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Mixed Messages

10/22/2013

It could just be me and my individual perspective, but it seems as though I've been receiving a lot of mixed messages lately. I can't help but wonder if it's my perception or if others also receive mixed messages in their day to day lives.

For example: I submitted two of my poems to a literary journal recently and, instead of the usual rejection where the publisher simply says "Thank you, but your stuff doesn't appeal to us just now" (okay, I'm paraphrasing there), the senior editor felt it necessary to add his junior editor's comments --I assume as a form of constructive criticism to help me improve as a writer or to lessen the blow of rejection. The comments had to do with two poems I have on this site. The first was "The Promise." The comment from the junior editor was simply "I didn't get it."

Really? (Read the poem folks and judge for yourselves. I honestly don't know how anyone could not 'get it.')

The second was in reference to another poem on this site called "Meeting Death." The constructive criticism I received on that one was, "Had it not been for the title, I wouldn't have known what it was about."

Okay. Granted, I have a degree in Language Arts that includes a good portion of studying literature, but really? The junior editor assumed the title was an afterthought? That if he or she hadn't had the epiphany that the title might tie in with the body of the poem they wouldn't have fully understood it? And that, because they had 'editor' somewhere in their job title or employment application, no other readers would have understood that most poems relate to their title in some way?

I was angry. I admit that. Yet, I've experienced enough rejection letters that I'm fairly thick-skinned and can slough them off. I think it was the junior editors' helpful 'comments' that got to me this time. It bothered me that they were so obtuse about the work. It bothered me even more that they might assume my potential readers were that obtuse.

I don't normally do this (because it's never a good idea to burn bridges), but I sent a fairly terse letter to the senior editor of the publication stating in very politically correct terms that his junior editors were morons who shouldn't really be evaluating a writer's work.

Here's the best part:

The senior editor emailed me back to say that the editors didn't really have any writing/literary background and that they were volunteers because the publication couldn't really afford to pay those with experience or credentials. He acknowledged the comments were "off the mark," but to make up for it he offered me a free year's subscription to the literary journal.

Oh boy! You can probably imagine my joy in knowing I would receive, gratis, a year's worth of a literary journal where the editors were (admittedly) completely incompetent! Obviously, I bypassed my complimentary e-code and deleted the email.

Another mixed message I recently received: As an educator, one of the buzz words going around in public education awareness recently is "bullying." As teachers we should be more observant of it, sensitive to it, and aware of it. We've been told this in more than a few staff meetings.

I couldn't agree more.

So I read a recent article in the New York Times where two teenage girls were being prosecuted because their bullying led to the suicide of another teenage girl.

Wow. That's some serious stuff. And a teaching/learning opportunity that, as teachers, we should jump on. I emailed a copy to my colleagues in the English/Language Arts department simply pointing out the educational opportunity that (if they were comfortable with discussing it) was available to us through this event. If they weren't comfortable with the topic or would rather not address it, no problem. I'm not in a position to dictate curriculum.

Two days later I received an email from my supervising administrator saying (I'm summarizing here) that my contributions to the department were valued and appreciated, but not to not send out any more emails like that.

Here's the best part:

He concluded the email by stating he looked forward to more of my input and participation.

Now, I'm old enough and have seen more than my share of rodeos, so I know I can't be the only one who receives mixed messages. I guess what bothers me most is that the mixed messages we're often sent directly relate to who we are as individuals and, by way of that understanding, to our loved ones.

Maybe it's a matter of having the crap slapped out of us while being told how much we're appreciated and loved.

Maybe that's supposed to make it easier to turn the other cheek.

But to be honest, I think I'm ready to start slapping back, whatever the outcome.

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Everything Old is New Again

10/19/2013

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Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis. Maybe it’s simply that I’ve never completely lost my immaturity. Maybe it’s nostalgia.

However, it may be a well planned and executed marketing strategy.

            Whatever the reason, it seems that things are becoming more cyclical and every thing old is new again.

            The other night I was wasting time online – I mean, researching for possible writing projects – and discovered I was looking at cars for sale. Not just any cars. Chevys. More specifically, Chevy Novas. Even more specifically 1971 Chevy Novas with a V8, gold color, black vinyl top, automatic transmission, and a decent interior. Okay, I was looking for my first car.

            That in itself is a bit ridiculous, because I totaled that car in 1978 by plowing through two guardrails, spinning the car around 180 degrees and hanging its ass end up in a tree. The last time I saw the car, it was in the wrecking yard giving me a bent, twisted, but decidedly guilty look as though to say, “How could you do this to me?” I grabbed all my cassettes off of the floor and quickly left, trying very hard not to look back

But that’s another story.

I began to realize that many of the cars available now are “re-creations” or “tributes” or simply cars being re-introduced. Camaros, Mustangs, Chargers…they all have the latest gadgets and safety features but resemble those models from the sixties or seventies. Then I realized that when I was a kid in the 1970’s one of the most popular shows on television was “Happy Days” which took place in the 1950’s. As we moved into the 1990’s “That ‘70’s Show” became very popular. Now that we’re moving into the 2010’s (or is it 20’teens or…hell, who knows?) everyone is starting to get all goo-goo over “Seinfeld” and “Friends” again. (By the way, goo-goo is a technical literary term that writers sometimes use, but it should be left to professionals.)

That’s when I had the epiphany. Sure, I’ve had a ton of epiphanies that people seem to quickly judge as simple, weird thinking, but this is different.

If everything old is new again, why not resurrect other things people are nostalgic for and make some bank from it? It’s brilliant. I hope manufacturers are reading this when I suggest the following:

* Re-introduce Mt. Dew the way it was originally marketed –with a hillbilly laying down drunk and swiggin’ from a moonshine jug.

* Bring back the Pillsbury knock-off of Kool-Aid that had such colorful flavors like “Injun Orange” or “Chinese Cherry.”

* “The Frito Bandito.” ‘Nuff said.

* That beautiful old pickup from the 1950’s Chevy made and called “The Apache.”

