Plea Bargain

When someone says they don't want to complain, aren't they immediately betraying their interest? At the very least, they're setting themselves up to fail.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of surfing blogs. As I progressed from one to the next, I was again reminded why I think they're pointless. Don't get me wrong; some bloggers displayed beautiful photographs, others offered valuable insights on maximizing technical efficiency, others relayed updates on their ministries or families, and yet others detailed their struggles with diseases, often terminal.

I don't know what motivated me to continue browsing. Perhaps it was an voyeuristic impulse to glimpse into the lives of total strangers? More likely than not, I wanted some way to procrastinate and I'd already been through my daily rituals.

One recurring theme was reinforced as I visited blog after blog: I don't care. Seriously. I couldn't care less about cutesy baby pictures or the difficulties of eight-months-preggers ladies navigating shopping carts through a crowded supermarket. I'm not learning SQL anytime soon, nor have I any investment in somebody's journey for self-discovery by trekking through the Himalayas. What I wanted was something worth reading.

(Note to self: that's why books exist.)

I returned to a blog I thoroughly enjoy - Stephan Pastis, the cartoonist who does Pearls Before Swine. He cracks me up. So does Steve Martin's blog. But no one would visit their sites if they weren't already established in other venues.

So why do I write this? Haven't I asked that about a hundred times already? Is it for those few-and-far-between comments? I could achieve faster and better feedback from Facebook. Is it to maintain a practice and discipline for writing? And Here's the Kicker encouraged comedy writers to maintain journals. Would this qualify?

Have I ever committed so much time and effort to a senseless, pointless venture like this? On the days when I phone it in, would I be better off skipping altogether? What's my record for consecutive questions? Why do I suddenly feel like Macauley Caulkin from Uncle Buck?

I've determined if I have a request for my reading public (all nine of you), then I should state it up front because odds are slim of getting to the bottom of an introspective, non-funny entry like this. Even if I include tapioca.

So here's my plea: Give me a purpose for writing this. If you think it's humorous and that's sufficient, say so. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions. (I may not use them, but I'm willing to read them.) Ready? Begin.

Ten for Thursday

That makes me happier than a bowl of pancakes.

If I were to describe you, the list of words I'd use would be long and repetitive.

My boys were screaming in the other room. I couldn't decipher most of the words, but I was pretty sure I heard "bleeding."
Me: Who's bleeding?
Justin: Nobody! Except for Josh and Scooter.

Two awful jokes I came up with for the boys:
What's Braveheart's favorite snack food? FRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITOOOOOOS!
What do you call a bovine drummer? Cowabongo!

Irish people are from Ireland. Scottish people are from Scotland. Why is there no "Jewland?"

Through minutes of research, I have concluded there is no substitute for a dog. Then again, if your class is being taught by a dog and it gets sick, it's probably best to take the day off.

Someday, I hope to look back at this blog and laugh. Until then, I intend to look forward at this blog and sigh.

Games for prostitutes' children to play: Red Light District/Green Light.

Every time you hear a bell, an angel gets its wings. Cell phone ring tones don't count.

What did you do if your Christmas tree was too fat to squeeze into the front trunk of your 1975 VW Bug? There's a joke in here somewhere, but it's outdated, confusing, and no less funny than anything else I've written today.

Putting the Un in UnMotivation

Writers are supposed to establish a space, a sanctuary where they can and will write without distraction. Considering my three sons (the reality, not the television show), setting up such a haven at home is an impossibility. Plus, my home PC has games. Crappy ones, but I'm currently running a streak of 140+ consecutive wins at FreeCell. That should continue indefinitely until Justin decides to give it a go. Which would be best, because the pressure to maintain perfection is excruciating. I can't quit a game early, which becomes difficult when Les calls me away from the computer only seconds after starting a game. Sure, it may only take three minutes, but that's time I'm teaching my boys it's okay to delay or procrastinate. Add it to the list of things I've unwittingly instructed, and before I know it, I'll have children who can build pyramids... Later.

Back to my original point. I write from work. That's where I have less distractions. Even so, I've cleared out the detractors that suck at my attention and effort, answering overdue emails, entering receipts into my budget, straightening my desk, checking my Facebook and friends' blogs, and organizing my tote bag. So, of course, it's twenty minutes before I leave for the day.

A friend and I have worked and reworked a story too many times and I'm still unsatisfied with the conclusion. One murder takes place and a second killing happens in self-defense, but the best motive we've used so far is "madness." As in "The killer was crazy." Which is crap. I've searched every corner of my vacuous mind to determine the story - as is - isn't worth reworking again. So I'm removing the murder altogether and replacing it with a kidnapping. (Maybe that's what motivated the recent THR instructions?)

The new dynamic of the story deals with a kidnapper who got what he wanted from the kidnapped (kidnappee?), then doesn't know how to return him without getting caught. Ransom demands generally include escape transportation, international Visas/passports, or everyone to look away while the bad guy sneaks off.

This situation is considerably smaller - no ransom note. The kidnapper gets the victim specifically so the victim can do something. The victim reluctantly-but-eventually complies. And there I am.

