The Moody Blues vs. Jorge Masvidal: Enjoy Your Humble Pie, Bootlicker

 

Concerts

Well…I’m burned out and bored out of my mind for the thirteenth day in a row. So to alleviate this boredom, I’m going to post a list of all the concerts I’ve ever been to in my life. Nostalgia feels good sometimes, you know?

1992: 

• MC Hammer X Boys II Men (July 17th at the Seattle Center Arena)

1994: 

• WWF House Show (Sacramento, CA)

1996: 

• Sting and Geggy-Tah (August 30th at the Irvine Meadows Amphitheater in Irvine, CA)

2000: 

• Roger Waters: In the Flesh (June 27th at the Rose Garden Arena in Portland, OR)

2001: 

• Rammstein (July 6th at the Roseland Theater in Portland, OR)

2003: 

• The Moody Blues (June 14th at Marymoor Park in Redmond, WA)

• WWE House Show (Tacoma Dome)

2004: 

• Linkin Park, P.O.D, Hubastank, and Story of the Year (February 13th at the Tacoma Dome)

• Incubus and Sparta (August 7th at the Key Arena in Seattle)

• Korn, Breaking Benjamin, Chevelle, Skindred, and Instruction (November 14th at the Tacoma Dome)

2005: 

• Papa Roach, Skindred, and The Fuck-Ups (February 17th at the Showbox Market in Seattle)

• WWE House Show (Tacoma Dome)

• Green Day and Jimmy Eat World (September 26th at the Tacoma Dome)

• System of a Down and The Mars Volta (October 5th at the Key Arena in Seattle)

2006: 

• Korn, Mudvayne, and 10 Years (March 5th at the Tacoma Dome)

• Magical Strings (Bremerton, WA)

• Roger Waters: Dark Side of the Moon (October 12th at the Key Arena in Seattle)

2008: 

• Nightwish and Sonata Arctica (September 9th at the Showbox SoDo in Seattle)

2009: 

• WWE No Way Out (February 15th at the Key Arena in Seattle)

• Green Day and The Bravery (July 3rd at the Key Arena in Seattle)

• Soulfly, Prong, and Mutiny Within (October 7th at the Showbox Market in Seattle)

2010: 

• Tool and Rajas (July 10th at the Key Arena in Seattle)

• Roger Waters: The Wall (December 11th at the Tacoma Dome)

2011: 

• Rammstein (May 15th at the Tacoma Dome)

2012: 

• Rammstein (May 14th at the Tacoma Dome)

• Nickelback, Bush, Seether, and My Darkest Days (June 23rd at the Tacoma Dome)

• Linkin Park X Incubus (September 5th at the Tacoma Dome)

2013: 

• Magical Strings (Bremerton, WA)

• Ladysmith Black Mambazo (Edmonds, WA)

• Rodriguez and Jenny O (April 30th at the 1st Bank Center in Denver, CO)

• Bill Maher (June 22nd at the Paramount Theater in Seattle)

• Three Days Grace and Otherwise (August 23rd at the Showbox SoDo in Seattle)

• Papa Roach, Pop Evil, and Age of Days (October 5th at the Showbox Market in Seattle)

2014: 

• The Pink Floyd Experience (March 29th at the Admiral Theater in Bremerton, WA)

2015: 

• Cavalera Conspiracy, Death Angel, Corrosion of Conformity, Lody Kong, and Sanction VIII (May 1st at Studio Seven in Seattle)

• Final Fantasy Symphony (July 10th in Seattle)

• Slipknot, Lamb of God, Three Days Grace, Bullet For My Valentine, Theory of a Deadman, and Motionless in White (August 23rd at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

2016: 

• Nightwish, Sonata Arctica, and Delain (March 7th at the Showbox SoDo in Seattle)

• Rob Zombie X Korn (July 27th at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Slipknot X Marilyn Manson (August 11th at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Disturbed, Breaking Benjamin, Anthrax, Alter Bridge, Saint Asonia, Pop Evil, Stitched Up Heart, and Windowpane (August 21st at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Five Finger Death Punch, Shinedown, Sixx AM, and As Lions (November 5th at the Tacoma Dome)

2017: 

• Garrison Keillor  (April 15th at the Pantages Theater in Tacoma, WA)

• Roger Waters: Us & Them (June 24th at the Tacoma Dome)

• Brit Floyd (July 1st at the Paramount Theater in Seattle)

• Brian Regan and Dennis Regan (July 28th at the Pantages Theater in Tacoma, WA)

• Green Day (August 1st at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Metallica, Avenged Sevenfold, and Gojira (August 9th at Century Link Field in Seattle)

• Incubus and Jimmy Eat World (August 19th at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Jason Mewes (September 14th at the Tacoma Comedy Club)

2018:

• Pop Evil, Black Map, and Palaye Royale (February 25th at El Corzazon in Seattle)

• Starset, Palisades, Grabbitz, and Year of the Locust (February 28th at El Corazon in Seattle)

• Papa Roach and Nothing More (May 4th at the Showbox SoDo in Seattle)

• Soulfly, Nile, After the Fallout, and Devilation (May 13th at Studio Seven in Seattle)

• Breaking Benjamin, Five Finger Death Punch, and Bad Wolves (July 16th at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Seether, 10 Years, and The Dead Deads (July 31st at the Showbox SoDo in Seattle)

• Halestorm, In This Moment, and New Years Day (August 17th at the WaMu Theater in Seattle)

• Evanescence and Lindsey Stirling (September 7th at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

2019:

• Jason Mewes (February 2nd at the Tacoma Comedy Club)

• Soulfly, Unearth, Incite, Skinflint, Odyssian, and Emanon (February 23rd at Club Sur Rocks in Seattle)

• Within Temptation, In Flames, and Smash Into Pieces (March 16th at the Showbox SoDo in Seattle)

• Slipknot, Volbeat, and Gojira (July 30th at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson, Corrosion of Conformity, Palaye Royale, and Bones UK (August 3rd at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA)

• Ghost and Nothing More (September 19th at the WaMu Theater in Seattle)

• Starset, Palisades, Hyde, and A Brilliant Lie (October 13th at the Neptune Theater in Seattle)

• Babymetal and The Hu (October 16th at the Paramount Theater in Seattle)

• Hellyeah, Nonpoint, and Deepfall (December 10th at El Corazon in Seattle)

2020:

• Soulfly, Toxic Holocaust, and Madzilla (February 10th at El Corazon in Seattle)

Chains of Codependence

***CHAINS OF CODEPENDENCE***

I’d like to preface this blog entry by saying that I’m by no means an expert when it comes to matters of the heart. Shocking, right? But it’s true. I’ve only been in two relationships my whole life and they’re over now, so any experience and wisdom I do have is incredibly limited. So when I write a piece of nonfiction about romance, I’m doing so from the point of view of a maladaptive daydreamer and a serial crusher. I’ve got a gazillion crushes going on in my head right now, mostly You Tubers and internet friends. Who are these crushes? Well, on that front, I’ll have to zip it, lock it, and put it in my pocket. Wouldn’t want to weird anybody out and make these lovely ladies keep their distance from me forever, Corona Virus aside. That’s always been a fear of mine whenever I open up and talk about romance or sex: that people will think I’m being creepy. I’m going to word this blog entry as carefully as possible, which is something I should have done with my entry about bastardizing fan fiction characters, but didn’t, and now it’s scrubbed from the internet. Ready? Here we go.