* Bring back the Chevy Impala. Okay, I know they did that, but they brought it back as an even cheesier version of a current Ford Taurus. Bring it back
                  in all its 1960’s muscle car glory.

* Resurrect the Trans-Am. There could even be a remake of “Smokey and the Bandit” to help sell a gazillion of them. (By the way, gazillion is another
                technical literary term that should be left to professionals.)

* BRING BACK “KNOCKER-BOCKERS”!!! You remember the greatest toy ever made. It consisted of two hard-plastic, golf-ball sized balls connected by a string with a small ring in the middle. You clacked them together faster and faster
                until one shattered and threw plastic shrapnel everywhere. They were even
                more fun than Superballs (I won’t even try to explain those to anyone who
                hasn’t experienced them. I’d probably end up being arrested.)

But most of all bring back the 1971 Chevy Nova. I think I could even deal with it not having any safety features. I’ve matured –a little. And I can even guarantee that I won’t end up hanging its ass end up in a tree.

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On Brothers, Gangs and Advice

10/12/2013

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I’ve mentioned elsewhere in my blogs that I was the youngest of five children and the youngest of four boys. You would think that having that many brothers would be like having your own gang, although if we were to go with the gang option, our gang colors would have been hand-me-downs, rolled up denim jeans, work boots (they lasted longer), plaid work shirts (they lasted longer too) and short hair –not the kind of image likely to strike fear in other gangs.

Dad’s rule: He gave you $5 to go get your hair cut, however you liked, just so long as it didn’t touch your eyebrows, your ears or your collar. Not a lot of leeway with those instructions.

But the hair cut only cost $3.50, so if you were within those boundaries, you got to keep the change. However, if you dared to challenge those rules, he would march you right back to the barber’s and have your hair cut his way. No one wanted that. I don’t think it ever happened.

So much for having a tough gang.

Older siblings do like to dispense advice, although I was too young, too stupid or a combination of the two to realize that often their advice was intentionally wrong.

For example: One of my older brothers decided to take up chewing tobacco. I guess because my grandfather chewed tobacco, Gary thought it might bump him up a bit on the favorite-grandkid-o-meter. (Little did he know, I think my grandfather pretty much hated all kids.)

Gary got pretty good at chewing tobacco too. I’d hang out in his bedroom with him and he’d open the window and spit a thick brown stream out the window and onto the lawn. Simply put, to me, it just made him look tough. Looking tough is quite a feat for a 16-year-old kid who is 6’3” and weighs about 145 lbs. but the tobacco and the squirt-spitting was helping him pull it off.

I began to wonder if I could try.

“Absolutely,” he said.

He then advised me to take the biggest wad of tobacco I could manage and stuff it into my cheek. I did, even though it felt like a billiard ball and tasted like dead…well, whatever the grossest dead thing you can think of might taste like.

I tried spitting out the window a few times, but my prowess in spitting was only matched by my stupidity and soon my white tee shirt looked like a crow stood backward on my head, overdosing on Ex-lax.

Then the room began to spin a bit.

Me: “Gary, it feels like the room is starting to spin. What do I do?”

Gary: “Whatever you do, do NOT spit out the tobacco. If you do that, you’re sure to get sick. It’s best if you just lie down on the bed and try not to move…at all.”

Of course, this was absolutely the worst advice anyone could give, but he was my brother and I trusted him. So I lay back on the bed, kept quiet, as the room picked up momentum. For a second or two I thought maybe that whole house spinning thing from the Wizard of Oz actually happened. I finally had to jump off the bed and make a run for the window. I stumbled and fell twice, but made it in time to empty out just about every thing that was in me.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see internal organs, my kneecaps or my socks come up.

I fell back on the floor, my head pounding as I sweated and moaned. Yet, through my own head-pounding, moaning noise, I could hear my brother’s laughter.

Another bit of advice I received included being a part my oldest brothers’ ‘plan.’ Hell, to be included in anything was a step up for me, so I naturally said "count me in."

It had happened that the brother closest to my age, Glen, had gotten in a fight with a neighborhood tough guy the day before. The kid was a year older and slightly larger than my brother, but knowing Glen, he’d probably provoked the kid somehow.

That didn’t matter to my two oldest brothers. They reminded me that they were both five and six years older than the neighborhood tough kid, so it would be ‘wrong’ for them to just hunt him down and beat him up. They needed a viable excuse to do it. They couldn’t use the excuse that the tough guy had beaten up Glen, because, in all honesty, Glen was an ass and probably started it.

But they were adamant that the kid wouldn’t get away with beating up a Martin kid. That was where we all needed to make a stand of solidarity.

I was swelling with the pride of brotherly solidarity. It was a heady thought, because it had never happened before. There had never even been a slight hint of it before. I was ready to work in brotherhood to kick the crap out of this kid who beat up a brother who often beat me up and who I didn’t even really like all that much.

Me: “So, what’s the plan?”

Gary: “The three of us will walk down the street. The tough kid is in his front yard. We can’t just start beating him up, he has to start it.”

Me: “Okay.”

Gary: “So you call him a fu**ing coc* sucker and he’ll make a move to beat you up.”

Me: “Okay, now I’m having a few doubts on this plan. Not really seeing how this is going to work out with him in a state of beat-up-edness and me living happily ever after.”

Gary: “As soon as he makes a move toward you, we’ll jump in and beat him within an inch of his life. We can say we were justified because he was going to hurt you. Come on. It’s a fool-proof plan.”

Me: --to dumb to know that the fool in the plan was me—“Alright! Let’s go for it!”

We walked the few blocks down to the tough kid’s house. He was outside. I walked in front of my older brothers.

Me: “Hey you fu**ing coc* sucker! I heard you beat up my brother. Well, I’m here to kick your ass.”

Oddly, the kid didn’t reply at all. He didn’t go through all the posturing rituals that I thought were a part of every fight. He simply walked up to me, hit me squarely in the nose and put me down. He was also soon down with me and continuing to hit me.

