Improv - Getting out of my shell - 11/10/09

Recently I decided I needed an outlet to get me away from Seinfeld reruns and out from in front of this computer screen. I signed up for a creative writing class through the local University’s continuing education program. I tried this three times. Two of the classes were canceled due to lack of interest. The third I dropped out of after the first session. The instructor was not going to be able to hold my attention. She had a voice that made me yearn for the sound of stray cats having intercourse outside my bedroom window. And her qualifications for teaching creative writing were that she had once vanity published a cookbook that was still available for purchase in India. So Seinfeld reruns were looking pretty good.

One day at the Bark Park I met a lady that was involved in an improv group and found that classes were available locally. When I got home that evening I went online and found the group’s website. It looked interesting and a beginner’s six week class was forming, so I signed up immediately.

I have just completed that course of study and though improv is miles outside my comfort level, I am glad that I did. The experience of the improv performance is secondary to the pleasure I received from my association with my fellow classmates. There were eight of us in the class from extremely diverse backgrounds that connected immediately and became a cohesive unit. I found myself looking forward to our weekly gatherings. As we got to know each other, we developed friendships outside of the classroom.

One thing became immediately apparent to me as I learned more about my fellow cast members. In comparison to the full, rich, lives that these people led, my life was very empty and sad. Somehow, I have lost my identity and no longer have a purpose to my existence. That sounds extreme, but it is very true. My contributions to conversation were about my kids, grandkids, and dog’s lives. There was very little to say about myself other than things I did in the past, not things I do now. I have become an observer of life and not a participant. I did not realize how low my self-esteem had plunged.

When we performed I always felt my contributions were less than those of my classmates. I hear their brilliance and my flaws. Even when I was complimented by another member of the cast or the instructor, I never really accepted it as more than them being nice. I brought my camera and took photos of the other performers for my Facebook, assuring I was never included. My daughter mentioned that fact and I joked about it, but the truth is that I have let myself go to the point that I hate to see my image in a mirror or photograph. I use self-deprecating humor to reinforce my low self-image. One of my new friends has tried her best to not allow me that defense mechanism. I thank you for that Lauren, even though I don’t always acknowledge it. When one of my posse publicly stated that she looked forward to doing a scene with me, my inappropriate reaction was one of utter disbelief, shock, and awe. Instead of accepting that honor as it was intended, I tried to rationalize and downplay it in my mind. Could anyone actually want to perform with me? Though it gave me the best feeling I have experienced in ages, I didn't really believe it.

I am so thankful that I took improv instead of creative writing. When I write, I can hide here in my writer's garret and never leave my comfort zone or my home. I am secure enough in my writing ability to never challenge myself. Getting onstage in front of others makes my heart race and I know I am alive. I regret that I did not take advantage of the support that my troupe offered me, trivializing their praise.

Our entire group has decided to continue on to the next level in our improv education. I am going to try to start with a new, positive, approach. With the support of my new, dear, friends, maybe I can get my verve on. There was a time in my life that I was confident almost to the point of being cocky. I am going to try to get that Rick back. I think everyone will like him better. I know I will.

Skooter's Audition Tape - 11/7/09

55 Flash Fiction Friday - "Hesitation" - 11/6/09

My Facebook friend, Lena, once again provided my prompt for G-Man's 55 Flash Fiction Friday. This week's prompt is hesitation.

At first it was barely noticeable.
A slight hesitation.
An uncertainty.
A moment of confusion.
He kept it to himself but knew that soon it would be obvious to everyone.
Worry furrowed his brow as he dressed for work.
He walked down the tunnel toward the symphony of zealots cheering the name on his back.

Laundromat - 11/1/09

There is no rhyme or reason as to where my writing inspirations come from. It just happens, like shit. Today I felt compelled to talk about Laundromats.

Those of you who have always lived a privileged life will not be able to relate to this posting. This is a story written from the bottom of the economic food chain.
When I was very young we had an old type wringer washing machine. It was located outside of the log cabin that we lived in. Yes, a real log cabin, just like Abe. (No, I did not walk to school uphill both ways.) We didn’t have a dryer. My mother hung the clothes out to dry. As we lived in northern Idaho, there was a large portion of the year that neither the washing nor the drying was possible without ice becoming a factor in both activities. As a side note: line-drying generally gives the clothing a freshness. Not so much in Smelterville Idaho, where the air was toxic with lead refinery smoke.