I've sat on it too long, and need to rediscover the momentum that carried my interest so deeply into the original story, even if this incarnation bears little resemblance to that one. I write this as a challenge to myself, a hard-lined opportunity to accomplish something. YES! Tomorrow, I WILL finish that draft!

Or, at the very least, I'll delete this post.

Organizational Schmactics

Today is a day of cleaning and budgeting, a time to straighten out the clutter on my desk and in my head. Because I feel no compulsion toward testing my job security, I also shan't test the fire sprinkler system in this new building. My sizeable forearms could perform a sweep, were it not for bordering cubicles that would inherit my junk. As part of this cube farm, I can't lift part of my station high enough to let gravity pull everything toward a trash can. Bummer.

Apparently, it's my destiny d'jour to look at each individual page and decide whether it should be filed, passed along to someone else, recycled or trashed. Which should mean four piles. Except mine ends up two: passed along or trashed. Technically, I could sidestep the middle man and assume the next person to read those things I pass forward will throw them out. Why not send them to the junk heap myself?

On one side of my station, I have a box of Kleenex. (Name brand, mind you, or else I'd call them tissues. Our copiers at the firm are actual Xerox machines. And my underwear is designed by Hanes.)

Someone has a job designing men's underwear.

I take that back. Many, many people have jobs designing men's underwear.

I bet they don't have messy desks.

Truer Words Were Often Written

I should learn to play the banjo.

I won't do it. But I should.

Blog Entry #100!

It's true! I've hit triple digits. And yet, as I sit here eating my oatmeal with a fork, debating whether it's possible to scribble something with a keyboard, the sense of accomplishment ranks somewhere between getting a really good haircut and finding an open parking spot downtown on a Saturday night. There's something there, but it's not the sort of occasion worth writing about. Except the majority of The Hypocrite's Refuge consists of substance like this.

Should I conduct some informal, personal ceremony to commemorate my centennial achievement? I turn 39 tomorrow, and I've specifically requested nothing for my birthday. Baking a cake for a blog with such limited readership feels overzealous somehow.

As mentioned a few weeks ago, I'm reading "And Here's the Kicker," which is a series of "conversations with top humor writers on their craft." A recurring theme between them is the importance of honesty in their humor. Which makes me wonder - is there something true beneath my fluff? (I'm not merely referring to my belly hair, underneath which lies too much truth and ice cream.) Must I deliberately incorporate heavier substance to protect these entries from becoming too easily forgettable? Besides the frustration and angst of my wanna-be writer tendencies, the annoyances of stupid people, and the silliness of random wordplay, is there anything worthwhile to keep my followers coming back?

I ask myself again: why am I blogging? 'Tis good writer's practice to put words on paper daily. Discipline. Consistency. The chance hope of inspiration. But mainly, I blog with the hope of making someone laugh. I've no desire to cause you to spit your coffee across your monitor. I dislike LOL, ROFLMAO, and the sub-genre of acronym/emoticon so prevalent in chatting and texting, so my longing to inspire chuckles/giggles/smirks isn't accompanied by a craving for Twitterish feedback. Any belief that this would might viral was squelched before I started. I don't use photos or videos, I don't Twitter, I rarely use Facebook for anything beyond peeping.

Still, cyberspace is large enough that I wouldn't consider THR to be a waste of it. I'll continue forging onward, potentially revealing more of my thoughts than the mental chaff that amuses me. Or not. Years from now, it'd be nice to reminisce on something brilliant I conceived of. But then, why would I look here for that?

Same reason you do, I suppose.

So thanks to the half-dozen readers who frequent this site, more to the fewer who sporadically comment, and especially to the little people, who haven't been mentioned in an awards speech for far too long. The most important job little people do: create a perspective that lets us feel big. And there we are.

No Tagbacks

Blogger's suggested labels for this post, and I'm guessing for all posts, are "scooters, vacation, fall." Why those three words? Did the creator of this site know I called my youngest son Scooter? Is he aware that we recently had to cancel a trip to Florida and run a staycation instead? Is his favorite season autumn? Or -

Whenever I go on vacation, one of the things my wife and I enjoy is seeing the city. Not the standard sightseer route, visiting memorials, landmarks, and architectural oddities. Instead, we rent a Vespa scooter and she holds onto me as we zoom down the streets and get a tourist's eye view on our surroundings. It's so much easier when the burden of finding a parking spot for a rental car is alleviated. When the streets are full, I simply turn the bike sideways and park it between two other vehicles. This was a great strategy until our latest excursion, when the backroads I attempted to navigate were peppered with potholes. Les bounced behind me on the seat, but she hung on, squeezing tighter and tighter with every jolt. An intelligent driver would've slowed down on such a street, but I enjoyed the sensation and if it encouraged her to hug, even better. I didn't realize how she was unintentionally cutting off my oxygen until things suddenly became very hazy. I think I blacked out. Which is never a good thing when driving a scooter. The Vespa flipped forward and sideways, catapulting both Les and myself into an agonizing sequence of unsynchronized flailing. It was the worst fall I'd ever endured.

Tags: scooters, vacation, fall.

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