Walter Mitty is Changing My Life (without asking first.)

I just found out I’m an imaginary character. Maybe you are too. I never would have noticed except whoever is imagining me, imagined that I would know I’m imagined.

Imagine that.

Do I really write a blog? Do I actually love Pop Tarts? Did I even poop in an ever-so-satisfying way last night – or is it all in somebody’s head?

(I pooped in your head!)

I still feel real. I still care. I still worry about deadlines and lactose intolerance. Nothing has changed except that I am now aware of somebody in the room. Some guy (I assume it’s a guy because any woman who looked at my life would ask, “What’s the point?”) watches me, what I do, what I think, and then occasionally says to himself, “no, Headley doesn’t think that.” I get no choice in the matter. I just go from thinking that to thinking this.

And this is what I think – that sucks.

I’m a big fan of Danny Kaye – or at least I thought I was. One of his movies was “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” Ben Stiller did a remake recently but Ben Stiller is not really an actor as much as he is an irritant, so I didn’t watch it.

The point of Walter Mitty was that the fantasies he lived through were so real to him that they became more important than his real life, and in the end, transformed it.

I think that I, Headley Hauser, am the imaginary creation of some desperately evil Walter Mitty. Maybe I too, am more important than this imaginer’s real life, and I am transforming it.

But it leaves me afraid. What will this guy imagine next? Will he decide that I love Diane Keaton movies; that I go on a low-sugar diet, that I become political?

(NOOOOOOOOOO!)

As horrifying as all these possibilities are, the most horrifying thing is that I have no choice in the matter – unless my evil personal Walter Mitty decides I have a choice in the matter. Then I’ll be able to choose and there will be nothing he (or I?) can do about it.

Turns out we all have our strings. Who’s the imaginary character now, Pinocchio!

Here’s wishing you all, kind and creative Walter Mittys in your life, and may you imagine a wonderful existence, free of strings and full of Pop Tarts.

Or at least I wish that now. Who knows what Mitty will have me wish tomorrow.

   Walter Mitty (certified to be at least 98% Ben Stiller free for your protection.)

Dirk Destroyer Part 38 Chapter Twenty

I suppose it’s a little late to mention it, but those chapters that are spelled out (like Twenty,) are diversions from the story, while those that are enumerated (thanks CL for giving me that cool word,) (like 21,) move the story along.

Kinda cute, right?

Well who asked you?

I don’t care if I did ask you – I thought it was cute even if nobody else did. Remember, this entire magnum opus (‘nother cool word, but this time I got it from Star Trek reruns,) is free of charge.

But back to the beauty of these nonenumerated diversional chapters (wow am I cranking out the cool words tonight!) You can take these chapters almost like short stories and you might even understand what’s going on without reading the previous 37 Dirk Destroyer posts.

Chapter Twenty

Fassentinker

The scratchwing and bellow had been such a fine combination for instrumental duets that when I was born people in my village thought they had been part of civilization forever. Two years later when Dirk was born, most people still held the same opinion.

Though the scratchwing is a precision instrument and the bellow more tonal and percussive, it was the fad of composers in my youth to ask the direct opposite of each. The result was a musical product that resembled a raptor swimming under water next to a leviathan farting.

It was unpleasant, but it was art, and to expect art to be pleasant is common, base, uncultured, and ignorant. The annual art endowments were thus awarded to the artists, composers, choreographers, sculptors, and nose pickers who most made you wish that your head was an internal organ.

Those were heady days for the arts.

Dutifully, Dirk and I studied music and practiced every day. Dirk developed a sardonic sense of humor; I developed allergies; and our mother went through three divorces.

I remember a particularly cruel punishment I received in middle school after my rendition of V. D. Popengut’s ninth inversion was greeted with applause by my classmates. I was forced to listen to the correct interpretation repeatedly until I was light-headed from loss of blood and mucus.

