by Richard Timothy | Mar 6, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Working Observations
My day job is your standard 8 hours a day, paid every two weeks, paying more each year for less insurance coverage kind of job. So and average American kind of job, I guess. The kind you commonly hear about, and that has been known to raise a fair amount of grumbling from the main stream working class. Yes, we are grateful for the job, but we’re still going to complain about it. Hey, it’s our right to do so and more importantly we are not getting paid enough to not complain.
Bitching about work is one of those unifying past times. Much like smoking is the universal make a friend anywhere in world… for other smokers I mean. It’s also the device responsible for the universal “you dirty bastard stop trying to kill me with your cigarette smoke” look that all non smokers seem so proficient at giving to all the smokers. Still, if a smoker from Germany finds himself, or herself, in Canada waiting at the bus stop and someone walks up next to them and lights a smoke, and then the German lights a smoke… next thing you know the two smokers are chatting and making plans to hang out… or at the very least they exchange addresses so they can become pen pals. The only other thing I can really think of that brings people together like that is babies or little kids. I mean people with kids making friends with other people with kids… not smokers and people with babies making friends. You really don’t ever see that happening.
Complaining about work seems to be that same kind of thing. It’s a universal that I believe most people have done at some point, and some continue to do on a daily basis. It’s so traditional it’s even become a Hollywood cliché. Hey if there is one thing Hollywood does well it’s create and over use cliché after cliché. It’s what they do best. Although, sometimes I wish they’d get a hobby or something.
So the other day I noticed something at work. Something I could not pass up sharing with you. To date I believe I’ve only written one other time about work. What surprises me is that the setting for this story takes place in the exact same location that my previous work story did. It’s not in my office, or the training room, or a meeting room, or even the parking lot. No, today’s story, just like last time, takes place in… the restroom, toilet, lavatory, bathroom, crapper, jon, powder room, potty, just to name a few.
The way I got there was rather standard. I had finished some tea, Earl Gray… oddly enough I do need to thank the Germans for my affinity for Earl Gray. Odd I know, but it was in German that I was first introduced to a cup of Earl Gray with a smile of milk and a quarter packet of sugar. It’s absolutely lovely.
The tea, being tea, did what tea does best. It satisfied me and then, after a while, it urged me to stop working and get a little exercise, via a little stroll to the “facilities” and back. When I got into the restroom, I walked up to the urinal, assumed the position and notice that the urinal next to me had been wrapped in a big plastic bad. This was not the odd bit. The restroom has always had a history of abuse and repair. I personally think it has something to do with the fact that we hire a bunch of mentally evolving boys, ages 17 to 24. Hey being of the male persuasion I feel perfectly qualified saying that usually we really don’t begin getting a mental grasp of anything more than ourselves until after 25.
Right, so the urinal wrapped in plastic has been something that I’ve seen before. The thing I wasn’t prepared for was the sign that accompanied the plastic wrapped urinal. Here is an actual photo… don’t worry it’s safe for work.
Yes, a sign in all capital letters saying “DO NOT PEE ON PLASTIC BAG.” I couldn’t help but start chuckling.
Then the realization hit me… there is only one reason why a sign like that would exist… sigh. I put had to put my head down in shame because of my Y chromosomic tie to the male race, more so, to the male whose actions resulted in that sign being made in the first place. Yep, there’s always that one exceptionally under evolved member of your phylum that ends up doing some like that making an entire group of people look bad.
Still, I do laugh a bit every time I look at that sign. I guess you could call it toilet humor… in an odd kind of way that really isn’t all that funny if you start to analyze it too much. Still, at face value, I thought some of you might get a bit of an unprepared smile from it. I think that’s it then. I wash my hands of it. I just hope that the next time share a working observation, it takes place in a different room.
Any thoughts?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: desk job, Office Space, and Earl Gray.