Me (shouting): “Backup! Where’s my backup! Call 911! Backup!”

My backup stood together over on the sidewalk, laughing so hard they were crying.

When the neighborhood tough kid was worn to a frazzle with beating me up, he got up and simply walked away and into his house. I don’t think he said a word the whole time.

My brothers picked me up by each arm and dragged me home. Of course, my mom was there and began freaking out over the blood, various swellings and bruises.

Mom: “What the hell happened?”

Gary: “I don’t know. He just went stupid and tried to pick a fight with the kid down the street.”

I think my mom knew better. I just told her I couldn’t remember what happened.

But at that point I knew, without a shred of doubt, that we’d never have a gang. I think I also knew that at best we’d only have a passing sibling relationship.

I’m proud to say I now think carefully about giving or receiving advice. I’ve long since quit thinking about a gang, knowing they kill individualism, individual thought and empathy towards others.

I often wish though, that the sibling relationships had not passed away. I’m not sure why. They say you often miss most those things you never had.

And who am I to argue?

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Karma Cat

10/5/2013

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I should start off by clarifying my family make up before diving into the story of this week’s post. My parents were pretty young when they married and it’s said they married because mom was pregnant with my oldest brother. I don’t know for sure the truth of it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Many marriages started off with the cart before the horse, even back in the 1950’s. Soon after the marriage and birth, my folks had my sister and another brother in fairly quick succession. Then, for some reason they waited five years, had another brother and then me.

I grew up thinking that, after five years, my parents just decided they wanted a couple of more kids. I kept that assumption clear up until I was 19 and was riding with my dad in his pickup. We were listening to the news on the radio (my dad was a news junkie) and the announcer just finished discussing a story of unwanted pregnancies. My dad looked over at me for a second:

            Him: “What’s it feel like to be an accident?”

            Me: “Um, I didn’t know I was an accident.”

            Him (bulling through the awkwardness): “Well, you were. You should think on it.”

I asked my mom about it later and she said she thought of me as a ‘surprise’ rather than an accident. For some reason, that didn’t really help much.

The five year span between siblings made a difference in growing up. I wasn’t real close to my three oldest siblings, except when I was a baby and my sister wanted another girl in the family so badly she sometimes dressed me in girls’ clothes. Thankfully, I was too young to mind and now I don’t even remember, so it has never bothered me or caused me any kind of sexual confusion. As I got bigger, she finally realized that I wasn’t going to turn into a girl and stopped pretending that I was.

Because I was closer in age to the brother just before me, Glen, he is the one I spent most of my time around. That’s not to say that spending time around Glen was a lot of fun. Being a year and a half older than I, he often relieved his boredom by picking on me until I finally fired back, which gave him the reason he was looking for to beat the hell out of me. This was a pretty common occurrence. If he really got to me, I would hit him first, but I always avoided his head, because I really didn’t want to hurt him. He wasn’t burdened by that hesitance and always tried for maximum damage.

Sometimes, when he had me pinned to the floor beating me, a wild look would come into his eyes. That scary ‘lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home’ look. That’s when I truly wondered about his mental stability –while I was struggling to get free, of course.

But sometimes Karma actually does kick in and people get their comeuppance.

My siblings and I grew up around firearms, firearms safety and use, and hunting. If my memory is correct, we had our first BB guns when we were seven or eight and a .22 rifle not too many years after that. In our early teens we started hunting and had larger caliber rifles. I saved up and bought a bolt action Savage 30-06 and Glen was given dad’s Remington pump action 30-06.

The day of Glen’s comeuppance came when he, my mother and I were the only ones at home. We lived out of town a few miles and it was a beautiful summer day. My mom told me to take the paper garbage out to the burning barrel in the back yard and burn it.

Side note: There is a bit of arsonist in all boys, so this was one chore I didn’t mind at all.

I watched the fire, mesmerized as the flames danced around the barrel’s interior

And that’s when I heard the shot. It sounded like an explosion coming from inside the house. The shot was immediately followed by Glen screaming.

I ran for the house, thinking he had shot mom, then I had a flash of that vacant, ugly stare he sometimes had when he beat me, so I slowed down a bit. Better not to rush into the unknown, especially if that unknown involves a gun and a possibly unstable brother.

When I finally heard mom’s voice I ventured inside and discovered what had happened. Glen kept his rifle on a wall rack and with a loaded magazine in it. In his boredom, he took the rifle down, took out the magazine and began racking the pump and dry-firing the gun at different things around his room. Mom called him to do some chore or other, so he slapped the magazine back into the rifle and put it back on the rack.

When he finished the chore, he went back to his room and picked up the rifle again. Except this time he forgot he had put the loaded magazine back in it. When he racked the slide, he unknowingly chambered a cartridge. He pointed it at a few things around his room, but then saw his cat walking across the front yard.

He slid open the window, aimed at the cat, and promptly blew half of its neck away.

Where karma can be a real bitch, is that this was his cat; a cat he had raised, fed and that slept at the foot of his bed every night for years.

When he finally quieted from his screaming and crying, I took his gun, unloaded the magazine, put the gun back on the rack, and gave the magazine to mom. Once Glen had calmed down enough, mom sent us out to bury the cat.

Glen walked slowly. I got to the cat before he did. The upper half of the cat’s neck was gone, but it was still alive and trying to breath. It made an odd sucking/hissing noise. As Glen came up behind me, I couldn’t help but think that, although the cat didn’t deserve this, he certainly did. I also couldn’t help but make a wisecrack.

Me: “I don’t know Glen. It’s not dead yet. Maybe it’ll make it.”

He saw the cat, glared at me and lifted the shovel.

Him: “I don’t think so.” He put the cat out of its misery with the shovel and stood looking at it, still crying. I still couldn’t hold back.

Me: “Hey? You know how you’re always picking fights with me and beating me up?”

He looked at me, with a frown and one eyebrow raised in question.

Me: “Karma can be a bitch sometimes, huh?”

