Well, football season is sadly behind us, with only the post season to keep us cozy. But in the spirit of keeping football fresh in our minds, here is a short clip from one of those half time shows we NEVER see on television.
Watch as the band forms a football player, runs him down the field, and . . . wait for it . . . kicks a stinkin’ ball.
Band geek or not, you gotta see this.
The folks at fictionwriting.about.com continue to issue their monthly writing challenges. In November, the challenge was to pick one of our favorite classics, observe the initial setting, then reset the scene. The trick was to consider a drastically different setting and see how it changed our characters. My submission with short preface is below . . .
In chapter one of Huckleberry Finn, Twain paints his setting less through description and more through inner dialogue and conflict. But what we principally understand is that Huck’s current setting is NOT where he wants to be. We learn that he and Tom are two suddenly-rich kids rebelling against a life they did not want. We are given one brief section where Huck describes the scene outside his window, a setting he truly desires. As he ventures out into this setting (in response to Tom’s call) he experiences a very bad omen and worries what will happen next.
I tried out a very different setting, making necessary adjustments for certain characters and events. But I also tried to mirror the chapter as closely as possible.
The name is Huckleberry. And unless you process parking tickets for the Department of Motor Vehicles, you’ve probably never heard of me. You may know my friend, Tom, especially if you’re female. But you’re more likely to have seen our commercials. You know the ones for Clemens Jewelers? “Gold. Make her heart bling!” Yep. That was our line. It was the single largest campaign in Thatcher Advertising’s history. Tom and I signed it, shaped it, and turned it into a household phenomenon. It’s what we do. We’re the best, and I don’t lie about things like that. Well, mostly I don’t. I AM in advertising.
We banked some serious cash on the Clemens account. Back in the day, we would have celebrated by renting a yacht, heading south, and blowing the whole thing on margaritas, senoritas, and any other kind of “itas” that looked like fun. But those days are history since we both decided to act like adults (for once) and put a little bling on the ring fingers of two special ladies. Now, we spend each day staring into our deep fried lunches, counting the days until our lives will change forever, and trying to remember exactly what we were thinking.
Not that I’m unhappy. It’s just a matter of . . . adjusting. I fell in love with Wendy Douglas the first time I saw her. Well, it was actually the second time. I was drunk the first time, and I don’t remember much about that. But since that second time, I was smitten. Within months, she had a ring, and I had a future. And that’s when the problems started. Apparently, beer is not only habit forming – shock – but also full of carbohydrates. And who wants a fat husband? This explains why all of my favorite fried foods are also now contraband. Cigarettes are disgusting carcinogens that I’m no longer allowed to have – even in my own apartment. And today I find out she’s plotting to buy a minivan which she no doubt hopes to drive to a quaint little suburban prison cell with brick on all four sides. This is of course where she’ll serve me and our two point five children wheat-grass and acai berries every night for dinner. Like I said, I’m adjusting.
And to make matters worse, she has this sister. What a mistake her parents made when they conceived that human being. The woman hates me. And the feeling is mutual.
Thank God I have the city. It’s the one place I still understand. The smell of hot dog stands, the symphony of noisy cars, the pulse of millions of people pounding the pavement, it’s like a drug. When Wendy and her Sister from the Crypt start digging my grave, this is where I find peace.
I swivel around in the chair and grab my trusty Nurf basketball. Seven years I’ve been in this office. Seven years I’ve been getting nothing but net from the tiny hoop behind my door. Just when I think maybe I’m losing it, maybe the edge is getting dull, I put up two points and smile, because I know that everything’s gonna be alright.
Today, I could use some reassurance. So I aim, I shoot, I . . . miss? Are you kidding me? The ball rebounds off the door and rolls over to my feet. But I barely notice. I just stare at a net I didn’t even reach. This is bad, really bad. I never miss. I know some people don’t believe in omens and superstition. But this can’t be good. I’m less than thirty days away from the rest of my life as Ward Clever and I MISS? I light a cigarette and sit still like death, contemplating the potential for catastrophe.
“Mr. Finn?” The intercom beckons. “Mr. Sawyer is here to see you.” I don’t answer. “Mr. Finn?” Finally, the voice brings me back to Earth.