![Nobody’s Story of Brody Smooth]()
by Richard Timothy | Mar 2, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Life Characters, Non-Fiction
When Nobody was living in Alaska, he worked in a small town that became a hub of business for a few short periods during the year when the town would surge into over population from fisherman around the world seeking the chance to fill their daily catch limit of Salmon. Apparently the river close to town was renown for the congregation the salmon that would pass through on their way to some big orgy fest the salmon held each year in Alaska. I guess its kind of like the fishy equivalent of an aquatic burning man.
As is the stereo type of small towns everywhere, the novelty of having someone new move into town always brings with it a certain amount of excitement. Nobody told me about meeting the locals. He said there was one he said always stuck out in his mind, and that was Brody Smooth. Brody wasn’t even his real name. To this day Nobody’s not even sure what his real name was. The reason for this was a result of an evening of conversation and making friends with the locals at the town bar. With a name like Nobody, you are guaranteed the floor when the exchange of stories begins. It had better be a good story at that because your first story is usually what the locals are going to use as the catalyst for making their decision about your character. Nobody was either going to be “alright in their book” or “one of those no-so-bright kids.” I’m not sure they really care either way, they just want to get an understanding of how fast or slow they will need to talk to you for you to understand them.
It was after Nobody had finished his story of how Nobody became Nobody, that Brody, after a few minutes on contemplation made the comment, “Yeah, if I was ever to change my, I change it to Brody Smooth.” He then tried to cover it up by saying that he would never change his name, but it didn’t matter. The name had been uttered and there was no taking it back. Everyone in the bar started to laugh, and that is the night Brody Smooth became Brody Smooth.
On the evening before Brody was going to head out and get his camp set up for the salmon run, he and Nobody met at the bar. It was a pastime for the locals to meet at the bar, stay mostly sober and people watch for the entire evening. They were passive aggressive fans of this time of year. They were annoyed by all the tourists, but it also allowed them to create new conversations with each other once the fishermen had all left town. It gave everyone new stories to share with each other. Some of the tourists even became sort of lite-friends with some of the locals, you know like lite mayo, or lite beer. Something that smells, tastes, and feels like the real thing, but is really just a cordial pretend version that really doesn’t do any damage do you agree to coexist then you are together. The fishing trip every year was a kind of reunion. There were never any letters, calls, or any other type of correspondence between them. But once a year in Alaska these lite-friends, would be friends until the salmon run was over.
It was during this evening that Brody told Nobody about his yearly sacrifice. Apparently, on opening day of the salmon run the banks of the river and packed with fishermen standing shoulder to shoulder ready to cast the first line and pull out an Alaskan king salmon. I believe this is the point and why it’s so popular. It’s talentless fishing at its best. No skill = a great reward.
Brody explained that every year he always made his way to the river with a revolver on his hip and a sawed off double barrel shotgun in backpack. No one really noticed his arsenal as he would squeeze in between them. Then, as the official casting time arrived and a wall of men with almost water ballet precision flick their wrists and thousands of small hooks dance through the air and land in the river with a sort of a “gooch” sound. Then, almost immediately after hitting the water thousands of fishing rod reels begin to fill the morning air in a sound like the 100 little people playing kazoos have sucking down have balloon filled with helium. Fish after fish are pulled on the rock cover shore. The hooks are removed , the fish are placed on a string and and another cast is made.
Brody admitted that he always struggled with these types of crapped fishing conditions. One of the things he loved most about Alaska was the utter lack of cramped spaced. It was this very thing that triggered Brody’s first fishing season sacrifice. It worked so well that it became a yearly ritual. As Brody reels in his first fish of the season he get the fish about ten feet away from him, drops his pole and rushes the fish while screaming and pulling out his shotgun. Once he get to the fish he unloads both barrels into the fish, then as he drops the shotgun he pulled out his revolver and unloads all six shots into the fish. “Sure it’s a waste of a perfectly good fish,” he told Nobody, “but I always have at least 4 to 5 feet of space on either side of me the rest of the day.”
