Being Brave Enough To Comment And Respond

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With the possible exception of finding spare change under your sofa cushion, and a pair of socks in your sock drawer—without holes in the heels…

Nothing puts a smile on a bloggers face more than finding comments at the end of one of our posts. Unless you don’t own a computer or a blog—in which case you probably could care less.

But, as for the rest of us, comments at the end of any post are almost always guaranteed to bring a smile to our face.

Even when that comment comes from one, Angus (The Big Mouth Troll) MaGillicutty, who it seems regularly leaves me nothing but negative comments.

That’s right, Angus, I’ve got your number—until it becomes unlisted.

Yes, it’s nice to know that something as simple as a comment at the bottom of a post can actually bring a smile to your face.

In fact, the smiles your comments bring to my face are even bigger than the smile that crossed my face when my wife first announced that she was gonna continue to let me take out the trash—even after the kids move out.

Yay! Less to take out then.

Anyway, I’ve always felt comments were the real bread and butter of any blogs—especially mine. Apparently Mrs. Mildred Hogbottom of Terre Haute, Indiana agrees.

She writes: “Paul, thank god for the comment section of your blog. Otherwise, I would have left your blog years ago.”

You see folks, comments are what make doing a blog so much fun. For example: Try to imagine my blog without your comments? What blog you ask?

Exactly!

If it weren’t for all your comments, I’d have no blog. It’s sort of like saying it’s the clothes that make the man—unless you happen to be a woman. That’s what its like when you comment—they make my blog.

And that’s why I can’t wait to see who’s gonna try and ring my bell next. Uh, the bell up in the right hand corner of the screen—’cause that tells me someone was brave enough to comment.

And Viola! A real post is born.

No wonder visitors to my blog always say, “Paul, the best thing about your blog is your comments section.”

And that’s why I say with full confidence, that it’s the comments, yours, mine, and even non-bloggers that make yours and my blog the best blogs … in this price range.

 

 

 

 

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Words To Live By Are Not Always Possible

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It all started back when I lost at a game of Monopoly while playing against my brothers.

If only I hadn’t bought those bogus properties. But how was I suppose to know you couldn’t collect money from hotels on Boardwalk or Park Place? Particularly when your brothers land on those properties.

And then there was that other stupid little known Monopoly rule. You know the one. It’s the one that allows siblings (WHO ARE YOUR BROTHERS) to erect hotels on trains whenever they buy railroad property.

I mean who knew?

So right then and there I decided to adopt a whole new philosophy about LIFE—I wasn’t ever going to play that game with them either. Not having enough money for railroad hotels scarred me for LIFE… let me tell ya.

From now on I was going to have new words to live by;  “Never do anything… unless it’s for money.”

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a new philosophy, seeing as the mob, corporations, and politicians had been doing it for years. But I figured, if it worked for them, then why not me, right?

At first, I even made a number of attempts at being an entrepreneur, beginning with a financial effort that backfired on my backside—literally.

One day as my mom leaned in for a kiss, I launched into my first sales pitch ever. I said, “Mom, from now on that’s gonna cost you.”

My quest to become a rich American continued anyway—albeit a bit more gingerly after that.

The next attempt at going into business for myself was not exactly my own idea. Almost an afterthought really. I started collecting empty cans and bottles. Oh… and piggy banks.

Piggy banks, you ask?

Well they didn’t really belong to me, they belonged to my brothers. I would happen upon them after my brothers emptied them to buy sodas for themselves. Naturally, this left me with empty piggy banks, but I did manage to get their empty cans and bottles, too.

Becoming a recycling king left me thirsting for some other financial enterprise to invest in. That’s when I hit on the idea of charging to use the bathroom?

For a small fee, of course.

My family paid me handsomely, too. Why cash flowed in right under the door—as opposed to under the table. Namely because I had removed all the toilet paper in advance of they’re using the bathroom.

