A Pleasure to Have in Class

VERSE 1

I was such a pleasure to have in the class

All while the system fucked me in the ass

Trading my soul for an A+ to pass

And that’s why my childhood went by so fast

 

CHORUS 1

But I’m better than school

I’m nobody’s tool

I did what I did to survive

I’m better than school

I make my own rules

My rage is about to go live

 

VERSE 2

Dressed up in my Sunday’s best for the test

Job interview just to see if I’m screwed

They wished me luck in all my endeavors

And that’s why I’m unemployed forever

 

CHORUS 2

But I’m better than school

And capitalist fools

I live on despite their oppression

I’m better than school

And corporate gene pools

Hiring down the line of succession

 

BRIDGE

I’m an artist, not a soldier

Holding corpses on shoulders

I’m a lover, not a hater

Though I bloom a lot later

I’m a rebel, not a drone

Leave my human rights alone

I’m my own man, not a student

Not expendable, not useless

 

CHORUS 3

But I’m better than school

And a world so cruel

My art lives on when it’s my time to go

I’m better than school

I’ll die in this duel

It’s my hill to stand on

They’re my feet to land on

Too good for conformity

So don’t try to whore me

Chris Kael from Five Finger Death Punch: Telling On Himself Since Day One

 

Yvette the Maid Is Here to Bring You Sex Positivity

 

"Reflections on Healing" by Rachel Oates

BOOK TITLE: Reflections on Healing

AUTHOR: Rachel Oates

YEAR: 2022

GENRE: Poetry and Photography

SUBGENRES: Mental Health, Feminism, and Abuse

GRADE: A

Rachel Oates has always had a complicated relationship with poetry, whether she was critiquing it on her You Tube channel or writing some of her own. But through it all, her writing skills shine brilliantly in this collection of poetry. She explores uncomfortable topics through a sensitive lens. Even when the poems don’t have happy endings, they never feel exploitative. They feel like she’s being true to herself and using her hurtful experiences to help others who are going through the same thing. In addition to helping other victims, these poems are also a middle finger to anybody who would ever beat or degrade another human being through the façade of compliments and love-bombing. Rachel Oates fancies herself a rookie in the poetry genre, but you wouldn’t know that from how expertly she handles the written word. That alone is worth an A grade.

One of my favorite poems in this book is Romb, a title which is not a typo, but a well-crafted pun. She talks about having a room to herself only for judgmental neighbors and men in suits to condescend to her and tell her how she should live in it. This is all of course a metaphor for her womb and how pro-life activists are every bit as nosy and intrusive as the people judging her room. Rachel says in one of her videos that a goal of poetry is to find innovative ways to say what the poet wants to say. She certainly lived up to her own advice in this poem and that’s a recurring theme throughout the entire book. She may be a rookie, but she’s a student first and foremost and is therefore a serial learner who takes in so much creative fuel before starting her projects. Learning doesn’t stop after graduating college. She’ll no doubt take this knowledge with her if she decides to put out another book of poetry.

Another poem I enjoyed was the much more disturbing Puppet Master, where she once again uses innovative comparisons to describe a serious topic, this time being abused by one of her now ex-boyfriends. Oh sure, the puppet master has pretty dolls and he assures you that you’re the prettiest of them all, different from the others. And through this manipulation and psychological torture, you believe these lies while becoming made of wood and strings yourself, strings that leave bruises from being tightly bound, and wood that doesn’t move until the puppet master says so. Thankfully, the poem ends on a high note of Rachel leaving her boyfriend and starting the healing process. But man, does this poem hit me where it hurts the most. While I’ve only had two romantic relationships in my whole life and neither of them were that bad in hindsight, I did have other people in my life bombard me with hate and then suck up to me with love and compliments. Rachel and I may both be atheists, but we can surely agree that there’s a special place in hell for people who gaslight and abuse their loved ones.