And that was Nobody’s story about the one and only Brody Smooth.
What did you think?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: eels, fishing, and small town Alaska.
by Richard Timothy | Feb 25, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Life Characters, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
One of things that always gets me smiling is when I reminisce with myself about old friends… sometimes, when I’m lucky, others are there to hear the stories about these characters from my past. These stories are about people who have come into and gone out of my life. They are the “time and place” people of my life. They were there for a time and will always have a place in my mind that I get to share with others from time to time. I think we all have people like this in our lives. So what better way than to pay homage than to share some of things about them that always made me smirk.
Nobody is one of the first ones that comes to mind. Then again, he usually is when the topic of unusual friends begins being shared with current friends. Nobody was a regular at Caffe Ibis, the coffee shop I worked at when I was going to the university in Logan, Utah. I was working in the deli section of the place, which was brilliant because of the creative license we always had to make some random lunch special from scratch each morning. One of my favorite parts was writing the story behind the special on the special of the day board. A bit of a shocker I know. We were a “conscious” deli, using local growers when we could and always using organic products whenever possible. The coffee was more “conscious” than the food. The owners specialized in triple certified organic coffee, which for coffee connoisseurs means something. They roasted the beans right in the back. (Incert deity of your choice here)! That place stunk, especially during those roasting times. Then again you know my feelings about coffee aromas so it does make some sense.
Being a local and alternative coffee shop and cafe we attracted a particular type of clientele. I mean we attracted all types of people, but we became a hangout for the local hippie kids. So much so, that on more than one occasion we found a particular type of plant growing next to the trees in the growing pots that were outside on the sidewalk.
Is all this necessary? I don’t know. But it does give you the setting for when I first met Nobody. He came in for some hummus, pita bread, and a cup of joe. My friend Kyle, and co-worker, already knew him.
“Hey Nobody.”
“Hey Kyle. Hey new guy.”
“This is Rich.”
I smiled, thinking to myself, “Nobody? Kyle just called him Nobody. I nodded at him. “I’ll be it’s just a nickname. All the little hippie kids have nicknames. Hell, I’ll bet I only know real name of maybe three of these guys.” I then walked into the back were I could not be seen and asked Kyle to come with me for a quick minute.
“Nobody? Really? It’s a nickname right?”
Kyle smiled, “Nope.”
“Soo?”
… more smile.
“There’s a story there isn’t there?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re not telling me?”
“It’s his story.”
I called Kyle a few choice expletives, because that’s how civilized boys in there 20’s expressed appreciation to their best friends in the… always I think. Come to think of it I still do that with my brother Mike all the time. Every time we see each other he’ll yell out, “Rich!” Causing me to reply with my own cry, “Mike!” Then in unison, we yell out together, “YooouuuUU BASTARD!” And then clamp hands in a solid handshake. Granted, whenever we do this and our mom is around she always yells, “Stop it!” Every time we get to the bastard part. This always reminds us to tell her, “No offence meant mom.” And then our dad starts laughing.
Over the next few weeks I got better acquainted with Nobody. He had been in Alaska working and was back for a while deciding what he wanted to do next. He became one of these reliable work friends. They type of person that comes in a few times a week to say hello, strike up a conversation, and then go in his merry way once things started getting busy and the prospect of an active conversation became filled with the lunch hour rush. I think the official term of this is “a regular.” I did see him at the occasional party, but we never really hung out other than at work.
It was the day he came in with his new driver’s license beaming with pride, because it said Nobody ion it. So I finally asked, the two big questions, how and why? He replied, “I have scruples and I am my word, even when it’s a result of a bad conversation as a result of a very very drunken evening.”
I gave him a glass of orange juice to help with the scruples, and waited for his next sentence. I half expected it to be, “…besides it seemed like a good idea at the time.” But it wasn’t. As he unfolded his story he explained that he had made a promise, and was one to keep his promises. He and a friend were having an intensely inebriated evening and the topic of name changes came up. They started laughing at how funny it would be if one of them were to legally change their name to Nobody. Nobody volunteered that if his friend would pay for all of the costs to get it done then he would do it. The friend agreed, and make Nobody promise to do it. He promised and both agreed that it was the most brilliant idea they ever had.