It was into this world of poignant artistic integrity that Captain Kangar Fassentinker rose to prominence. Kangar Fassentinker was a tug boat captain on the continent of Pogo where his primary trade was to take tourists to the one toilet, or loo, as they were called down there, that flowed in the correct direction. Captain Kangar –loo as he was popularly known to the inhabitants of those parts, had very little adult trade, as most people over the age of seven felt no need to see a toilet flow the correct way more than once. Smaller children however, could never get enough of it, and after some time, parents began habitually leaving their children on his tugboat before leaving for work, or to score drugs.

Kangar Fassentinker was not pleased with this turn of events. An accomplished scratchwing player in his youth with four suicides to his credit, Captain Kangar-loo began playing his scratchwing – not properly, but in a contrarian fashion - in opposition to the accepted artistical forms of the day.

Unfortunately, the children of his tugboat nursery had not yet developed the sophistication necessary to understand that what they were hearing was asinine, derivative crap, and so they loved and adored the Captain almost as much as he loathed them. The Captain lived in an increasingly unbearable world of happy children, swirling water, and deplorably pleasant music.

After twenty-five years, and a dozen unexplained drownings, Luke Gandolf, a writer of fantasies, and creator of toys that were particularly harmful to children, remembered his dear Captain Kangar-loo, and bailed him out of jail, in order to bring Kangar Fassentinker’s music to the world.

Unfortunately, only a handful of Fassentinker’s pieces were released to the world including his exquisite third duet for scratchwing and bellow before Fassentinker slipped on a cube of ice and accidentally impaled himself on an ice pick left carelessly propped, point up, on the floor. This occurred at the apartment of the aforementioned composer, Vladimir Draculo Popengut, who was the only witness to the event.

Not sure if Danny Kaye was Fassentinker or Popengut, but I love his movies.

Don't Worry; Be Funny

To the best of my knowledge, Bobby McFerrin never did stand-up. That's probably why his music is so relaxing.

We humans demand that the natural cadence and organic happenstance of humor be artificially manufactured in a social arrangement reminiscent of a firing squad.

What did I just say?

We treat our entertainers like convicted felons. We put them under blinding lights; bring in scores of demanding faceless people and then tell the poor saps to be funny.

Go ahead! Make me laugh!

Stand up comedy is conceptually a lot like clowning. Clowns paint their faces to evoke lightness and fun but end up creepy. We figured the clown/creepy thing out decades ago, and the horror industry is still cashing in. When do we start making horror flicks about stand-up?

Pine Street is a quiet road in a typical suburban town. Johnny Belcher's parents have left him alone for the night. Johnny thought he was inviting a few friends for beers and fun, until it all went wrong. You'll laugh till you bleed when you see, Amateur Comedy Night on Pine Street!

Maybe comedy has always had this sadistic underbelly. According to Mel Brooks comedy began with a guy who was eaten by a dinosaur. I trust Brooks' mastery of history even above my teachers in high school.

Invention of the candy gram? Mr. Jones' history class didn't cover that.

After the dinosaur shtick got old, wealthy humor connoisseurs developed the court jester. On the surface the concept seemed civilized, even compassionate. You dress up some schmo in motley. Pick a guy that's too puny to swing a sword. Everybody needs a job, right? The rich noble guy is just being kind.

"Good evening Ladies and Germs!"

But these jesters got pelted by hard and disgusting objects. Have you ever tried to be funny while people are throwing spoiled mutton? Not that the Jesters weren’t grateful when diners threw meat. You’d be grateful for a diversionary portion of sheep’s butt too if a pack of the noble guy's wolf hounds were looking at you like you might be their new chew toy.

One way or the other, the noble guy gets his chuckles.

To reference Mel Brooks again, "When you die at the palace, you DIE at the palace."

So comedy is cruel. Its purpose is to embarrass, degrade, injure, maim or kill people who are just trying to make you happy.

Kind of like dating.

As a matter of fact, the patron saint of comedy, St. Genesius Martinus of Rome is also the patron saint of torture victims! (He's also the p.s. for plumbers. I always thought a lot of plumber’s tools looked sadistic.)

But every night, modern-day jesters line up at open mike nights hoping for their big break. The just want to help people forget their troubles and have a laugh.

Nothing to worry about. Just go with the flow. Pretend the boos, catcalls, and death threats are nothing more cruel than accompanying music - maybe with a lilting Caribbean beat.