Serial crushing can be lots of fun as long as you’re doing it for entertainment purposes only. You can daydream about holding hands together. You can fantasize about your crush giving you a hug after a particularly draining cry spell. Me? I like to pretend I’m resting my head on my crush’s lap while she strokes my hair. By then I will have already showered and my hair will be softer than a Humane Society kitty baby. These kinds of fantasies can bring a smile to your face…until you start to bemoan the idea of never being able to attain a relationship with said crushes. I’ve done this before as you can tell. And the more you bemoan this idea, the more depressed you become. This is what I like to call the “Chains of Codependence”. Imagine that: being codependent on somebody who not only barely knows you, but also wouldn’t want a relationship anyways. Usually when people are codependent, it’s with someone who’s physically there. But if it’s a long distance stranger…my god, does that shit hurt.

But if you talk yourself through this logically, it doesn’t have to hurt anymore. You’re crushing on someone whom you have limited knowledge of, whether it’s a You Tuber, a celebrity, an athlete, or whatever. You only see the best version of that person unless they voluntarily become vulnerable, which is rare in and of itself. And because you’ve only seen their best side, you don’t often see them at their darkest. They may have views that you strongly disagree with. They may be drama queens when the cameras aren’t rolling. They could have a criminal secret that you won’t be aware of until it’s too late. This is information you can obtain if you’re in a solid relationship with someone. What you do with that information could negate your schoolboy crush from so long ago. You see memes floating around social media that say, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.” While this might set off a few red flags, there’s actually a lot of truth in it should you decide to commit to a relationship.

As long as you’re aware of the illusion in front of you and as long as your chains of codependence are broken, you can have a lot of fun serial crushing on long distance targets. Fill your mind with happy thoughts of you and your crush together. Play your favorite romantic song while you’re zoning out. Write a poem or short story about the experience (without using the person’s real name, of course). I wrote a poem not too long ago called Hand Massage and it’s about, you guessed it, smearing lotion over my crush’s hands as a way not only to heal her cracked skin, but also to relax her and earn her trust. Hand Massage ended up being a favorite poem of mine in recent memory, in a sea of marginally acceptable ones. I was open, honest, unafraid, and most importantly, I didn’t sound like a total creep. That’s a small victory in my book. Even the smallest victories will be vital in the never ending war against your own mind.

In March alone, I’ve had so many days of autistic and schizophrenic burnout that my writing output has been minimal at best. During these boring days of lying in bed and doing jack shit until the tiredness passes, I like to keep my imagination fresh by daydreaming of…whatever comes to mind. I’ve had thoughts about my own stories, I’ve had positive thoughts, evil ones, and yes, romantic ones. With the current Corona Virus spreading like wildfire all over the goddamn planet, my fantasies will be more important now than they’ve ever been. Movie theaters are closed, rock concerts are being canceled, public life in general has screeched to a grinding halt. As long as I’m staying home waiting for both the virus and my burnout to subside, I’m going to have my thoughts to keep me busy for the time being. Whoever said, “Thinking is the best way to travel” was probably living in my hometown of Port Orchard and had nothing to do whether the virus was spreading or not.

By all means, daydream until you’re ready to face this maddening world yet again. You can get attached to your crushes, but don’t get so attached that your happiness depends entirely on them. Have fun with your downtime. The world will come back to life soon enough. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

The last time I wrote a chapter of Beautiful Monster was either March 1^st or 2^nd and I spent so long getting it pumped out that I began to doubt my abilities as a writer. I began to question whether or not I was being too cautious in my approach. Even now I’m debating with myself about whether the next chapter, number ten, will be written with caution and slowness or reckless abandon and quickness. No matter which style I choose, I hope I can remember all of my talking points this time. I’m going to need them. In this chapter, Windham and Tarja venture into Devon Bay, one of the Atwood Queendom’s major cities, so that they can keep warm in a hotel room during the freezing weather. If you’re going to make “Get a room!” jokes, get them out of your system, because there will be nothing sexy about what Windham does in this chapter with a Smoke Wagon XT, the medieval equivalent of a handgun. Good thing Ordell Robbie from Jackie Brown isn’t giving him access to firearms. Otherwise, he just might have to “absolutely, positively kill every last motherfucker in the room”.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Walking home with you last night, you said the world is beautiful and how things look that way when you’re in love. I love this world. When I’m in your arms, is this heaven? I opened up the letter that the postman gave to me this morning. Had to stop myself from shouting out, “I love this world!” When you’re in my arms, is this heaven? I know that heaven waits for those whose love is true. I want to be there when the age of love has come again. Tell me all about yourself and how you came to me like in a dream. And every night I dream of you. I dream of you. When I’m in your arms, is this heaven? I know that heaven waits for those whose love is true. Don’t ask me where or when the time for us will come again. I sit and watch the sun go down. And in the darkness there’s no sound while in the sky tonight the stars all cry, “I love you!” Are they crying out over you? ‘Cause you’re in my arms. Is this heaven? ‘Cause the story starts and ends with you.”

-The Moody Blues singing “Is This Heaven?”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

You could totally use the above song as fodder for one of your romantic daydreams with your gazillion crushes. I know I do.

No Filter

***NO FILTER***

You wouldn’t know this from some of the politically liberal short stories and poems I post on a regular basis…but I fucking hate debating. I told you all before about the woes of my opponent having more talking points than me. I might have even mentioned something about scrambling for an answer and getting nothing. But here’s something you probably didn’t know about me until now: I have no filter for the bullshit that enters my mind. It could be an autistic thing. It could be a schizophrenic thing. Maybe I’m just really fucking sensitive. But whenever an opposing talking point enters my mind, the most important organ in my body doesn’t seem to want to do its job of filtering out the horseshit. It stays with me just like any other stimulus, because my mind takes in everything all at once and doesn’t quiet the fuck down for just one minute.

It’s because of this that I purposefully go out of my way to avoid watching conservative or religious videos on You Tube. I also skip over conservative memes on Face Book by averting my eyes and scrolling down as fast as I can. I’m sure you’ve seen some of the titles of the You Tube videos by now:

“Ben Shapiro DESTROYS transgender teenager with just one Tweet!”

“Ronda Rousey SHUTS DOWN feminist in just one minute!”

“Jordan Peterson DESTROYS this and that! He DESTROYS Mickey Mouse! He DESTROYS Hulk Hogan! He DESTROYS EVERYTHING!”

You’d think with all of this destruction going on that there’d be more settled debates in this world. Nope. They just keep talking…and talking…and talking…and talking. They keep talking because they have stronger filters than I do. Me? I have to constantly be on my toes when it comes to brainwashing and loss of individuality, so I scroll by the DESTROY videos as quickly as possible.

“But, Garrison! You have to challenge yourself! You can’t live in an echo chamber!”

For all intents and purposes, both of those phrases are correct. However, when you consider the source of that compound quote, you begin to realize that whoever said it probably lives in an echo chamber of his own. Open-mindedness is supposed to be a two way street. If I have to be open to the other side’s ideas, they have to be open to mine too. But being open-minded doesn’t mean agreeing with everything the other side says with one-hundred percent submission. Open-mindedness simply means giving the debater a chance. What he does with that chance is beyond your control, but if he blows his chance, that’s it.

I’ve given a thousand chances to a thousand debaters. Any stubbornness I showed towards them had to be worked for, because my filter for BS is weak as shit. Some talking points are easier to resist than others, but the lazy-ass filter is the common denominator. It’s amazing that I didn’t become a cultist right away. Actually, I probably would have resisted joining a cult, but I wouldn’t have the debating skills or quick answers necessary to strike down their talking points. That’s the thing with debates: if you don’t answer in, let’s say, five seconds or less, you automatically lose. You don’t get to think about it. You don’t get to mull it over and come back with a completed homework assignment. It’s now or never.

If you’re reading this and you think I’m ripe for the picking for your zealous cause, do me a favor: don’t even try. Just give up. Because my filter sucks ass, I’m more prone to shut you out despite not giving you a chance. You won’t get philosophical talking points from me, just curse words and waves goodbye. I know this seems close-minded and that’s generally considered a bad thing. I know my responsibility as a pundit is to research my arguments and use my knowledge to shut down opposing talking points. But I don’t have it in me to DESTROY anybody, at least not within the five-second timeframe required to respond in a debate. The natural answer for me would be to just stop writing poems and stories about politics, but…that’s just not going to happen. I care too much.