He chased me for awhile with the shovel raised in his hands, but I think his emotions had exhausted him and I easily out ran him.

After the cat incident I could honestly say that I never saw a more careful, safety-minded person around firearms than my brother.

Still, I never turn my back on him.

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Inaudible Conversations

9/27/2013

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** I am very fortunate to be able to introduce a guest blogger for this post edition! Juliet McHugh is a self-described "bloodthirsty writer from the North East of England, thought to be human, blood tests pending." She's also a good friend and a great writer. You can find more from Juliet at: http://julietmchugh.co.uk/index.html
I think you'll agree that Juliet makes some very thoughtful and thought-provoking points in this posting. Thanks Juliet! Enjoy everyone!

Inaudible Conversations

What an honour it is to make a guest blog appearance and for the wonderful William no less. If I were speaking, this is the bit where I’d drop my notes and bash my head on the mic whilst picking them up. But I only do such things when people are actually there to see. And point. And laugh. It might not be so bad if it wasn’t that I usually do the speech thing only at funerals.

It’s a strange feeling to blog outside one’s usual blogging ground. All kinds of questions come to mind. What will William’s audience be interested to hear? Will I get the tone of voice right..? I wracked my brains for something to talk about, read William’s blog backwards and forwards to get the vibe and then it came to me. The clue was in the questions.

Here I was trying to think of something to talk about when I wouldn’t really be talking at all. I realised that all I seem to have done for the last few days is talk and yet never speak a word. Emails, discussions, facebook, forums – I’ve never shut up. I’ve talked to some wonderful people, made some new friends, listened to many new ideas and perspectives, all in wonderful, soothing silence bar the clattering of my keyboard. But was it really talking? I say it most definitely was.

Most of the people I’ve encountered have been thousands of miles and several time zones away. Whole rooms full of them. Some would say ‘but it’s not real’. I assure you it most definitely is. You speak to someone over the telephone - you can’t see them, can’t shake hands to say hello and goodbye - but don’t question whether they are real. Why is a type-written voice any less so?

It’s curious that in talking about talking without talking, I’m still assigning vocal terminology to an inaudible conversation. That’s surely like a blind person being able to see by touch. The unique voice of a person still comes across in type and so very clearly it’s astounding. It’s a fantastic way to converse and despite what scaremongering media like to tell us, anyone with an ounce of sense can tell exactly who and how a person is and whether you’ll get along. Often it takes less time than if you’d met in person and here’s why I think that is:

It’s easier to get along when there is no pressure to actually do so, which in face to face situations, even were they holographic, is unavoidable. We second guess each other when we can see a face. We also say far less when we feel watched. Feel unheard when we’re talked over. Removing the physical and audible presence of people and distilling their personalities into a typeface has a remarkable effect. A person projects more of their distinct being into what they say because they can’t gesticulate or alter pitch and tone. Facial expressions and physical appearances don’t matter. After a time with the same people you can tell who is speaking just by how they phrase things. There is no other explanation for it than that distillation of personality. We talk without talking, speak without speaking, meet without meeting, and to anyone who still says ‘but it’s not real’, I still say the exact opposite is true.

You can tell whether a person’s intellect is likely to work well with your own, whether their sense of humour is agreeable, whether they are warm or cold, quick or slow, relaxed or intense. All within the confines of a written message and with no visual cues. Your own confidence grows because you can’t mishear a written word. You can’t stumble over your tongue or suffer from a speech impediment. Nor do you feel anything like as pressured. I was reading William’s blog “If I… Will You?” and the reason that guy made so many sales was probably the body language, applying pressure by posture. They don’t call fighting talk posturing for no reason. Online there need be none of that.

I very much value the people I meet without meeting and conversations I have without speaking. I’m blown away not by how different we are but how very much the same the world over. Nationality, colour and creed do not matter. We’re all just a font on a virtual page. What matters is that we communicate on common ground, No Man’s Land if you will, and appreciate the human qualities in one another.

Nevertheless, there is a converse to this. Paranoia can creep in. Is someone talking off the boards about me? Is that a system error or has someone blocked me? Why haven’t I had a reply to my message? Things you can’t sense that you would be able to in a physically present situation and things again distilled because really, you’re sitting somewhere by yourself, unable to look anyone in the eye for reassurance. This is when you need to extract yourself for a while, log off and focus on something else.

Nothing gets under your skin quite like these inaudible conversations. They give you so much freedom to be yourself and really connect with people you would never otherwise have met. Sometimes it can be so intense that it does make you a little bit crazy. One could become too obsessed and quite ill through a lack of vitamin D as well, but as with everything else in life, used in moderation can do you the world of good. Those silent conversations can bring so much invaluable insight into anything and everything; they cannot be a bad thing. Provided you can walk away. And if you can’t walk away, buy a laptop and sit outside so you still get some sunlight and tangible world. As for me, I think next time I do a funeral speech I’ll hook up a projector and post it on screen. It seems the way forward.

Happy talking

Juliet

** Again, please be sure to check out Juliet's website http://julietmchugh.co.uk/index.html.

You'll be glad you did!

--William

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Classic Smack-Down Part 2

9/22/2013

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About a month ago I took it upon myself to throw some (admittedly) unkind, but accurate criticism at what many consider two of America’s greatest pieces of literature: “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “Catcher in the Rye.” To be honest, I expected a bit of a backlash, however the comments I received were mostly from people who hated the books as well and were glad that their feelings weren’t isolated flukes indicating they couldn’t appreciate ‘literature.’ (By the way, when you say the word ‘literature’ it somehow feels better if you raise your nose a bit and adopt a slight British accent. Drop the first ‘e’ so it comes out as ‘litrachure.’) Feels good, doesn’t it?

            This time around I decided to go for the biggie. The granddaddy of all American novels. The one Ernest Hemingway said all modern novels can be traced back to: “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

            Okay, before I launch in with the negative criticism, let me get a couple of points out of the way. First, yes, in many ways the book is genius –in the way Twain uses a variety of regional dialects, the relationship between Huck and Jim (the runaway slave), and the satire and comedy he uses to skewer aspects of society. Also, in consideration of historical context, the novel was hugely groundbreaking.

