The Fourteenth

Did I ever mention how poor of a speller I am? In one of those moments of youth which is never forgotten but often recalled when speaking fondly of family members after everyone is good and liquered up I was once called into a parent techer conference because teachers at the baptist private school, named Christian Christ Community School mind you, I attended were convenced I was retarted. Litteraly they thought I was slow and would need special care. For fuck's sake I scored off the charts on thier standardized tests, but no I was retarted. Sure I didn't pay too much attention. I doodled and filled the time not doodling by finding ways to 'lose' my homework and make my desk more homely (mission acomplished with doilies and a decritively croched pencil holder!). Yeah and I also couldn't spell. To practice punctuation one day I was assigned a paragraph with no punctuation at all to transcribe onto my own paper, adding the punctuation as I went. When I turned the paragraph in to the teacher (that cold bitch Mrs. T.) she was horrified to find that I mispelled nearly every other word and I was copying! She said it was a sure sign I was troubled and not fit for any good christian education. Hah!
I suppose it's a bit true, formal education was never my thing and I have years of frustrated teachers to back that up. Back to spelling. As you've noticed by now I haven't spellchecked. I wish you all the luck you can find to decipher some of this stuff. It's hard for me sometimes looking back to figure out just what the hell I meant. I blame our phonetic language, or the myth there of. Why oh why is of not spelled O-V-E?!
You know what though? This little handicap of mine has proved to be quite a tool. It's a lot like how people with no arms get really awesome at eating with their feet; I learned to compensate. When writing a sentence that included a word I couldn't spell I'd have to replace it with something I could. This habit got me really good at being detailed in my writing, I also now know way to many synonyms than is necessary. Spell check makes it easier. Like prosthetic arms I can do anything I want with them, use words I only dreamed of writing before. It's a good thing. I can be understood. Anyway, the C-test scares the shit out of me mostly because you are not allowed a dictionary ...or I don't think you are. I will check. Normally I would have deleted that part but its getting down to the wire so I need all the text I can get. These spelling errors might be the better way to go, fill up space accidentaly you know? Fuck phonics. Phuk fawniks! PHUK UE!

The Thirteenth: Boo!

Because this blog is all about filling pages not hearts, or minds, or those voids we all carry between us like magnetic repulsion, I have full licence to be lame and have a creepy thirteenth post post!

List of Very Creepy Things:

• The soulless stares of successful people as they listen to the sob stories of the abject poor on the reality series The Secret Millionaire


• Text messages. From anyone. But mostly text messages from acquaintances. It's a hollow medium with a great potential to be taken the wrong way


• Air currents that swirl around my house and push doors around. Like ghosts, but actually real. How creepy is that?!


• Me, when there are pretty people on the bus just a few feet away. Sorry! You're all very nice to look at. WOOOoooOO!


• The woodland creatures that live under my apartment and scurry around loudly at night when I'm least expecting it


• Commercials made by local car dealerships that are contemplating bankruptcy. "If you buy a truck during the holidays you'll get a free TV! ...dear god please buy a truck, please!"


• Computers that malfunction. Was it something I said? Do you resent using free software? Are you shutting down to plot my demise?


• Socks. Little scummy grey ones that once were white but will never be that way again. You make my skin crawl; I don't even want to touch you


• Thanksgiving leftovers a week after they were prepared. It's like with every new layer of mold and funk that stomach ache you had on Friday slowly reveals itself


• Piano music

Those are just a few things sending shivers down my spine on this thirteenth post of the blog. Its a scary scary world dear readers. I want you to know deep in your hearts that from the bottom of my heart I truly care, with no end to the caring, about the health of the bodies and spirits of your's dear readers. Honestly when looking at this thin list I have constructed here today, a list so minuscule in its scope and depth as to be almost comical, all I see are your weeping faces, and the faces of weeping future generations. The number thirteen will always loom over us. Surely the bureaucrats and mathematicians wouldn't hear of removing the wretched constant, justifying their nonsense with the weak excuses of feeble minded men, "all calculations would cease to be correct! The world will crumble!" They'll say in those shaky faux-british accents all academics seem to cultivate.

"Poppycock! Let me say now and state with all infinite truth and reason, the only thing we have to fear is...."

Never mind. It was cliched and unimportant anyway. What is important is that I keep typing. Only a few hours left to go in this marathon and the tortoise of time is catching up to my Hair-like methods. Time to do the... the.... you know. As of now it is nine o'clock. My class is at 3 pm tomorrow afternoon- that's 18 hours. I have about 13 more posts to make, for a very scanty grade, perhaps not an A... 20 more posts to be safe. That's a rate of at least a new blog post every hour and a half. Holy shit. Looks like I've saved myself a big piece of pie for the end of the meal and now I'm too full to finish. Yum pie. This little exercises may very well... I shan't think the thought. It's a brilliant challenge and I will rise up and kick ass. On to the next post!