Because comedy is the profession of masochists. It's the hopeless pursuit of approval by sadistic masses of ungrateful jerks.

Kind of like parenting teenagers.

Love this song.

Photo Man-up (or something like that.)

Rough Monday - no details.  Here's some photo manipulations that I like.

Parenting

Baby Inflation

Condiment Wars

Why Snails Drive Slowly

Babysitting Training

Hands On Training

Ouch

Friday 4:45PM

Can't Sing - Can't Fetch

Argh! Squeak, Squeak

Advanced Flossing

Okay, this one is not a photo manipulation.

Big Brotherhood Knows No Species

This video has nothing to do with anything - except that I like Danny Kaye.

Wise Readers Wanted

Having battered heads with cranky old Walter Bego for the last few weeks, we've produce the first view-able version of Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother. Now we need guinea pi… volunteers.

It’s a common misconception that writing is about writing – blogging is about writing – writing novels (or novellas) is about editing.

The rough draft of a story usually takes me about 6 weeks to do. It’s the most liberating, joyful 6 weeks or my otherwise sullen existence. The mind wanders far afield a bit like Danny Kaye's in Walter Mitty.

If there was a fairy god-mother for writers, she wouldn't wave her wand to give us ideas; she would wave her wand to turn rough drafts into finished copy.

After the rough draft is done (and the writer sobers up,) the draft is place in a drawer (or on a flash drive,) until much of the detail is forgotten (usually due to harassment from bill-collectors.) When it’s been sufficiently forgotten the first of four (yes, I said FOUR) edits is begun. Big changes happen in the first edit – characters change, the plot changes, everything changes except the writer’s clothes and generally poor hygiene as he/she is chained to the typewriter/word processor/desktop/laptop/tablet until the first edit is completed.

The second edit is the consultation edit. Chunks of brilliant manuscript is brutally cut and jettisoned by sadistic people like Walter Bego who scream inane statements like, “it doesn't move the narrative forward!” (whatever that means.)

Once the writer stops bleeding, he seeks out independent feedback – or wise readers. Wise readers are not profession editors – it’s better if they’re not editors or writers at all. All a wise reader needs to be is someone who likes to read, and recognizes when he or she feels annoyed. There are three things that writers do that especially annoy readers:

1: We Bore Them

2: We Confuse Them

3: We Say Stuff That Doesn't Make Sense (my favorite)

Most readers recognize when these things happen, and if they happen often enough, the writer’s proud effort loses its place on the reader’s bookshelf, and finds a new place amongst the emergency TP.

I need 2 more people to tell me when I bore them, confuse them, and when I say stuff that doesn't make sense (my favorite,) in the story – Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother: Book 3 of the Genre Series – The Satire.

As it is a satire, anyone who loves politicians in general (many are skewered,) or John McCain or Al Gore particularly (who I gleefully brutalize,) might not wish to volunteer.

What Does It Pay?!?!?!?!?

(nothing)

But you are thanked officially in digitally pixilated print in the e-book, and I make a reasonable effort not to spell your name wrong.

Such a deal?

When I get the manuscripts back from you I do the third edit based on your wonderful complaints (wound me, beat me, make me feel cheap – please!)

Then GoFigureReads hires a proofreader to catch all the errors – (so you can ignore all the typos, grammatical errors, and misspelled words unless you enjoy that sort of thing,) and I do the final edit.

Finally we have – A Finished Story that you can brag about (or hide from people.) Either way, YOU have become an important part in the writing process!

Sound GLORIOUS to you? Then email me quickly before you come to your senses - gfreads@yahoo.com.

Psychic Roach Part Four

An insignificant roach survives only because he doesn’t do what his entire tribe does – crawl into a box. Is it by chance? As the roach explores the house he discovers that he has decidedly unroach-like abilities. His sensitivity and perception of the world around includes knowledge of what objects are called and what the massive human beings use them for.

Is that the limit of his abilities?