When the weather made it impossible for outside laundry, my mother would take our dirty clothes to the Laundromat. And since my dad worked in the mine, they were truly “dirty” clothes. The Laundromat was my favorite place in the world. It was a white trash amusement park. It had vending machines that dispensed candy and soda pop as well as a machine labeled change, which dispensed quarters and dimes. Incredibly, in those days, dimes were useful. The dryers took dimes as did the candy and soda machines. Pinball machines also took dimes. Now they take debit cards. For those of you not familiar with dimes, they are worth more than a nickel but much smaller in size, go figure.



Prior to the establishment of Walmart, Laundromats were where kids were allowed to run amok. It was anarchy. They rode in and raced the laundry carts, roamed the facility checking coin returns for loose change, and alternated between screaming at the top of their lungs and begging their moms for money. (A dad would not have been caught dead in there. The only men in the Laundromat were single miners washing their work clothes) For some reason nearly every child came equipped with an openly runny nose, adding to their appeal.

Mom would not allow me to participate in any of those fun activities. She would give me a lecture on the drive to the Laundromat. It was the same every time. I would get a certain amount of candy/pop money and that was it. If I spent it quickly, I would not get any more. It was a firm belief of my mom’s that “money did not grow on trees.” (I was not allowed to play pinball. It was evil, like gambling) I was also not allowed to run "wild" like those other “motherless heathens.” I was to sit and color, draw, or read. Are you kidding me? I don’t think the other mothers thought I was well-behaved, I think they thought I was retarded or crippled (before handicapped). I was not even allowed to go look when one of the kids found a dead mouse while crawling around behind the dryers. In spite of all the restrictions, I loved the Laundromat.

I am at a good place in my life. I have a washer AND a dryer, both indoors. But I have a large, thick, blanket/comforter that is too large for my washing machine. When it begins to smell too much like Skooter, I take it to the Laundromat. The Laundromat has large capacity washers and dryers. (I assure you that dimes do not work in them) The first time I went, I loaded my blanket/comforter into the washer and while it was washing I went home to get my gun. The Laundromats of my youth have been replaced with places that one would come to should he wish to be robbed, acquire crack, or prostitutes. I haven’t had occasion to shoot my way out with my blanket/comforter yet, but I am prepared to do so. I also allow it to smell quite Skooterlike before I take it in for a wash. Usually, the morning after I wake up with a mouth full of dog shed.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Distraction - 10/29/09

This week's 55 Flash Fiction Friday offering uses the prompt "distraction" provided by Lena, a loyal reader. In fact, one of the only loyal readers that is not my daughter. I am doing something a little bit different this post. If you want to hear the piece read in the author's monotone voice, here it is.
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Distraction

He awoke in agony

Choked by the stench of expended gunpowder

His comrades lay motionless

He needed a distraction lest the pain would drive him mad

A pretty, barefoot, girl in a sundress

Her hair shining in the Carolina sun

Her smile beckoned him to her

When medics found him his lifeless face was smiling

Edward Jones - 10/26/09

I have my meager IRA in an Edward Jones account. I have been with them for ten years or so. I have had no major issues with Edward Jones, though I have never met him. My financial advisor is Shaun Walsh. I like Shaun, he has an engaging personality. He is nice to me. I have no misconceptions. He is nice to me just like the girls at Hooters are nice to me. His amiability is proportionate to the size of my account just as the Hooters girl’s affinity is related to my tipping history. If I had a few million invested instead of a few thousand, he would be a friend with benefits.

My reason for this installment has nothing to do with Shaun; it is directed at that prick, Edward Jones. Like every other investor, my balance has shrunk drastically in the last couple of years. It is attempting a feeble comeback as of late, but I am still not back to my initial investment. I have lost thousands, where there are not too many thousands to lose. My complaint is that in this horribly uncertain market, Ed has elected to raise the fee for maintaining my account. What this says to me as an investor is that though all his clients are losing money hand over fist, Eddie is not willing to share that loss. He has picked this point in time to raise his profits at our expense. It is not a huge increase, but spread over millions of clients, it is significant. I do not know if all brokers are displaying this level of greed, but I expect as much. You might want to check your statements.

