I Am, Therefore I Write

Every once in awhile I like to step out from behind the curtain and write something first person. Long-time readers will know what I mean; it’s actually me, and not some persona I’ve invented to be the catalyst for whatever message I’m attempting to bore you with on that particular day.

So it is that on this particular day I’ve chosen to bore you with how I came to write.

First, I should present my credentials. Herewith is the sum and total of my qualifications: one creative writing class in 11^th grade. Yep, that’s it. We got dual grades; one for content and the other for grammar and punctuation, and I always got an A over a D minus. So, from a purely technical standpoint, I’m not qualified to do what I do. Sue me.

Not counting “required reading” in school, I probably haven’t read more than a couple hundred books in my lifetime. Which sounds like a lot, but really isn’t considering the number of years since I learned how to read. I’ve read Kurt Vonnegut and Erica Jong and Phillip Roth and Tom Clancy, and The Ballad of John and Yoko, and The Coming Crisis of Western Civilization, and a dozen or so books on astrophysics, but not a whole lot else.

My dry sense of humor can be attributed to Mad Magazine, which I devoured as a pre-teen, and National Lampoon some years later. I have 12 chapters of a novel I began writing at age 19 packed away in storage. Unfortunately, it’s three re-writes of the same four chapters. Or, maybe it’s four re-writes of the same three chapters; I don‘t remember exactly. I do, however, remember it not being very good.

Why do it then? What exactly is the point? Must there be a point?

I have no idea. I can tell you this: I do it because I like to do it. And, I suppose that should be enough. But that’s not the only reason I do it. I do it because my TV gets 957 channels and right now there’s nothing on I care to watch; because I couldn’t care less which YouTube video got the most views today; and because I believe that we as a society have lost our collective soul. I do it because I believe I have crested a hill, and on the down slope the view is much different, and I am nagged by the sense that if we do nothing else we should at least attempt to leave a footprint of some kind, for however long it lasts. If I were born 10,000 years earlier it would probably have been an etching of a bison on a cave wall.

So, I write. You can write too. Or, you can do something else, or - nothing at all. It really doesn’t matter.

Or, maybe it does.

Phrases That Spell Trouble

“Would like a word with you”
No one that wants a word with you just wants a word with you.

“Allegedly”
Okay, it’s not technically a phrase, but it bespeaks evil of some sort. No one allegedly won a community service award or rescued a cat from a burning house.

“Sought for questioning”
If someone is A) looking for you, and B) wants to ask you questions, it’s never a good sign.

“You are hereby ordered”
The only time this phrase is followed by anything good is on a greeting card, as in “You are hereby ordered to have a bang-up time on your birthday!” (or Bar Mitzvah, or in-ground pool christening).

“The next thing I knew”
This implies something unexpected happened very suddenly. Never good.

“Declined comment”
If you have nothing to say, you may as well spray-paint the words “guilty as original sin” across your back.

“It’s not you…”
Anyone care to guess what this phrase means? Anyone? That’s right - it means it IS you!”

“Vacate the premises”
What’s the number for U-Haul?

“This is going to hurt like hell”
Self-explanatory.

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back”.
Unless your significant other enjoys role-playing, this is a bad, bad thing.

“Was that supposed to be funny?”
If so, someone didn’t find it amusing. At all.

“But thanks for coming in”
You didn’t get the job \ loan \ parole.

“He don’t look that tough to me”
The reason he don’t look that tough to you is because you’re drunk. Sit down and shut up or you’ll wake up in an ambulance with one or more of your internal organs in a cooler at your feet.

“Affected area”
It’s either a rash or a radiation leak.

“Did you forget where you live?”
Here again, no one really forgets where they live. For more than an hour or so anyway. This phase is a clear indication that you have violated your curfew - by a tremendous margin - and will pay a horrible price for your transgression.

“Cautiously optimistic”
You’re screwed.

Things That Really Bug Me: Volume Three

Theme Week on Facebook:
It’s wild animal week! Change your profile pic to an armadillo or something!

“Fun-sized” candy bars:
Since when is .125 ounces of anything “fun-sized“? A candy bar the size of my foot, now that’s fun-sized.

People Who Run the Waitress Ragged:
If you absolutely must have a glass of water (with lemon), a side of ranch dressing, a clean spoon (which you won‘t even use), extra napkins, the calorie count for the cheesy fries, a saucer, more ranch dressing, the dessert menu, a to-go box, and the cute bartender’s phone number, could you ask for more than one at a time?

Commercials at the Movies:
I just plunked down $10.75 for a ticket and they sneak in three minutes of Coke, Audi, and Century 21 ads.

Terms of Service:
Those are the things you click on the little box to say you’ve read and understand, except you didn’t and don’t.

“Obama wants you to” ads:
Apparently our president, on top of everything else he has to do, has found time to urge me to re-finance my mortgage, go back to school, and picket Tea Party meetings.

Bing:
Want me to use your search engine? Stop shoving it down my throat.

Mismatched socks:
And now you can buy them already mismatched. Let that sink in a few seconds.

Game Requests on Facebook:
No thanks, I really don’t care to play Citytownfarmfrontiersvillelandworld.

Jewelry Ads:
“You know you’re going to buy her that shiny, over-priced rock set in that shiny, over-priced piece of metal”, a husky, male voice intones, “because you don’t even want to think about what’ll happen if her girlfriend gets one and she doesn’t”.

People Who Park in the Fire Lane:
They always slink down in the seat. Like no one is going to notice that car juxtaposed over those diagonal yellow lines.

Asking a “Yes or No” Question and Getting a Seven-Minute Treatise in Response:
Can I get this in steel blue? Were you in the middle of something? Did I really run over your foot? Yes. Or. No.