The Adorkability Conundrum

It’s time to strengthen your vocabularies, my loyal reader(s)!

The new word for the day is “adorkable.”

“Adorkable” is an adjective that describes any action or behavior that is so far beyond the realms of normal dorkitude as to be deemed attractive and/or adorable by the opposite sex.

As used in a sentence:  David met Peter Mayhew at a Star Wars convention and got so excited he actually wet his Boba Fett cosplay outfit.  Thank God his girlfriend thought it was pretty adorkable.

Face it boys and girls, we all have our dork moments.  They are as wide and varied as the day is long.  For some of us it’s Star Wars, for others it’s Star Trek.  For some it’s D&D, others will dork out for the novels of Jim Butcher or George R.R. Martin.  For the slightly less nerd-ridden set who don’t get more than 64% of the jokes on The Big Bang Theory, maybe your inner dork gets all happy over Picasso, Mozart, Jordan, or Manning.  Maybe fashion is your goddess and words like Coach, Prada, Fendi, or whatever else is on the cover of Cosmopolitan magazine this month make your inner little dorkess giggle with delight.  Maybe you still light the memorial bonfire on the day Dimebag died or you fight off the daily urge to paint a giant 3 on the side of your car.  The point is that all of us, no matter how high and mighty or lowly and trailer bound, have an inner dork that gets all stupid over something. 

The really interesting part is that some of us have a tendency to overindulge our inner dork on far to frequent an occasion for most of the rest of society.  But let me draw your attention for just a moment to the last time you saw a REALLY attractive woman with a fairly nerdy guy.  What was it about him that attracted her to start with?  Was it the death beam focusing crystal thick glasses, the oh-so-stylish double knit pants, or the more likely than not seven figure bank account?  Well, okay, the bank account probably helps a lot but the point is that somewhere in that hot mess of a man that woman found such a level of endearing dork that all his freakishness took on a sort of adorable and hard to resist quality.  Maybe she thinks if she can get him to love her just half as much as he loves Carrie Fisher in a metal bikini circa 1980 then she could be set for life.  Think of it kind of like a sexual version of Stockholm syndrome.  Lock a hot girl in close proximity with a dork long enough and something’s bound to become attractive eventually.  Call it the Leonard/Penny effect if you’d like, but I’ve now officially hit my quota for television references for one post thank you very much.

What is it about our various and sundry adorkable behaviors that our significant others find attractive?  God only knows and to be quite honest I’m not even 100% sure he’s got it completely figured out.  When it comes to adorkability, I picture God as sitting up on his celestial throne looking down at us all and saying “You know, I gave you an entire planet filled with pretty girls and all you losers can do is stampede at one Comicon after another and project your lust at yet another woman in a corset at a steampunk convention.  I don’t get it.  I just don’t get it.”  Either that or St. Peter now has two additional questions to ask at the Pearly Gates:  “Why?” and “Seriously?”

Well, shiny.  Now it’s time to run off and see if I can get in another hour long Star Wars pun marathon over Facebook.  Yes it happened this morning, deal with it.  Hopefully my wife will still find it adorkable when she sees it later this afternoon.

For now, zai jian!

(I know I know I know.  Jeez Brian, brown coat much?)   

Yet Another Scene at a Wal-Mart

Earlier this evening I had the fortune to observe the following scene unfold in a local Wal-Mart.  There’s really not much need for set up here except to note that, as usual, the lines were excruciatingly long and that I was standing in the Express Lane.  For those of you unlucky enough to frequent one of these said portals to hell on a regular basis, you’re familiar with the fact that there is a three foot by two foot sign over each of these Express registers on a twelve foot pole with reads ’20 Items or Less, Please.”

Now, I’m standing in a line with approximately five people in front of me and fifteen behind me because Wal-Mart, in all their cost saving glory, refuses to open more than five registers whenever their parking lot is over seventy-five percent full.  The cashier helming this impending disaster is obviously, or more probably obliviously, nonplussed by the entire situation and is taking her and everyone else’s sweet time in ringing up each item as if she was the first to examine King Tutt’s treasure.  About the time she has whittled the workload down to only about three more people in front of me, it comes to my and the gentleman’s behind me attention that the woman in front of me has a cart nearly full of items.  We begin to make increasingly loud conversation about the fact that apparently not everyone had the mental faculties required to count to twenty without starting over on their fingers or having to take their socks off.  General tittering and continued comments could be heard directly behind us for at least thirty feet.