            What usually makes the book controversial and placed on many banned books lists is Twain’s use of the term ‘nigger.’ You’ll notice I didn’t say “the ‘N’ word.” To me, use of the term depends entirely upon context. Are we to pretend the term never existed? Recently, a new edition of “Huck” came out with each reference to the term ‘nigger’ replaced by the word ‘slave.’ To me, that’s a denial of our own historical shame, which is a decidedly greater offense than to admit the term was in use. Twain’s use primarily illustrates how wrong the term is, so to leave it out or replace it is a greater insult than addressing it up front and then moving on. Don’t mess with an artist’s work. You’re always free to close the book and slip into denial mode.

            That being said, there are other things that, for me, cause the book to tank. One thing is the pattern Harper Lee slipped into with “To Kill a Mockingbird”: Twain will make a point regarding an ugly part of society and then beat it into the ground. Then beat it into the ground some more. Then park a paddleboat on it to make sure it was sufficiently buried into the ground.

            This is best seen in the characters of The Duke and The Dauphin, two con-men who insert themselves into Huck and Jim’s journey and engage in increasingly disturbing con-jobs. The characters are meant to be both humorous and disturbing, but in combining the two attributes, Twain only succeeds in making them annoying. An annoying character in large doses can kill any story, but double up on the annoying factor and the tediousness becomes so thick you could float a truck on it.

            Yet, Twain outdoes himself in the annoying character department by bringing in a character that many readers previously loved, then making him so annoying you’d like to bitch-slap him with a brick. Twice. And then a third time just for good measure. The character? Tom Sawyer.

            I loved “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” It is a great book with a great character who is fun, likeable, kind and fairly sharp-witted. In “Huckleberry Finn” though, Twain takes away all of the positive attributes and replaces them with whiney, annoying, mean, and fairly dull-witted.

            Tom is this way at the very beginning of the book and as a reader you just want him to go away. You start to wish that his fake drowning in his own book would have been for real. All he wants to do is play games as characters from books he’s read but doesn’t understand. When Huck and Jim finally begin their journey down the Mississippi I actually sighed with relief that Tom was now out of the story.

            Um, too soon on the sigh of relief thing.

            Twain brings Tom back at the end of the novel, but now, after having read all the experiences Huck has been through Tom is even more annoying. Jim has been captured and Tom begins planning a pointless elaborate scheme to free him –a scheme that continues to grow and grow to the point that I may have screamed out loud for a few seconds (not sure, could have been minutes). What makes his scheme to free Jim so ridiculous is that if he and Huck wanted to free Jim, all they’d have to do is walk by and open the door to the shed where he is being held.

What really sinks it altogether is that by the end of the story Huck has seen a murder, more than a few other killings and dead bodies, and has had a front row seat to the ugliest parts of humanity. He’s witnessed or been involved in things that would forever change any person –man, woman or child.

But he doesn’t change. Let me repeat that. He doesn’t change. At all.

At the end of the book, he’s still willing to go along with Tom’s crap. He still lies, cheats and steals. He hasn’t grown one iota from what he was at the beginning of the book, despite all he’s experienced. Which, frankly speaking, makes him seem pretty stupid.

Some say that this non-growth business is part of the point Twain was making. Sorry, I’ve gotta cry bullshit on that one. If that was the case, it was a pretty poor attempt.

I’ve read that Mark Twain may have written “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” in three separate time periods, which accounts for why the book feels like three pieces cobbled together. Perhaps his intent or purpose changed each time.

Throw out the beginning of the novel, and then throw out the end, and then throw out a good chunk of the center section in the middle, and Twain would have had one hell of a great novella.

I have a theory that he knew the book was different and he wasn’t sure how it would be received. I also think he knew that in many ways the book simultaneously sucks and blows. I think that’s why he prefaces the book with:

NOTICE PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narra- tive will be
prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons
attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.

            The notice gives Twain and ‘out.’ If the book had been poorly received, if critical reviews had been predominantly negative, he could laugh it off, saying, “Well, I did kinda point that out in the notice.”

            Hey, I never said Twain wasn’t smart.

            Maybe next time I’ll take on that Hemingway guy. I hear he’s pretty highly regarded as well.

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"Back in the day..." Auto Version

9/15/2013

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Obvious observation time: there is a lot of irony in life. Just the other day I was thinking, “Back in the day…” again. My father used to do that and I swore I would never do that when I got older. When Dad and I had a “Back in the day…” discussion, it went something like this:

Dad: “Back in the day, you used to be able to buy a candy bar for a dime and a soda for a quarter.”

Me: “Yeah, but dad, that was in the 1930’s. Did you even have a dime or a quarter? I mean, if you don’t have a dime it doesn’t matter if the candy bar costs a dime or a thousand bucks, does it?”

Dad: “Shut up, smartass.”

Me: “Yessir.”

But now, as I grow older, I’m slipping into the “Back in the day…” mode. What prompted this installment of “Back in the day…” was a recent car advertisement I watched. I forget what brand it was, but the car had a back up warning alarm, a camera for backing up (so you didn't have to twist your head or use a review mirror, I guess), front passenger airbags, side air bags, seat edge airbags and roof airbags. It had so many airbags that if you ever bumped into anything you’d probably feel like you were suddenly thrust into the middle of a marshmallow.

*Minor digression: How come you see chase scenes in the movies where they intentionally run into another car and no one’s airbags go off? The movies really ought to start investing in safer cars for their people.*

Anyway, after watching the car ad (by the way, you could simply push a button and the thing would parallel park by itself – hands free) I was struck by how far automobile safety measures have come. Back in the day, the best safety measure was to get as much metal around you as possible. That’s why so many of the cars from the 1930’s through the early ‘70’s were HUGE. You wanted more car around you than the other guy, so if you did have an accident, he’d at least come out on the losing end of the deal.

