Back in the Saddle Again...

Well, it's Fall again, and those of you who are kind enough to read these missives know what that means: yes, time for me to swear I'll do a better job of keeping up with this blog, and ramble on about the pretty colors of the falling leaves.

Interestingly enough I actually am writing again. I managed to overcome the writer's block that has been crippling (challenging?) me for the past few years, and really make a good start on this novel that I've been promising the world for awhile now.

It's always been much easier for me to write dialog and then to connect the dots later. Oddly, this seems to be holding true today. After sticking a pin in the beginning, and a LOT of background stuff, I started on the first big scene and it, more or less, wrote itself. Even more odd was that, this afternoon, I picked up on a scene left over from last night and soon found myself wandering down a hallway with two of the characters. Instead of "driving," I was the passenger before I even realized it.

With no real plan for the aforementioned scene, I just "went with it," and soon found my protagonist at the office door of a character that I had NO plan to create, yet, out of necessity, had to create. It was as if the scene called for it, and I had to fill in the blanks to make it play out the way Nature intended it should. My sister, who's working on her second novel tells me that this is a good thing and that several of her writer friends see this as "being in the zone." While it's certainly new to me, I'll try and see it as a good omen.

Obviously, I'd love to be a successful author. God knows I don't want a real job.

Okay, that's enough writing for now. Time to go out and look at the pretty falling leaves.

Hanna-Barbera Besmirched My Childhood...

On a lark, I checked out the original "Jonny Quest" series on DVD while at the library this morning. I LOVED that show for two reasons: 1) A kid was the hero and, more importantly, 2) people got killed ALL THE TIME on it. This was not your mamby-pamby morning cartoon. Sure, "The Bugs Bunny & Road Runner Show" was fine and, unquestionably, a classic in mine and my sister's Saturday lineup, but for sheer balls-to-the-wall adventure, you couldn't beat "Jonny Quest." (Okay, "The Herculoids" was a close second, but I never understood how Tundro shot flaming balls out of his horn.)

So, I pop the first dvd in and I smiled as a lot of good memories came rushing back to me: sitting under a blanket and gnawing on a pop-tart that my sister had acquired for me, and having absolutely nothing better to do with my time than to watch endless cartoons.

And then I slowly began to realize something: Hanna-Barbera was just as racist as a lot of the country back in the late 60's.

Within minutes, I was assailed by lazy-eyed, befuddled Mexicans who don't understand why "Seenyore Kwest" is "unner wadder in a leetle boat." Malicious-looking-yet-oddly-apologetic Asians who, to a man, cannot pronounce the letter R and invite ridicule and scorn accordingly. Moreover, it actually became more and more obvious to me that in Jonny Quest's world, anyone but Americans were, by natural default, the bad guys.

At least, I KNEW that "The Herculoids" were xenophobes. Even at five or six, I may not have known the word, but I understood that ANYONE who came to their home planet of Amzot/Quasar was evil and deserving of a quick and violent death. Zandor did not tolerate that shit; if they weren't native to the planet then they were statistics.

Again, this was all up front, even to me as a small child.

But this, THIS revelation is all the more disturbing for it's insidiousness. And I'm quite sure that I never questioned it as a child. I can't actually recall asking my mother why that funny, yellow Chinaman had buck teeth and said, "so solly" all the time, but I know that Mom would have had some words for my sister and me if she HAD known about that tide of stereotypical racism. Not that I would have really understood it at the time.

I guess I'll still enjoy the cartoons for their nostalgia but I'm a little more jaded for the journey.

Musical Titles That Are Spot On...

So I'm listening to Charles Gounod's "Funeral March For A Marionette," and I'm surprised at how much more creepy the music is when one considers the title. I'd heard the opening lines for years in Warner Brothers cartoons and as the theme of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," and never gave it two thoughts. But, when you actually imagine what the title conjures up in your brain it's pretty damn scary or, at least, unnerving. In fact, I think it's slightly more eerie than "Danse Macabre." This is one of those rare times (in my opinion) where the composer perfectly married the title with the music.

Not much else to talk about tonight. I think I'm going to read until I fall asleep. Just wanted to keep the (writing) hand in.