“Oh, hey Becky. Yeah, sure. Send him in.”
The door swings open, concealing the empty hoop behind it. But I still stare at it. Tom looks at me, then to the door, then back at me.
“Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost.” Tom closes the door behind him. The hoop returns. “Hey, snap out of it. We’ve got just a few weeks left to live the rest of our lives. So check it out.” Tom drops a stack of paper on my desk. “I’ve been doing a little research online. Man, have I got a plan for you.”
Please tell me you’ve watched this already. If not, do yourself a favor and watch it right now. It’s just short of an hour, and you’ll want to watch every minute of it. George W. Bush spoke recently to the staff of Facebook.
THIS is the man I voted for . . . twice. He’s sharp, humorous (less goofy than normal), and incredibly well spoken about all number of issues. I’m looking forward to reading his new book. But until then, I thoroughly enjoyed this extensive interview. Best part is, he was no doubt speaking to a majority of people who are adamantly opposed to his politics (and to him personally). Yet he had them in the palm of his hand.
A really short story, actually more of a soliloquy, this is just a brief look at the silly justifications each of us make about our fears and shortcomings. How often do we pick that one thing about ourselves that we hate and pin all our failures on it? We say, “If I could just change this one thing, everything else would be different.”
Well, meet Purvis, the guy who’s name says it all.
This place is pretty well packed tonight. The lights are low, and the music is loud, which is good. Loud music means less talking. Talking is bad, because it requires introductions. And introductions mean I have to say it. “Hi, my name is Purvis.”
Yep, Purvis. I know what you’re thinking. “What kind of name is that?” I know, right? The first thing people use to size you up, the way they remember you, the key to the very door into your soul, and my parents choose Purvis. Really?
I guess I could understand it if I were named for some legendary ancestor like a General Purvis Augustus, leader of Allied Forces on some beach in Normandy. Or maybe a Reverend Purvis Leonidas, fearless missionary taking God to naked natives up and down the Amazon. But alas, there are no such heroes in my family tree.
I used to wonder if maybe I was named for that FBI guy who nabbed Dillinger. Turns out Purvis was actually the name of the gardener who worked for my grandmother. He sculpted topiaries of Bible characters. Apparently, his juniper Jesus was so lifelike that people would come from miles around to pray to it. And here I am, a testament to his horticultural moxy.
Hey, there’s that group of girls from HR down the hall. They already know my name, I think. I could just skip the whole introduction part. Oh wait. There’s those guys from Sales. OK, never mind. I’ll let them have a chance. They probably all have really cool names anyway. Some of them probably even have great nicknames too. I always envied guys with great nicknames. My friend Nathan Canasta played football. His number was 50. So “Five Oh” became his name for the rest of high school. Richard Barefoot was Native American, the only Native American we knew. So we called him “Chief.”
So why couldn’t I get one of those names? I was cool. Right? I knew things. I did stuff. But nothing ever stuck. I used to write names on my notebooks to try them out. I wrote “Big Show” and then “Full House,” but I’m just over five feet tall and 120 pounds with my Sunday shoes on. I also considered “Lefty” and “John Deere,” but I’m right handed, and I’ve never actually seen a tractor in real life. In the end, I’m just a tragically vanilla, homogeneous human being with absolutely no distinguishing characteristics save one . . . the name “Purvis.”
Look who just sat down at the other end of the bar. That’s the girl I saw last week, the one with the curly hair. I can’t tell in here, but I think she might be hot. Then again, it’s really dark. I might chance it and walk over. But what would I say?
“Excuse me, would you like some nuts?” No, that won’t work.
“From over there you looked pretty, so I just wanted to come over and make sure you weren’t really ugly close up.” No, better let that one go too.
If I only had a name like Fred or Ralph or something. Then I could just say “Hi, I’m Fred or Ralph or something.”
I guess I could use my middle name, Arthur. Or maybe just Art. But then again, art is what you hang on a wall or make in preschool with macaroni and Elmer’s Glue. And I certainly can’t shorten my first name. “Purv.” Nope, I don’t think so. One time I considered combining a short version of my first and middle names. But then I thought it through. “Purv Art.” Are you kidding me? Mom, Dad, how much do you hate me?