I have a new, more appropriate slogan for this economy: "Turning Dollars Into Cents."

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Necromancy - 10/22/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to make sense using exactly 55 words. I put a bit of a twist on it this week. One of my loyal readers, Lena, selected the subject for my submission this week. She chose Necromancy of all things. I gave myself five minutes to come up with this, so it is not a masterpiece. I love taking requests.

He had an extraordinary capability.
He could transport himself into the arena of whatever genre of movie he viewed.
He had journeyed to Hogwarts and Tatooine, walked the Field of Dreams and the streets of Casablanca.
He avoided certain films.
He had no taste for necromancy.
No interest in seeing “Dead People all the time.”

I am Captain Patience - 10-19-09

My kids call me Captain Patience. I believed this sarcastic nom de guerre of my perceived lack of tolerance was highly exaggerated. It is their contention that during their formative years, I was impatient with them while helping with their homework and other fatherly teachings. They contend that when I had determined that they should have mastered a lesson or task that instead of explaining in more detail that I would elevate the volume, intonation, and inflection of my voice. Josh gives an example of this as:

“what is 2 times 5?”
“2 times 5!!”
“‘WHAT THE HELL IS 2 TIMES 5!!!!”
“ WHAT IS #@*^*$@! 2 TIMES *!^*#$@ 5!!!!!!”

While my teaching methods may be controversial, all three of my kids excelled in school. But they did not often ask me to help with their homework.
Recently, an event happened that made me grateful that none of them were present to witness. It also caused me to consider that their designation of me as Captain Patience may be somewhat deserved.

There was a cassette tape stuck in the player in my SUV. It had been there for a number of years, as I had several years ago abandoned use of the cassette in favor of the CD and later the IPOD. The tape was probably melted into the deck from nine years of South Carolina heat and humidity. It would not eject and I totally forgot it was in there. Until..................

I went to crank the SUV one morning and the battery was dead. I jump-started it, and while driving around to charge the battery I noticed that the deck was attempting to eject the tape. The little motor was running continuously. Somehow, in the middle of the night, the deck had unilaterally decided to expel the tape. As the tape had become one with the deck, this attempt was unsuccessful but the deck refused to admit defeat and went into lock-down mode, thereby depleting my battery. This simply was unacceptable. Using a pair of needle nose pliers, I attempted to remove the tape from the player. This was no easy task as the tape had become one with the deck. I had to totally destroy the tape and remove it in pieces. To my chagrin, removal of the tape did not cause the mechanism to stop mechanizing.

This is the point at which my alter-ego, Captain Patience, took over. Using the same needle-nose pliers and large screwdriver, I destroyed the cassette deck. Did I mention it was a Bose system? I ripped out the circuit board and every moving part I could find. I totally gutted the entire system. Much of this handiwork was done at 60 miles per hour. Skooter moved to the back seat as he did not want to get hit by any schrapnel. I lost my radio presets, the digital display, and the clock, but to my amazement the radio continued to play and the ejection motor continued to function. (see clip below) It was possessed, but so was I.

By probing blindly and violently with the screwdriver, I finally killed it but I now have a gaping hole in my dashboard and I am limited to the radio station that it was set to. I have evidently lost the ability to tune. But it was totally worth it.

A friend, who is electronics savvy, later offered, “you should have just pulled and reinserted the fuse and it would have stopped and probably reset and not restarted.” He should not have said that to a superhero armed with a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nose.

55 Flash Fiction Friday -Amnesia - 10/15/09

This is my weekly submission to G-Man's 55 Flash Fiction Friday. I write them on Thursday in case Friday doesn't come.

I have no recollection of who I am or how I got here.
Cameras flashing, people displaying curious hand signs.

I see my reflection, an odd looking little old man with wild eyes.
Who is this loud woman and unattractive youngsters accompanying me?



Evidently my name is ...............Ozzy, and I am the Prince of Darkness.

