Do you recall how, over the brief span of spring break, your penmanship would atrophy? The very concept of ink, for me at least, was as foreign as the vacation spots I should’ve visited but didn’t. When I returned to classes, writing felt awkward and forced, requiring at least a week to become routine again.
That’s one of the pleasures of talking to you, dear reader, because although there’s the convenience of using Open Office and a satisfaction culled from the clickety-clack of a keyboard, paper just feels right. Who knew there could be reassurance in less than a millimeter’s thickness?
Even so, no matter how laudable a medium becomes, the content’s gotta exist first and foremost, and in that respect Muse and I have grown apart lately. Are we on speaking terms? Yes. Writing terms? No, and there’s the painful rub. I think it may be time for a vacation.
Remember Plug Island, the shrouded isle we fought so valiantly to avoid yesterday? Well, we just pulled into port and there’s very little you can do, short of holding still and complying. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I grudgingly steered into these waters with both eye patches wrapped around my skull, I simply figured I’d indicate the change of scenery and then leave you to rot.
Only recently have I started pronouncing “Shamier” correctly, a mistake that invites genuine shame. For the longest time, I assumed the name sounded like something liberally applied to bagels, when in fact the phonetic spelling would be “Shamyer.” I’ve also managed to miss every concert so far, yet another reason to break out the scourge, and it’s unfortunate because Shamier’s quite good. I mean, The Double Door? I’m told the next venue is the Allstate Arena and then, per the normal trajectory of super stardom, an incisive episode of Behind the Music.
My co-worker handles the rhythm guitars, in case you’re wondering, so therein lies my connection. Download the sample MP3’s, by all means. See if the appeal is there. I’ve vowed to purchase at least two copies of their first CD, whose release is imminent, not only as a show of support but because my highly trained ears recoil at the very mention of low-bitrate MP3’s. 64 kbps? Simply appalling. Anything less than 512,978 kbps and my left ear stops playing croquet, while my right ear despairs over the realization that pinot noir is, as experts claim, alcoholic. So, two CD’s. One for each ear.
The same co-worker also played an extra in The Amityville Horror and Il Mare, interestingly enough, and soon he’ll extra for Stranger Than Fiction. I’ve requested he scold Will Ferrell for Anchorman, which is a thing that requires penance. My message must reach its destination.
Had you known how treacherously close we were to sailing for Plug Island, gentle reader, you would’ve fashioned a plank, put on a blindfold, and promptly hanged yourself from the crow’s nest. Save your noose for another day, however, and pay heed–we shall sacrifice ourselves to the gods of free advertisement soon enough, just not tonight.
There was a point in my childhood when reading grew from an externally motivated ritual, a behavior nourished by Book It pins and small pizzas, into a self-sufficient entity. A kind entity, you see, substantiated in the writings of Roald Dahl, Lloyd Alexander, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’ve been revisiting Sherlock Holmes lately in an effort to consume things not written on the Internet and, more conveniently, because I found a big honkin’ book in my closet. Illustrated, even, with the original drawings for Doyle’s short stories.
Sherlock wields an observational acuity so rich in style, any self-respecting geek would be remiss if he didn’t thirst for it. I mean, who wouldn’t want the ability to see a woman’s sleeve and deduce, in English and French and Latin, she prefers gardening with steel trowels; the gala she attended last evening closed its bar long before 9 PM; her husband exited from the left side of a carriage today; and she murdered him. We haven’t considered the other sleeve yet.
What I didn’t realize, what I failed to presume until now, is how similar these stories are. They adhere to the same arc, episode after episode, and to an extent the predictability is enjoyable. Certainly Superman shouldn’t prevail against Brainiac, or an atrocious costume, without getting the shit beaten out of him. The Batmobile needs to stay black and metallic, simply because mauve isn’t really acceptable in Gotham City.
If you’ve ever wondered why so many people like Sherlock, I’ll make it easy for you. Think of the following as a poor man’s Cliffs Notes for the storied affairs of our famous detective and his slower sidekick.
“Watson, you fat imbecile, stop by Baker Street.”
“Watson, do talk about your old war wound again.”
Client stumbles into apartment.
Watson ejaculates.
Client dies.
“Watson, try to guess what I’m thinking. Oh, you lose.”
“Watson, why don’t you munch on some crumpets while I hit the coke?”
Watson ejaculates.
“Watson, why don’t you grab your revolver, not because you’ll need it but because it’ll occupy you while the grown-ups talk.”
“Watson, I’m simply overwhelmed by my crushing intellectual abilities. Also, I deduce you’re a moron.”
“Watson, fetch my magnifying glass. And my hat. And my magnifying glass. And my hat. And my coke. And my papers. Now put back my hat. Now my coke. But not my papers. You lose again.”
The more puerile readers should know Brits go #2 when defining “ejaculate.” You also know our conversation’s over, right? No? How elementary of you.