Of course, the other genre this book falls under is photography. She definitely has been engaging in this craft for a long period of time, judging from how professional and expressive each photo is. I especially like the one she took of downtown Southbank. Then again, cityscape photography has always been fascinating to me, whether it’s the bright lights, cool water, or beautiful colors in the sky. Honestly, Rachel could take pictures of mundane objects and it would still be considered great art by virtue of her own artistic integrity and personal lens (no pun intended). That’s the mark of a true artist: you know who made the art because their personal voice and point of view shines through in the most recognizable way possible.

This book is less than a hundred pages long, so you can breeze right by it in no time at all. But the poetry and photography will stay with you long after the reading experience is over. I will remember Rachel Oates’s work for the rest of my life, not only because of the raw vulnerability, but also because of the skill in which she executes her writing. I look forward to more publications from her, just as I always look forward to her upcoming You Tube videos. She smashes the stereotype of You Tubers being cash grabbers when it comes to publishing books. She’s serious about her craft and she will prove it to you over and over again until it stays with you forever. Noticing a theme here? Nothing less than five stars. Brilliant and heart-wrenching!

Maximum 3

When I was a kid, long before I figured out what the fuck I wanted to do with my life, my first option was to just invent new things. New videogames, new movies, new TV shows, but in this instance alone, new medicines. And because my mind was thoroughly power-washed by TV advertisements back then, I was convinced that Advil was better than Tylenol and Bayer, Tylenol was better than Bayer, and Bayer was better than nothing. “It takes two Tylenols and three Bayers to match the strength of one Advil liquid gel”. If that wasn’t enough to get my creative wheels turning, there was yet another commercial on TV to wash my brain some more. It was for a medicine that combined Nyquil and Advil into one capsule. The message I received had nothing to do with falling asleep and resting easy. The message I got out of this was that more medicines equal faster healing. So…my genius idea for an all-purpose medicine…was a pill called Maximum 3. Why? Because it was maximum-strength and three medicines combined into one. The leading pills only had one medicine and were minimum strength. Three is obviously better because in America, more is always better. But as an adult with a better understanding of how pharmaceuticals work, I realize what would happen if a normal-sized adult took one swallow of Maximum 3: they would drop dead! There wouldn’t be enough Pulp Fiction needle juice in the world to wake up somebody from that kind of overkill. Come to think of it, there actually might be something similar to Maximum 3 out in the world. The Sackler family made a killing off of it in the blue-collar market. I might as well give my customers a bag of cocaine at this point.

Are You Alive?

OPENING LINE
You owe it to society to be better than your tormentors, not worse.

VERSE 1
Remember when I was fourteen years old?
You and your friends took away my soul
You cracked some jokes about my pole
Lied about me sticking it in the ugliest holes
The conspiracy spread throughout school
Believed by every white bread redneck fool
And to this day I’ll always wonder
If you can still hear my voice of thunder

CHORUS 1
Are you alive or are you dead?
Why are you renting space in my head?
Am I insane or was I right all along?
When do I get to be the hero so strong?

VERSE 2
Remember when the year was 2003?
I had stars in my eyes, a head full of dreams
But all I remember about that year
Was your insults buzzing in my ear
Grew up believing I would never be loved
By a man to whom I shouldn’t have looked up
And to this day I’ll always ask
Why your words always poured from your ass

CHORUS 2
Are you alive or are you dead?
I’d rather you were the latter instead
Am I crazy or do I have a point?
Was this all just a combat boot to the groin?

BRIDGE
I’m so tired of your excuses
I’m so tired of feeling useless
Break the cycle of my abuses
So I can finally hear the music

VERSE 3
Remember when the year was 2009?
Everybody moved on, left me behind
I’m sick of hearing, “Get a life!”
From those who stabbed my back with a knife
I can’t move on and follow my ambitions
Got a bottle of pills and shitty nutrition
And to this day I’ll sit and wait
For the world to give up on its hate

CHORUS 3
Are we alive or are we dead?
Do we lie awake in our beds?
Am I nuts or is it true
That I grew up to be like you?