Before we get to the real meat of the story, however, I need to describe this creature of inelegance that was camping out in front of me.  The woman was obviously middle aged but for some reason had the compunction and audacity to dress as if she had just raided Hannah Montana’s wardrobe collection (come to think of it, I think I may have seen most of her outfit on the clearance rack on my way through to look at power tools).  The woman was most likely an attractive African-American lady at some point before gravity, age, and significantly bad choices began to take their collective tolls, and now her multicolored peacock-esque travesty of a highly over glued hair discombobulation  was only outdone by her hi-I’m-auditioning-for-the-part-of-the-human-coke-spoon-in-the-next-Tarantino-opus nails which were carefully positioned away from any possible contact with her cart.  Her overall appearance, coupled with the fact that she seemed to audibly grunt and snort at our comments while she picked whatever small animal she had recently fed on from her teeth with said nails, forced my little writer brain to grant her a nickname there on the spot:  Haughty, Unimpressive, Bitch Like Entity, but we’ll just refer to her as the HUBLE for short.

Moving on, the HUBLE approaches the register and I hear what is one of the best conversations I have heard in quite some time while jammed in that eternal cautionary tale that is shopping at the local Wallie World.  It went a little something like this:

Cashier:  “Ma’am, I’m sorry but you have too many items for this line.  I know you’ve had to wait but I can’t ring you up here.  The next register is just opening with no wait and I’ll get her to hold for you.”

HUBLE:  “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes so no, I’m not moving.  Ring up my shit.”

Cashier, smiling ever so slightly:  “Ma’am, you are over the item limit for this register and I can’t process you through here.  You need to move to the next register.” 

To clarify, the other register was wide open and actually waiving off someone at that second to accommodate the HUBLE as quickly as possible.  Hey, it’s not often the blue vest squad gets it right so I guess you have to call it for them when they do, you know?

HUBLE:  “Look bitch, what you need to do is ring up my shit and let me get the fuck up out of here.  Plus, I’m in a hurry and just got my nails did (sic) so you’re gonna have to empty my mofuckin’ cart.  So how bout you snap too and do your fuckin’ job ho.”

Before anyone in line could start in on her, and believe me there were a number of volunteers aside from little ol’ me, the cashier smiled just as sweetly as she could and spoke.

Cashier:  “Honey, what you need to do is get your ghetto country ass out of my line and in the back of someone else’s before I have security through your common ass on the sidewalk.  Now move.” 

Just as I was about to indulge in a bit of hero worship, a voice piped in from somewhere behind me and also suggested that what the HUBLE should also consider is sitting down next to one of her four or five bastard kids at the house and watch some damn Sesame Street to learn how to count.  The woman then began to imitate the Count on said program perfectly with a fast “One, two, three dumb ass bitches in Wal-Mart ah, ah, ah.” 

Needless to say the HUBLE’s pride, and possibly her pinkie nail on her right hand, was seriously injured as she slunk to the back of the now ludicrous line that had formed at the previously empty register.  It should be noted that she was all the while talking loudly about how much she hated white people.  For the record, my overgrown ass and the lady with the improv skills were the only two Caucasians in the vicinity.

You know, boys and girls, life isn’t the easiest thing to slug through on a daily basis.  I think it’s important to be appreciative when the little entertainments like this come along.

That, and quite honestly, sometimes it’s just satisfying to watch a dumbass get theirs.

This Valentine's Post is Legen-wait for it- Seriously?

Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear readers.  In consideration of our nation’s most romantic holiday and the greeting card, floral, and candy industries which count so heavily on this day to keep the lights on for most of the year, I thought I might jump in today with a little knowledge for those men among us who just haven’t quite gotten the hints that the females of the herd have been trying to get across to them for a minor millennia.

To all the playas, pimps, hustlers, ladies’ men, cooz hounds, gigolos, and the like who are still convinced that they are the god of their choosing’s gift to the fairer sex I would like to offer a simple reality check for your Valentine’s gift.  This is free of charge; completely gratis as it were.  Take it as wisdom from someone who was somewhat among your ranks at one time as a younger buck and learned some valuable lessons the hard way.