Cars were a lot boxier back then too. Seatbelts were either non-existent or, if they were in the car, you pushed them down between the cushions so they didn’t end up giving you a wedgie or wrinkling your clothes. The only airbags any one knew anything about was the term’s slang use for breasts. (Hey, I was a kid and there were about two dozen different terms we used for ‘breasts’ and we used all of them constantly. We were, after all, boys.)

Because the cars were so boxy, there was plenty of room on the top ledge behind the backseat where a kid could almost lay full-length to sleep on long rides. Of course, this totally obstructed the driver’s rearview mirror, but dad was usually intent on getting to where he was going, eyes front, never looking back. With four kids in the backseat, a fifth laying behind and above the backseat smashed against the rear window, and dad a mom up front, we still had room to get into fights with a pretty good arm swing range. Like I said, the cars were HUGE.

With so many kids in the car and I the youngest, I usually got stuck in the middle where the transmission hump kept my feet wedged together and my knees uncomfortably under my chin. If my feet slipped off the hump, it was taken as a deliberate assault on a sibling’s “car floor territory” and another fight was on.

You know, looking back, in a way I guess I was surrounded by human airbags, so I was probably the safest one in the car.

There was one pseudo-safety feature that our car had, but it was only when my mom was driving.

I figured out as I got older that mom was a terrible driver. I don’t mean it as an insult to her. She was a great mom, but as a driver she was like a cat on a skateboard going down a rock slide.

She tended to drive with one foot on the gas and one on the brake. She drove hesitantly, unsure of herself and paranoid that every other person on the road was a worse driver than she was. If a driver pulled up to a stop sign facing the road we were on, she would slam on the brakes –and that’s when the automatic safety feature kicked in. If you were a kid riding up front alongside her, she would hit the brake and at the same time slam her right arm against your chest.

I don’t know why she didn’t just dig out the seatbelts, but she seemed to think that the right arm of a 115 pound mom would stop a 130 pound kid from flying forward (her knowledge of physics was as limited as her driving skills). We were usually prepared for the sudden slamming of the brakes, so all the right-arm-guardrail-thing did was knock the wind out of you or crack against your sternum.

It was painful, but it was an act of a mother’s love. I sometimes think of it and wax nostalgic. In fact the other day I was telling my daughter:

Me: “You know, back in the day, we didn’t have all these safety features on cars and we seemed to do okay. In fact, the simplicity of the car was kinda nice.”

My daughter: “Yeah, but dad, don’t you think that if your folks had had all of the current safety features available to them they would have used them? I mean, if it wasn’t available at the time, how could you really do a comparison?”

Me: “Shut up, smart-aleck.”

My daughter: “Yessir.”

Ah, the irony of the circle of life.

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Why Did We Kill 'Why?'

9/7/2013

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Most people remember when they were wee little kids and liked to ask adults ‘why.’ A lot. I think it starts with a young child’s innate curiosity. At first, a parent or adult attempts to satisfy that curiosity by answering the ‘why’ question. But we all know what inevitably comes after providing the answer.

Yep. Another “Why?”

We may attempt to answer that one, but we already know the whole ‘why’ thing has slipped into a vicious cycle.

For example:

Small child: “Daddy, why do you go cut firewood?”

Dad: “So we’ll have it to burn in the stove.”

Small child: “Why do we burn it in the stove?”

Dad: “So it will heat the house.”

Small child: “Why do we need to heat the house?”

Dad: “So we can be warm in the winter.”

Small child (now starting to turn into an irritant): “Why can’t we burn something else to stay warm?”

Dad (now starting to become irritated): “Because wood works best.”

Small child: “Why?”

Dad: “Because it burns hotter and cleaner.”

Small child: “Why?”

Dad – now through clinched teeth: “Because I say so.”

Small child: “Why?”

Dad: “Because I said so, now shut up with the ‘why’ business and go play with your toys.”

Small child: “Why?”

Soon, the child, however small, discovers that the ‘why’ question is a hot button, just so long as they keep hitting that button over and over again. Soon, the adult doesn’t want that hot button hit, so they go into the “Because I said so” mode much more quickly. I’ve seen parents whose child has hit the ‘why’ button so many times they literally yell, “Because I said so. Now don’t ever, ever, EVER ask me why again.” Some simply dismiss the “Why” question by firing back with “Why not?” This is akin to the age old “I know you are, but what am I?” argument.

These responses are the first death knell of the question “Why.”

Kids move on into school where they often run into the same thing. They are experiencing new things, new people, new concepts and ideas and they naturally ask “Why?”

Often, the same cycle of ‘why’ that happened at home is repeated in elementary school. As the child grows the question of ‘why’ becomes less and less welcome. Eventually, the child will ask it of a teacher who either is insecure in what they do or simply doesn’t know the answer. That teacher becomes angry about the ‘why’ thing and the student now has a teacher keeping a close eye on the potential trouble maker. Some teachers will obliquely punish a student for hitting them with the ‘why.’

Teacher: “That’s a good question and a great topic for a short essay. Everyone, your homework for the evening is to research and answer that question in a two page paper due tomorrow.” Students groan and glare at the ‘why’ student.

Sometimes ‘why’ can be unsafe or even dangerous.

Many teachers in our educational system don’t like the ‘why’ question for another reason: ‘Why’ questions are hard work.

What, when, where, who, how are easily asked by a teacher and usually through a True/False or Multiple Choice format. These can even be done with a Scan-Tron form where students fill in a bubble and their forms are fed through a machine for grading.

‘Why’ questions…not so much.

That’s not to say the other questions are not valid, but that they primarily give a teacher the breadth of a student’s knowledge. The ‘why’ question is much better at demonstrating a student’s depth of knowledge. The downside is that ‘why’ questions are typically short written answers, short essays, or full essays. Writing is hard work and grading that writing is difficult as well. The teacher has to actually read to determine what the kid knows. At this point, it isn’t only the teacher who shies away from the ‘why’ question, but the students as well. After all, the shoe is on the other foot now and they have to answer the ‘why’ question.