Assuming Everyone Is a Villain

***ASSUMING EVERYONE IS A VILLAIN***

My childhood was far from perfect (high school be damned), but one thing I’ll always cherish about my young past is doing Final Fantasy-style role-plays with my California friend Lance. We used Lego mini-figures to act out these scenes because they were just as tiny as the sprites in Final Fantasy IV and VI for the Super Nintendo. We battled indestructible giants together. We blew up entire space fortresses. We had adventures that would solidify and enhance our creativity well into adulthood. Anytime I get the chance to exercise my creativity, I’m one happy motherfucker, which is why I’m writing this blog entry right now.

As fun as those times in my life were, there was always something about our role-plays that confused me just a little bit (no, this isn’t me putting the boots to Lance, so settle down, everyone). More often than not, one of Lance’s heroic characters would attack ordinary strangers because he didn’t know what alignment they were. In other words, he assumed they were evil long before he had the chance to get to know them. Not very heroic behavior, in my opinion. But it is worth examining, because even now as an adult with a Bachelor’s in creative writing with a minor in theater arts, this idea could still hold weight in today’s world.

One way in which prejudging could work for the protagonist is if he’s paranoid. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean the world isn’t out to get you. That’s how delusional thinking works. I know this because during my earliest bouts of schizophrenia in 2002, I too assumed everyone was a villain, whether they were friends, family, strangers, or natural enemies. I had this delusion that the whole world was conspiring to conform me into someone I’m not. Any small sign of obedience on my part meant that my “conspirators” had a permanent victory. My behavior was erratic and I made a few enemies along the way because of it.

But schizophrenic delusions aren’t the only way in which a paranoid person could assume everyone is a villain. The protagonist could instead have PTSD, where the flight or fight mechanism in the brain is working overtime to make the sufferer hyper-vigilant. PTSD can happen for any stressful reason whether it’s bullying, sexual harassment, rape, war, or whatever. People with extreme cases of PTSD have a hard time letting others into their bubble. Who could blame them? They don’t want to be triggered by someone’s distrustful ways. And when I say triggered, I’m not using the alt-right definition of it where they completely wipe their ass with the word.

Not all paranoid protagonists have to have mental illnesses, though. Sometimes they’re not paranoid, but simply distrustful. They won’t beat the shit out of people with unknown alignments, but they could distance themselves from those strangers. They could be fiercely independent in their work life. They could be a Single Pringle. They could isolate themselves from the world around them, though if they did that, it could lead to depression or other mental illnesses. Distrustful protagonists have been around since forever and with the proliferation of violent literature, why wouldn’t they be? It’s a kill or be killed world out there.

As children, Lance and I had confusing plot holes in our role-plays, I’ll admit. Why would a fifty foot giant need a temple to keep him indestructible? Why would the heroes live in an island cellar with nothing to do but lay in bed? Why would a space fortress need to regenerate itself if it’s already a powerful and elaborate structure? As silly as some of these predicaments were, they did help us develop our storytelling skills to where they are today. Yes, I was confused by the constant attacks on strangers with unknown alignments, but I have a better understanding of it today.

Writers and storytellers have a tendency to look at their past works and cringe in self-judgment. While some of that cringing is justified in our advanced age, some parts of our past are worth analyzing if for no other reason than to exercise our skills. We see our mistakes of the past and we now have a better understanding as to why they’re mistakes. We can’t take everything from our past and transpose it into our adult careers, but without that past, we have no future. Whoever said, “The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history” was referring strictly to world politics and not creative journeys.

