What’s this? A billowedsails post? Yeah this blog is kind of forgotten in my eyes, sorry to say. Honestly, nothing has been happening in my life that’s been worth noting. I could make pointless posts just to make a post, but I didn’t feel like it. But recently I came across a site, called formspring.me. It’s a website where you have a profile, and people can ask you questions (either signed by their account or anonymously), and you answer them. Simple. A lot of people on my Facebook Live Feed have been posting theirs as statuses or linking them on others’ walls. I didn’t want that. I don’t want people I know asking me question when I don’t know who they are. People are being very nasty and cowardly when asking questions to people they don’t like.

But the site also has a bunch of standard questions that you can have it ask you. And I’ve found this to be a great way to waste time. It’s refreshing to think of random facts or anecdotes in my mind and just talk about them. I’ve never linked anyone to my formspring so I doubt anyone’s found it. So I’ve just been recalling my past and thinking about pretty much anything and everything, talking to no one. It’s oddly peaceful. I don’t mind posting on here, since I’m pretty sure there’s about 4 or 5 people that even still remember this blog exists. So I’m linking to my formspring, in hopes that you all ask me random questions about life. I don’t want things that people who know me would ask. Ask me as an outsider trying to find out more about me. Or, make your own formspring and link me to it. I like knowing things, and all of these random questions are right up my alley. So yeah. Click the link. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me really.

Good Humor

Not too long ago, my friend and I were sitting around on the couch shooting jokes back and forth at each other.  Playing in the background was a recording we made called the John & John Show starring two fictitious radio personalities, John Harvey and John Holdon. In the course of this nearly 30 minute audio recording, we went from discussing the death penalty( Medieval torture devices anyone? )   to queuing up third-wave ska in the definitive DJ style. I guess what we discovered was just how…obsessed…we are. I mean, it’s just not normal for two 15 year old kids to be fantasizing about creating their own radio station / podcast. We had also done other radio-type things in the past, notably the spoof of various NPR programs such as All things considered and Fresh Air.

Yet, until just this past weekend, all of this silliness seemed to be going nowhere. It was amusing and all that jazz, but it didn’t advance any other aspects of life. But then one day, sitting on that same couch, we had an idea. I said something like “ Hey, your TV remote runs on German batteries right? You just shout anti-Semitic remarks at it and it charges right back up” He took it further, “ Yes, these are in fact batteries that are powered by pure Racism. ‘Racist Batteries’ “  The next 5 or 10 minutes were filled with uproarious laughter and other humorous comments further developing the concept of a “Racist Battery”.

The next night, my friend got an idea ; what would happen if we submitted this funny bit to MAD Magazine ?  I mean, I’m sure the get tons of half-ass bits like ours everyday, but what if, just by chance, ours got accepted. A stack of $500 dollars would be rightfully ours if such a miracle were to occur. A man can dream can’t he?

It was done. We submitted the article.

Now, this would normally be the really good part of the story. You know, when I say “ And then, a week later, I got an email saying that our article had been accepted” but this ain’t  a David Sedaris essay. I’m just giddy with excitement that’s all, but I promise to inform all of you of the outcome. Most mentally stable people already know what will happen, but the crazy ones are still very much excited, so please just let them have their fun.

~optionshiftk

Tuesday,

January 26, 2010

Your Kid Sucks

Sometimes you reach this point in your life where you have so much work, and so much to get done, that you sometimes feel like just giving up. It used to be the case that  this sort of feeling only  affected college students and entrepreneur types, but more and more it seems as if high school students are being bitten by this bug. It sort of amazes me how strenuous and focused modern education has become. I think of all the baby boomers, and the children of the 60’s, who grew up during a time when school was lax. Sure, teachers were evil and wicked, they hit you with things, but school was still a place where you mostly just goofed around. College was something that only a few chosen rich kids got to go to. The rest, well, they had other things on their mind. In the 60’s it was loud music and mind-altering drugs, for the Baby Boomers it was avoiding war.

Then came the 1990’s. At this point, the world had changed drastically, old traditions were long gone, and parenting became a full-time profession. A new sense of entitlement seemed to emerge ; self-righteous parents started to believe that their children were capable of anything. It was the generation that told children “Practice makes perfect” and that they could be anything the wanted to be. The industry around this also flourished. Soon there were countless educational programs aimed at teaching toddlers, and radical new teaching methods entered the schoolhouse. With all of this, parents thought that their children were destined to become the next Albert Einstein, or the next Beethoven. And anyone who challenged those ideals were labeled an uneducated, old-fashioned fiend.