This led to a falling out with my brothers. In the end they didn’t sit for it and ultimately beat the crap outta me. Another business venture down the toilet.

That’s when I realized that I needed to start charging for everything.

Want me to eat all my vegetables? Better pay up! Finish my homework? I don’t work cheap. Doing chores around the house? Well I’m not just working for my health here you know! Want the pleasure of my company on a family vacation?

Celebrities aren’t the only one’s who charge for pictures and autographs!

Suddenly I was rolling in cheddar, cabbage, dough, clams—but nothing in the way of cash. You can only eat so much cheddar, cabbage, dough and clams before something’s gotta give, and so I decided I needed a real job. Hardly words to live by—but at least it paid.

And that’s when I was hit with an epiphany, which is better than a barcalounger—which really hurts!

Instead of “Words to live by” I thought; Why not find A WORD to live by.” And that’s when I decided on the word… WRITER. I figured, if it worked for John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Truman Capote then why not me, right?

Now, back to another game of Monopoly with my brothers.

CHANCE? Go to jail, go directly to jail, don’t pass Go, don’t collect $200!

john.do

“Hey guys, do the Monopoly rules allow me to collect money while I’m in jail?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Weary Writer Returns To His Blog

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So here we are in the midst of November—better known as National Novel Writing Month—or as some writers like to affectionately call it, http://nanowrimo.org/. Not me of course, I have yet to master the art of speaking URL fluently.

Grammarly.com

Yet, there may still be other writers out there who no longer speak of the challenge with love and affection. These might be writers who now sense that feverishly trying to produce a 50,000 word novel by 11:59 on Tuesday November 30th, may be a challenge unworthy of real affection.

However, maybe some of them are excelling in producing language that would make a sailor blush. Nah!

But, some of these fine folks may be stressing out over having to finish their unfinished novel on time at the expense of sleep, a Thanksgiving family dinner, and an existing income called… a job. And it’s all in the name of imagination, creativity, and maybe in some cases… wishful financial independence.

And yet, I wish I could claim to be counted among these wretched writers and their perceived folly to produce that 50,000 word novel in one months time. Why you ask?

Well, you may have noticed—those of you who frequent this weird, wild, and wacky blog of mine, better known as the poor unfortunate souls called my followers who have ACCIDENTALLY been sucked into this swirling vortex of a black hole in the blogging world—that there has been a void here since Halloween.

Not because I chose to attempt the 50,000 word masterpiece. Oh no, I truly wished I had. No, but because I had to go out of town and forage for real money. Oddly enough, for some strange reason that didn’t include me making money by writing in my blog. Which, as you may know, has still failed to put me on the Forbes 500 list.

But hey, I’m back from Los Angeles now and with a nasty head cold to prove it, which has left me in a fog. This has left me consuming large quantities of chicken noodle soup, NyQuil, and forcing my wife into singing to me, “Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty ” all the while rubbing Vick’s vapor Rub on my chest. This in an effort to help me recover so that I might rejoin the human race.

Viralfactory.com

Just ask, Sandi, or is it, Sarah, and Mike, or is it, George? She/they vaguely know all about it.

I suspect the cold was courtesy of the airlines and their lovely recycled air. But, I’m having little problem trying to prove that. So that big lawsuit I was planning to file against them? I guess it’s going to have to wait—at least until there’s a cure for the common cold.

I realize this revelation about my recent whereabouts comes as little more than back page news to the John Grisham’s and Mary Higgins Clark’s of the larger narcissistic blogging community—usually located somewhere near the center of the WordPress hurricane of attention.

You know, where Freshly Pressed is located.

But, that’s no doubt due to they’re being too self-absorbed with their own UNPAID writing on their own blogs—unlike you kind folks, who at least take time out of your busy schedule to read mine, and other friends blogs. Makes you wonder what compels those pompous writing windbags to ignore the rest of us, doesn’t it?