I’d like you to perform a small, simple experiment.  Think back to when you opened your eyes in bed this morning.  Ask yourself one simple question.  Was I alone?  The yes or no isn’t the important piece here; it’s just a starting point.  Then ask yourself if you woke up in your own bed or in someone else’s.  Follow that with simply a count of how many different places you’ve woken up in during the past month.  How many different tumble partners have you had in the last thirty days?  Can you honestly remember all of their names?  Did you actually know any of them or were they just a long string of bouncy boobies that you used to mark the passage of time until your next visit to the clinic?  (Obviously I’m aiming this piece at the straight men out there.  Gay guys, well, all due respect intended but I’ve got nothing when it comes to how things work in your world.  Sorry fellas.  Gotta stick with what you know, right?  This piece also doesn’t really apply to any guy in his late teens and early twenties.  You can’t help it, we know it, and for the most part you’re excused.  Just try not to break any major laws while you do your Van Wilder impersonations, okay boys?)

Now, it should be noted that there are a few confirmed bachelors in this world who will never be anything else but.  There are those stricken with the Peter Pan / Thomas Crown syndrome that will go through life without the need to settle down or change their life in any real way due to a woman because they are profoundly happy as they are.  These guys still manage to live their lives without leaving a broken woodpile of female dignity in their wake, although they still seem to do pretty alright for themselves over the long run.  I have no issue with these men, it’s just that they are so few and far between in reality that most who aspire to that title really fall short and end up a caricature.  You’ll notice that at no time here did I mention Hugh Hefner, although he does deserve some recognition on this topic.  Good ol’ Hugh is the standard to which so many ass clowns aspire that it is truly an exercise in the absurd, but these gentlemen seem to be missing the point in their attempted emulations. Hugh is the white rabbit; I would hazard to say that the universe cannot tolerate more than one of his ilk at the time.  Nor should it need to.  We need someone like Mr. Hefner among us at all times, in my humble opinion.  Without someone like him around we’d have bimbos randomly scattered all over the country instead of heavily concentrated in southern California. 

So what’s wrong with living your life in such a way that you accumulate enough notches on your bedpost to actually begin to whittle it down?  Nothing really, BUT there comes a certain point where all the shenanigans in the world will result in you waking up one morning from your third random threesome that month and, after you wonder where that rash came from, you start to wonder why there is no real substance in your life.  Hey, Barney Stinson may be funny as a television character but come on guys, is that really how you want to live your life?

And while we’re on the subject of NPH’s weekly ode to the horny straight man, I want to pause for just a minute and say something about pickup lines.  There is no strategy, lie, game, bar trick, cologne, funny hat, or clever have-you-met-Ted witticism that will get you any more than ‘in the door.’  Unless you enjoy trolling for random hook up partners in that last thirty minutes before the bartender turns on the reality lights more than four times a month, you’re eventually going to have to talk to a woman at some point.  Now, here is where someone will want to tell me about their patented move that always turns a woman on so crazily that talking isn’t necessary at that point.  Sorry brother but I’m calling BULLSHIT.  Here’s why and it involves a little back story.  I will publicly admit that I am not the prettiest guy to look at.  The fact is that I’ve been keeping mirror companies fairly busy replacing cracks since around 1980.  I was a cute kid for the first seven years then, well, damn.  I think my parents used to let me play with buckets just to break up the visual horror on the off chance I’d stick one on my head.  Anyway, as I grew up and got older God compensated a little by making me much larger than ninety percent of the population, and also by giving me the ability to talk myself and others in to pretty much anything if I really put my mind to it.  My father, after all, is the real life version of Tommy Boy’s super-salesman father and what DNA didn’t provide the natural quick wit did.  My mouth got me into more interesting situations along the way than I;d care to ever discuss.  It also turned out to be an asset as well as a liability when it came to the female of the species.  Now with all that being said, I have to admit to never having a ‘move’ during my single life.  I never had some ‘thing’ I would do to get a woman’s attention.  I would just talk too much and occasionally things would happen.  Now according to reports I have inadvertently pulled off a couple of ‘moves’ in my life but they were totally accidental and were merely offshoots of once again ‘playing too much.’  I also didn’t even find out I’d pulled them off until much, much later.  So, to all the pickup artist wannabes out there I simply offer one question:  if it worked, did you land the second date?