So I guess I’m one of those.

What I have discovered, as being someone not brought up with this new 90’s era parenting style, is that all of this sense of entitlement, and this self-righteousness is all phony. I do understand that no parent wants to hear that their child is stupid, or that their child is terrible at softball, but at some point we must learn to live with these facts of life. The worst thing that can possibly done is to make a child believe he or she is good at something when they are actually not. I’ve experienced this many times and it is quite sad because it is not the child’s fault, but their parent who indoctrinates them with this bullshit. Let’s face it, we all suck at some things. Heck, a lot of us suck at many things. But each of us is uniquely good at something. That’s what parents should make their kids strive for, their innate talent, not some contrived mediocrity.

What I am proposing is that we take a moment out of our busy lives to think back to our ancestors. For many of us, these were relatives who emigrated from Europe with very little money. Yet, they were incredibly attracted to America, a shinning beacon of liberty, that allowed all cultures, and races, to share the ideals set forth in the United States Constitution. These were the relative who had nothing. Absolutely nothing. They made an enormous gamble hoping that things would turn out well for their family, who were their most valuable asset. And it was these relatives who worked 18 hour days in very poor working conditions. They knew that they were entitled to nothing, no one owed them anything, and they just watched out for themselves and their family.

What’s happened?

Now we are at a point where parents are supporting their children well into their 20’s, and everyone feels entitled to whatever they want.  Where did that humbleness go? So quickly we have forgotten the struggles of out ancestors.

—optionshiftk

Monday

January 18, 2010

Not too long ago, I suffered an “incident”, as the politicians call it. I’m a team man, though it doesn’t look so from the outside. And few teams are as essential to me as my wrestling team. I try to be there, to be a part anywhere I can, to the point of unhealthiness. Now, introductions aside, this instance was just another match. Our players are, for the most part, fairly intimidating, yet fate had not smiled upon us this night. I yelled on as my teammate was down, trying to find an opening, but to no avail. The ref made a call and, that’s where I saw him. Hooked nose, grey baseball cap worn INSIDE the building, the slightly tattered grey-pink shirt that was obviously manufactured to look older than it really was. Yup, this guy was a d-bag.  There he sat, yelling at the ref for anything that didn’t favour his son (associate?), even though he was winning. Rage boiled up inside me, like I had not experienced before. For the most part, I try to keep calm, but this time, no. I calmly walked up, and laid a pop right across the cheek.  I can’t really remember what happened next, but it was bad. From the ground I could see a scene of chaos. Wrestlers throwing punches at nobody in particular, body parts tossed comically through the air, small children clinging helplessly to the ceiling rafters. I watched as the room gained a pinkish tint, and I heard the sound of children laughing. Then I realized I’ve played too much Call of Duty, and I abruptly passed out in the middle of the fray. When I woke up I smelled sterilization. A hospital. An older gentleman was standing over me, somewhat imposin, curious. “Ah! He’s awake! Good morning, young man!” I was hardly awake, but I knew I didn’t like this man. flabby cheeks, pink lab coat. Yup, this guy was a d-octor.  “looks like you got whacked pretty hard. A little too into the sport, I see….” Rage boiled up inside me, like I had never experienced before. Unthinkingly, I whipped my hand into a fist. Moments later, the full weight of my M.D. Was upon me, yelling in muffled, yet quite vulgar, tones. There was no time for waiting. I leapt for the nearest window, hit it face first, opened the window, and jumped. I fell the two feet into a nearby shrubbery, and took off on foot.  There was only one place I wanted to go, being a wanted man. Dashing up the street, I found my house, and grabbed hold of the door. No other place had me signed in on Facebook, and if I didn’t update me status then, when would I? I took a seat and hastily typed away. “On the run, people may be dead lol” from my seat I could feel him enter the room as I pressed “Update”. I could tell my brother was standing by the door. ”Will, I don’t know what’s going on here, but you have to stop. Maybe this has something to do with the match, but-” Oh God.  Rage boiled up inside me, as I had never experienced before. The deep concern, the v-cut J-Crew brand shirt, the genetic similarities to me. this guy was a d-uff. With a quick push of my $12 Wal-mart sneakers, I barreled towards him. There was a crash, and Next thing I knew, i was outside and there was glass in my face. It hurt. A lot. But there was no time for rest, as the shrill of sirens began to close in on me. Closer, closer, closer.  As it turns out, there was time to rest, as I was still lying there when the fuzz arrived. This was it. It was all over. My ride was over.  But wait! In the nick of time, a plot twist arrived, in the form of Megan Fox riding a motorcycle. I wasn’t too fond of Megan Fox, or her movies, but she’d do in such dire circumstances. I hopped onto her bike, and we both did a wheelie over all of the cars( A la E.T.) before they all inexplicably exploded. We landed, and rode off into the sunset. Roughly seven minutes later, as we were booking it down the highway, Megan turned to me. “I assume you know why I saved you!” she yelled. “Ever since that fateful incident at the wrestling meet, we have been watching you, waiting. It’s time to prove yourself. We’re writing a sequel.” Rage boiled up inside me, like I had never experienced before. There was barely enough character progression in the first few paragraphs, and the conflict had hardly been resolved! If they started on a sequel before concluding the original, there will be plotholes in the story! I raised my fist, preparing to strike, ready for a blow, and we both hit a concrete wall.  So there I was, rising towards heaven, where I came before God. My child,” he bellowed in his Godliness. “Indeed, you have lived a life of selflessness, yet your recent actions have tarnished your soul. I will give you entrance to Heaven on one instance: that you admit your wrongdoing to your team and the other 1426 people who were somehow affected by this story.” Rage boiled up inside me, like I had never experienced before. But there I was; nothing left was to be done. I had no other choice, I had no other option.  I punched God in the face.