I have never set a woman on fire - 10/14/09

I went golfing last week with a dear friend of nearly 30 years, Mike Sova. It was one of the most enjoyable golf days I can remember. I think I enjoy golf more now that I don’t play as often. The weather was spectacular. I played well (for me) though Mike is a much better player (younger) than I am. When he hits 3-wood and I totally nut a driver, we hit it about the same. We played with two other geezers, which assured I would not be last on the tee all day. I also saw my first baby blue heron. Amazing! But that is not what this post is about. It is about relationships.

As I chronicled in an earlier blog, (click here) I once set Mike on fire. I contend that cremation will test a relationship. The fact that we remained friends is a testament to the difference between men and women. I have never set a woman on fire, but in spite of that virtue, I have never maintained a relationship with one anywhere near as long as my friendship with Mike. Oh, there were small transgressions and isolated incidents of inconsideration, but nothing compared with setting someone on fire. I know that in India it is permissible to set one’s wife ablaze if she pisses you off. I just leave, or she does. Seems like an easier solution to a squabble and it doesn’t waste valuable gasoline.

Maybe I will log onto Eharmony.com and in my FREE personality profile state: Straight, overweight, nonsmoking male, 50s, with a poverty level income and no prospects, that has never incinerated a woman, seeks soul mate. That should create some buzz.

It is possible that Mike has maintained our friendship, looking for the right moment to ignite me or is just waiting for me to spontaneously combust. As they say: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Or in this case, hot. Or it could be that his reprisal is just to humiliate me on the golf course for the rest of my life. Anybody got a match?

The Dixie Classic Fair - 10/13/09

This weekend I attended the Dixie Classic Fair in Winston-Salem with my daughter, Carly, son, Rick, his wife, Jennifer, and my three grandchildren. It is an amazing fair and we had a great day. I had no idea we would endure the intensity of a melanoma growing sun in Winston-Salem in the middle of October. I got quite a bit more sun than my dermatologist would recommend…..which is none.

One of my favorite things about a fair is the variety of food available that I would not, could not, order anywhere else. I love a real carnival corn dog and funnel cakes, washed down with fresh squeezed lemonade. I abandon any concern for hygiene standards. Don’t ask don’t tell. One joint even fashioned their funnel cakes into French fries, making it easier to eat while walking the fairgrounds. Novel idea.

Something they do here in the south that may not be a big hit in the health-conscious Pacific Northwest, is that they deep fat fry everything. Healthy food like broccoli and string beans. Fry ‘em. Candy bars, Oreos, and Twinkies. Not unhealthy enough. Let’s fry ‘em. One place even advertised fried butter. I am not a health nut, but WTF? Who thought of that?


I am in a place in my life where I have become an observer of life rather than a participant. The fair is the absolute best place to people watch. If you ever lack in self-confidence or have image problems, just go the fair. You will feel like Brangelina with a touch of Einstein. Note to woman weighing 4 bills: There is no place on your body that a piercing enhances your look. Please do not show them to me. I just ate a corn dog.

I am certain that every person who has ever punched out a relative on Jerry Springer was present at this fair. And I am certain that the people running the rides that we entrust our children to have all done hard time or were acquitted on a technicality.

Mountain people, who only come to town once a year, come to the fair. There is a booth there where the carny offers to guess a rube’s weight, age, or birth month (Like in The Jerk). Judging from the people I saw, it would be more interesting to guess their number of extra chromosomes, number of teeth, or which is higher, their IQ or the temperature. If they really wanted to make the game challenging, they would have the yokel guess who their daddy is. Kind of a Maury Povich twist on the game.

After I had put in the appropriate amount of grandpa time and the obligatory waving like a moron at the kids on carnival rides, I followed the sound of music to the stage where various bands played all day. I heard two really good local bands: Doug Davis and the Solid Citizens and Kavish. Both were very enjoyable. I left before the Pranksters took the stage. They were a Grateful Dead tribute band and since I would not cross the street to see the actual Dead, a fake version did not interest me at all. Of course the advantage of playing a 2 hour Grateful Dead set is that you only need to learn one song. They tend to go on forever. The Grateful Dead have given me a very graphic description. When I want to portray a very foul odor I say "smelled like Jerry Garcia's beard."