Gentlemen, I promise you we are slowly coming around the bend to the point here.  With all of this being said I would urge you to evaluate one thing in your life before your next round of bareback bikini bingo with the latest object of your recreational substance of choice fueled affection.  Do you actually respect this woman or are you simply looking for the next place for the one-eyed demon to do push-ups until he gets sick? 

Look, I’m not one to judge anyone’s lifestyle.  Wait just a second, yes I am, who am I kidding?  I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I have learned from experience that there is a lot more to life than chasing random encounters.  True, relationships are tough sometimes but they are nowhere near as tough as constant loneliness.  For those of us old enough to know better there is definitely something to be said for having a real life and real relationships with real women.  I’m not advocating that everyone should run out and get married by any means but I am saying that actually taking the time to get to know someone before playing amateur gynecologist with her might make life a little more interesting at the very least.

I know for a fact that there are going to be those that read this and laugh heartily at the married guy who spent some time on Valentine’s Day to write a blog post about the merits of relationships and respect for women.  Laugh all you care to fellas and enjoy whatever carnal chicanery you can work yourselves into this evening.  Don’t spend all your money tonight though.  You need to keep a little on hand so you can pay the deductible for your clinic visit tomorrow.  After all, that cotton-swab-up-the-pee-hole test to cure that burning sensation isn’t free anymore.  Oh who am I kidding?  You got that deductible covered right after New Year’s, didn’t ya stud?

Family By Definition

This will not take but a minute.  I swear.

North Carolina has an opportunity to vote on an amendment to our state constitution that will allow marriage to be defined as the union between a man and a woman.  The proponents of this law feel that it is a Biblical mandate.  The opponents fear that not only will the limitations it proposes limit their rights but will eventually erode things like benefits and estate planning for their more non-traditional family units.

I'm going to keep this simple.  ANY time we allow our government to narrow the definition of what is allowed in the choices we make in our lives, even in the slightest way, we open that wide door to the slippery slope of governmental mandated control over an ever increasing portion of our freedom.

Simply put, I am a straight man married to a straight woman.  It is my highly less than humble opinion that if two people, regardless of gender or orientation, fall in love and choose to marry then who in the name of all we as a people hold holy are we to stop them.  This world is so short of loving homes in which to foster a family.  Why do we seem so determined to narrow mindedly forbid this from happening just because some of us are uncomfortable because someone is different from us?

Guess what folks, the last time we went through this it was called segregation.

Growing pains are just that, even for a society.  Let's hopefully have the sense to not presribe morphine for them.

Like I said, just my less than humble opinion.  I intend to act on mine by voting.  How about you?

Parenting 101

I'm sure by now that most of you have seen the YouTube video of the father from Albemarle, NC who finally had enough of his teenaged daughter's nonsense.  Here's the link if you haven't seen it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=kl1ujzRidmU

What baffles me is the sheer number of ignorant dick tards that are openly critical of this guy and have the audacity to say his actions are damaging his child's self esteem.  This man was doing nothing here other than trying to get a point across to his hard headed, disrespectful, brat of a child.  To EVERYONE who has anything critical to say to or about this man and his methods, if they are themselves a parent, I have only one question.  Why aren't you willing to go to those lengths for the betterment of your child?  I also hope you realize that it's the irresponsible and negligent fuck stick parents like you that are raising the reprobative little mall trollops that are making this world so damnably hard to enjoy anymore.  How about you stop critiquing someone else's parenting skills and try to do something about your little demon crotch offal now so those of us who believe in the second amendment and have our concealed carry permits don't have to fix the problem later. 

I'm not a parent but I will sit here and say publicly right now that I hope when and if the time comes that I have the balls to take responsibility for my child's behavior the way this man has.  With all the problems in this world, I am sincerely glad and it does my cranky little heart so much good to see a man put foot to ass where needed in an attempt to raise a decent human being.

Bravo sir.  Thank you for doing the right thing.

