self doubt in writing; anything helps…really.

Put simply, where I couldn’t be myself in real life…I could do so in my short stories. Kind of a bad ass science fiction plot, if you ask me; but Isaac Asimov has probably already beaten me to the punch. Besides the fiction–I was comfortable in my shoes in artificial reality…sounds a little depressing, I know; although it hasn’t been to me for the last, what, seven years!

In actual life, as the years passed–read that last bit as if you’re saying “once upon a time”–I battered at my shell with the help of Cross Country and Track; and swore whenever I saw bullying I would put a stop to it. I don’t play teasing…no way, pal.

My friends, even those who don’t know me, are always asking, why are you so nice to everyone? and why are you so quiet all the time? Well, to all those reading–you know who you are–I am nice because no one was nice to me; and I am silent because, I, too, have realized that silence is golden.

Want to know why? It is so hard to come by these days.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Cancer SUCKS–Obviously!

Cancer sucks.

Most of you probably already know that–maybe some of you have had loved ones suffer, or you yourself have suffered, through the disgusting disease known as Ca. N. Cer; he is not a nice guy–the complete opposite of kindness.

If so, I commend you for taking the punch. It’s a rough patch of life to get stuck in; but, thankfully we have thousands of faces smiling down on us and saying, “Remember, we’re here for you…whenever you need us…give us a call…”

Whenever I enter into a conversation now those phrases flush through my mind; I could be chatting football with a close friend–not that I often talk sports–and, by some chance happening, find myself on the topic of cancer: Hey, they doing all right? You should remember, we’re here for you guys…

I know. I have known. And I really wish everyone could stop being so damn awkward about it. It happened. Maybe it is still happening; but you all should know we can power through the roughness.

Do I need to write a memo? A note–a sticky note; here, take one, take a hundred!

Got it yet? I hope so.

But bitterness is not my style; more so I am simply tired of having to wear a mask anywhere I go where people know about the cancer. It’s like a trending topic on Twitter or something–a caption runs above my head and reads, This man is in a family affected by the CANCER! And, yeah, it’s in huge uppercase letters, because it’s a big deal.

Anything’s a big deal when you put it in uppercase letters. Say I’m eating a bunch of green beans and the caption appears with, This man is eating GREEN BEANS; he is the prodigal son of the Green Giant! Or–this man is using TOILET PAPER; and when is that not a big deal?

Cancer is a big deal. I already said so. I promise to stop beating you over the head with it if you do one tiny thing for me–listen well, dearies, I want you to give anyone you know with cancer, or who knows someone else affected by cancer, some good amounts of SPACE; they will love you forever and buy you a fruitcake for the next Christmas.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Christmas Is Here? Right Here?

Oh my gosh, I think I may have a Christmas induced heart attack; quickly someone grab the candy cane defibrillators and throw me on a snowflake stretcher–call my Uncle Rudolph, tell him I always hated that glaring nose of his; and, and—

Is he dead?

Nope. Alive and kicking, all thanks to you random emergency personnel! You got a name tag? I think I want to mail you a Christmas present: how do socks sound for a guy like you? You look like a sock guy. A Hanes guy–let me pen that on a sticky note.

Well, that was fun. But it was not nearly as fun as getting all my presents this morning. Let’s see, a couple of vinyl records–oh, do I hear cheers of joy?–some books of short stories–quite a catch–and a-a Nirvana t-shirt?

Holy Coal Elves! Nirvana! I love those guys!

Raise your hands, everyone–Nirvana fans? Eh? I got one…two…and there’s three.

You guys are great. I have to send you all fruitcakes now, you know; it’s a tradition with me. That said: I hope everyone loves fruitcake as much as I do; if not, then you’ll have to settle with these chocolate chip cookies I baked this morning. Tough choice…

Okay, now, open mic session. I want at least three of you to come up here and tell us what you found under the Christmas tree this morning–speak loud and proud; and let Santa Claus hear those festive words come spewing out of your gingerbread encrusted mouths.