Idea Book

I’m in this mood where all I want to do is read books about writing. Stephen King’s On Writing got the ball rolling, but now I am thinking about The Elements of Style along with all of the other classics. But I suspect that the main reason I want to consume these books is not because of  any actual benefit, but more of a way to avoid actually writing. I can remember a tweet I wrote in the midst of my very scary one-act play writing period.

I even knew back then that nearly everything I do that does not involve writing is merely an attempt to avoid writing. For some reason I am scared to just sit down and bang on the keyboard. A few months ago, I was regularly writing a series called Sir Baldric Hubspink KBE which was largely inspired by the works of P.G. Wodehouse and the entire milieu of Edwardian England. One week came along and I said “Oh well, I’ll take this week off.” . Not one word has been added to that series since. I always seem to give in to that instinct which tells me that I’ve worked much to hard and ought to have a break. It is that same instinct that tells you to give up in the middle of a cross country marathon, or to give up when you’re stranded on a dessert island. What do you call this instinct, or feeling? Perhaps the “Wimpy Instinct” ? Maybe. Nonetheless, I am going to start disregarding what that instinct says and listen to the other one, the instinct that finishes the cross country marathon, and finishes that serialized story.

One thing that I hope will help me get back on the writing wagon is what I am going to call an “Idea Book”.  The concept is not new ; essentially, you get a notebook, preferably small and portable, maybe a moleskine-type notepad, and you jot down all of your ideas. There is not a lot to it, no elaborate system, but the concept of constantly having a clean slate where you can record those ideas that come to you during life’s dull moments is pretty nifty. I have just adopted it and have already found it useful. In a restaurant I was eating at earlier today, I thought of this interesting idea that could possibly make a short story, so, with my “Idea Book” in hand, I jotted down this thought. My hope is that I will wake up tomorrow morning and start working on this story, however aweful it turns out. Writing crap is fine, so long as you do not put anyone through the pain of actually reading it. That’s been my philosophy all along.

Let’s face it, ‘09 was a washout. It was the first decade of the new millennium, and no doubt we saw our share of fantastic technology, design, and ideas. We saw the iPod, opened our hearts to a Microsoft gaming console, and ultimately found ourselves with a non-Caucasian president. But let’s face it, it had its share of sh*t-stains that America was more than proud to parade like a madman showing off his collection of  brightly coloured socks.

Because I LOVE being both counteractive and squeaky

2010 (pronounced Twenty-Ten, so I hear), on the other hand, is the start of something completely different. If you don’t think so, just look at the omens. I just spent my New Years watching my friend drink a bottle of vodka, piss in the middle of the street, puke as soon as the ball dropped, then pass out for an hour after panting, “never again, never again never ag-Huurgghhh!” THAT’S FREAKIN’ AWESOME! For a kid who’s life has oft been spent sitting on a couch with his friends sipping Sprite and watching Discovery Channel, 2010 really came into the scene balls-out. 2009 had its times, but we’re willing to bet it was all a warm-up for what the 21st century can really do.

So, as a final way of saying goodbye, let’s end 2009 with one last hurrah. Play ‘em off, Keyboard Cat!