Adding to the excitement of the fair was the fact that Wake Forest was playing Maryland at the adjacent football field. It was homecoming for Wake, so they had scheduled one of the worst teams in the Atlantic Coast Conference to assure a victory. Is it me, or does the Wake Forest mascot look suspiciously like Ebenezer Scrooge? They call him the Demon Deacon. I have no idea what that is, but when he comes onto the field he is riding a motorcycle. Wake Forest is an amazing school. It is very small but very competitive against the huge schools on its ACC schedule. They have a beautiful football stadium.


This fair is by far the largest I have ever been to. But I knew I was out of my element when I realized there are people that can tell goats apart. There was a tractor pull that drew more of a crowd than several major league baseball teams. But the coup de grace was that there was a line to get into the vegetable displays. I will stand in a line for a funnel cake but not to look at a turnip. Even a prize winning one.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Retribution - 10/8/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday entices us to compose a story using exactly 55 words. I challenge you to give it a try.


Timmy’s “step-dad” was drunk again. He could hear the blows, his mom’s pleadings. Tomorrow, dark glasses, makeup, and sleeves would cover the damage.

Cesar’s words: “neutered dog equals better dog.”
The monster would pass out soon.

Timmy made a practice swing with the 7-iron. He eyed the driver, smiling grimly. "Let the big dog eat".

55 Flash Fiction Friday - "No Intelligent Life Here" - 10/1/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to write a piece using exactly 55 words. Not as easy as it seems. My first draft is usually about 90 words.

Off course.
Landed on uncharted planet.
Met by people all wearing identical drab clothing and the same vacant smile.
“We accept aliens with open arms. No one has to work. We have free everything. Our government will take care of you.”
He got back into his craft and flew directly into one of their suns.

Sunday Scribblings - "Cheese" - 9/27/09

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "Cheese". The first thing that came to mind was a video of my granddaughter Maris.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - The Rendezvous - 9/24/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to tell a story using only 55 words. I highly recommend it.

They met online
Lived close by
Traded lies
And someone else’s photos
Innocent chat became suggestion
Innuendo became Cyber sex
Both were married
Without joy
Meeting planned
Discreet little bar
He got there early
Eyes adjusted to dark
Surveyed the scene hopefully
One recognizable woman
Too familiar
Oh No!!!!
What was his sister doing here?

Micromanaging the Homeless - 9/19/09

I am a charitable person, though my resources are very limited. I am one careless night in a nudie bar from being homeless. In spite of my position near the bottom rungs of the economic ladder, I realize there are those below me. My heart goes out to those less fortunate than me.
Though I give for the satisfaction I receive in helping others (I wrote previously about my love of angel trees), I also want my gifts to be appreciated and used to benefit.
Once, as I was driving in Myrtle Beach, I saw a woman by the side of the road with a couple of kids (I am a sucker for dogs and kids) and a sign that said “we are hungry.” Well, of course I nearly crashed my vehicle going back to where they were standing. All I had in my wallet was a ten dollar bill, so I gladly gave it to the mother. She snatched it from my hand and didn’t say a word, not even a smile. I didn’t expect her to curtsey, but a “thank you” would have been nice, if only with her eyes. As I looked back, I saw her fold the ten spot into a large roll of bills that she removed from her tote bag.
I have given money to panhandlers that I am confident was instantly turned into crack or Thunderbird. So I have since changed my approach to philanthropy.
A man approached me Thursday night In front of the Food Lion (for northerners and foreigners that is a supermarket). He explained that he had been out of work for some time and asked if I could help him out. I asked him if he was hungry. I never want anyone to go hungry. He said no, he had gotten something to eat but needed some money to get a place to stay, gas, etc. I again asked if he needed something to eat, I would take him in and buy him some food. He declined and walked away. I had mixed emotions about that encounter. On one hand I felt that if I was destitute and someone offered food I would take gladly take it, even if I was not hungry at that moment. On the other hand, if I give him money, is it really any of my business what he does with it? Is the need for drugs or alcohol any less of a necessity than that for food? As I have never been addicted to either substance, I can never know.