Lance and I lead very separate lives in today’s world. Our belief systems are different. I live in Washington while he lives in California. He’s got his own projects while I’ve got mine. But we still have our creative pasts in common and for that I will forever cherish our friendship no matter how far into the future we are. Thank you, Lance, for helping me become the writer and storyteller I am today. Every artistic journey starts somewhere and it was an honor to start it with you. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***CURRENT PLANS***

I’ve got a lot going on in my creative schedule, so let me bring you all up to speed. I finally put together the manuscript for Beautiful Monster’s third draft and it’s well on its way to being critiqued by the fine folks at Hollow Hills. All they need from me now is my payment and some time to work on it. As far as short stories go, my next one will be called Butterscotch and it’s yet another tribute to a former animal of mine. Butterscotch was a tiny kitten when he leapt out at me and my brother in the middle of a nighttime walk in 2003. I still miss him to this day, just like all of my former animals. I’m sure you guys have also noticed I’m posting reviews again, my most recent ones being of “In the Presence of Knowing” by Valarie Savage Kinney and the Quentin Tarantino movie “Jackie Brown”. If I can figure out how to fix the fucking TV’s sound quality, my next review will be of another Tarantino classic, “Inglorious Basterds”. If not, I’ll just stick to reading my next book, “Souls of the Reaper” by Markie Madden, which is the second in her Undead Unit series. I don’t have anything else to report, so wish me luck!

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ALPHONSE: If I ever find the person who’s doing this to me, I’m going to make him beg for mercy.

VICTOR: I don’t think he’s going to beg for mercy.

ALPHONSE: He wouldn’t get it anyways.

-Dead Man Down-

"Sick Little Monkeys" by Thad Komorowski

BOOK TITLE: Sick Little Monkeys: The Unauthorized Ren & Stimpy Story

AUTHOR: Thad Komorowski

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Animation Biography

GRADE: Fail

Sick Little Monkeys details the career of Ren & Stimpy’s eccentric and rebellious creator John Kricfalusi, who has been described by many as either an animation genius or a creative control freak. Mr. K always insisted on doing things his way whether his bosses agreed with him or not. The byproduct of his madness was cartoons that embraced toilet humor, bodily horror, and an uncaring attitude towards the youths they were marketed to. John K made many enemies during his time creating cartoons, but it begs the question of whether or not it was all worth it given the cult following Ren & Stimpy had and still has today.

I swore I would finish this book all the way through, but the repetitive and dull writing style makes it impossible to do so. Many of the same talking points were shoved down my throat over and over again whether it was John K’s rebelliousness, his inability to meet deadlines, his cartoons’ disgustingness, and worst of all, how “awful” and “disastrous” competing cartoons were. About the last item on that list, it would appear as if the author was taking sides with John K, but there were also times when he criticized the animator with as much venom as he did the competitors. If this book has a message, it was lost a long time ago the minute the writing style bored me to tears.

Perhaps the writing style could have been improved with some showing instead of telling. Instead of telling me how “bad” other cartoons are, show me what specifically made them that way. But of course, the author couldn’t do that without alienating the laymen of the animation world. Insider terms are used a lot in this book, which would have been fine if the book was marketed to professional animators as opposed to merely fans of Ren & Stimpy. I went into this read wanting to learn about the cartoon that made my childhood a happy time of my life. Instead all I got was technical drivel combined with a desert-dry writing style.

The closest the author ever got to showing instead of telling was pictures scattered here and there of John K’s sketches and storyboards. While pictures are always more effective at communicating than words, if that was all I wanted, I would have watched a movie. I wanted to read a book and use my imagination, an imagination guided by an author who’s supposed to be as entertaining as he is informative. I would have even settled for a graphic novel if that’s what the author really wanted. At least with a graphic novel, it wouldn’t feel like my eyes were being dragged across sandpaper. Now there’s a visual worthy of a Ren & Stimpy episode!

This was not a fun book to read and I can’t recommend it to my friends. I tried. I really tried. I wanted to like it and become a more educated person because of the reading experience. But no matter what, it just wouldn’t happen. I’d already known John K was a little off-color and this book does a good job of illustrating his depravity, but ultimately it’s not enough to keep my interest. I’m sorry, Mr. Komorowski, but this book gets a failing grade.