If I refuse to engage in a debate with you, it’s nothing personal and it’s not an indication of surrender. It’s because my filter for BS can’t be bothered to work overtime for the Ben Shapiros, Charlie Kirks, and Milo Yiannopouloses of the world. Even if I promised my filter a private jet, healthcare benefits, and a vacation in Hawaii, I wouldn’t be able to convince it to work for me the way it does for the Cenk Uygurs and Rachel Maddows of the world. In other words, you won’t see You Tube videos with any of these titles…

“Garrison Kelly DESTROYS the establishment!”

“Garrison Kelly DESTROYS the corporations!”

“Garrison Kelly DESTROYS EVERYTHING IN SIGHT! RAAAAAAAAAWR!!”

What is this, a fucking Godzilla movie? Does everything have to be destroyed?

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

My next assignment for this ongoing rewrite is chapter nine, where Windham and Tarja walk through the forest together for more thought-provoking conversations (they won’t need their weak-ass filters, though). The day’s topic of choice: dreams and ambitions. Windham wants to be an artist of all genres while Tarja wants to care for fuzzy animal babies. There’s even going to be a scene where Tarja feeds walnuts to the squirrels and she offers Windham a carrot to give to a rabbit. If you’re wondering where the hell all the action is, keep in mind that Beautiful Monster is a drama first and a historical fantasy second. But if it’s action you want…you’ll have to wait until the end of the chapter! No, not that kind of action, you perv! They’re just friends! Jesus Christ, man!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I’m just a-wandering on the face of this earth meeting so many people who are trying to be free. And while I’m traveling, I hear so many words. Language barriers broken, now we’ve found the key. And if you want the winds of change to blow around you and you’re the only other person to know, please tell me. I’m just a singer in a rock n’ roll band. A thousand pictures can be drawn from one word, only who is the artist? We’ve got to agree. A thousand miles can lead so many ways. Just to know who is driving, what a help it would be. And if you want this world of yours to turn around you and you can see exactly what to do, don’t tell me. I’m just a singer in a rock and roll band. Why can’t we understand? Riots by the people for the people who are only destroying themselves. And if you see a frightened person who was frightened by the people who are scorching this earth. Music is the traveler crossing our world, meeting so many people, bridging the seas. I’m just a singer in a rock n’ roll band. We’re all just singers in a rock n’ roll band.”

-The Moody Blues singing “I’m Just a Singer in a Rock n’ Roll Band”-

Self-Forgiveness

***SELF-FORGIVENESS***

One of the things you learn about yourself as a creative person is how hard you can be on yourself when you hit near-bottom. Maybe you hate your rough draft so much that it’s food for the paper shredder. Maybe you didn’t meet your deadline quickly enough and things fall to shit. Or if you’re anything like me, the biggest sin you can commit is not getting anything done for a whole day. At the end of that day, what does punishing yourself really do for your productivity? Nothing. In fact, it’s less productive than doing nothing at all. It’s counterproductive!

Learning self-forgiveness for your creative “sins” is a skill that needs to be sharpened by all artists at some point. Some days are productive and you can pump out entire novels in one day. Some days are slow and sluggish and all you want to do is nap. For the latter of those two days, even if the reasons for being exhausted are legitimate, there’s always a negative voice telling you to “suck it up” or whatever other tough love phrase comes to mind. Hell, one of the ways I try to wake myself up for the day is by slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t actually do anything; it’s just unnecessary physical pain.

If you have a mental illness like me, self-forgiveness is more important than ever. Punishing yourself can be a symptom of this illness and it’ll only make you feel more depressed than before. Just because the world can’t see your illness, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could be the medication making you tired. It could be the illness itself. It could be a hermit lifestyle. It could be a fucked up sleep schedule. Whatever it is, something is weighing you down and it’s okay to admit it. Part of learning to forgive yourself is acknowledging that you have a problem to begin with. Pushing it down until it festers isn’t “manly” or “macho”. In fact, opening up takes a lot of strength in and of itself.

Yes, I admit that it can be hard to open up and admit your worries whenever you see authors out there professing that you must write X number of pages a day or X number of letters or words. While that can be good advice at times, it’s also important that they’re not hard-and-fast rules. There’s no one definition for what a writing goal should be because every author is different. What works for one author won’t work for another. If an author is mentally ill like I am, then writing X number of words/letters per day is damned near impossible. If you need to take it easy on yourself, then don’t feel shame for it.

Even Chris Brecheen (the admin of Writing About Writing) knows how important self-care is. Yes, he posts memes on Face Book almost every day saying some form of “You Should Be Writing”. He’s not doing it to be malicious or arrogant. He’s doing it because he wants his readership to succeed. But even Mr. Brecheen knows that certain factors can get in the way of doing so, mental illness being chief among them. He admits to not being an expert on the topic of mental illness, but his empathy speaks volumes when he’s giving his warmhearted advice to depressed writers. I fucking love this guy. I really do.

One of the things Chris tells the mentally ill people who ask him questions about word limits is that there are no set limits. It’s part of the reason why he hates NaNoWriMo, because writing 1,667 words a day is unrealistic and it can wear on an author’s psyche. Maybe the word count should only be a few sentences. Maybe it’s somewhere below five hundred. The point is, do only what you can manage. As long as you’re doing something, you’re sharpening your skills. And if you don’t do something for that day, don’t beat yourself up over it. Try again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And the day after. Eventually you’ll have a good day and be a writing machine.

If you want to write a quirky Face Book post, do that. If you want to write a letter to someone, do that too. If you just want to write a Tumbler or Twitter post, that’ll make your writing strong too. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Writing is a long and arduous process that takes time. It shouldn’t be bogged down by unrealistic goals and limits. Who knows? Maybe fame and fortune isn’t the answer after all for some people. It doesn’t have to be. And that’s okay. We have comfort zones for a reason. While it feels nice to step outside every once and a while, overwhelming yourself is only going to lead to more guilt and more depressive pain.

If you have a creative person in your life and he or she is feeling down, don’t judge that person. Lend a helping hand. Squeeze their shoulders. Ruffle their hair. Help them with their chores. Do whatever you have to do to keep that person from spiraling downward. Self-forgiveness isn’t just some “pseudo new age BS”. It’s something we all have to do eventually. The lack of self-forgiveness in the mentally ill can actually lead to suicide in some cases. I remember when I first started having schizophrenic symptoms in 2002. My head voices affected my work rate to where I wanted to kill myself. I got the help I needed and I’m a better person for it. Granted, I still have days where all I want to do is nap and be lazy. Then again, lazy days are a part of the human experience. It’s not weakness. It’s pain.

I’m still learning how to forgive myself for my least productive days. Like I said, it’s a skill that needs to be practiced every waking day. But just like the writing process itself, moving along slowly is better than standing still. Although I will never threaten suicide again, it’s still important for me and all of the writers out there to take good care of ourselves. You can do this. You can conquer. You’ve got this! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Man, those Three Days Grace lyrics never felt more important than they do now.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“It’s such a rainy afternoon. No point in going anywhere. The sounds just drift across my room. I wish this feeling I could share. It’s such a rainy afternoon. She sits and gazes from her window. Her mind tries to recall his face. The feeling deep inside her grows.”

-Snippet from “The Actor” by The Moody Blues-

Incelbordination, Chapter 4

Oswald wiped the rainy weather from his face long enough to see another reason to cry his eyes out if he so chose: Antero Magnus with a book of matches. Clearly, a compromise had to be made. Or did it? “Why the fuck do you keep following me everywhere I go? Are you some kind of lost puppy dog or some shit?” In a brazen move reminiscent of last night, Antero swiped the ready roll from Oswald’s hand and lit it himself before taking a few puffs. “Excuse me?!” said Oswald with big red eyes. “That’s not yours to smoke! I need that shit for my depression!”