This could not possibly be because they erroneously believe that their own blogs feature superior writing to that of our own, surely not. Otherwise, they’d be admitting that they see us as less than serious writers, which would explain why they never come to visit our blogs.

Naturally, such diluted reasoning would only lend itself to the idea, that they couldn’t possibly be bothered with looking at our blogs, as nothing more than exploits consisting of grocery list, love notes to our soul mates, and scribblers of fine graffiti on inner bathroom stalls.

Oh come on, where else would I write?

Anyway, it’s nice to be missed, and I’ve missed you all too. That’s why I’ve been slowly catching up on what you’ve all wrote, and not because of some failed attempt at writing a 50,000 page novel, or desperately trying to compose a Freshly Pressed Post because I see you as unworthy writers of my (currently) comatose attention.

No, I’ve just been sick and tired of having to go earn money, that’s all. A necessary evil, to be sure.

The Writers Cloak Of Invisibility

You love writing, you do it every chance you get. Bathroom stall graffiti… no problem. Scribbles on the blank wall of a public building? You bet, maybe even in color. Autographing someones yearbook… uh… without their knowing it? Sure!

Writing, it’s what you love, it’s what you do. Then along comes someone who says, “You’ll never be a writer.”

Naturally, you’re devastated. But, then who wouldn’t be, right?

Well you for one, because you realize just how stupid that individual was. And so to make sure this person doesn’t make that mistake again… you spray paint what a great writer you’re going to be, all over their forehead.

Still they’re not impressed. But writing consumes your life and a writer you will be.

You think back to how it all started. Your mom and dad bought you crayons to draw pictures and write the alphabet with. The bedroom wall became your stationary. You thought; “Why waste paper?” Soon you branched out to living rooms, kitchens, and ultimately… the bathrooms.

Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Dr. Seuss were your mentors. You tried to let them know this by writing in the margins of their books. Okay, so the librarians weren’t impressed, but that didn’t matter, because you’re a writer.

Soon you graduated to writing love letters—to every bill collector who ever requested money from you. The collection agency’s became enamored with your masterful use of profanity. You know this, because they kept sending you more statements of their affection.

You reasoned that they must have thought, “What a magnificent four letter vocabulary you have.”

Publishers couldn’t wait to get their hands on your manuscripts—they just didn’t know how. This might explain why none of your manuscripts ever get rejected.

Your skill at writing also extended to writing on other peoples hands; particularly girls you wanted to date. “For a good time, call me.” That’s when you discovered girls didn’t know how to use the phone. What other possible reason could there be for your phone not ringing?

Then you started a personal journal.

Although, your sister never fully appreciated you reading her diary, you were comfortable in the knowledge that she loved the funny remarks you left behind! Why else would she scream (literally) about it to mom and dad?

Finally, your writing was getting noticed.

How could you not be a good writer, especially when all your teacher’s used to say “I want you to write, on the board ‘I will not write (with permanent marker) on my fellow classmates new clothes’ 100 times each.”

Then came the internet. Google! The world was about to become your oyster.

This thought seemed pretty funny to you at the time (but to no one else) since it had absolutely nothing to do with your writing—but you couldn’t resist putting it into this post anyway.

The magical day was at hand. The one when you discovered, you could start a blog—and it was absolutely free! You were impressed… even if WordPress wasn’t.

Now you could spread all your pearls of wisdom (yeah right) before swine—although, why you would ever want to spread your writings before a bunch of non-reading pigs is still a question, not to mention other ne’er-do-wells—instead of reaching out to the more intelligent readers out there…

Like those who watch foreign movies for the subtitles.

Yes, you’ve finally become what you were always meant to be; a virtually invisible, disrespected, unpaid grammatical menace to readership around the world. And even more inexplicably; better writers, seemed to have fallen under your spell!

Which is why you now wear the cloak of invisibility.  You also get to wear it with pride—because you’re the only one who has one!