The Last Aqua Man

***THE LAST AQUA MAN***

Remember a blog entry a few weeks ago about my childhood soccer team The Thunder Eagles? Well, that wasn’t just a fun story. It’s now an undeveloped idea for a novel somewhere down the line. The reason Silent Warrior resonated so well was because it was loosely based on real experiences I had. The Last Thunder Eagle, as it’s now called, will hopefully resonate as well since I used to be a sore loser. In some ways, I still am a sore loser and perhaps this novel idea is what will exorcise those demons forever. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve already written the first chapter of Beautiful Monster and I intend to see that one through to the epilogue. Wish me luck!

But as long as I’m being inspired by stories from my past (that thankfully aren’t too traumatic), I might as well throw another one out there and see if it sticks. In the same way The Last Thunder Eagle is intended to be about soccer, The Last Aqua Man will be about swimming lessons, should it ever become a novel idea. When I was a kid, I already knew how to doggie paddle from point A to point B. But that just wasn’t enough for some reason, so my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the community pool. Although I didn’t get hit with any soccer balls or knocked down, I still was not a happy camper.

There were six different levels of difficulty for these classes: Beginner’s Level Parts 1-4, Intermediate, and Advanced. During both rounds of swim lessons, I was placed in Beginner’s Level 4 and never passed to the next tier. One of the big reasons for this was because I hated sticking my head underwater without plugging my nose first. I hate water in my nose, I hate coughing it up, I hate blowing it out, and I hate water in my ears. I would have worn a pair of goggles that protected my nose, but the swim instructors wouldn’t let me use them. Instead they suggested that I hold my breath before sticking my head underwater. Didn’t work. I ended up feeling like a whitewashed version of Crazy K from Tales from the Hood. I know I make that reference a lot, but there aren’t a whole lot of movies out there where somebody shoves IV straws up another man’s nose, so that’s all I’ve got to work with.

During the second season of swim classes, one of our assignments was to dive right into the water, head first, arms extended. The first time I did this came without incident. In fact, my parents applauded me from the sidelines. And then with every successive time came more water in my nose and throat and not enough ways to expel it. After a while I just refused to dive and instead did a pencil jump while holding my nose shut. I already told you guys that I never passed either season of classes, but at this point I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. I was the Last Thunder Eagle and the Last Aqua Man all in one childhood. Sports really aren’t my thing after all. Hell, even gym class in general was an exhausting nightmare at times.

When I talked about The Thunder Eagles, I mentioned how soccer could be improved if hardcore violence was allowed. Well, I don’t think the same could be said for this blog entry. My misery was nobody else’s fault…this time. Nobody pushed me in the pool. Nobody tried to drown me. Nobody splashed me while I had my clothes on. Who was I going to beat the crap out of? The closest I could ever come to that would have to be literally cutting my nose off to spite my face. Yeah, that’s right! It’s my nose’s fault for allowing water to get in there in the first place. That’s not what noses are for! Isn’t that right, Melanie Good’s character from Die Watching? Now there’s a reference absolutely nobody is going to get…unless you’re into that sort of thing. Then again, “that sort of thing” is the only reason why I know that movie exists. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

So how exactly would The Last Aqua Man become a reasonable story? Would it be too similar to The Last Thunder Eagle? Am I just destined to write novels about sore losers my entire career? Mitch McLeod was a sore loser (when he did lose, which was not often). Mario Bryan was a sore loser. And now the main character from The Last Thunder Eagle, a ten-year-old named Alex Woodley, is going to be a REALLY sore loser. Brock Lesnar once said it best: in order to know how to win, you have to know how to lose. He was a sore loser in college and so am I in the real world.