Handing the marijuana roll back to its rightful owner, Antero spit out a cloud of green and said, “Let me ask you something, Oswald. How many times have you puffed the shit out of that roll and found permanent happiness afterwards? The answer is zero, because as powerful as that shit is, it’s only a temporary fix to a much bigger problem.” The incel took a seat next to his charge and patted him on the shoulder. “You already know what the bigger problem is, don’t you?”

Taking a puff and spitting out an even bigger cloud than his lungs would allow, Oswald said, “Yeah, I know what it is. It has something to do with a weirdo in a trench coat taking hits of my Mary-Jane. Seriously, what could you possibly see in me? I’m not what you’re looking for. I don’t blame my insecurities on other people.”

“Which is precisely why you punched a muscle jock in the dick and why you ran away from a smooth-legged English teacher.”

Wide-eyed yet again, Oswald exclaimed, “Dude! You’ve got to stop following me everywhere! That’s fucking creepy!” Antero chuckled and removed his sunglasses, revealing those horrifying cyan-colored eyes. “Ah! Put your glasses back on! Put ‘em back on!” screamed Oswald while shielding his face with his hands.

“As you wish,” said Antero before complying with his “friend’s” request. “But I must warn you, there are scarier things in this world than weirdly-colored eyes. There’s a conspiracy against us. And when I say us, I mean you, me, and every other Supreme Gentlemen who’s had the deck stacked against them their whole lives. We don’t look like the normies. We don’t talk like the normies. We don’t wear the same kind of hats they do either. That bothers them. So what do they do? They commit social genocide.”

“Okay, okay, okay, this is getting fucked up,” said Oswald with his hands raised. “Social genocide? You’re using the G-word to describe not being able to get laid? How in the hell do you…”

“I don’t expect you to understand right away,” said Antero while readjusting his sunglasses. “Some lessons take longer to learn than others. But to answer your question, the G-word isn’t all about getting laid. Anybody can get laid. Surely, there are enough sex surrogates and prostitutes to go around. It’s love that we seek and can never find. We give it all away and none of it is returned. A simple thank-you would be enough for some people. Me? I want a little bit of interest with my investment.”

Oswald’s mouth became O-shaped at the statement he tried so desperately hard to digest. Antero dug through his own trench coat and pulled out his wallet. “You know what? I can tell you’re not convinced just yet. That’s okay. College is a time for learning, right? Well, you’ve got a lot to learn about the way the world works against us.” Antero handed Oswald a thirty-dollar McDonald’s gift card and said, “Two words: McDonald’s prostitute.”

Flipping the card over and over again in disbelief, Oswald stared at the meal ticket like he was holding a severed head. “Mc…Donald’s prostitute?”

“That’s right, little man,” said Antero before patting him on the back. “Everybody’s got a price tag on them. For the women down at Mickey D’s, all they ever wanted was a little bit of loving and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. That’s how shitty our economy has gotten. When you’re too broke for a basic McDonald’s meal and you have to turn to sex to get one, that’s how you know shit’s all fucked up. Of course, I don’t know how in god’s name a Quarter Pounder could taste good when there’s splooge sloshing around in their mouths.”

“This….this…this is sick, Antero. This is fucking sick!”

“I know it’s sick, Oswald. I know. But sometimes you can’t take the highroad forever. You want someone to love you, right? You want to experience that cherry pop for the first time? All you have to do so come bearing the gifts of French fries, nuggets, greasy meat, and…well….greasy meat!” Antero chuckled at his own joke.

Finally peeling his terrified eyes away from the gift card, Oswald said, “Dude…you’re not funny. Nothing about this is comical. This is wrong. Really wrong!”

“You’re a good man, Oswald. Ordinarily, being a good human being has its rewards. But not in this Stacy-dominated world. You’re desperate enough. I can see it in those bloodshot eyes of yours. You’ll either have the most romantic night of your life in a McDonald’s parking lot…or you’ll get a lifelong lesson that no sexy-legged teacher could offer you. Either way, I just gave you the keys to the city. It’s up to you now what it is you want to do with them.”

Antero patted Oswald’s back and walked out of sight. The little guy turned his flabbergasted attention back to the gift card. It was so wrong, yet so right at the same time. There was something seductive about the way Antero talked. There was a reason he led so many people down their destined paths. He made so much sense in that one oratory.

Having those dark thoughts jolted Oswald awake, causing him to accidentally drop the gift card on the table. “What the fuck was I thinking?” he asked himself while holding his head in his hands. “I can’t do this. This isn’t right. No, no, no!” The three no’s were punctuated with the dwarf lightly banging his head against the table.

Once the forehead pain became too much to bear, he took a look around the commons for any signs that Antero might be right. Sure enough, this place was swarming with examples. Men and women holding hands while walking together. “Chads” and “Stacys” making out on the grassy lawn. Oswald even saw one guy holding his crying girlfriend’s head in his lap while he stroked her hair. What the lonely dwarf would give for the chance to be touched like that.

That Mickey D’s gift card started him straight in the face with lust and seduction. It was such an easy solution. Antero could have been his savior in that one moment. His own personal Jesus Christ, to use yet another Matrix quote. Oswald finally made the decision to scoop up the gift card and tuck it away in his wallet. If nothing else, he could at least enjoy a good meal, one that made him feel better than any roll of green ever could.

Oswald walked away from the commons huffing and puffing on his roll of weed. He kept feeling his scraggly beard and lengthy hair while contemplating if he should clean himself up for this meeting with a McDonald’s prostitute. Maybe throwing his pot-smelling coat in the wash machine would also be a good idea. Then again, did he really have to change himself for someone who was only in it for the nuggets and the burgers? There was thirty dollars on the card, which meant he could get extra goodies to make himself more enticing. The shave and haircut could wait another day…if that day ever came.

The dwarf put his headsets on and played “Bless the Wings” by The Moody Blues on his MP3 player. Was that song a little too romantic and sappy for what was about to happen that evening? Perhaps. Was Oswald expecting too much when he contemplated a potential relationship with this McDonald’s girl? He thought so. But as long as he was high on pot and already depressed from the day’s events, a little lovey-dovey psychological cinema was perhaps the right call.

Judging from the stares he got from “normies” walking by, any kind of vicarious romance would have been welcome. He certainly didn’t get it from the “Chad” he bumped into when he wasn’t paying attention. Oswald landed right on his ass while the guy said, “Hey, what the hell?!”

The dwarf picked himself up and apologized profusely to the young man and his girlfriend. He thought that would be the end of that, but then he noticed the couple walking away with their noses in their shirts, presumably from the pot smell. Oswald was tempted to go back there and punch the shit out of both of them. But it was more tempting to just take a shower and wash his clothing rather than get himself expelled for stupid shit. Maybe he did have to change himself after all. But for a McDonald’s hooker? So much debating took place in Oswald’s mind, all of which was settled with a few more puffs of Mary-Jane.

Explaining Stories: Carlos vs. Bryan

***EXPLAINING STORIES: CARLOS VS. BRYAN***

I’ve allowed this topic to float away in the breeze for far too long, yet it’s been rolling around in my head since college. At WWU, I had two different writing teachers who had opposite schools of thought when it came to authors explaining their own work. Carlos Martinez, my first multi-genre writing teacher, was of the belief that it’s okay to explain yourself while Bryan Willis, my dramatic writing professor, was adamantly against it and would discourage students from doing so during critique sessions. Today we’re going to look at both sides of that debate and see which among you is on Team Carlos or Team Bryan. Though there will be disagreements, I promise you this debate won’t be nearly as much of a train wreck as the 2016 US Presidential Debates. But that’s an argument for another day.