I think instead of trying to micromanage the needy, I will limit my charity to organizations that benefit such people and let them sort it out. I will return to the angel tree this holiday season.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - 9/17/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to write coherently using only 55 words. I usually am late posting mine. This week I am early. Give it a try. It is fun.


The crime scene was a quiet, suburban, cul-de-sac.
“Unprofessional robbery homicide, no forced entry.”
“ Two suspects, deceased’s 16-year-old granddaughter and boyfriend.”
“They will be holed up; sex, drugs, Playstation.”
A woman enters, who might have been beautiful had she not tried so hard to be.
“My daughter doesn’t play video games officer.”
Wizened eyes rolled.

Fasting For Dummies - 9/16/09

I am fasting today. No, it is not for Ramadan or any other religious purpose. Although by the end of the day I might understand strapping plastique to myself and finding an unpopulated area in to detonate. The military has trained me for such an event.

It is because tomorrow morning I am to be violated by a colonoscopy. You would not think a single day of fasting would be a crisis. but those of you who have seen me know that it takes a lot of fuel to keep this quivering mass moving forward.

Tonight is Wallyball at the Crabtree Gym. I want to go but I am afraid that if I keep passing out that sooner or later the opposing team might score. And I am guessing by the third or fourth such episode, someone will drag me from the court to eliminate someone spraining an ankle tripping over me. This would only happen after my daughter-in-law, Tia, used me as a springboard to get her 4’11” self closer to the net.

I have been fasting for a few hours now and am already starting to get light-headed. I have usually eaten a few rashers of bacon, a couple of eggs, some fried bread, and a quart of milk (skim for health) by now. Skooter is really pissed off as he normally sweats me for some bacon. He has repeatedly gone to the kitchen trying to figure out how to turn the range on.

I thought if I kept myself busy today, writing, I might actually survive. Watching television is absolutely verboten as my subconscious mind equates television to swinging on the refrigerator door during commercials (of which there are many). Skooter is also confused and angered by this as his treats are located en-route to a commercial break. So I might be uncharacteristically creative today, though by nightfall any accidental coherency in my writing will be gone. I will gradually become a monkey with a typewriter.

Most of us are probably familiar with the idea that if you have enough monkeys on enough typewriters for enough time, they will produce the entire collected works of Shakespeare. In 2003, lecturers and students from the University of Plymouth MediaLab Arts course used a £2,000 grant from the Arts Council to study the literary output of real monkeys. They left a computer keyboard in the enclosure of six Celebes Crested Macaques in Paignton Zoo in Devon in England for a month, with a radio link to broadcast the results on a website. One researcher, Mike Phillips, defended the expenditure as being cheaper than reality TV and still "very stimulating and fascinating viewing".

Not only did the monkeys produce nothing but five pages consisting largely of the letter S, the lead male began by bashing the keyboard with a stone, and the monkeys continued by urinating and defecating on it. The zoo's scientific officer remarked that the experiment had "little scientific value, except to show that the 'infinite monkey' theory is flawed". Phillips said that the artist-funded project was primarily performance art, and they had learned "an awful lot" from it. He concluded that monkeys "are not random generators. They're more complex than that. … They were quite interested in the screen, and they saw that when they typed a letter, something happened. There was a level of intention there.

So stand by. Once I drink all of the Golytely, the monkeys will have nothing on me.

55 Friday Flash Fiction - Man's Best Friend? - 9/10/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to write our thoughts using only 55 words.

Most of my belongings are shit. My newest vehicle is 10-years old. My TVs are neither high-def nor plasma. I have indulged myself the single luxury of 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Skooter is not allowed on my bed linen. When he is disgruntled or annoyed with me, he cuddles himself up on my pillow, defiantly.

Fishing Programs - 9/7/09

Most television advertisements feature a disclaimer in fine print at the bottom of the screen, repudiating nearly every claim made by the product manufacturer. Miracle dietary products state “results depend on a healthy diet and exercise.” Well, if you eat healthy and exercise you don’t need the freaking product. Another common one is “results not typical.” What, I can't lose 50 pounds in 30 days without an amputation?

