Things Said in Media that Warrant a Gong

        Remember The Gong Show?  For the young or short of memory, a quick synopsis.  The Gong Show was game show (of sorts...  it was kind of Kaufmanesque* in that it was all sort of a joke) in which people would exhibit their talents to a panel of "celebrities"  When the performer was particularly bad, the celebs would bang a gong to get them off the stage.  Since the days of seeing this show, which I loved, I have often wished for a gong.  I would wheel it around, and every time someone annoyed me with a idiotic corporate speak catchphrase (outside the box), or an abbreviated word for the purpose of cutseyness (delish), I'd bang the gong.  "Hey Brooks,  we were supposed to meet downtown at 8, but I have a bit of a sitch..."  GONG GONG GONG! 

    I am going to co-opt the idea to expose hackneyed attempts at writing that have been done a million times before (see below).  I'm banging the gong, dude. 

    Today's example...  in any suspenseful situation in film or television, when the protagonist says "how do I know I can trust you?", the antagonist is going to say "you don't".  GONG!  It just happened on Ringer (heh...  GONG!  Ringer.), and I have JUST decided to never watch this show again.  The Buffy statute of limitations just ran out.  This show sucks.

*It occurs ro me that if you don't know The Gong Show, that you probably won't get Kaufmanesque, either.  Andy Kaufman.  Look him up.  Yeah...  Jim Carrey played him in a movie once.  That one Carrey movie you hated.

Hey There, Crashy... wherein I make a purposeful attempt to break the hold of writer's block

    Okay, it's been a while, but I've been busy. Now, busy is relative. The last time I stopped writing, I wasn't doing ANYTHING. Literally. I wasn't working, I wasn't writing. I wasn't listening to music. I wasn't doing anything. In fact, if you want a fairly accurate picture of my life 2008 - 2010, just imagine a guy running in place. Without all that running. I gained about 100 pounds, drank up most of Roanoke's alcohol, and found a way to piss off most everyone who ever spoke to me. I ROCK! Curtain falls, time passes... I found true love, got married, found a decent job, and essentially tried to stabilize my life. I also lost most of that 100 pounds. Stress and kitchen work, best diet plan ever.

    So, mostly that plan is working... I love my wife, I like my job, and life is improving by leaps and bounds. Now I need to remember how to be creative. I want to write again, and sing again. And I will... and you, my one reader (assuming I still have one) will be the first to witness my attempts.

    I've started and restarted this blog more times than I can count. I make no promises this time. I will make every effort to write SOMETHING everyday. It may be funny, poignant, or utterly stupid. Maybe sometimes all three. If it sucks, turn the channel... the internet is a big place. Mostly, it sucks time away from worthwhile things.   I'm gonna try to make something worthwhile.

Inconsistency and other inconsistencies...

Since I am ungainfully unemployed yet again, it seems as good a time as any to type out what is wandering around in my cranium. I have had difficulty maintaining any consistent writing these past few years. Where once I would write at least a bit daily, lately I can't seem to make that happen. It isn't as though I have nothing to say, I just don't put anything down on paper, or into the computer bloggy thingy. Part of that, these days, is due to the fact that I have found a partner that I enjoy talking to. This is a fairly amazing event for me. Oh, I have had plenty of partners, but talking to them wasn't necessarily part of the job description. So I tend to blather on these days and I have someone around that enjoys (or pretends to enjoy... heh... ) listening.

That said, I am going to make an effort to put some things into print. And you, my dear reader (all one of you) will have something new to pay attention to. Perhaps. Promises, promises...

Sleep Escapes Me Still

Oh why can't I sleep?

Insomnia would be a boon if I could be creative during its frequent visits to my home.

Nope.

You see, for me, insomnia causes my brain to relax just enough that thinking is almost impossible. During these periods the information in my waking brain approximates this:

buzzzzzzzzzzzboredbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbills bills billsbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
wonder whats on TVbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzhungrybuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzI like piebuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzLou Reed's best solo record is definitely The
Blue Maskbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzor maybe New Sensationsbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz(nods off momentarily)JERKS AWAKE WITH A STARTbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzthat Russell is definitely the worst thing about BB11buzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Like that.

So writing is nearly impossible. Just thought I'd share.

Guiltless Pleasures

A guilty pleasure is a thing that brings joy; but one would, I assume, want to keep secret. I don't have a single guilty pleasure. Oh, I like things that people make fun of me for; but they aren't secret and I feel no guilt regarding them.