And that’s the thing about life itself: failure is inevitable, but it’s how we react to it that will determine future success. Some people will pick themselves up and dust themselves off to go to work the next day. Others will crumble under the pressure and give up altogether. There were some things in my life that were worth continuing and some that I gave up on. I gave up on playing the guitar because I couldn’t move my fingers quickly enough across the frets. I gave up on playing Street Fighter IV because Abel kept getting cheap victories over me. I gave up on playing Magic: the Gathering because it became more about capitalism rather than the love of the game.

But when it comes to my creative outlets, mental health, and physical health, those are things I will never compromise on. These three things can’t exist without each other. I write for a living. I work on other creative endeavors for the love of art. I need a clear mind to do those things. And as far as physical health goes, I know my bulging belly will tell you otherwise, but I’ve actually lost a lot of weight in the past few months. I eat only three meals a day without snacking on sugary foods, I walk long distances whenever it’s nice outside, and I drink a lot of unsweetened iced tea. A lot! I haven’t kept track of how much weight I’ve lost, but I know I must be doing something right, because I can make it up and down the stairs without being overly winded. I guess there is life beyond childhood soccer and swimming. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ME: You know, Reina, there was once a time when I considered Squall Leonhart from Final Fantasy VIII to be my own personal hero. He had no emotional attachments, no unnecessary relationships, and he mastered the art of giving zero fucks.

REINA: So basically your hero was an angsty teenager?

ME: No, that’s not what he is!

REINA: He sounds like an angsty teenager, Garrison. I bet he listens to a lot of Linkin Park.

ME: Final Fantasy VIII came out a few years before the first Linkin Park album.

REINA: He still would have listened to them.

I Still Remember

I still remember the games we played

I still remember the price you paid

I still remember the lashings you took

In the name of the so-called good book

I still remember our time as kids

I still remember the good we did

I still remember the world’s response

Our biggest gain was their total loss

I still remember our videogames

I still remember your name

I still remember what we created

How teenaged years left us jaded

I still remember the crazy cartoons

Good guys, bad guys, all were buffoons

I don’t remember where those tapes went

I hope it was money well-spent

Now we are older, time passed us by

High school made us want to die

Though I wasn’t there to see you cry

I could have been if I only tried

Different cities, different stories

Different defeats, different glories

We can never return to those young days

Do you still remember how to play?

My Dinosaur

SOBBING DIALOGUE

My dinosaur! X4

VERSE 1

You took away all my toys

The only things to fill the void

The only things to cure boredom

Anything to restore your order

You smashed my Legos to bits

Stomped my videogames to shit

Popped the heads off my dolls

Do you have a heart at all?

CHORUS

Give me back what’s mine!

I’ll be a good boy this time!

I’ll get the very best grades!

I know how to fucking behave!

Don’t tell me to act my age!

Or I’ll unleash my inner rage!

They’ll have to lock me in a cage!

All I wanted to do was play!

SOBBING DIALOGUE

My dinosaur! X2

VERSE 2

What does this punishment prove?

That your authority is always true?

That the skies aren’t always blue?

Creativity wasn’t meant to bloom?

I don’t need the fucking rubber room

You need your own fucking tomb

You burned my whole toy collection

I’ll cut your giant ass into sections

CHORUS

Give me back what’s mine!

I’ll be a good boy this time!

I’ll get the very best grades!

I know how to fucking behave!

Don’t tell me to act my age!

Or I’ll unleash my inner rage!

They’ll have to lock me in a cage!

All I wanted to do was play!

SOBBING DIALOGUE

My dinosaur! X2

VERSE 3

I don’t owe society shit

It isn’t me throwing a fit

Playtime will forever be mine

Don’t care about falling in line

Don’t care about responsibilities

Or even employable abilities

Starting over with my own toys

Won’t wait for Christmas joys

FINAL BRIDGE

Give me my dinosaur!

I won’t wait anymore!

Life doesn’t have to bore!

Give me my dinosaur before I beat it out of you!