I was watching a fishing program on one of the many ESPN channels. The fact that I was, in fact, watching a fishing program pretty much illustrates where my life is at. I wasn’t really tuned in to watch fishing but was waiting for the rerun of the 2007 National Heads-up Poker World Celebrity Championship Texas Hold-em Las Vegas Showdown Tournament. Still not sure why Poker is considered a sport on television but so is bowling, so I am on board.

These fishing programs would lead you to believe that these guys catch a fish every cast, making the rest of the fishing world that often haplessly fish all day without so much as a nibble, feel like total assholes. What they don’t tell you is that they had filmed countless hours of uneventful fishless boredom to get thirty minutes of action. If you pay attention you may notice beard growth, a change of clothing, a change of cast, a change of location, and a change of seasons during this thirty minute episode. They also don’t show the scuba divers attaching fish to the lines in desperation as the director shouts, “we are losing light!”

I propose that fishing programs be required to add a disclaimer, “individual results may vary.”

I would also request that the poker programs include a proviso: “when playing actual poker, participants do not get to see the other players hands.”

My History of Blogging - 9/6/09

When I first started blogging I depended on various websites to provide prompts, deadlines, and to introduce me to other writers through links on those sites.
I participated in several such websites.
I believed that without those links no one would ever find their way to my blog.
Through those websites I received many comments on my writing, stroking my ego and inciting me to write frequently.
I had not written in a long time and I was so insecure about the worth of my writing that I became a praise whore. Even when the praise was not justified or came as merely chum to reel me to their blog.
After some time I came to realize that most of those comments were made just to lure me to their blog, in hopes that I would leave comments on their writings.
Often, it was evident from those comments that the person had not actually read my blog at all or if they did they did not understand it.
Sometimes the comment was only a link to their blog.
What a turnoff for me.
If I did not visit their blog and make a comment I would often never hear from them again.
It was strictly quid pro quo.
I used to visit a lot of bloggers but found too much pretense. People in love with their thesaurus, writing nonsensical drivel. And I think a lot of people are of the opinion “if I don’t understand it, it must be really good.” And they write flowery comments so no one will think their intellect is lacking. As for me, I have a pretty good vocabulary and if I don’t understand it, it is probably shit.
There are groups of people that follow each other’s blogs, telling each other how wonderful they are. Kind of a mutual admiration society. A person could write a recipe for stir fry and receive hoards of comments proclaiming them as channeling Shakespeare.
I think some people need that sense of community and the positive strokes, even if they honestly know there is no relationship between the comments and the quality of their writing. Or maybe they don’t realize it, like the really bad singer that goes on American Idol and cannot believe they do not get a golden ticket.

Don’t get me wrong, I have come across some fine writers that I read regularly and a handful of my original readers still stop by.
And I am thankful to the people who maintain these sites as they have provided inspiration and motivation that I would not have acquired on my own.
But I became disillusioned and my submissions to those types of sites became less and less frequent.
As a result, the number of comments I received on my own writings diminished exponentially.
I became less motivated to write and I went weeks at a time with no postings.
But a funny thing happened: I began receiving emails of concern from people who I had no idea had been reading my blog.
I have received Facebook friend requests from regular readers of my “Ramblings”.
I came to realize that just because they do not leave a comment does not mean they are not reading.
This realization has inspired me to continue to write, which I enjoy.
I have decided that If one other person gets pleasure from my words, it is definitely worth the effort.
I thank any of you who anonymously follow me.
There is one weekly prompt that I will continue to submit to because it is original and challenging.
That is the 55 Flash Fiction Friday that the G-Man moderates. You tell a story using only 55 words. I highly recommend it.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Goodbye Summer - 9/3/09

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to write our thoughts using only 55 words. I have not participated lately but owe the G-Man a submission, such as it is.

I mourn the end of summer. Most of my halcyon days occurred in summer. Watermelon, hand-churned ice cream, grilling, bikinis. Nothing nourishes my soul like a tranquil summer evening when the sun refuses to relinquish to the night. I am saddened when darkness steals daylight and I can feel the approaching autumn in the air.

Wordless Wednesday - Bark Park - 8/19/09

Thank goodness my dog can read, but what about all those illiterate dogs?