Tis The Season...

Well, I've finally gotten around to sitting down and adding to my pathetically-thin blog. The Holidays are looming like a big ... giant ... looming thing and I find myself mixed on how I feel about their imminent approach. Mainly: do I try and savor them or merely survive them?

I mean, it's all fine and dandy to wax nostalgic about how the Holidays were magical and sacrosanct when I was a little kid, and how we don't have the time to truly appreciate them in today's society, but is this fair? Is it even accurate? In the larger picture, is it Christmas time that's changed, or simply me? It seems quite obvious to me that I'm the one who's changed, but a lot of my mixed view of this time of year is due to growing up and seeing the world from a different perspective: I didn't have bills to pay when I was a boy, or the debts and obligations that came, unbidden, on the coat tails of adulthood. I could afford to sit home on December nights during high school, sip hot chocolate by the tree as "The Nutcracker" played quietly on my cassette player nearby. I cherished those nights of quiet contemplation: the smell of the fir tree, the aromas coming from the kitchen as Mom baked all manner of delicious and, ultimately, fattening confectionery delights. Wonderful times I'll never forget.

I humbly thank my parents for working so hard to make Christmas so very magical for my sister and me. From my father tossing gravel up on the roof of my first house and telling us it was Santa's reindeer and that Julie and I had better be asleep or else we'd get passed by or worse: coal in the stockings, to delivering our letters to Santa. My Dad even went so far as to hire the wonderfully accurate Santa from the nearby G.C. Murphy's department store to come to our house in full regalia to visit with my sister and me. Julie and I were sleeping in my room since our Grandmother had come to visit and was holed up in Julie's room. Dad had separated my bunk beds for us and, despite being about three years old, I can recall some kind of quiet commotion coming from downstairs. Then Dad came into our room and told us that Santa was downstairs and if we wanted to come see him that this was our golden chance.

I immediately hopped out of bed, flush with the prospect of seeing Santa Claus himself, but Julie pulled her sheets up over her head and, vigorously shaking her head, informed Dad (sotto voce) that naughty children got coal in their stockings. It all came down to the rudimentary math for my sister and it simply was NOT worth the risk. However, I clearly remember taking my father's hand, and, taking our winding staircase one step at a time in my feety pajamas, headed downstairs to confront the legend. (I should note that I wasn't completely full of bravado however, I did have my security blanket with me.)

Hitting the last step I will always remember giving a huge gasp as I actually saw Santa Claus filling my stockings with goodies. I. Saw. Santa. In that glorious instant, I knew beyond doubt that all the magic was true and that no, NO ONE, could ever tell me that Santa Claus didn't exist. I exclaimed, "SANTA!!" and ran to where he was. Whether I hugged him, I can't recall, but I probably did. He explained that I'd caught him in the act and that, while he was very busy, he could probably spare a few minutes to visit with me, and didn't I have an older sister? Where was she? A minute or so later, Julie appeared in her bathrobe, eyes huge in wonder. Santa sang carols with us on the piano, had a cookie or two and talked with us for a bit. There are Polaroids to back up this claim too. (In fact, I remember Julie asking him how he got into our house since our chimney was too small, and I asked him about the band-aide on his finger. He explained that our Dad had to leave one door open for Santa to get in and deliver presents and that one of the reindeer [Julie thinks it might been Blitzen?] nipped his finger while he was harnessing them.) Despite my coming home from grade school in later years with a split lip or bloody nose from defending my belief that Santa Claus DID exist, it was all totally worth the memories.

But, Christmas time wasn't always 100% for the kids. Dad got his enjoyment from the Holidays now and again. Sometime before my third Christmas, Dad went down to the aforementioned G.C. Murphy's to talk with the very same Santa I just pontificated about. He told that Santa some of the naughty things I'd done throughout the year, and then brought me down to visit said Saint Nicholas. Dad sat me on the hallowed knee and Santa evidently (I don't recall this but Dad swears by it) asked me if I'd been a good boy since last Christmas. According to the story, I quite confidently assured Mr. Claus that I'd been the poster boy for good and sat back waiting to hit him up with list of highly-deserved presents.