“What’ll it be tonight, kid?” That’s the bartender. I think his name is Stan, or maybe Dan.
“O’Dules.”
“Right.”
Dan’s a nice guy. He works a lot. Always here when I come in.
“Hey Dan, you got a nickname?”
“Yeah. It’s Stan.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
Hey, when did Jackson come in? “Hey! Jackson, my man! What’s up? Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Well, I’ll just be over here. Keep it real, man.”
Jackson runs the sandwich cart on the corner by the office. Now Jackson, that’s a real name. Like “action,” only Jackson. That guy’s gonna go places with a name like that.
But not me. I’m just gonna sit here at this bar and watch all these well-named individuals go about their happy lives while I waste away in the intoxicating wash of Near Beer. Just me, the Purv-meister. The Purvinator. Potent. Powerful. Purvilicious.
I’ve got to get a new name.
The saga of Lisbeth Salander continues in the second volume of the Millennium Trilogy, The Girl Who Played With Fire. Once again, I enlisted the services of Audible and listened to the 20+ hours of the unabridged audio book before watching the Swedish version of the cinematic sequel to The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo.
If you frequently listen to audio books, you no doubt appreciate how critical the narrator can be to your experience. Reference Jim Dale, the actor who so brilliantly narrated the Peter and the Starcatchers series for Ridley Pearson and Dave Barry. This guy was amazing. He had (for me) as much to do with my enjoyment of these books (all 4 of them) as did the authors.
The same could be said for Simon Vance, narrator of The Girl Who Played with Fire. I strongly urge you to listen to these novels, even if you prefer a quiet sitting with the written word. His ability to capture the essence of each character and seamlessly weave back and forth across gender, education, age, dialect, and even speech impediment is truly entertaining.
And then there’s the book itself. I have NO idea why I’ve been sucked into this series like I have. Aside from my comments regarding the first book, I honestly have no real investment in the subject matter, the author, or the works themselves. At least, I didn’t when I began. But now, I’m hooked. I will be with this neurotic, misanthropic heroine until the bitter end of book three, which sadly is the end given the author’s untimely demise.
So what is it about this character, Lisbeth Salandar, that I find so intriguing? Good question. To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure. She’s tenacious. She has a photographic memory, and she’s a brilliant computer hacker. I like all that. I once took a strengths assessment that labelled me a “maximizer,” which basically means I look for and am attracted to the strengths in others. Maybe that’s why I like this girl.
On the flip side, she’s rude, self-serving, dresses like a vampire, and is completely anti-social. She shuns those who love her, lives strictly within her own rules of social justice, and administers this justice without regard to law or any one else’s opinion. This justice is also often very violent.
But if you believe that we are not accountable for our faults when they’re the result of some injustice committed against us, then she is as blameless as anyone. She has been betrayed, abused, violated, abandoned, deceived, forgotten, dismissed, and insulted. And this was all before the age of 13. It gets worse from there.
So perhaps I’m rooting for the underdog. Perhaps I’m waiting for this misfit of society to turn her circumstances around and live a “normal” life, whatever that means for her. Or perhaps I’m hoping that she will prove for me that there is justice in an unjust world, even if that world is fictional.
Either way, you go, Lisbeth! Just do whatever it is you’re gonna do, ’cause after a third 20+ hour novel, I should probably return to reality and actually do stuff.
About.com hosts a monthly writing challenge. The moderator publishes a prompt, then writers submit their variations on whatever theme is proposed. Stories are to be kept under 600 words.
For October, ghost stories were predictably solicited. The writing prompt was taken from Lord Halifax’s Ghost Book. Each story must begin with the words, “After dinner, our host, who was then renting the place, told us that the house was said to be . . .”
Below is the introduction to my submission, which you can read in full here. If you like it (or if you don’t) there is a link at the bottom of the story to make comments.
After dinner, our host, who was then renting the place, told us that the house was both conceived and constructed entirely by the hands of its original owner.
I listened with intrigue, not so much for his architectural insight, but rather because these were the first words the man had uttered all night. Since our arrival, conversation had been scarce. What little had been said was limited to the obligatory greetings and few brief discourses between my fiancé and the fragile apparition who introduced herself as Mrs. Clairmont.