The expected course of these types of conversations is, because they are incredibly common once copious amounts of liquor are involved, to be instantly dissolved once you wake up with a pounding headache and the short lived pledge that you will never drink again. In Nobody’s case, the next morning only strengthened the friends resolve that this was one of the most brilliant ideas they ever had. Some paper work, some fees, and a lovely little sit down with a judge resulted in Jonas becoming Nobody. The judge said he had to keep his last name, but that was something about my time in Logan, I made a lot of friends, but I’ll be buggered if I ever knew any of their last names. I had all their first names down, but last names… no bloody clue.
“Not everyone can do the Nobody thing.” he once told me. His parents still call him Jonas, as do a few old friends, but to me he was Nobody. It was oddly fitting. Not to mention the endless hours of personal appreciation I would get telling people I spend the afternoon talking with Nobody. Or saying I saw Nobody at last nights party. If felt like I was on the verge of starting an Abbot and Costello skit at any given moment when Nobody was in the equation.
He had this brilliant story that he would share about Broody Smooth. A local he met working in Alaska during the fishing season. Actually, I’ll share that with you tomorrow. It’s… it’s the story of Broody Smooth, there’s no other way to put it.
Nobody ended up going back to Alaska, and I lost track of him at that point. Still one of the first stories I love to share with new friends is the time I spent in Logan Utah becoming friends with Nobody.
Any of you have friends who have changed their names?
Image Source:
Google Images, key words: name is nobody, hippies, glass of oj, and who’s on first.
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by Richard Timothy | Feb 23, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Lightbulbs and Soapboxes, My List of Things that Don't Suck, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, Pratchett Perspective, Public Service Announcement
It’s hard to believe that it’s already been three weeks since that crusty eyed morning where I decided to check my messages right after waking up and found a message from one of my readers (thanks Erin) with Terry Pratchett in the subject line and a link entitled Terry Pratchett: my case for a euthanasia tribunal.
As I read the piece I started thinking about it, the big “it”… the “what is it all about” kind of “it”. I mean I know that the situation is sad for both groups of people, the first group being the adoring fans, and the second group, still adoring fans mind you, but family and friends that know him as not just the author, but the person as well. Having personally witnessed what Alzheimer’s does to a family member, there is certain amount of laughter associated with the heartache. My mother said that when it got really bad you had to laugh to keep from crying.
I laughed because it was funny that my grandpa had forgotten what words he considered were bad and kept trying to teach them to my grandma. There is something magically endearing about a little old man trying to teach his wife (she had had a stroke) how to say “oh hell.” He would even encourage her. “Come on Nora, say damn it. Daaammn it.”
When I got to the end of the Pratchett piece I had to ask myself, if it was possible to find a smirk in all of that. Was this even the type of thing that deserved my style of commentary? After thinking about it for a good… however long it take to eat a bowl of cereal, I opted to go with my gut feeling. And, in the words of the always eloquent Foul Ole Ron, let me just say, “bugrit.”
I think as fans, when we first learned of Pratchett’s condition, we took in the full scope of what that all meant. The loss of Terry would be enviable. It was almost as if we started morning the loss of a great man who is still here with us. On a plus note, I still have a number of books to get through still before I even finish the all of the Discworld books for the first time. So, at least I have that going for me. Not to mention, I’m sure he’s still writing more Discworld stories for our eager minds to consume so that we can regurgitate laughter and joy all over anyone who might be in the same room with us as we read it work.