At this point, 'why' becomes curled in a fetal position on the floor and is in danger of disappearing from a person's life entirely.

I admit, I am a ‘why’ kind of guy. Almost a ‘why’ junkie. I have to know why I’m being asked to do something. What is the gain? What is the potential loss? (You never gain ANYTHING without losing something.)

College was a bit different. Teachers were more interested in ‘why.’ Although I had one who, when I asked ‘why’ assumed I was challenging her and her teaching ability. I tried to point out that that’s how I learn. By asking why and then reflecting on the answer. She actually went nuts on me in a classroom once because I asked why. I think shortly after that scene she had a bit of a mental breakdown and her contract wasn’t renewed. Who knows? Maybe too many people asked her ‘why.’

‘Why’ leads to depth of thought. ‘Why’ pushes us to learn to use empathy. ‘Why’ moves us from the sidelines and into the action. ‘Why’ leads to a greater and fuller understanding of our world, our life and our place in it. ‘Why’ is the most important question…ever.

Reclaim your childhood. Empower yourself. Begin asking ‘why’ again.

And if anyone questions your use of ‘why’ by asking why you keep asking ‘why’…

Well, you can tell them because William said so.

3 Comments

If I...Will You?

8/29/2013

5 Comments

This is probably fairly easy to believe, but when I was younger, I wasn’t very smart. Even now there are those who would recommend that I wear a helmet while I write this and put Saran Wrap over the keyboard in case I drool. When I was younger I was also a bit naïve and even more immature than I am now. That being said, I was eager to learn (actually, I was eager to make a living and if that required having to learn something, so be it).

            My being a brick-head in my early 20’s often resulted in making quick decisions. Unfortunately, those decisions didn’t include a lot of thought. In about a four week period, I quit my job, married my wife (not that that was a poor decision, it’s just about the timing), bought a brand new pickup (the salesman didn’t know I’d quit my job) and landed in Anchorage, Alaska with all of our stuff crammed into the back of the pickup.

            Upon arrival at that great state, it occurred to me that I had no job (see what lack of thought will do for you?). I needed to pay rent, make a pickup payment and there were those other annoying things a person has to pay for like food, clothing, and a cold beer now and then.

            I went into scramble mode.

            I went everywhere looking for work. I literally went downtown and walked store-to-store looking for work. Did I mention that at the time I had absolutely no marketable work skills? Another result of poor thinking.

            Finally, I landed at a furniture store. They were looking for a salesman. They asked if I had experience in sales and I said, “A bit.” Complete lie right there, but I was desperate.

            Amazingly, they hired me. They told me they would put me under the wing of their top salesman, T.J.

            Picture the slipperiest, sneakiest, oiled-back-haired, cheap-suit-wearing, paunch-stomached salesman with a toothpick poking out the side of his mouth. There ya go. You just met T.J.

            I quickly found that T.J. had an embarrassing habit. Whenever within the proximity of any woman (and I mean ANY woman), he rarely looked them in the eye. His gaze went from breast to crotch and back again…repeatedly…over and over. After three or four up and down circuits, he’d glance up at them and give them a flash of a lecherous smile and then go back to perusing their nether regions.

            The thing of it is, he got away with it every time and every month he was consistently the store’s top salesman. I didn’t care for being under his slimy wing, but if it kept me the job…well, what are you going to do?

            He coached me on the ABC’s: Always Be Closing (the sale). Continually ask for the sale. Once you close the sale, push the ad-ons hard. Ad-ons primarily included fabric treatment and extended warranties. (Here’s a rock-solid tip: extended warranties are a total waste of money. They equate to pure profit for the store and a healthy bonus for the salesman. If a salesman keeps offering you the extended warranty, just tell him you used to sell them yourself. He’ll drop it like a hot biscuit straight from the microwave.)

            T.J. also schooled me on the “If I, will you?” method of always asking for the sale. If a customer says, “Does this chair come in blue?” your response should be, “If I can get it for you in blue, will you buy it?” This can be done with just about any question the customer might ask. Try it. It’s kind of fun. He also taught me how to quickly judge whether a customer will buy or not.

            T.J.: “Throw them a ridiculously low price. If they don’t pounce on it, they’re wasting your time. Dump ‘em and grab the next sucker, uh, I mean customer.”

            Then he gave me what he said was his biggest piece of advice: never, never, EVER try to sell to two women who come in to the store together. Avoid them like the plague (his words, not mine). He told me they always talk each other out of buying something.

            Me: “But I see you try to sell to two women who come in all the time.”

            He gave me a lecherous grin and wiggled his eyebrows up and down a few times.

            Eww.

            Him: “So you understand everything?”

            Me: “Yeah, I think so.”

            Him: “Okay, the next customer through the door, I’ll sell ‘em and you just tag along and watch.”

            The next customers through the door were two women. T.J. wiggled his eyebrows and bounced out of his chair to greet them. I followed behind like a mute puppy dog.

            He greeted them, jerked a thumb at me and told them to ignore me, I was the new kid in training and he was seeing to it that I learned how to “best serve the customer.” Of course, he said this while scanning both women from bulkheads to sterns. The older of the two did the talking. The younger of the two avoided looking at T.J. I avoided looking at any of them. If a rock had been handy, I would have crawled under it.

            Woman: “Where are your dinette sets?”

            T.J.: “If I show you where they are, will you buy one?”

            Lots of nervous chuckling. He winked at me.

            He led them over to the dinettes and they landed on one they kind of liked.

            Woman: “Can we see this with the leaf taken out?”

            T.J.: “If I take the leaf out, will you buy it?”

Quick wink at me. More nervous chuckling.

He took the leaf out. The ladies looked over the dinette set again. T.J. looked over the ladies again.

Woman: “I like it, but $1,200 seems like quite a lot for a small dinette set.”

T.J.: “If I can sell it to you for $400 will you buy it?”

