Goodbye

Saying goodbye is always a difficult thing to do; but it sometimes seems necessary.  And so, after 6-1/2 years, it may be long past time to give up what has become the rather time-consuming obsession of "Just Blowing Smoke".  After all, I would hate to discover later that I had hung on past my prime (not that I think I've actually had one); like so many have done in other fields.   

Politics is largely a vulgar and unchanging spectacle of self-aggrandizement by a self-chosen elite for most and an exercise of self-deception for the rest; with little room for logic or reason to exist in the space between.  Any challenge to whatever the current strictly established dogma is, even by those considered the faithful (and maybe especially by it), risks a condemnation for apostasy.  Attempts (almost by necessity) to cloak these efforts in skepticism risk their eventual transformation into examples of perverse cynicism through constant exposure to this toxic environment.  Attempts at irony or sarcasm as an amusing alternative become little more than a jaded form of gallows humor in the end.  

As for the 'perspiration to gain inspiration' required to break through the walls of a largely rigged game, they're often vilified without analysis either because of a lack of properly tenured credentials or their failure to follow ideological protocol for submission.  The heroic effort of dancing in the minefield of political correctness left to anyone trying to achieve any originality often yields little more than a stench of disillusionment and disappointment that no masking fragrance can ever cover.    

This is not to say that the overall experience of creating "Just Blowing Smoke" has been a bad one.  In fact, to say that I'm immensely grateful for the reception it's received, the size of the audience it's somehow manage to gather, and the geography it's covered is a vast understatement.  It was in June of last year for example while noting the 5th Anniversary of the site that I was celebrating 34,000 total pageviews, and as I now close the door a mere 18 months later, that same number has all but reached 78,000.  Unfortunately however, true success in such efforts is measured with levels of participation that are orders of magnitude higher.  Judged by these standards in fact, my own meager numbers will never even appear as a blip on the radar screen.

And since I'm being brutally honest ...

I should admit as well, that much of this effort began as a method to improve my ability to write.  If any such improvement has been been achieved over the years, it seems all but imperceptible; and despite my exalted aspirations in this regard, the only thing that I'll ever share with the likes of literary legends like George Will or Charles Krauthammer is species and gender (OK, gender ...).  Sparing the public the painful duty of acknowledging that rather sad conclusion on a regular basis could be the most decent thing I can do.    

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterward." - Robert Heinlein

While this departure does not mean that I'll be entering a monastic retreat (the constant kneeling is too humbling and far too painful for these old bones), I expect to be far less visible online and where my literary efforts are concerned.  I will no doubt attempt the occasional tawdry literary effort and send them off to venues willing to accept such submissions for no better reason than to feed an addiction that I can't completely kick.  The world being as fickle as it is however, I expect little more than to become lost in the next 'squirrel moment' and quickly forgotten.  

At any rate, I hate long goodbyes, and this one's already too long by half.  It's time at long last to bid a tragic farewell to the multiple personality disorder made up of the Department of Just Blowing Smoke Security, the lexicographers of the Stuck On Stupid Dictionary, and the other ne'er do wells that comprise the JBS Senior Staff as they're returned to the dark corner from which they've emerged over the years.  (Which I suppose is far better than turning them loose on an unsuspecting public.)  Thanks again for your support and your company on what has been a rather strange, often twisted, but occasionally interesting ride.  Who knows, perhaps some day we'll meet again ...  

Get Over Yourself

Sitting in front of the keyboard once again, I was trying to make the difficult decision of what to provide the extremely loyal (if somewhat twisted) readership of "Just Blowing Smoke" in the way of a weekend effort.  Should it be some insightful bit of purposeful prose lamenting the current political state of the nation and how it can only be saved by conservative ideal; or perhaps instead a rather clever and amusing piece filled with wit, sarcasm, and irony (with a bit of poorly hidden polysyllabic intellectual snobbery thrown for no better reason than that it amuses me) whose value is not more than distraction and (if I'm lucky) a bit of entertainment? Fortunately for those of you reading this, such intellectual pursuits quickly sent me racing to the bathroom to revisit my most recently consumed meal.

After wiping my brow, brushing my teeth, and gargling, I was able to stumble back to my seat; much disappointed in my recent dietary choices, similarly humbled by the position of porcelain worship I had assumed, and emotionally staggered by the realization that led to this rather abrupt departure.  "Get over yourself," escaped all but unbidden from my lips.

You see, far too often I find myself (personally, as well as electronically) in the presence of my betters.  While I've learned to grudgingly accept and respect those with far greater knowledge and insight, more ability, and a far larger audience than myself; I can't help but occasionally find myself feeling rather smug about the exalted company that I'm keeping (whether I actually belong there or not).  In the end however, something usually brings me back to the brutal realization that even the best words of those I admire have little lasting effect on a society far more concerned with the cult of celebrity and the next 'squirrel moment' that comes along; a cognizance which make my own wretched efforts insignificant. 

This could be an insight that many of those who aspire to public office might seek to learn as well.  The job is important but quite frankly, you aren't; neither before or after obtaining it (nor even in the ineffective, if noble effort of failing to do so).  While there's a nobility of purpose in a goal of public service and a value in doing it well, both are entirely lost when the person involved becomes focused instead on a sense of real or imagined entitlement coming along with such a position. 