Disregard that image, please, disregard it. I am in a ditzy mood today, what with all these sugary confections–love that word–to stuff inside my stomach, which; as a matter of fact, is also celebrating Christmas…well, as long as the lights aren’t eaten by the acid.

Anyone care to start? Oh, note this, if any of you are here for the Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting, it’s in the other auditorium. Yeah. I wanted to let you know…in case things started getting strange when we were talking about reindeer night clubs–and some of those can get seriously steamy; it’s a wonder the North Pole hasn’t melted yet.

I suppose I could begin–take the microphone here…brought a list of the stuff I got…

From the top: a one super radical Nirvana record; a one equally super radical Rolling Stones record; a one okay radical Van Halen record; a one okay radical–

Is no one else bored? I certainly am. Hell, originally, I was gonna sip some egg nog and watch Christmas Vacation; but apparently I had somewhere to be tonight. Understand, I was totally going to invite you guys, honest truth. I didn’t even write a speech.

Oh, you have notecards? No thanks. I-I’ll pass for now; but later…keep ’em in reach.

So…Christmas…fun times. I see some of you wore your sweaters; Snoopy, a badass as usual; and Santa– wait, is that a picture of him…no! Put that away! We have children here! Go on with your nasty self. Wearing a sweater of Santa riding a Harley Davidson; what is happening to the world these days?

Well, I think I might lie down, got a tummy of gingerbread and ham and soon to be fruitcake. You can let yourselves out. The doors were locked; but I decided that was too Die Hard…have to be original around here.

Happy New Year–and…what is it? Oh. Merry Egg Nog Drinking!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Cold Weather Blues

Got my guitar all strapped up? Good. And it’s tuned? Even better. It feels incredible to hold–the wood and the strings and the bunch of other guitar terms I don’t know because I don’t play it that often.

Is the microphone working? Hello? Anyone hear me?

I suppose you can all hear me fine because none of you are giving signs; mostly you’re drinking your wine and your beers and eating whatever the hell they served for dinner tonight. Is it tuna? Cod? Cod. Oh, yuck; they have worse taste here than they did two years ago when they served spam patties.

To not bother you with my horrible jokes tonight–what’s punch without the punch line, eh?–I am going to leave it to my favorite pianist, Blind Henry, to entertain you with his musical genius while I serenade you with words and ideas. Sound okay?

What’s that you’re saying, Blind Henry? Ha! He wants to play Clair de Lune! He says he played it all through his school years–how he got the name Grand Pianist. Well, pal, I was thinking something along the lines of White Christmas; but if you feel that song tonight, then play on. Boy, I love this guy; he’s been with me since childhood.

All right, I got my drink here and a bowl of, what is it, nachos, super cheesy nachos; and I am ready to start this event with a bang. And thank you, Blind Henry, for that well-placed crescendo; a real genius the guy is.

Okay, if I got my guitar strummed–ooh, hear that? horrible tuning on my part. Hang on…and…I got it; I have it. Look at all you now: you’re nothing but chuckleheads! Do I have to play or is my screwup enough laughing gas to sustain you for two hours?

Ahem.

Well, we are all gathered here tonight because one–your car broke down and you had nowhere else to go but the night bar on the side of the street; or two, you actually came here to listen to a mediocre singer belt his lungs out and hopefully do an average job on your favorite Christmas songs. Either way you get free beer.

I hope–I sincerely hope the lot of you are here for the latter; and if you happen to be I wish you a Merry Christmas because this tune might make you wish Scrooge came back from the dead and shot me with a candy cane rifle.

I thought it up one afternoon, just sitting and sunbathing on the lawn; it’s a doozy.

Blind Henry, my man, you ready? He’s giving the thumbs-up; I think we are good to go, folks. Please excuse my crappy guitar skills–they are a thirteen year work in progress.

This is from my new album: Christmas Bells and Elf Hairdos. It’s something I like to call, The Cold Weather Blues.

Early morning, just out of bed

Got my coffee boiling, kids decorating…dread

Outside the car is spoiling, at least it’s not wrecked

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, the daylight time is here

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, I should have had no fear

Real time scorning, I only tapped his head

Gave them a warning, should have toasted pastries instead

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, the daylight time is here