There was more nervous chuckling as he checked to make sure their female parts were still in place. Behind his back he held up two fingers, indicating that in one question he had tested to see if they were serious buyers and fit in the “If I, will you” thing.

I couldn’t take it anymore. It was too embarrassing. I felt like I had been witnessing some weird kind of visual sexual assault and a purse snatching at the same time. I walked to the other side of the store and sat at the desk wondering how I was going to do a job like this and still be able to sleep at night.

Soon, T.J. came jogging over to the desk, grabbed a sales contract, winked once again at me (he may have even given me the pointy-finger-gun-bang thing as well) and jogged back over to where the women sat at the dinette set.

I was in shock. He’d sold them. Two women. However repulsive he was, this guy could sell.

But it didn’t last. After a couple of minutes, the woman who did the talking jumped up, knocking her chair over backward. She said something through clinched teeth, but I was too far away to hear. Both women stomped to the front door and slammed it behind them on their way out.

T.J. came back to the desk, his head down a bit, the sales contract hanging listlessly in his hand.

Me: “What happened? I thought you had it sold?”

T.J.: “I did, but when I wrote $1,200 on the contract she said I quoted her $400. I had to clarify. I told her ‘No, I said if I could sell it to you for $400. I can’t.”

For just a split second I almost felt sorry for him.

But then another woman came through the door and he launched out of his chair like he had pulled an ejection lever, grinned at me and winked. I wondered how this one would take the visual undressing. I wondered if I would be able to do this job. I wondered if all sales jobs were like this.

I never found out, because after leaving that job, I never tried sales again.

* I hope you enjoyed this installment of my blog. If I keep writing them, will you keep reading?

Be well.

        --William

5 Comments

Classic Smack-Down

8/26/2013

4 Comments

Okay, I should probably start by admitting the title of this blog is a bit misleading. It implies you’re soon to read about some terrible act of violence when in fact, that’s not the case (hey, and shame on you if you’re so easily enticed by violence).

Actually I was thinking of classic as in the literature sense.

WAIT. HOLD ON.

Before you think, “Oh, God. Literature? Next stop yawns-ville” give it a chance. What I propose is to burst the bubble on a couple of books you probably had to endure in high school. They are and have been considered classics. Classic? Um, not so much. I’ll only pick on a couple and tell you what your teachers would not or could not. First up:

“To Kill a Mockingbird”

Already there are a lot of intellectuals (ladies mostly) who are probably trying to figure out how to give me a classic smack down. Atticus Finch, they’ll say, is the greatest literary hero…ever. But here’s the thing: most people who say it’s the greatest book ever never even read the book. They’re referring to the film with Gregory Peck. Yes that is a classic also (rightfully so) and one of the things that saves the book. There is a ton –and I mean a ton—of crap in the book that the film wisely took a chainsaw, a ripsaw and a blowtorch to.

When people tell me how much they loved reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” I like to test them a bit by saying, “Me too! And you know, Aunt Alexandra is my favorite character!” Usually, you can tell by their expression they’re thinking of the film and not the book. Sometimes they’ll even come clean and say, “Aunt who?” The reason they don’t recognize the character is because the filmmakers wisely killed her off before they even began thinking of making the book into a film. I’m hoping they killed her off in some slow, horrendous unspeakable way, because she is one of the most singularly annoying characters (second only to one I’ll mention in just a minute) in all of literature. Aunt Alexandra represents socioeconomic prejudice in mind-numbing amounts.

There’s a reason Harper Lee only wrote one book. Pssst. Don’t tell anyone, but she’s kind of a crappy writer. The big scene, the trial of Tom Robinson that forever after associated Gregory Peck as Atticus, only lasts 46 pages in a paperback that is 376 pages long. The rest of the book is Lee making a point about various forms of prejudice, which is commendable, but she beats it into the ground –and I’m not talking with a shovel kind of beat it into the ground. I’m talking beat it with a shove, then take a sledgehammer to it, then roll over it with a dump truck kind of beat it into the ground. What’s worse is that much of the remaining 330 pages are filled with the annoying Aunt Alexandra. However, as annoying as her character is, she can’t hold a candle to the main character in the next ‘classic.’

“Catcher in the Rye”

If you’ve had to fight your way through this ‘classic’ before, then you will know exactly who I mean: Holden Caulfield. I think there’s a very good reason J. D. Salinger became a recluse. After unleashing the ultimate in annoying characters on society he probably thought it would be much safer behind closed doors…made of metal…three inches thick…with heavy bars and chains…and locks, lots and lots of locks.

The novel starts with what many consider one of the greatest opening lines in all of literature. But the reality is that it opens with Holden (in a first-person narration) bitching about how he doesn’t even want to tell his story. I won’t give you the entire line (hey, that’s what Wikipedia is for), but the first eight words “If you really want to hear about it…” The thing is, within about two pages he whines, bitches, and moans so much that I REALLY didn’t want to hear about it. I get that the Holden Caulfield character embodies teen angst, depression, cynicism, isolation, etc., etc., and that it’s supposedly a reflection of society, but let me tell you this about how annoying Holden is: one of the most empathetic, sweetest, always-gives-you-cookies-when-you-see-her old ladies I know wanted to choke him out by the fourth page. And there are 220 more pages to go.

I’ll leave classic smack downs there for now, but may be forced to pick it up again in the future.

Wait till you see the beating I give Huckleberry Finn.

* If you agree with my assessments on the aforementioned classics, click the ‘like’ button below and it will register your vote. If you disagree with my assessment, I’m okay with that. Just click the ‘like’ button below to record your vote. My classic software will sort it all out. Feel free to also visit my Facebook page. I’ll try to leave something open there if you’d care to respond.

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Mixed Messages

Everything Old is New Again

On Brothers, Gangs and Advice

Karma Cat

Inaudible Conversations

Classic Smack-Down Part 2

"Back in the day..." Auto Version

Why Did We Kill 'Why?'

If I...Will You?

Classic Smack-Down

William Martin

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