If you would like to read the story up to this part, here are parts One, Two, and Three. Otherwise, here is:

Psychic Roach Part Four

by Headley Hauser

Three doors remained unexplored on the other side of the stairs. Light shone from the middle door, so he chose the one to the right. This room was small, crowded, and dark. It had no… windows. It looked like Only Roach was in a closet. Most of the smells in here were unpleasant, more powder and soap, and two of those plastic things that hung from the bathroom wall. There were pieces of dead roaches sifted into the carpet. He was in a death place.

Was he in a death box? He couldn’t smell anything like canned peas. He wandered to the back of the closet, and his leg caught in something springy. He tried to move his leg away, but the springy thing moved with him. It wouldn’t let go. There was some sort of cord traveling up from the floor to the back wall of the closet. He sensed movement. Above him two clusters of luminous facets sparkled. The clusters moved towards him.

A spider! A large spider was coming to eat him, and he couldn’t break free from its web. He could feel his leg begin to loosen but he needed more time; the spider was too close. If only… a sparrow would come and eat the spider. He didn’t think sparrows visited dark closets, but he pictured the sparrow anyway as he worked to free his leg.

“The sparrow is scanning the web, looking for his supper. He knows that where there are webs, there are usually fat tasty spiders.”

The roach looked up and saw that the spider’s eyes were dimming as it retreated to the back of the web. Giving another tug, Only Roach’s leg came free of the web. He scampered under the closet door and out into the hall.

He had made the spider see a sparrow that wasn’t there! But many roaches had died in that closet. Why hadn’t any of those roaches made the spider see a sparrow? He couldn’t remember a roach from his tribe doing anything like that.

“Is that why I’m alive?” he wondered.

For my unrelated (non-roach) video, I submit what I think is one of the most brilliant comic scenes in history from Danny Kaye’s Court Jester.

So, the only roach wonders why he’s still alive. Does he feel confident? Does he feel prepared for anything? Well there are bigger roach-killers than spiders, and as morning approaches – they’re about to wake up.

The danger mounts on Monday…

In Tribute to Ex-Living Icon

On the (fill in the blank) (80^th?) anniversary of his birth, Just Plain Stupid would like to honor:

Jerry Falwell

The ex-living reverend accomplished many things in his (fill in the blank) years on the planet. Among them:

1) Made political flag burning a religious issue.

1a) Made most religious issues political issues.

2) Raised the profile and social importance of Hustler magazine.

3) Unified an impossibly divided Democrat party.

4) Made Libertarians seem unpatriotic.

5) Kept me from becoming a Southern Baptist.

Was it the legacy he hoped for?

I don’t care.

Who knows what else he might have accomplished had he lived longer. I encouraged fellow Go Figure Reads author Stanley W. McFarland to send Rev. Falwell a copy of his book: Confessions of a Protestant.

Sadly Falwell didn’t live to the release date. Had Falwell read it, and condemned it – McFarland would be a wealthy man today (and would owe me big time.)

Shortly before his demise, I penned (in a computer keyboard sense,) this musical tribute to the great man. The tune is from Danny Kaye’s tune – Inch Worm.

 I didn’t include the high math at the beginning and threw in a bridge instead. Tragically, the inestimable (I was never good at estimating) Danny Kaye never lived to sing the bridge.

Lynchburg

lyrics by Headley Hauser

music (supposedly) by Danny Kaye

Lynchburg, Lynchburg

Nestled in the Blue Ridge

No left lane on it’s through bridge

It’s Jerry Falwell’s home

Lynchburg, Lynchburg

To get there takes half-a-tank

To see our favorite mount-e-bank

It’s Jerry Falwell’s home

 

Tradition – written and oral

Says that Lynchburg is moral

But if they’re the majority

Then why all the pejoraty?

 

Lynchburg, Lynchburg

Nestled in the Blue Ridge

(Ain’t) no liquor in the brew fridge

It’s Jerry Falwell’s home

Now, I don’t see diversity

At most university

But I not heard such flibberty

(Than at) that school known as Liberty

 

Lynchburg, Lynchburg

(To my) conduct they’re giving care

(Sure am) glad I’m not living there

It’s Jerry Falwell’s home

 

Here’s a video about Lynchburg from the ‘What if’ department. Or is it the ‘who cares’ department?