Why

One of the things I’ve noticed since I decided to take on the public persona of an author / writer / guy who tries to get paid for scribbling words onto paper is that people tend to ask the same series of questions when they find out what you do.  Usually they go something like this:

1)     What else do you do?

2)     No seriously, you’re really a writer?  How long have you been doing this?

3)     What kind of stuff do you write?

4)     What kind of novels do you write?

5)     Do you sell a lot of books?

Of course in my case you can also add in “What’s your blog about?”  I’ve found that it didn’t take but about two weeks and I had developed a rather pat form of responses. 

1)     Yes I’m seriously a writer.  Do I look like my male modeling career worked out?

2)     I’m a fiction writer, mainly novels, and I also write a blog.  I’ve been writing since I was about ten.

3)     I write modern fiction across several different genres that usually focus on what happens when seriously damaged people impact each other’s lives.

4)     I’ll let you know what my blog’s about as soon as I figure it out myself.  I usually just rant and rave about things that annoy me and people seem to like it.

5)     My books will be available for sale beginning late March.  Give me your email address or subscribe to my blog and I’ll make sure you know when they’re available.

These questions are all well and good.  To me they are no more involved than the inane questions you get asked at a dinner party or when you make a new professional acquaintance.  However, I had a really interesting experience a few days ago where I encountered a fairly educated man who happens to be the owner of a local gun store.  We were discussing the nuances of the firearm industry and swapping a few stories in the usual gregarious male fashion when he paused and asked me if he could ask me a question.  I told him by all means and he asked me the best question I’ve been asked yet:

“Why?  Why choose to be a writer?”

It just so happens that at this moment, and to be truthful for the majority of this past week, I’m in the process of completing my first book for publication, The Bounce at the Bottom, which is in reality my second novel.  To be completely honest I’m fighting with a bit of writer’s block and a motivational issue as well.  Any time I find myself fighting with these little demons I ask the very same questions my new friend asked me the other day.  My response to him was a quip to the effect of when I had it figured out I would let him know.  The truth, however, might be a little harder to comprehend and the more I analyze it and roll it over and over in my mind, the more I come back to a really simple truth that is actually fairly disturbing.

Why choose to be a writer? 

Honestly, I don’t think I have a choice.

Now before the ten of you who actually read this blog take turns laughing at me or collectively take a deep breath before ripping me a new one for being some self-important, melodrama ridden, affectation driven artiste who needs to be taken down a peg, hear me out.

First, there have been two periods of my life when I did not write at all.  The first was during my second year of college where my creative efforts were focused more into the conquest of the opposite sex.  The second was during the latter portion of my marriage to my ex-wife who felt and would occasionally vocalize the fact that writing was a waste of time and I really had no talent for it anyway.  It should also be noted that I count both of those periods as among the most miserable I have ever been in my life.

Secondly, and this may take a little bit of a leap of faith to understand and I hope you will come along with me on this, I think that creative people’s brains may work a little differently than those who do not feel the Muse’s pull.  I have friends who are extremely talented musicians who complain sometimes that they cannot get a tune out of their heads even though they’ve never heard it before.  A painter may dream of an image to the point of distraction until they finally put brush to canvas.  I’ve even talked to other authors that I know very well and they will admit that sometimes a project will become so fascinating to them that they can’t seem to get it out of their heads until it’s done.  For me, I have to say that once a story or a character gets in my head the only and I do mean the ONLY way it’s going to go anywhere is to get it on paper.

Allow me to illustrate in detail, if you will, what the experience of being a writer is like for me.  About eighteen to twenty-four months ago a friend of mine introduced me to this little band named Halestorm.  Being somewhat of a metal monkey, I was instantly hooked.  One of Halestorm’s songs from their most recent album is entitled “Innocence.”  The very first time I heard the opening hook of this song it grabbed my attention.  Something about this song seemed to haunt me.  I found myself listening to it over and over for the next week.  Trust me when I say that my fiancé and friends were growing rather annoyed with my suddenly limited choice in music, to say the very least.  One morning as I was driving to work I had this image of a man sitting in the crow’s nest of a beach house hearing this song coming from a beach bar across the harbor from his home.  I must have listened to the openening thirty seconds of that song fifty times in a row to try to clear up the image in my head.  Nearly a year later I heard the song again and suddenly I had another image of this guy pulling up to the beach bar in a boat and watching this local band, fronted by a distractingly beautiful lead guitarist, shred this song on a throw together stage as a storm started to threaten the beach.  I spent the next two days trying to get a rough idea of who these people were and within two more days I had twenty pages written as a treatment story to see if the idea worked.  Six months later I have a full story map / outline written and about eighty pages complete with an anticipation of three hundred total pages by the end of the year.  That is essentially the story of how I got the idea for Hurricane Carolina.