On thought is that it… well, it does help one prepare a bit. I mean sure personal expiration is the only guarantee we have in life, but there’s a kind of appreciation I have in knowing that it’s on its way, as opposed to the opposite end of the spectrum as with Adams unexpected end. No “so long”, no “fish”… it was just a headline that no one was really sure was real or not from the first few times of reading it. Terry’s announcement, I think, has helped prepare us, well, helped me prepare for “it.” His “it”, not my “it”. My “it” at this point is the type of “it” that would result in me exclaiming a loud “she” before the “it”.
I’m not sure why, but Rincewind has always reminded me of Pratchett, the man, not the author. I’m not sure why either. I don’t know the man at all. I mean I know what he looks likes, but I’d probably not recognize him if I bumped into him on the street. Not unless someone else was there to point it out for me. When it comes to Terry Pratchett, I know the man is an author. Oh, and because of an interview I read in the past year, I know that he loves playing Oblivion. He’s English… I’m clear on my facts in that regard, but I’m not sure about much more. Things like, when his birthday is. Who he thinks would win in a fight between an Alien or a Predator, or what he did before he did what he does now.
I’m not a very good fan am I? Maybe it’s just that I’m not a traditional stalker type fan. Ahh the stalker fan… so I had this friend whose name sounded like the name of a type of dog, but for her sake was spelled differently. She was a huge Dean Koontz fan. I mean huge. So one day, she just so happened to find herself at a Koontz book signing, which was a result of some her getting two days off from work, finding a sitter for her child for that time, getting a plane ticket to California, booking a hotel room close to the book store he was going to be at, and getting to the book store by 3AM so that she would be one of the first in line to meet him.
Out of all the things she could have said to him… the conversation broke down something like this, “I am one of your biggest fans.”
“Really?”
“I celebrate your birthday.”
“My birthday. What do you mean?”
“Yes. Every year. I bake you a cake and everything.”
Dean then writes down some notes and says, “That gives me an idea. Would you be ok with me using some of that in the book I’m currently working on?”
It was the phone call I got after this had happened where she told me about the above conversation, and then screamed in a bouncy, overly excited tone, “I’m going to be in a Dean Koontz book!” I tried telling her that this was not really a compliment. She failed to see how it could be anything other than one.
No, I’m much more of a lighthearted, “Thanks Terry” kind of fan. Sure it would be groovy to meet him, but if I don’t, it’s ok. As for my Terry aka Rincewind perspective, it’s just how I see it. He’s always seemed to me to be a bit of a reluctant hero. That is until the capital “A word” became a chapter in his life. And like those moments when Rincewind becomes fed up enough that running stops becoming the first choice of action. A choice was made to face it head on, which seems exactly what he’s doing now.
He a vocal Alzheimer’s awareness poster child and his donations, as well as his open dialogue towards assisted death, is that Rincewindian stand. Granted, it might not end all that well for him, but as he goes through his journey it is going to help an entire world of people whether he expected it to or not. It’s the type of thing a knight might do, though it’s probably best not to tell him that.
I could romanticize about the literary nobility and juxtapose it with reminiscent alter ego characters that may or may not exist. In the long run I don’t think it’s going to be all that useful. Perhaps it’s just a bunch of fluff in the imagination of a life I don’t know. What I can say is this, if there is one thing I’ve learned from Pratchett’s work, it’s the fascination of life, his fascination with life. Even Death is fascinated by the human experience called life.
As he said in the closing of his Richard Dimbleby lecture, “If I knew that I could die, I would live.” I think the world has a bit of Pratchett left in it. I like to think that part of life is about giving. We have volumes of gifted wit and wisdom from that man. I’ve gotten a few emails from readers who talked about how Terry’s books had gotten them through the harder times of their life. Giving them some comfort, hope, and even more so, giving them laughter when they didn’t think they had any left in them.
In some future day, when the headlines yell that Death has finally come for the old knight, I expect that before shaking hands he’ll wait for Terry to finish his brandy as they both listen to Thomas Tallis play on Terry’s iPod. Then after the official game for his soul is played. Then, regardless who wins, they’ll head to the desert, because it’s his choice.