The Tenth: Not Fully Awake

I have this theory that if there's something mindless and boring that you're dreading having to do then the best time to do it is in the morning. You're too tired to object, to brain dead to find an excuse, and just physically able enough to get the job done. Case in point: this blog. I am having way to many typos right now, like a clumsy zombie hammering away at the keyboard - but for this assignment you see, its volume not content that counts. Also this little tricky theory of mine has the added benefit of the work being nearly forgotten by the afternoon when full consciousness arrives. Much to your delight, it seems then that fairies, or some other benevolent magical being (God?), has snuck in and fixed things for you. A great great way to go about getting shit done.
Now that Zombie-morning Sally has spewed her intended point, with nothing else planned out and sitting before her wan body, I fear that the rest of this post will quickly go down hill.
So a few minutes ago I swear I had a dream where we performed the Bacchae as a musical. Same dialogue for the most part, only sung, with full orchestration. I'm not sure where the orchestra was hiding though, we were sill performing in the ACC theatre you see. It's much to small for a full broadway production... I'm so ignorant when it comes to theatre - what do I know? They could have been in the seats! What a hoot that would have been. When Arthur stopped the show (something he did very often in this dream, much to my dismay, we apparently couldn't keep the new format agoin') he spoke normally but the audience answered him in full harmony! That was a pretty height point in the film, especially since they were insulting us. It takes balls to insult people on stage to their face and I'm sure it wasn't an easy task to assign the parts either. Some people (myself included) have that one set part they really want to sing, no matter if their voices cant fully reach it, no matter if when they try to sing it children cry, no matter! They'll fight for their right tooth and nail till death do we part.
It was a really awful dream. I fell on my face a lot in it, and was told to act prettier. Eh. The singing was totally cool. "...Where in the wild wood didst thou tame? Kithaeron! Kithaeron! Mountain! By whose hand did he fall?...."

The Eighth

I have to write yet another of these! Damn... Lets see how fast I can get it done... hmm Wikipedia > Random article > The Beast Master
Looks like this is a book written by some sci-fi author Andre Norton in the 50s. Now because I can't possibly read the article, become informed, develop opinions, and structure arguments in a very short period of time I'll just take this as inspiration for a story. Woo, story time. What have we got here... There is a devil on the cover, and a dude with a bow and arrow and a falcon on his back. It apparently has something to do with Native Americans. Cool.
The following story, like the 1982 feature film and late 90s Canadian television series by the same name, does not significantly follow the novel's plot or setting.

THE BEAST MASTER

When Mary Norton-Legree gave birth to her first child she wept with joy.
Never had the Compound produced such a marvel as the little pink blob she held in her hands. No one else saw it at the time, but Mary knew. With her last breath she named him Andre.

...

At only seventeen Andre became the Compound's youngest public relations committee member. At the age of twenty three, armed with only his wits, he lead a bloodless coup d'etat against the head of the committee, Margret Compote-Williams. After realising she had been so cleverly overthrown she threw herself to the ground pledging her unwavering devotion to the bright faced youth now wearing her crown. Margret, while one of the oldest and most passionate, was not the first of his disciples. She soon fell nicely in line with the rest of Andre's following bringing the total number to sixty one. The years waxed on in much the same way.

Andre had kept his mother's maiden name but had wiped his father's from all written record. Thus he was the only person in the compound to have a single last name. No matter, his charm won out and nothing could stop him from attaining the position of Grand Master, Lord, and Leader in the 5042 election. Andre was twenty nine, yet another record broken.

His father had fled to distant lands shortly before the tribunal, but a body holds slim odds of surviving outside the Compound. It was assumed he had been punished accordingly by the gods. What was out of sight in the Compound was also out of mind and his mother's name and her scandal had almost completely been forgotten.

In 5046 there was trouble brewing on the radar boards. His time had come. He prepared the craft and himself to live and to die for the Compound.

Enough sappy shit for now, till next time on... THE BEAST MASTER

The Second: Thoughts on Comedic Writing

I've been reading the Onion lately, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because its the only reading material I can manage to consume while eating. Yum. Also, it burns well and isn't as depressing to look over as other news publications of a similar paper weight.
The Chronicle and the Statesman aren't depressing because they are filled with the tragic events of the day - that's the way the world turns, bad stuff happens. However, they are so dull to read and the quality of journalism is often so low it makes reading news a chore. The Onion on the other hand...
I like the fact that it forces you to read between the lines to get the biting commentary, and it still is so entertaining. Even though it's all fake it's soo much better than anything else you can pick up at news stands.
I myself am not a funny writer. When diving into the creative waters of my brain I find mostly serious things and pretty pictures. All the comedy in there is sprouted from the seeds of others. Like Dave. Thanks Dave. His bold, brash bullshitting does wonders and makes me giggly for the whole day. Hmmm The Onion has internship opportunities. That would be fantastic.
Somehow all the funny moments I have in improv are accidental. My mouth makes words and sentences without me thinking about it, then people laugh and I get confused. Hehe. Yeah. The kind of funny that comes easiest is the driest kind: Irony. Comedic juxtaposition is about the only thing I can structure on my own. That's why narrative improv gets me so excited! It'll be great, as soon as I start attending class on a regular basis...
Ah, well, till' next time. Off to class!