I like to imagine my father having to physically try not to wet himself from laughter as Santa proceeded to tell me of all the naughty things he'd seen me do (sticking my tongue out at Julie, not eating vegetables, etc.) Evidently, my mouth dropped open and my eyes bugged out in a mixture of awe and horror as I tried to both shake my head in denial and nod in a guilty acceptance of the facts. (Oh my God! He really does know when you've been bad or good!) Yep, Dad loves to tell that story ... and I guess he's earned it.

But, it's different nowadays. I won't bore you by cranking out a laundry list of complaints about how times goes by so quickly these days. I think we can all relate though. Maybe the magic is different?

Okay, that's enough for now. Possibly more later as Christmas Eve draws nigh.

10/10/10

Didn't really have much to say this outing, just wanted to have officially written something on the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year this millenium.

Next blog's topic: cartoons from childhood as seen as an adult...

'Bout That Time Again...

After a year or two of reflective study, I've reached an inescapable conclusion: Howard and Raj from "The Big Bang Theory" are this generation's Lenny and Squiggy. It doesn't make Howard and Raj any less funny as characters. To me, they're head and shoulders above the aforementioned secondary characters.

Okay, not the strongest opening I could have made on this blog, especially when you consider I haven't written in many months. It's just that I've decided to stop flogging myself for my inherit lack of self-discipline in keeping up with my writing. Saying that I'm a slacker for not writing doesn't exactly fill me with the need to prove myself wrong. So enough mea culpas.

Despite a large amount of time having passed, I really don't have a lot to say. I'm glad that Fall is imminent and that NCAA football starts tomorrow. I have high hopes for my alma mater this year; I think UNA making it to the second round of the playoffs last year will make them hungry to win it all this year. At least, I hope so. My expectations for Auburn are somewhat less lofty: I'll be glad to see them NOT have a losing season. (For me, that would entail them winning more games than they lose.) But we'll see what happens to both teams.

I'm still emphatically unemployed and looking at the last two paychecks from the state to sustain me if my job hunting remains unsuccessful. So, I've stepped up my game and am sending out 10+ resumes/applications a week now. Also, as much as I loathe retail, I have to face the fact that Christmas hiring is about to start and that could afford me a paycheck until the Holidays. Oh well, one step at a time.

Okay, that's all for now.

Long Forgotten Musings...

I rediscovered some of my entries in Live Journal and thought I'd post them here. This one is from April 26, 2005 and involves pleasant memories of my three very cute study partners from my two semesters of graduate classes at UAH:

So, its like ... 10 minutes until 9 pm, I have scholastic deadlines hanging off me like the media on Michael Jackson, and I have to stop and breathe mentally. S'funny how when the brain is overwhelmed it'll conjure up the most bizarre shit to act as a stress relief valve. Long forgotten, funny moments that occurred in places where, by definition, they should not have. Tiny metaphorical "flowers" that one can pick up and smell decades later. Which, on the whole, is nice because (as my companions in educational crime: Heather, Mandy and Kelly will tell you) life is focused to the point nowadays where you only have time to try and ride that bull the requisite eight seconds and then wonder how badly your ass is going to hurt when you land.

Some, in the not-too-distant past even make me smile to think of them: riding with Mandy in Heather's too-yellow-to-be-a-real-color VW beetle. Listening to the almost subliminal "oosh oosh oosh" seeping up from the floorboards as she turns up the cd player, steps on the gas, and essentially dares any poor dumb bastard to try and get in front of her. Sitting alone in the silent bug now, awaiting their return from a shell station with drinks and nutritious snacks to help keep them going while they ransack the library. Feeling almost like I was back at UNA for a minute, and the only concern after the papers were due was "what are we going to do to celebrate?"

But, I'm on the "what's colorectal cancer mean?" side of my 30's and have already spent my 20's. All I can do now is share in the fun of these girls and thank them for taking me with them. Not for the snacks, but for the metaphysical "flower" I'll still have to smell and enjoy when I'm on the "what's Medicaid for?" side of my 60's.

Here endeth the lesson.