If you’re in a critiquing session and you want your beta-readers/editors to know what it is they need to watch out for, you’ll probably want to sign up with Team Carlos. That is information your readers need. It’s your work, so you should have full reign as to what your story is trying to say or do. Your editors can’t give you advice on how to best convey your message if you don’t explain yourself ahead of time. Being a member of Team Carlos also has benefits if your work is unintentionally offensive and you’re trying to do damage control. While it is true that there’s always someone out there who will be pissed off at what you do, it would help those people greatly if you put them at ease with a reasonable explanation. But when you give them that explanation, give them the sensitivity they were looking for this whole time and don’t be condescending.

But if what you want most is for your art to be a democracy, join Team Bryan. Art by its very nature is a subjective field. Everybody sees something different and it’s those many interpretations that give the medium the spotlight it deserves. It sparks debate, just like this blog entry is attempting to do. According to Bryan’s way of thinking, if you tell people what to believe, you’re taking away the creativity you yourself exercise so freely. I think this might be part of the reason why my current beta-reader Ashley Uzzell tells me not to put little disclaimers at the top of my poems. Of course, the other reason why she tells me not to do that is because it’s insulting to the reader’s intelligence if the lyrics are blatantly obvious. It’s like if an author says “green grass”, “red blood”, or “big elephant”. Duh! Remember, kids: show, don’t tell. Don’t tell your audience how to feel about your work. Show them and let them make their own decisions. The last time someone forced his artistic will upon his audience, it was in the movie Pink Floyd the Wall during the music videos for “In the Flesh” and “Run Like Hell”. You don’t want to do that.

So there you have it, folks: both sides of this debate presented in full. Both Carlos and Bryan have good points that should be carefully considered, but ultimately, my own personal loyalties lie with Team Carlos. My biggest reason for that is because I’ve been on the wrong end of offending an audience before and I know what it feels like to be rained down upon with hateful comments. In 2009, I wrote an opinion essay called “Class of ‘13”, which was supposed to be a humorously vulgar look at what life would be like if I became an English teacher. My readers didn’t think it was funny at all and labeled me an ageist (because of my views at the time on teenagers). The argument started with me hurling endless insults at the readers, which to nobody’s surprise escalated their anger even further. Only through explaining my work in a calm and collected manner whilst apologizing did the situation eventually cool off. I’ll be the first to admit that aside from my big gut and chubby cheeks, I don’t have much of a thick skin. Being diplomatic and having the ability to defuse a situation is a huge benefit to being on Team Carlos.

Now don’t get me wrong: just because I favor one teacher’s point of view over the other’s, doesn’t mean they’re right or wrong altogether. Both Carlos and Bryan were easily some of my favorite teachers at Western Washington University. They had everything a student could ask for in a professor: friendly personality, flexible rules, infinite wisdom, and an open door policy when it came to asking for help. I particularly liked Bryan because of how much of an interest he took in one of my theater scenes. He wanted to see more of that story come out, so he gave me alternative assignments from the rest of the class where I would add on to the ongoing narrative through different characters’ points of view. The original story was about a high school student named Kurtis who complained to his girlfriend about a D- he received in his history class. One of the alternative assignments I had was to write a monologue from the teacher’s point of view and the other one was an interaction between the girlfriend and the teacher. These new assignments were a huge ego boost, not that my arrogant ass needed one.

As far as why I liked Carlos so much goes (aside from his views on explaining stories), he was just an all around gentle human being even during moments when the students got under his skin. Even when one student openly admitted to not doing a reading assignment out of blatant laziness, Carlos never raised his voice when he reprimanded that kid. He was also delicate about how constructive criticism was handled amongst our stories. He insisted that we all be nice to each other, because at the end of the day, every author is sensitive towards critiques no matter how much they hide it. Carlos even told us a story about how he got pissed off as a kid when his fellow students told him to cut his lengthy poem down to four lines. Being hurt by critiques (whether they’re friendly or not) is universal and one-hundred percent natural. But the more you surround yourself with people who want you to succeed, the less painful those critiques become. Carlos wanted all of us to succeed and it showed in his friendly and calm attitude.

Not that this is a focal point of the greater debate at hand, but in case you’re curious, I ended up getting an A in Carlos’s class and a B+ in Bryan’s class. And to prove it’s not a focal point, I don’t hold any ill will towards one professor of mine, Katie, who gave me a C in my medieval literature class. She did everything she could to help me whether it was answering my questions or allowing me to visit her office for a one-on-one session. The blame for that C falls squarely on my shoulders since I had a hard time understanding the material. I went into that class thinking it was going to be like reading Dungeons & Dragons campaign, but instead all I got was religious zeal and purple prose, lots of purple prose! They call that period in literature the Dark Ages for a reason. That class was my version of the Dark Ages by virtue of how difficult it was to learn the material (despite having a good teacher).

But enough about me, let’s turn this debate over to you fine internet folks. Are you on Team Carlos (explaining your work) or Team Bryan (allowing your work to speak for itself)? Are there any points on either side of this debate that I’ve unintentionally neglected? Feel free to let me know in the comments section. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! And to show you my undying loyalty towards Team Carlos, I’m going to explain my signing off phrase. They’re lyrics from the Three Days Grace song “The Mountain”. Not only do I love the hell out of that band, but those lyrics can be surprisingly inspirational to someone who needs encouragement.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sailing along the river of time. Adrift on dreams through midnight chimes. Positively frozen crystal waterfalls. The mountain of hope is there to be climbed. The sea of serenity is rightfully mine. Step onto the water knowing what is true. The beat of my heart. The rhythm of love. The earth that’s beneath us. The heavens above. I can hear forever calling out to me. The changes we go through are making me strong. The shelter of friendship is where we belong. Look into the future knowing what we see. The whirlpool of doubt can spin you around. The wave of emotion takes you up, pulls you down. Leaving far behind us sweet young passion spray. And never blame the rainbows for the rain. And learn to forget the memories that caused you pain. The last whispered wish of age is to live it all again. And never blame the rainbows for the rain.”

-The Moody Blues singing “Never Blame the Rainbows For the Rain”-

Silent Warrior, Chapter 9

Out of one dark abyss, into another. The George household bathed in blackness while Beth’s snoring rattled the walls. She didn’t even wake up when Scott walked through the door. He never had to be light on his toes when he entered the kitchen looking for a bite to eat. Through all of the fury, tears, and insanity, Scott just now realized he had only eaten one meal that day. His ribs were sore for more reasons than the constant use of his diaphragm.

Every Tupperware meal in the refrigerator was crawling with worms and maggots, at least in Scott’s mind. He shook his head to try and free his mind of that image, but the little bastards slithered even more and grew as big as snakes. He slammed the refrigerator door shoot and there was a slight disturbance in his mother’s obtrusive snoring. And then the tiny motor in her closed throat wailed once again. Scott breathed a sigh of relief and reopened the fridge door.

Still they crawled with worms. Slime and shit covered the mashed potatoes and gravy. The macaroni and cheese moved by itself, as if the little pasta bites were necrovores themselves. The milk jug had more worms at the bottom than a bottle of tequila. Scott knew this was just an illusion and took a deep breath to calm himself. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what Adrienne told him: replace the worms with something more pleasant. Something delicious. Something that made eating enjoyable again.

With his eyelids still clamped shut, Scott pulled out a Tupperware container of meatloaf and ate it cold. As he slowly chewed and suppressed his gag reflex, he could feel something moving around between his maulers. The thought of worms moving around wouldn’t be allowed to surface and instead the little creatures were replaced with gummy worms. Meatloaf and gummy worms: the dinner of champions. He took another bite. And another. His eating speed became so rapid that he bit down on his tongue and suppressed a scream.