I really don’t see an end though. As Pratchett has continually suggested, that’s the thing about belief. It keeps giving life to those you believe in, long after the headlines tell you they’re gone.
Any thoughts you’d like to share?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: Death, Terry Pratchett, Foul Ole Ron, and happy phone call.
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by Richard Timothy | Feb 18, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
The title might be a little misleading, but I does crack me up a little. I have tried three different times to start this post… on a plus note I now have three new posts already started. I mostly just wanted to introduce this filler post. You know, one of those, “oh I’ve this is a bit different that the usual stuff, but I still wanted to share something with all of you today. I am working on something a bit bigger that’s taking a bit more of my time at the moment, but I don’t want to say what it is just yet.” kind of posts.
Ah bugger, sort of gave that one away didn’t I?
That being said, it’s now time to use our cute little fuzzy feline friends for the purpose of our own fun fill amusement. I’ll bet PETA would have a word or two for me as a result of that. Which I’d have to explain that they took it out of context and I many put it that way because I wanted to see how many f words I could fit in a sentence without making particularly obvious. I’m just sharing random “cute” photos that I didn’t even take, showing a kind of cute visual dialogue about an evening full of drinking with your mates.
The idea for this is bit below is borrowed, and in some cases a direct copy and paste image wise, from a random e-mail a friend sent me a year or so ago. I don’t know the original source, so I apologize for the lack of origin reference. Still, it does make me smile a bit.
Please note that no cats were pissed, hammered, sloshed, ripped, three sheets, snookered, wasted, blitzed, or any other words used to describe the state of inebriation for the purpose of this post.
A night out with your mates…
Step 1: Drink two beer… check.
Step 2: Drink three glasses of wine… check.
Step 3: Consume four kamikazes, without using a straw… check.
Step 4: Shared pitcher of margarita with your mates… check.
Step 5: Down one shot of Jagermeister, and then one more just to make sure you took the first one… check.
Step 6: Spend the rest of night with your very own bottle of Jack Daniel’s… check.
Step 7: Look in the mirror the next morning after spending an evening consuming two beers, three glasses of wine, four kamikazes, a shared pitcher of margarita, two shots of Jagermeister, and a bottle of Jack with people who are supposed to be your friends….
…BASTARDS!
Any thoughts on this one?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: cats, funny cats, and drunk cats.
![Nobody’s Story of Brody Smooth]()
by Richard Timothy | Feb 17, 2010 | Confessed Confidentially, I Think There's a Point, Lightbulbs and Soapboxes, My List of Things that Don't Suck, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
With the Seth luncheon well underway the introductions started. This is one of those things that have always confused me. There was a voice-over introduction for the lady that got on stage to introduce the lady that put the even together. Who, after getting on the stage, took the mike and introduced Seth. It’s like watching the Oscars… or as I look at it, the evening of endless introductions for introducers who introduce montages for introducing movies, or movie related topics.
It was during this all of these introductions that my random trigger, um, triggered. It was the idea of the business theme song. The point was about what your business’s theme song would be. I know what Angela’s Illuminated Woman theme song is because I hear it playing all the time. Twelve times in a row through the walls in my office last night alone. It’s… bloody hell, just a minute. I’ll get there. It’s a “we can do it” kind of theme song… If You’re Out There by John Legend. Whew. Got it. You’d think I’d have the song memorized by now.
Right, so my theme song would be… See, it’s all variables that keep me changing my mind. The thing about theme songs is that they sort of evolve into your life soundtrack. I can tell you Angela and my first theme song was Mazzy Star’s Fade into You. It has never gone away either, every time we here it, we start getting all sappy and nostalgic. We have definitely added a few more songs since then.
One song that always reminds me of Angela and I is Glósóli by Sigur Ros (on of my favorite bands of all time). And I don’t even know what the song is about. It’s in a foreign language and I’ve never bothered to look up a translation. I personally like not knowing. It makes the song that much more about us. In fact I highly recommend this practice to everyone. When you don’t understand the lyrics, you create your own lyrics in their place.