That’s the sound of those little paper horns, by the way. As of writing, it’s roughly 8:51 PM on December 31, 2009. Ten minutes ago I was scrolling through facebook, Ten days ago I was sitting  back watching Pulp Fiction for the first time, and 10 years ago I was doing basic math for a color-by-numbers clown. All day I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember the highlights of this decade. well surprise, surprise, It’s been all one big blur. I was in first grade, my mom died, I entered highschool, and here I am, 5′9″, 137 pounds.

When you step back and look at it, a decade really isn’t that long. They say that if the history of the world was a clock, the human race would have arrived at the party a little before midnight. In a decade we can see the rise and fall of franchises, empires, humanity, culture, art, the only thing we can’t see is Sean Connery’s aging.

There are exactly zero differences between these two pictures. Can you spot them all?

the great 00’s have been some of the oddest years of my life. We’ve seen the birth of domestic terrorism, sparkling vampires, space marines, furry leaches known as “Snuggies”, and prepubescent rockstars more beloved than Lynyrd Skynyrd, Journey, and at times even the Beatles.

10. Ten minutes and I’ll be sitting with my friends. 10 hours and I’ll be off to better things, almost unchanged by the sudden 1 creeping up on the date. Here’s for the best in 2010.

Got any tidbits to share with us about the past 3650 days? let it loose in the comment box below.

The Best Feeling in the World

Sitting beside me  here at my desk is a hardcopy edition of my one-act play that I’ve been bitching and moaning about here on makelimeade.com for over two months. I must say, the physical hardcopy edition  really gives you this tremendous feeling of accomplishment. When it’s just sitting in your word processor, you have no physical connection with your work. Once it’s  actually printed, you start to feel the paper, smell the ink, and realize what all of that banging on the keyboard has done. But there is also this great feeling that the end product is crap. You panic and start to think that maybe all that hard work produced a boring piece of shit no one wants to read. I try to convince myself that all of these feelings are just part of the greater play writing process, but I just can’t picture O’Neill reading over A Long Day’s Journey Into Night and saying “ Oh man! This is so stupid. All those nasty critics are going to make fun of me.”  Maybe that was a bad example, O’Neill was dead long before A Long Day’s Journey Into Night was published, but still.

The thing I’m finding is that a play is a living an breathing thing. I may have finished writing it, but the characters, in my mind, still exist. All of the language, the motifs, the events, are still occurring. I look back at some dialogue I wrote and interpret it totally differently. Part of this, I think, is what makes stories so compelling. You don’t just read a book, but you live a book. Think about it, you are reading a James Bond novel, and pretty soon you start trying to act as cool as James did in Casino Royale. You’re at Olive Garden, the waitress asks what you would like to drink and you say “A Coke please”. But when you say this, you are really thinking “ I’ll take a dry martini…in a deep Champagne goblet…shake it well until it’s cold, then add a think slice of lemon peel” The act of ordering a beverage has evolved form a mundane task, to an opportunity to mimic your favorite Double O agent. We all get to escape our life, which is, let’s face it, boring as hell, and jump into another world where unicorns do exist.

~ optionshiftk

Oh Lawdy, Lawdy, how badly things end up sometimes. I’m hungry, tired, have barely been on the internet for more than two hours all week, and have lost all budding hope in actually maintaining any relationship longer than a one-night stand. (That is, a casual standing conversation with a lady during the night. We keep it classy here at ML). And its not like I can cease the flow of information moving through the world. Trust me, I’ve tried.

Not going to happen.

So you’re probably sitting there thinking, “Oh God, there he goes on another uneducated, dry-humored, pissy rant on some aimless topic. Someone get the Midol.” In that case, thanks for being a dedicated Make Limeade reader, T-shirts are on the way*. The truth of the matter is, I’ve been stuck between a rock and a hard place. Sports, academics, scouts, and my beloved Firefox have all been fighting for a place in my heart, and as last week’s empty spot can attest to, some things win out. Also, I didn’t have a topic, and I was running out of pictures of cats.

I’m sure we all can relate, It’s happened to everyone. Whether to keep searching imageboards instead of doing homework, choosing between a sports match or a choir performance, choosing between another trip on the sunshine express or satisfying the munchies you’ve had for the past four hours, or giving up a blog post so you can get another coupla minutes in the snooze.

If there was some way to get the upperhand in prioritizing things, I’d love to know. As it is, the best thing to do is just suck it up and keep going. If you have any secrets you’d like to include about keeping priorities to a minimum and schedules nice and free, I’m all ears.

*T-shirts are not on the way. Sorry Broski.