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.


Think of a life without friends.

What life is that?

Think daily,

A Southpaw


Romancing The…Stone is a Cliche.

Anyone in the mood to talk romance? Light up those scented candles and eat a red velvet cake on a satin couch…Whooh, boy–

Me neither. Anyhow, that was getting too hot for Thoughts of a Southpaw–geez, shouldn’t I remember how many innocent minds are reading these posts? Not enough is what I say, am I right? Innocence for the win!

Pardon me; however, we were, I believe, discussing a serious topic; and everyone knows all we cover here at Southpaw International is serious stuff. Spend a day in these rooms…you will have an evening filled with the most terrifying nightmares: kindergarteners picking their noses; dogs pissing on fire hydrants! It’s horrible. It’s downright scary.

But romance is not scary.

At least I hope, for your sake, it is not scary. Hey, if you want to hook up with the Axe Murderer on Gallows Street, please, be my dead guest; and be sure to call at your curfew–never o’ clock.

The sane minded among you, excluding those in flip flops–it is Winter, people–will not chase after the killers in your midst, however dark and handsome they may appear to be; and to tell the truth the darkness is from the shadows.

No, the sane minded will hopefully–this is a leap of faith–go hunting the equally sane minded; obviously they will be attracted to these sane souls, and perhaps some day find a common ground on which both sane minds can frolic…like puppies on a giant ass rainbow.

That a good picture?

There are plenty more portraits where that came from if you will kindly hand over your credit card…or write a check to Romancing the Bloggers Ind.. I hope your duration working with us has been delightf–

Wow. I apologize. That usually doesn’t switch on unless I hit a button.

Getting back to the romance chat, by the way.

Here are some dos and do nots:

DO eat dinner at a fancy restaurant–this is not McDonalds, you cheapskates.

DO NOT eat breakfast at a fancy restaurant–this should go unsaid…

DO get to be friendly with brothers and sisters–ever heard of browning points?

DO NOT get to be friendly with the drunk uncle–though it may seem fun, the reality equals hangovers and hangovers and more hangovers.

DO buy him or her a dog–name it Fido and enter it in the Thanksgiving talent show. You all know what I’m talking about…some of you did not switch the channel after the parade ended…

DO NOT buy him or her a parakeet–a bird that repeats whatever you say in your free time?  Bad idea.

Oh. Looks like I reached the end of the list. Note to self: add more do nots…

Are you still there? What the hell? Leave this computer, or phone, and run after that dame or duke–I mean, don’t go all stalker on their ass, but…you get the point.

Observe at a distance. Scratch that–sounds worse than before. I am genuinely picturing someone dressed up in a black ninja costume jumping behind trees and those pissed on fire hydrants as their crush runs through the park with headphones blaring rock and roll.

Last time. Observe them as you would a wonder of the world.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

A Date? Do Clarify, Dear Sir.

Welcome to the Dating Show! Today we have our contestants–the Businessman; the Jerk; and the Brainiac–all competing for the lovely hand of one jaw-dropping madame. The contest: bob for caramel apples in a barrel the size of an ant!

It ever seem like that to anyone else?

You see a painted target–the painted target you have been eyeing for some time–and luckily you still have a good number of arrows in your holster; but are there arrows enough to compensate for all the target has to offer?

Maybe an arrow is flat. Maybe your bow string snapped a second earlier.

It is impossible to account for all the mishaps which may occur in the course of pre-going-places-with-another-person. Hm, sounds catchy.

The thing to remember; however is not the name of the game, but the game itself. Too many people focus on labels–the urge to slap a title on a flowering relationship; and this can be destructive…hastily destructive.

Artificial cookies never taste as good as the cookies baked thoroughly in an oven to the point of a crisp browning–mmm, it makes the mouth water; and yet eagerly these cooks crank the dial on the stove and heat those suckers up, because, honey, the chocolate is only ever tasty when it’s melted.

Or so it appears.

That said, the dates themselves are to be savored. Yes, the browned cookies are going to be eaten; you have watched that timer run its ticks and its tocks for a satisfying desert. But when will the timer run out? No one can know.

All is left to do is sit and wait and enjoy what is served until it does so.

Truthfully, despite the difficulties and the doubts which can arise it is a ride worth taking; for as in any journey the most meaningful memories are contained within the steps it took to reach that red carpeted end.

Go ahead and dunk your face in the barrel! Whoever said caramel apples came easy?

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