An Hilarious Scarecrow Cartoon

I like scarecrows.  It’s hard to put my finger on why, exactly.  Maybe it has something to do with the whole ‘artificial man’ thing.  You know, like robots and mannequins. Whatever the reason, every now and then I feel compelled to draw them. And maybe throw in some crows for good measure.

Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer

Lucas’ sole purpose in life is to inhale chips. Something he does very well, I might add. Seriously, in like one night, he can empty three of those giant bags of Doritoes you find at Costco. So looking at it through that particular lens, (living according to one’s purpose) Lucas is perhaps the most fully realized person in the whole of North America. He is also very lazy, leaving empty chip bags throughout my sock drawer.

The Mistakes

Today’s entry is an experiment.  You see I’m going to attempt to write without correcting any mistakes I might make.  That includes rewording sentences and paragraphs I’m not particularly happy with.

I won’t call it one of those free flowing exercises a person uses to see if a meddling energy is nearby. (although I know you’re out there, you sneaky bastards!)  What’s that called again?  Automatic writing?  I’ve a funny story about automatic writing: 

I had a friend in high school that was into “extrasensory type things” and one morning he attempted automatic writing while skipping class in the school library.  He cleared his mind of the day’s happenings, held his pen loosely between his thumb and index finger and proceeded to scribble “Fuck You” all over his notebook.  He swears it was the work of some kind of ghost.  I just think he had a lot of pent up anger.

Getting back to what I was saying: I’m trying this thing where I just write whatever comes to me without worrying about the mistakes I make. (real or imagined)

Normally I give myself no more than half-an-hour to bang out an entry. Usually I manage on less, but there are the nights where an hour seems far too short (Don’t ask what happens if I don’t make it under the self-imposed time limit as I seem to be bit lax when it comes to doling out repercussions.)

I have to say, things seem to be progressing at a comfortable pace; words are just strolling out onto the screen rather than stumbling like they usually do. And the most amazing part to this whole experiment is the apparent lack of spelling mistakes! 

Could it be the freedom of ignoring mistakes has kept me from making them?  Or could it be as simple as the opening paragraph to this entry was a lie?

Lyricists and Ear Infections

I like to imagine lyrics for songs.

It’s a shame I’m tone deaf, what with having all these wonderful words floating in my head, but no music to set them to.  I think it all stems back to that flu I had when I was eight years old.
Or was I nine?
Until then, I possessed what could be called ‘perfect pitch’.  Loosely termed, of course, but perfect nonetheless: call out nearly any note and I could hum it to within a semitone or two, but thanks to a nagging ear infection, all of that musical ability somehow floated out the window. 

It was almost as disappointing as that time I lost all my math skills to a nasty sinus infection, and not to mention painful.  I’m telling you, it felt as though a rather large person had kicked a hole through my tympanum using a pair of steel-toed boots.

Tympanum is Latin for ‘ear drum’, by the way.  I don’t usually use Latin in my every day doings, but this is a public diary and what better way to come across as learned than to toss about body parts using a dead language or two.  (One has to be careful how one pronounces ‘learned’, for if it comes out in only one syllable, one could wind up looking the exact opposite.)

A terrible earache, it was.  Had me walking into walls, it did.  But that was years ago and not something on which I like to dwell.  So let’s get back to what I was really thinking when I began writing this silly entry:  I write words for songs that don’t exist.
Or maybe they do and I am just not able to recognize them. 

So what would that make me?  A lyricist?  I’m not sure I like that: it sounds too wimpy.  Like ‘florist’ or ‘sadist’.  It’s the ‘ist’ that does it, makes the stupid word sound French.  So what else could I be?  Besides a ‘lyricist’, I mean.  ‘Poet’ maybe?  No, I’m too silly for that.

How about just waiting?

What? No, my name's not Mitch.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be famous.

Could I handle it?  Chances are it’s nothing I’ll ever experience.  But I wonder what it would be like being recognized by strangers?

A couple of times I’ve had people coming up to me at the mall confusing me for someone else. (no one famous.  Just the brother of someone they knew in college) I don’t know why, but, for a second at least, it made me feel as though I was wrestling some stranger over the ownership of my face.

I didn’t like that.

Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer

Science has known for years that many creatures possess natural compasses that allow them to travel great distances without becoming lost. (Monarch Butterflies, for example. And pigeons.) Mr. Fuzzybuns has a compass. Unfortunately it’s broken, causing Mr. Fuzzybuns to become disoriented going around a corner. Thankfully nature has equipped Mr. F. with prolific bowels, and using the popular children’s tale ‘Hansel and Gretel’ as inspiration, he has learned how to retrace his steps by following the little trail of pellets he so consistently leaves behind.

Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer

Lonny will make an effort to always say hello to you, to ask you how you’re doing. Unfortunately this is all an act. You see what he really wants to hear is that you you’ve been recently diagnosed with heart disease and are mere days away from losing your house. So the next time Lonny tells you to have a good weekend, know that what he really means is he hopes you injure yourself falling down the stairs.