For the first time since having those Aloysius Striker dreams, Scott finished a meal without getting the urge to vomit himself inside out. He breathed heavily after taking the last bite of meatloaf, his appetite satisfied only until he realized it was bedtime. The thought of going back into his subconscious theater made Scott lightly bang his head against the fridge door repeatedly. If biology was truly up to him, he’d drink Red Bull until the end of time and never fall asleep again.

But reality was always worse than the dream world. Scott’s day had been an exhausting one where he dealt with all sorts of jerk-off characters: Aloysius Striker, Alan Young, Tom Simpson, Beth George, and an undertaker and football jock who both went unnamed  None of these people deserved names in Scott’s mind; they were all just part of a community of worms.

But Adrienne was different from all of those conformists. She was beautiful in more ways than just her physical appearance. She too was hurting badly. She too loved creativity. She too resisted any attempts at breaking her spirit and bending her to the will of the corporate overlords. Those things made her the most beautiful woman on the planet. And yet, Scott wondered what she even saw in a man like him anyways. It wasn’t as though he had the dashing looks of a Hollywood actor or the charisma of a rock star. He was just Scott George. Plain old Scott George. Even his own name was boring to him.

All of these racing thoughts in his head blinded him to the fact that his mother’s footsteps were pitter-pattering across the wooden floor. He quickly closed the fridge door, dropped the meatloaf container in the sink, and bolted upstairs to his bedroom. One stupid fight was one too many for Scott, so he took the role of diplomat and tucked himself in bed, not even bothering to change into more suitable sleepwear.

Scott’s ribs ached like a motherfucker. His head exploded with pain and trauma. His blood was lukewarm. His eyes still burned hotly enough to make closing them a painful experience. Scott didn’t stand a chance when it came to fighting the forces of sleep. His eyelids burned like shooting stars, but his lids were heavier than a grand piano. He could have used such a gentle instrument to sooth his battered soul. Laziness took over to where he didn’t want to press play on his stereo. One slip and down the rabbit hole he fell…

Just a few moments of uninterrupted darkness was what Scott needed. His tortured mind rebuilt itself from a rock bottom foundation. His pain was numbed to the very last nerve. He forgot that a world of a shit existed outside of his aching brain. And it felt good. It felt more heavenly than an hour-long chair massage. It felt more soothing than a harp concert serenading his pounding ears. The nothing consumed every last bit of his body.

And then his temporary peace was shattered as he found himself on a football field with lightning and grayness in the sky. The rain poured down and smacked his skin like bamboo canes. Then the rain thickened into dreaded fucking worms and Scott danced around shivering in disgust. Rows of puppet cheerleaders, so flawless, yet so ugly by virtue of their perfection, twirled and flipped in the air with worm infested pom-poms. Scott swore he heard their chant somewhere before.

“Bring out the gimp! Bring out the gimp! Come on, everybody, let’s bring out the gimp!”

Scott tried to shout back at them, but his mouth was obstructed by a rubber object. He touched his face and scalp and sensed a leather presence covering his Sideshow Bob hair. He also felt a heavy dog chain digging deeply into his neck. He could panic, kick, and scream all he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that Aloysius Striker owned him and was dragging him to the top of an Olympic-style platform. The puppets formed a semi-circle around the enslaved Scott and listened intently to Mrs. Striker’s oratory.

“You see this, everyone?!” she shouted in her signature ham voice. “This young man is an example of someone who doesn’t want to be part of our community! He wants to go his own way and leave his neighbors to drown in the worms! Well, if he must leave this community, it’s only fair that we give him a going away present!”

Mrs. Striker lifted up her own dress and pulled out a handful of the slimiest, nastiest worms she could, much to the cheerleaders’ giddy delights. The worms oozed with black oil, red blood, and white…whatever the fuck it was. The teacher unzipped the mouth on Scott’s gimp hood and prepared to shove the filthy fuckers down his throat.

“Stop!” shouted a female voice for a prolonged period of time. The cheerleaders and teacher alike stared down the one member of their “community” who dared defy them. The lone cheerleader threw down her pom-poms and ripped off her own head to reveal she was Adrienne Simpson underneath. The puppets and Mrs. Striker gasped in unison like good little conformists when Adrienne sprouted metal angel wings that shot flames in either direction.

“Don’t just stand there, you dolts! Get her!” shouted Mrs. Striker, to which the cheerleaders threw their pom-poms down and attempted to cannibalize the metal angel with shark-like teeth. Adrienne was one step ahead of them when she pointed the tips of her wings at her assailants and shot streams of fire at them. The cheerleaders squealed in agony as their wooden, worm-infested bodies warped and twisted into piles of ashes.

“What the…what have you done to my community? My poor, poor community!” cried Mrs. Striker while holding her dimply cheeks. Scott used this distraction to rip off his gimp hood and shove his “teacher” into the gigantic football field fire, barbecuing the bitch nice and crispy. Her screams were more music to his ears than anything he listened to on his MP3 player that day.

Adrienne flew over to Scott and scooped him up in her arms before floating into the heavenly sunrise of a newly pink morning. The rain had stopped, but the thunder remained, sending crashes of lightning onto the burning field of dead puppets. Scott didn’t want to relish on this recent war and instead relaxed in the arms of his beautiful angel. She sang to him lyrics that were once familiar in his dead father’s music collection.

“I bless the wings that bring you back across the shore. If I could touch you now, my darling, I’d love you just once more. If I could hold you…hold you…hold you…I know you’d understand…I know you’d understand…”

Her soothing soprano tones would have made the Moody Blues proud, but they made Scott relax even further in his girlfriend’s arms. She leaned her face down and kissed his mouth, no taste of worms, no embarrassing boner on Scott’s part, no awkwardness or disgust at all, just a moment of love that would last longer than any haunting trauma. Too bad Scott had to eventually wake up to go to school the next day. But if it meant Adrienne would be there and walk him home again, it would be worth all the heartache.

What would she think of the You Tube video that Alan Young posted in the graveyard? Would she see him as a weakling? Would she take pity on him? Would she break up with him before their relationship even got started? Scott tried not to think too hard about these circling questions and just enjoyed a moment in the pink and orange sunshine with his angelic girlfriend…while he still could.

The Dark Blade

***THE DARK BLADE***

Childhood is a time for developing one’s creativity and imagination. We buy action figures and Legos so that we can act out our own adventures. We draw pictures with our own naïve vision of what the world should be. We build things out of ordinary objects to show that there’s a world beyond their intended use. For me personally, my favorite form of creativity was coming up with ideas for videogames. One of those videogame ideas was intended to be a rival to Squaresoft’s Chrono Trigger and it was called The Dark Blade.

Chrono Trigger as a Super Nintendo game was everything a child could ask for: beautiful storytelling, emotional characters, innovative settings, and exciting game play. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to play a game about a spiky haired teenager named Crono who travels through time in order to prevent a 1999 apocalypse using lightning magic and katana skills? Who in their prepubescent years wouldn’t have the world’s biggest crush on crossbow fighter Marle or prehistoric vixen Ayla? Who wouldn’t want to use Magus’s shadow magic or Frog’s water magic to overcome the toughest obstacles?

In my pre-teen years, I had a tall task ahead of me if I was going to formulate an RPG that would measure up to the greatness of Chrono Trigger. Therefore, I had The Dark Blade, a supremely underdeveloped story about a spiky haired teenager named David who along with his friends tries to keep the title artifact out of the hands of The Dark Sorcerer (notice the theme of darkness here?). David had the hair of Guile from Street Fighter II, a black karate outfit, ruby boots, vampire fangs (what?!), and the swords of Billy and Jimmy Lee from Double Dragon V. Oh, and he also has the lightning magic of Crono. And he starts the game by going to a carnival, just like Crono.