The sad thing about the story I just told you is that it is in no way the first time this has happened to me.  I find inspiration in music constantly and I have so many story fragments and character ideas jotted down in random notebooks and 2kB word files that I truly have lost count.  Somehow I seem to find a use for most of them as time goes on, interestingly enough.  Believe it or not I found a notebook the other day from back in High School that had both a character idea that will work perfectly in the new book and a fairly long short story that I might just be able to turn into a book at some point.  I’ve been a manager for ninety-five percent of my professional career since college but it turns out that I’ve been a writer for over twenty-five years now.  Who knew?

You know, there is one thing about being a writer or for that matter being in a creative field whatsoever I would wager makes it worth all the obsession and focus and abject distraction that a really great idea can cause.  That one simple thing is that you never know when that next idea is going to hit nor do you know where it’s going to come from, period.  Case in point:  if you had come to me a year ago and told me I was going to write a book about a foul mouthed misogynist whose ego and libido get him into one misadventure after another and that everyone I have sent test chapters to has loved the story I would have laughed at you with every fiber of my being and asked what you were drinking and why you weren’t sharing.  Yet all it took was one glass of whiskey, one decent cigar, a douche bag neighbor in a white fedora hat and a Rolling Stones song and the rest will come out in March for public consumption, judgment, and quite possibly ridicule.

So there it is, my little guided tour of the mind of a writer.  Do I have a better answer for my new friend’s question of why write to start with?  Not in the slightest.  I promised him I’d get back to him one day with the answer.  Maybe I’ll figure it out in time to use it as a clever little witticism to use when signing his copy of my book.

Wit(less) Protection

I have a fairly simple question.  What ever happened to good old fashioned wit?

As I've made mention before in this blog, I am a fiction writer on top of being an over-opinionated semi-professional jackass.  As a fiction writer I am shall we say more than observant of how people express themselves during a conversation.  After all, it's almost impossible to create realistic characters if they are unable to sound like real people.  No matter who you are or what you write, your characters must sound believable to get your audience to buy in and willingly suspend just enough of that disbelief to buy the next five or six of the books in the series (yes, I mean you Ms. Rowling).  Unless of course your last name is Tolkien or Martin and you write epic fantasy with its own languages and mythologies, or you just think you can and that is a whole other matter.  (Before anyone gets up in arms, yes I know there are Elvish and Klingon dictionaries and the like.  My glasses just aren't quite that thick anymore.  I got contacts and attempt to keep the true depths of my nerd cred somewhat private.)

As part of my casual, meaning when it catches my attention, study of the way in which we members of the herd express ourselves collectively, I've noticed something interesting.  It occurs to me that we seem to be losing the art of general wit in our conversation.  Worse yet, when presented with reparte at its most minimum, some of us seem to just resort to profanity as a retort and go on with our existence.  My only question is why?  Consider this example:  I'm at the gym the other day and notice a young kid's rather flamboyant footwear.  Okay, I'm being kind.  This kid's Nikes looked like somebody let a horny gibbon loose in the leather storeroom with a bucket of paint, a raging erection, and bad intentions.  Anyway, his friends were gathered around to watch this kid attempt to deadlift an amount of weight that for an adult male would have been considered embarassing but apparently among his tribe was somewhat heroic.  One of his friends looked at him and said "Nice shoes, when did you mom say you had to give them back?"  His reply, "F U."  As I stood to the side putting plates away after I use them (it's really not difficult) I couldn't help but marvel at this numbskull's ineptitude.  He couldn't have been more than 18.  A simple "Anytime tonight after your mom finishes blowing me" or something otherwise juvenile and maternally insulting would have worked just fine.  Instead, he not only lost some credibility among his peers but also appeared to have strained something trying to throw that 135 pounds in the air like his nut hair had actually started to grow.