There was a stretch back in the 80’s when Axel F was my theme song. This lasted about a week. Thanks to Beverly Hills Cop. Hey, it was one of the few perfect break dance songs back then. Still, when it comes to personal theme songs I don’t think instrumentals create the same potency as lyrical songs. Sure they have some musical imagery, but I think its the lyrical painting that gives you the defining step between a good song and one of the most brilliant songs you’ve ever heard.
I know that during my first run through college my theme song was The Great Song of Indifference by Bob Geldof, because I really didn’t mind… at all. Before that I discovered the music of Bob Marley. It was my senior year of high school and for over a year I was a smitten with Jamaica and all things reggae. My musical interests were once again foundationally shaken when I was first introduced to Ani DiFranco. This fascination let to her being the only artist I’ve seen live over five times.
Then there are the “I was in love” theme songs. And after it’s all said and done you realize that you added to the epic success of a song that is so unrelentingly tedious that it has forever solidified its place in the eternal inclusion of every collection of elevator music that will ever be made here after. Not to mention you feel you need to personally apologize to the people standing around you for having purchased the song when it starts playing on the radio, or in a department store, or, inevitably, in an elevator.
There are two things that happen at this point. The people you apologized to either break down and admit that they too have contributed to the horror that is the song. Everyone then hugs and forgives one another. It can be a very freeing and healing experience. Or, people laugh at you and then beat you with sticks. If you quickly explain it was for the pursuit of coitus, they usually stop hitting you and you can forgo any trips to the emergency room. Of course, I am referring to that damn Titanic song. It’s not going away people. It’s going to be one of those things that our generation will be apologizing for, for generations to come. Let me be the first to say, WE ARE SORRY! We were young and in love! We didn’t know any better! Ahh, I feel better. Thanks.
Then there are the guilty pleasure theme songs. You know, the songs that you play in the closet, or when no one is home. The album is usually hidden on your computer 10 or more folders deep in an attempt to detour anyone from finding it. In my case, it’s usually The Gambler by Kenny Rogers, or More Human than Human by White Zombie. I’m not particularly proud of this, but I’m not going to stop listening to them either. It’s my guilty pleasure and I’m keeping it.
As for my theme song, as a writer… I kept thinking about this throughout Seth’s presentation. I’m still trying to figure it out. I thought about something from Queen? I do have my Greatest Hits: Queen CD in my car. Then again I’ve had a copy of that album in every vehicle I’ve ever owned. But no, I’m not sure any of those songs work. Besides, after years of abuse by Hollywood it runs the risk of being a touch cliché, the only exception being, FLASH… A-AH! That song never gets old.
I’m sure I could try assigning a theme song to each post I’ve done so far. If I was more musically motivated I might consider attempting the task. I might even ask my friend Dave Lockman to help with the project. (No Dave, I’m not asking, it’s just a tangent, not a project I want to take on.) One of the things I appreciate about Dave, the musical comparative posts he does from time to time. I think their well worth the read.
Well, maybe I’ll open it up to all of you. Any theme song suggestions for my Smirk blog? Or perhaps just me as a writer? I’d love to hear your suggestions.
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: ashamed, Flash Gordon, and idea.
Complaining about work seems to be that same kind of thing. It’s a universal that I believe most people have done at some point, and some continue to do on a daily basis. It’s so traditional it’s even become a Hollywood cliché. Hey if there is one thing Hollywood does well it’s create and over use cliché after cliché. It’s what they do best. Although, sometimes I wish they’d get a hobby or something.
The way I got there was rather standard. I had finished some tea, Earl Gray… oddly enough I do need to thank the Germans for my affinity for Earl Gray. Odd I know, but it was in German that I was first introduced to a cup of Earl Gray with a smile of milk and a quarter packet of sugar. It’s absolutely lovely.