Being as ignorant as I was about copyright laws, I stole pieces of creative fuel from any source I could find. Princess Crystal Hershey got her last name from the chocolate bar and her outfit from Celes from Final Fantasy VI. Ninja Prince Boris Hershey got his character design from Shadow, also a Final Fantasy VI standout. Nixer (careful how you say that) is a direct rip-off of a Magic: the Gathering card that featured an old ragged man carrying a scythe. Nixer’s magical element was Aura, which is a direct theft of the Aura Bolt technique used by Sabin from Final Fantasy VI.

The Dark Blade’s soundtrack would be stolen directly from albums by The Police, The Moody Blues, Sting, and Metallica. Talk about a bunch of bands that don’t belong in the same concert! Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning” album would serve as battle music, both for normal enemies, mini-bosses, and regular bosses. The Police’s hit “Spirits in the Material World” would serve as carnival music. The Moody Blues’s song “The Voice” would serve as romantic fuel (in a time where I was too young to give a shit about love). Sting’s “Mad About You” would also serve as romantic music even though David and Crystal never officially shack up (again, because I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck about love back then).

With all of these stolen properties, how would they mesh against the actual story? Somewhere along the way, David would use a lightsaber/baseball bat reminiscent of Star Wars and WWF Wrestlemania: The Arcade Game. He would also ride a hover cycle reminiscent of Space Quest IV. So far, so good. But then we eventually have to get to the depressive dip of the game. Turns out The Dark Sorcerer got a hold of The Dark Blade after all. With its powers, he turned the entire world’s population (except for David, Crystal, Nixer, and Boris) into stone. Turning somebody into a stone statue is straight from the Final Fantasy franchise. Having the bad guy win for a while is the same scenario that happened in Final Fantasy VI when Kefka turned The World of Balance (blue water and green pastures) into the World of Ruin (red water and wastelands).

With the innocence of a child and the creative fuel of a madman, I was sure to have my videogame idea mailed off to Sqauresoft so that they could get cracking on making it. The one thing that kept me from doing so was my brother James’s constant talk about copyright laws and what could happen if I violated them. According to him, I could have my wages garnished and my property stolen by the government. I justified my right to the profits by saying, “I could lock the doors!” Then James said that the Fire Department would come busting through to help the government take my stuff. At one point I whined, “Stop telling me these crummy facts!”, to which he said, “They’re true!”

While I didn’t want my creativity to take a backseat to copyright laws, I had no other choice as I got older and discovered how ridiculous they can be. Viacom and Disney have sued the shit out of anyone and everyone who uploaded their content onto You Tube. Disney has sued a daycare center for using Mickey Mouse decals to decorate the joint. If you want to argue lawsuits, then people these days will sue over anything, and I do mean anything. Donald Trump sued Bill Maher because the comedian said our now president was a descendant of orangutans. James Woods sued a Twitter user for saying that he was a coke head online. The more money you have, the more weight you can throw around in a courtroom. Videogame corporations have a lot of money and by proxy can throw more weight around than WWE Hall of Famers Yokozuna and Rikishi combined.

If The Dark Blade ended up becoming a novel idea in modern day Garrisonism, I suppose I could do away with all of the theft and turn it into something original and fun. People rarely play Super Nintendo games anymore (except for nostalgia purposes on ROM Emulators), so The Dark Blade would have to be a novel. David shouldn’t be such a Gary-Stu for his age, which means no vampire fangs, ruby boots, or dragon swords. Crystal and Boris shouldn’t have the last name Hershey because there have been too many jokes about skid marks over the years thanks to guys like Dave Chappelle. Nixer should have a first name that doesn’t sound like a racial slur. The Dark Sorcerer should have a real name, probably one that doesn’t have “dark” in it.

Turning this childhood videogame idea into a credible novel is a long shot, but I now have the skills and resources to do so as a 31-year-old semi-professional author. Will it rival Chrono Trigger? Ask anybody who’s ever read Occupy Wrestling and they’ll tell you “Hell no!” Then again, nothing can rival Chrono Trigger. It was a special piece of childhood heaven that can’t be taken away no matter how many game consoles 2017 can pump out. You can keep your Halos and Call of Duties and I’ll reminisce in Chrono Trigger’s beauty forever. If anything, I’m clinging to my roots so that I don’t forget how to write The Dark Blade in its truest form. One day, maybe one day David and Crono can have fantasy warfare. We’ve got ears, say cheers! By the way, in case you didn’t know, that last line was stolen from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. I’m a bigger thief than Locke Cole from Final Fantasy VI. Damn it, I did it again!

***THE NEXT FEW DAYS***

While I’m waiting patiently for the Wrestling Observer Newsletter to come out with their 2016 awards, I’m going to have a few creative projects to occupy my time. I only have seven chapters left to read from Ashley Uzzell’s LGBT fairytale (no, that’s not a pun, shut up!) called “Once Upon a Pastry”. I’ll spend the whole day blitzing right through them and offering her my funniest and most poignant critiques. I also have a Dark Fantasy Warrior that needs drawing and his name is Lord McCain, the elf sorcerer from “Emoticon Artist”. Once I’ve officially drawn one hundred colored Dark Fantasy Warriors, I’m going to put their faces in a meme like I did with the uncolored ones. Somewhere along the way, I’ll write the shit out of Demon Axe’s twelfth chapter (don’t rush me, Writer’s Circle, I’ll get to it eventually!). Once I’m done with these tasks, I can begin work on editing the shit out of Poison Tongue Tales and getting it ready for publication. I’ve already edited the first three stories, so that’s SOME progress (again, don’t rush me, Writer’s Circle!). Once I complete these projects, then and only then can I lament not having a WWE Network subscription so that I can see this year’s Royal Rumble and see Bobby Roode win the NXT Championship from Shinsuke Nakamura at the TakeOver special before that. Wish me luck!

***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

DET. CLAUDETTE WYMS: Where were you last night?

SUSPECT: I was at home jerking off into a sock. You guys need the evidence?

-The Shield-

"Never Blame the Rainbows" by The Moody Blues

“And never blame the rainbows for the rain. And learn to forget the memories that caused you pain.” Never mind Justin Hayward or John Lodge for a moment. Imagine if somebody you loved said those words to you. Imagine the person closest to your heart giving you permission to let go of your stress and fall in love with life again.

While I haven’t had anybody say these words to me other than Justin Hayward, I am very grateful to hear them. I’ve used those lyrics as an anthem for recovering from schizophrenia in the early 2000’s. It wasn’t about intrusive voices trying to establish authority over me. It was about the past coming back to haunt me in the form of present day ghosts. Thank you, Justin, for giving me permission to let go.

Lord knows I’ve had plenty of short story and novel characters go through the worst kind of traumatic shit over the course of their lives. Hell, the first story of American Darkness is called “And Now I Speak Hate”. It’s about a male rape victim who tries to listen to reason, but ends up shattering a mirror with his fist instead. The story after that is “Angel Rape”. Would anybody like to take a guess as to what that story is about? Ding, ding, ding! Male rape!

A few stories later, it’s off to Iraq and Afghanistan with “Desert Dragons”, where two female soldiers get relentlessly raped and then desert their squadron because of it. Do you think any of these lead characters need Justin Hayward singing “Never Blame the Rainbows” in their ears? It wouldn’t be a bad idea. Don’t worry about me, I wasn’t raped myself, but I’ve had enough bad shit go on in my life that I felt powerless after all of it.

I’m not saying this song will cure you from whatever mental illness ails you. It will instead comfort you. It will give you the hope and courage you need to move on. Let’s face it: whenever mental illness strikes, hope is in short supply. In fact, the brain will create an illusion to the victim that hope is nonexistent except in fairy tales and Hollywood movies.