We were all kids once, weren't we?  Didn't we all learn how to trade insults and 'your mama' jokes?  Granted some of us were better at it than others, but hey, we still all had the experience.  Guess what boys and girls?  Those little barb tossing sessions were the foundation for wit later in life.  It just amazes me that we seem to be losing the art of conversation.  When did we decide en masse to become the unarmed victim in the battle of wits?  It's not as if we don't have daily examples of it in our lives.  All you have to do is watch some of the better written television shows and you at least have somewhat of a guideline.  Granted some of them get a little heavy handed with the wit on occasion, but in the overall they can still show you the way as it were.  (To the writing staff of The Big Bang Theory:  I'm sorry guys but honestly, I don't think that full comprehension of the nuances of string theory is necessary to execute every third joke.  It helps, but I think you might be reaching to the minority audience.  Granted I are that minority audience (grammatical flub intended Mr. Hunt, calm down) but still, ease back a little for the undereducated, okay?) 

Do I think we should all carry on sparkling conversations full of wit, banter, and reparte on a consistent basis?  No, we'd hurdle down the turnpike toward the ridiculous faster than Madonna's half time show.  Is it necessary to interact with others in a way other than monosyllabic grunts and gestures?  No, but according to my parents around about the time I was two years old I believe we are supposed to 'use our words.' 

Now, what I am suggesting is something that may be a bit radical.  Allow this to sink in for just a moment before you pass judgment.

I suggest we slow down just enough in our daily race to Oblivion (or Skyrim, or whatever else holds your current obsession) to actually care about engaging someone else in actual conversation.  Have you ever stopped to consider how many people you actually talk to on a daily basis versus how many you communicate with via social media?  I'll give you an example.  When my wife and I decided to get married rather suddenly last week we called maybe ten people to personally let them know what was going on.  Our collective Facebook announcements had well over fifty combined responses and the blog post regarding stories from our wedding had over one hundred page views within twenty four hours.  We live in an age where a large number of us limit our discussions of any topic to 140 characters or less because that is all Twitter will allow per post.  I have several friends that I used to talk to on the phone fairly regularly.  As our lives became busier we trended toward the occasional email  to catch each other up.  Now I follow them on Twitter and feel like I know what's going on in their lives.  It occurs to me that I know as much about what is really going on in my friends' lives as I do what happens daily for Nathan Fillion, who I find to be a good actor and funny as hell but have never actually met in person.  Damned if the dude doesn't give good tweet though.

Simply put, actual conversation takes work.  For those of you who are married, remember dating?  You know, when you actually had to talk to someone before the possibility of seeing them naked was a given?  (Okay for some of you that may not be the most pertinent example, but you know who you are you dirty little monkeys.)  I have always maintained that not so attractive men can do just fine with the ladies as long as they are confident and learn to actually carry on a conversation.  Maybe it's time that all of us, not just those of us trying to sell a novel, take a moment and pay attention to what someone else is saying.  You never know, with a little practice, that sparkling wit we all used to know, have, and love may find its way back to the light of day and turn us once again into someone with whom another person may actually want to carry on a conversation.

Scenes From a Wedding

Hello all.  It appears that I may have shocked a good portion of my tiny corner of the universe by unexpectedly getting married yesterday.  Hey, for what it's worth, there was a completely random set of circumstances that led us to the conclusion that it was something that needed to be done and done quickly.  We're still going to have our planned wedding later this year but, hey, for now at least the pressure is off. 

Yes, for the several of you who mentioned it, I am aware of exactly how random and out of the blue this was.  Trust me, lack of planning on our part does not equal social obligation on the part of anyone else!

And no, for the 485th time, my new wife is not pregnant.  I swear.

However, as is par for the course of my little eighteen holes on this rock (too far with the golf metaphor?), nothing goes off without at least a couple of funny stories cropping up along the way.  So, for your general amusement...