I love Duran Duran. For a Rolling Stones fan, that might seem to be a guilty pleasure. However, Duran Duran introduced me to import music and the world of independent record stores. I would never have shopped outside the mall for music nor read great publications like The NME or Crawdaddy had it not been for my search for the acoustic version of "The Chauffeur" which was the b-side of an obscure pressing of the "Rio" 7" single. Were it not for my desire as a kid to hear the remix of "Tiger Tiger" available only on a 12" remixes compilation which was exclusively available in Japan, I never would have discovered Husker Du, The Replacements, or Dead Kennedys. Simon LeBon's off-key crooning of "Save A Prayer" was the least of my concerns as I hunted that 12" single, for there was a remix of "Hold Back the Rain" secreted on it's flip side and that was my absolute bestest most favorite Duran song of all time. While I was there, I also picked up a used copy of Nashville Skyline, my introduction to one Robert Zimmerman.

Wearing my love for these New Romantics on my sleeve opened the door for lots of other little pleasures for which I hold no regret: TV's Big Brother, the campy 1966 version of Batman, Def Leppard, Dolemite, McDonald's, and that greatest of all pleasures, Miller High Life.

Too much concern is given to what others think of us. Me, I'm too busy drinkin' and listening to "Girls on Film" to care.

When My Mom Comes Marching In.

"My Mother was a saint."

I have heard this spoken by many a person in as many circumstances over the years. Those of us lucky enough to have good moms tend to aggrandize them. We place them on pedestals. We cultivate our lives around our mothers' mythical beauty and love. We choose mates that reflect the positive qualities of our mothers. Then, after we begin the journey that is parenthood, we try to instill those qualities that set our mothers apart into our children. My Mother is no saint. She's something far beyond sainthood.

My earliest memories of my childhood involve my Mother singing to me. She was always singing. I think that is what has always given me the belief that, in the beginning, she was happy. I know she loved me, and I know that she loved being my Mommy. Then something got broken. My memories are vague, and I find it impossible to maintain chronological order of the events, but my Mom went from being a happy married mother of me to being caught in a downward spiral not of her own making. Without delineating all of the details, my mom got very ill and she left my father. All at the same time. I hope someday that she chooses to either tell the story, or to tell me so that I can write it, because it is the amazing tale of a woman who became very lost and then clawed her way up from the very depths of hell to live a good life and continue being a great Mother. However, this is not my story to tell, it is hers. Suffice it to say that I spent years bouncing between my Mother and my Father and living a constant life of worry that my Mom would never be my Mom again. In the end through the help of one great doctor and the support of My Pa-Pa and Ma-Ma and all of Mom's family, I got my Mom back. She was not unscathed, but she was my Mom, and from that point on she re assumed the responsibility of saving my life over and over again.

My Mother has always felt guilt about that part of her life. I think that she feels that she let me down. Today of all days, it is important for me, as my Mother's only son, to correct that notion. I know that she wanted to be there all of those times that she couldn't be. I also know that for every minute she spent away from me there have been countless times since that she has been exactly where she needed to be. My Mom would do anything in her power to make my life even one iota better than it is. That, however isn't her greatest gift. The greatest gift that my Mother has ever given me is the knowledge that, as a parent, one doesn't have to be perfect. As a parent, one simply needs to be present. As parents, if we just give our kids the knowledge that we are there for them one hundred percent, then they will know that they are never truly alone. As my mother gave that gift to me, I give it to my children in the hopes that they will, in turn, give it to theirs. And that is my little part of making the world a better place.

My Mother didn't need to be a saint because she's my Mom. That is ever so much more important.

My freakin back aches...

Spent the day pulling all of the records off of the shelves (the musical part of which I will write about over on Perfect Pop Sense), and I think it may have killed me. I got new shelves, which are only marginally what I actually need for the job. However, cash flow being what it is, I'll suck it up and use them and like it. The record collection is bizarre. It seems so huge when they are all over the house, and much smaller when all in place. Not that they are all in place, yet. That, my friends is a job for tomorrow, which is why I have taken a Naproxen and a Flexiril in hopes that the twinges subside enough to get the job done.

Anyway... at least I've got something to do, yeah? Write, you say? Yes, I suppose I could do that. Tomorrow.

A shift in priorities.

My brother and I have started a blog dedicated to music, so it seems kind of silly to continue this one in the same direction. I have used this as a sounding board for my little High Fidelity ripoff, and I've written some personal stuff, too. Maybe a couple of music things as well. Anyway, I'm going to keep this one personal, and I hope that it doesn't offend. I truly need to start writing more and with Perfect Pop Sense being the "music" blog going forward, I shall use this one as the extraneous stuff blog.

I hope to keep it interesting.