The sooner the victim realizes it’s all smoke and mirrors, the faster the road to recovery will be. Sometimes it takes a kindred soul to tell you it’s all smoke and mirrors. It could be your mother, your father, your husband, your wife, or in this case, Justin Hayward, the lead guitarist from The Moody Blues.

The Moody Blues will not judge you. They are all about peace, love, and understanding. They haven’t written a mean lyric in their lives. I dare you to pick a Moody Blues song at random to see if I’m wrong about this. Or better yet, buy a copy of “Keys to the Kingdom” and fast forward to the final track. Or listen to the whole thing, which has a myriad of positive messages for a mentally ill listener.

Put those headphones on, lay down on your bed, and let the warmth of Justin Hayward’s voice wash over you. If nothing else, he’ll ignite your imagination long enough for you to experience what it’s like to have a fully functional mind, even if only for a few minutes. Imagination is very powerful, so much so it could be used in a weapon in the fight against whatever’s killing you inside. Okay, so The Moody Blues aren’t all about war analogies, but you get what I’m saying, right? At least I hope you do.

If it hadn’t been for the “Keys to the Kingdom” album and the song “Never Blame the Rainbows” in particular, I wouldn’t have any way of telling my internet girlfriend at the time Jessica how I was still alive and would be for a long time despite the hardships. There was a time when I wanted to end it all and part of the reason I didn’t is because I borrowed this CD from my dad’s music collection. I’m sure he’d like to have it back someday before he turns 80, but him sharing his taste in music with me is very much appreciated.

Jessica seemed to get the message that everything was indeed going to be okay and that I would eventually become a (sort of) famous author one day. Even when my writing was at its rookie worst, Jessica believed in me anyways. That’s one of the reasons why I’ll always cherish the time we spent talking to each other online. Unfortunately, we’re not together anymore, but the memories are indeed fond ones. Thank you, Moody Blues, for being a part of those memories.

　

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Humans do some really interesting things. Besides killing ourselves, we also kill each other. Murder. We’re the only ones who do that, by the way. We’re the only species on earth that deliberately kills members of our own species for personal gain. Or pleasure, sometimes it’s just fun. We’re also the only species on earth that deliberately kills members of another species for personal gain. Or pleasure, that’s what hunters do, they kill for pleasure. That’s us: human beings, interesting folks, murderers.”

-George Carlin-

"Om" by The Moody Blues

It’s easy to create art out of the remains of destruction. Just a few posts ago, I created three new characters based on the internet arguments I had with the members of Play By Web in 2002 and 2004 over age limits: Zeal, Chakko, and Natron (The Undertaker doesn’t count since he’s copyrighted by the WWE). Three new characters are all well and good, but their births don’t change the fact that I still had depression and anger within me. Creativity is a great healing agent, but it doesn’t solve everything.

Music, on the other hand, is a very powerful drug that can be taken with any dosage of creativity. Creativity can be Prozac and music can be Abilify, if you really understand the power of medicine metaphors. In the case of 2002, the song that laid those fiery feelings to rest was “Om” by The Moody Blues. They already have a reputation for being peace-loving, leftwing hippies, but now that “Om” is on the market, they’ve taken it to a whole different level. “Om” is a word yoga masters use whenever they want to achieve a quiet mind through meditation, so it’s not much of a coincidence.

It’s a gorgeous piece of music complete with flutes, bass bongo drums, sitars, and of course, Mike Pinder’s Melotron keyboard (where would an early Moody Blues song be without it?). I’m not sure if it would put me to sleep due to the relaxation, but it definitely put my demons to sleep back in 2002 after the verbal battles were over. I was able to concentrate on my schoolwork and get the good grades I rightfully deserved.

If you have a fiery mind, “Om” by The Moody Blues is the tidal wave that will put out those destructive flames. If nothing else, it reminds us all that life is too short to be pissed off all the time. Metal fans will probably argue against that point since anger is a huge part of that aggressive genre of music. To those people, I argue there’s a huge difference between being psyched up for a metal song and pissed off at the world. When you’re psyched up for a metal song, it’s positive energy that will lead to having a good time. When you’re pissed off at the world, nobody wants to be around you and you will ultimately destroy yourself.

Not every situation calls for grinding, loud, explosive heavy metal. Sometimes you have to take a moment to calm down and assess the situation. Sometimes you have to lock yourself in your bedroom and let peace wash over you like warm Hawaiian beach water. You don’t necessarily have to do the whole “hippie-dippie” meditation routine in order to achieve this moment of peace. All you need is a moment to yourself and a deep look into your thoughts. Thinking is the best way to travel and it’s reiterated in “Om” by The Moody Blues. And once you’re done thinking, you can go back to the real world without unnecessarily spilling blood, especially your own.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“People on the internet like to take cheap shots at me, but they’ll never be more critical of me than I am of me.”

-Dave Batista-

Love Stories

Being lonely sucks. Being in a dysfunctional relationship sucks. Breaking up sucks. And yet despite all of these aspects of relationships sucking, we continue to seek love in the strangest places. For me, I look for them in the stories I soak in whether they’re from books, movies, or songs. But when I choose a romantic medium to hold near and dear to my heart, I don’t want it to be cheesier than a Domino’s Pizza. Step down and shake it off, Harlequin, you don’t belong here. I hate to say this, but Fifty Shades of Grey and The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty don’t belong here either despite having their own posts on this blog. To my way of thinking, stories where two star-crossed lovers run in each other’s arms and fuck passionately in a perfect agreement is fake romance. I can’t relate to anything that’s perfect because I am not a perfect person. On the contrary, I’m a shy recluse who wants a relationship with a woman, but can’t ask for one because of my social barriers. Those are the stories I want to involve myself with: the shy guy or shy girl being wooed by someone who sees through their social awkwardness. Pretty much every movie I’ve seen at the art theater in Tacoma called The Grand Cinema has this premise from Safety Not Guaranteed to Mud to The Silver Linings Playbook to my absolute favorite so far, Obselidia. The latter of these four movies really yanked at my heart strings. In case you’re not familiar with this independent masterpiece, it’s about a lonely librarian named George who thinks love is obsolete since babies can be made artificially and sex is disposable. And then he meets a cinema projectionist named Sophie, who shows him that loving each other is what makes the world work. Sounds like a perfect premise, right? Not so fast, pacho. By the movie’s end, George visits Sophie’s house to deliver flowers and there’s a male voice in the background that says, “Who is it, sweetie?” Needless to say, George was heartbroken. I’d even dare say that he cried relentlessly over this turn of events. Mere moments after walking out of that movie theater with my parents, I got in the car and started listening to a cover of “Careless Whisper” by Seether on my MP3 player. When you combine Obselidia with Seether, your heartstrings will not only be tugged at, but it’ll be done with the force of a tow truck. Want some other combinations? How about The Sessions and Toto? A Late Quartet and The Moody Blues? The possibilities are endless when it comes to looking for ways to break your own heart. Even Harry Potter has elements of realistic romance, which is more than anybody can say about the Twilight series, as long as we’re continuing the war between those two canons. Hehe! War and cannons. I swear that was an accident. The point I’m trying to make is that if you’re looking for cheese, go to an Italian restaurant and order a pizza. If you want real romance that actually inspires and saddens at the same time, look for media that doesn’t have a Mary-Sue identity. To close this out with a bang, even Five Finger Death Punch is capable of realistic romance with the song “Walk Away”. Suck on that, Harlequin! Actually, don’t do that, it’ll just turn into a cheesy sex scene if you do.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I feel so unsure as I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor. As the music dies, something in your eyes calls to mind the silver screen and all its sad goodbyes. I’m never gonna dance again, ‘cause guilty feet have got no rhythm. Though it’s easy to pretend, I know you’re not a fool. I should have known better than the cheat a friend and waste the chance that I’ve been given. So I’m never gonna dance again the way I danced with you.”

-Seether singing “Careless Whisper” by Wham!-