1)  It appears that in Johnston County, North Carolina, you really can put together an impromptu wedding in literally no time flat.  Start to finish, including drive time, was less than two hours.  Considering the discussion as to whether or not we should go ahead and get married now instead of in October began at 9 p.m. Thursday night and we were married by 3 p.m. Friday, I guess I shouldn't have much to say on the subject.  Moral:  if the process for a major life event can be concluded in less than a twenty-four hour period, it probably should have already been taken care of to start with.

2)  During the brief period of time between completion of the paperwork and the arrival of my parents to serve as our witnesses, my fiance and I decided to grab a soda at the deli that sits in front of the magistrate's office.  Don't ask, it is after all Johnston County.  The following conversation occurs at the counter:

Smart Ass Deli Owner (SMAD):  What can I get you?

Me:  Two cans of Mountain Dew.

SMAD:  Anything else?

Me:  Nope, that will get it.

SMAD:  Want me to shake them up for you?

(Apparently at this point my body language and/or my expression gave away my internal  sentiment of 'Dude I'm twice your size and not in the mood to be fucked with right now so just gimme the damn soda you lactating sphincter wrinkle!')

SMAD:  Or not?

Me, trying to be nice: Considering I'm about to get married right now, probably not the best idea.

SMAD:  Oh so I should just shake up hers then.  Make it a comedy wedding.

Me, realizing my own inner smart ass had just been engaged:  Followed rapidly by the comedy divorce.

SMAD:  Never heard of a comedy divorce.

Me:  Should of been there for my first one.

SMAD:  stunned look followed by bending over the counter laughing.

Moral:  Sometimes being quick witted is much more useful than being large and a little intimidating.  Interestingly enough, a little research proves that it is never against the law to double someone over with laughter while punching a douchebag in the gut for annoying you usually comes with jail time, or so I've been told.

3)  My father, proud progenitor of the DNA that apparently spawned my twisted sense of humor and need to be socially inappropriate as often as possible, walks into the magistrates office and proceeds to announce to the magistrate that he needed to "get these two arrested," in reference to me and my fiance.  The magistrate reaches to call for a deputy then my father interrupts and says "I'm sorry I meant married."  Cue smarmy look from magistrate.  Moral:  I have no idea.  The man's been that way for the 38 years I've known him and I'm getting more like him every day. 

4)  In the Johnston County magistrates office waiting room is a sign that warns that you may be held in contempt of court for profanity, yelling, or attempts at violence.  Obviously taking cues from my father's antics and trying to pass the time while we wait I reference the sign to my mother and ask her if she thinks that it is only in reference to those waiting to get married or if it's for those involved in small claims actions as well.  Laughter ensues.  At that moment, the apparently female and redneck version of that little critter who sits on Jabba the Hutt's lap in Jedi and her companion, a female cross between said Hutt and a Wookie with a mange issue, storm out of small claims court.  I make some comment about I guess Jabba and Chewie lost and my mother has to tell her 38 year old son to hush.  Suddenly the aforementioned sign captures my father's attention.  Now it should be noted that my father is a bit (selectively) hard of hearing on occasion.  He decides to ask my mother if that sign was only for the folks there for weddings or if it was just for general principal.  My mother and fiance promptly crack up laughing at both of us.  Moral:  My wife is a brave, brave woman.  She's seen the strength of that particular strand of DNA and went through with it anyway.

5)  While completing the paperwork before my bride and I can say our 'I Do's' and continue on into wedded bliss, the magistrate chooses to regale us with the story of the poor girl who started his day by insisting on bawlling her eyes out and refusing to enter his office, then crying during the entire ceremony, then only hugging her new husband.  He then chose, in concert with my father, to speculate as to how fast they would be back in his office for the other end of the transaction, so to speak.  While rolling my eyes slightly and making faces at my intended to keep her amused I noticed that during this entire conversation the magistrate had 'The Talk' playing on the flat screen in his office.  Moral:  Civil servants, God bless them, must endure the entire gambit of humanity.  Much like retail managers, I imagine that magistrates must develop a very jaded view of the world.  The question lies though as to how much of it is a survival skill and how much of it is for their personal amusement.

So there they are boys and girls, five silly things that happened the day we decided to get married.  At this point all I can really say is that if we get all this in the giggles department with not much more than an afterthought of planning, may God and any other deity of your choice help us when it comes to the wedding later this year.  I wonder if February is too early to hire the midgets with video cameras. . .