In the end, working in the national legislature is no more noble a calling than picking up the trash, and could in many cases be considered less necessary.  Being the Mayor of a city makes the decisions one makes sometimes more significant because of the numbers they may effect, but deciding makes one no better or more important than an insurance agent or used car salesman (and often far more annoying).  Voting on City Council may have greater long-term impact on ones fellow citizens, but makes that person themselves no more special than anyone who votes on "American Idol".

Win, lose, or draw, those of you running for office should seriously try to recognize that you will be no more and no less necessary whether you win or lose.  Yes, this is a glorified beauty contest and you might well find yourself wearing the tiara soon, but it's the responsibility of the crown that's important, not the potentially swelled head wearing it.  You may represent us, but you don't rule us.  You do not become the office you might win, just the latest person responsible for filling it.

So before this humble scribbler gets far too carried away with self-important sentiment where this all-too-forgettable effort is concerned, let me finish it with these two thoughts before election day:

1. To those of you capable of voting in the coming elections ... do so.  The responsibility of such a task is one not only to yourself, but to your fellow citizens.  The failure to do so is not only a breach of public trust, but a tacit submission to so many of the things that are wrong with society in general and government in particular.

2. To those of you running for office ... Thank you.  Though many of us pick on you endlessly for choosing this path (well, I do anyway); you deserve some credit for willingly subjecting yourself to the public humiliation involved with a life of public service.  Even as you are chided, it's recognized that you possess a special courage and a strength that perhaps the rest of us do not.  On the other hand; far too many of you doing so possess an ego that wouldn't fit on Mt. Rushmore; so get over yourself.  

Oz Medicine

(Disclaimer:  This post has nothing to do with 'Dr. Oz' or his TV show, which I have only noted in passing while channel surfing.)  

For those of you a bit surprised about the inclusion of a mid-week posting this week, I have to tell you that you're not the only one.  It appears however, that there may some potential side effects to living in the "Land of Oz" (aka Kansas) that some of us may be particularly susceptible to; and I now appear to be running the gamut of these conditions.

As many of you might know, I recently completed what I now like to call 'Tin Man Surgery', in which extensive and extremely necessary repairs were done to veins and arteries around an organ that was apparently in absence in one of Dorothy's companions in "The Wizard of Oz" as well apparently as in many Conservatives.  (No, not my brain.  Try not to jump ahead, please.)  In spite of living in the Wiz's balloon 'fly-over country' however, I was seemingly blessed with some local 'rock stars' of the medical profession and the repairs were not only successful, but my expeditious recovery currently has me up for 'Miss Open Heart Surgery 2013'. (You should see the swim suit competition.) 

In the days since my return home from the hospital however, I seem to have traded the condition that I shared with Dorothy's metal companion for that suffered by one of her more herbaceous ones.  I have recently discovered that my interest and ability to write either quantitatively or qualitatively (writing a lot or well) seems have suffered in a corresponding fashion to my return of the good health of that vital pump in what I am beginning to consider might be the possible onset of 'Scarecrow's Syndrome'.  I am now more than a little concerned that repairs insuring that blood is now properly circulating around my heart have somehow diverted this vital fluid from reaching the near perfect vacuum between my ears.  

As a result, these days find me either unable or unwilling to keep up with my former docile pace of two blog posts a week.  As for concerning myself with the discipline of the multiple personality disorder more commonly known as the staff here at JBS where the lexicographers of the SOS Dictionary are concerned, or facing the mess in the locked attic room (that I keep in my mind) better known as the Department of Just Blowing Smoke Security; forget about it.  This combination of raging inability and apathy doesn't even speak to the apologies that I owe Michael Miller and the staff at the Toledo Free Press for failing to annoy them with nonsensical weekly efforts offered for publication in their well-esteemed product, let alone the constant re-writes that follow in vague but futile attempts to make them at least coherent, if not intelligent offerings.

My continued inability to properly identify the cause for this problem, let alone truly accept responsibility for the resulting lack of literary output leads me to believe that yet a third yet undiagnosed malady may be lurking in the wings.  Such cowardice in the face of (and piled on top of) such inexcusable laziness may in fact be an indication of the first stage symptoms of another one of Dorothy's literary traveling companions.  As fragile as my current mental state is however, I'm not sure if I could face a confirming diagnosis and discovering that I might indeed be suffering from the onset of 'Cowardly Lion's Disease' on top of everything else (though that may just be the fear talking).   

This dilemma is further complicated by not knowing which of the medical professionals that I'm working with in the Sunflower State that I should consult regarding these concerns.  Try as I might, I'm not sure how to determine which of their specialties these maladies might fall under, if any at all.  Since most of them have signed off on my recovery (Oh, if they only knew!), and I am therefore not scheduled to visit with any of them any time soon; I hate to bother them with what may in fact be no more than post-operative psychosomatic disorders.  

Perhaps the symptoms that at least I believe that I'm experiencing might not fall under any of the extensive training that any of them have received, and instead another medical professional must be called in.  (I wonder if Dr. House might be interested in taking my case, though I better hurry before he finishes his final season.) 

Now I'm sure that many of those reading this might by now think you have a pretty good idea or two of who might best be consulted (and I might even be tempted agree with you), but instead I think that I would to take these thematic medical complaints to their absurdly logical conclusion.  Yes that's it!  Dorothy did after all have one other companion on her journey through Oz that I have yet to consider ... Toto.  I need to get on the phone with a local veterinarian first thing tomorrow ....

Happy 1000th

Contrary to the popular myth, based on the picture of me in this blog, this particular effort is not about celebrating my 1000th birthday.  (That's at least a couple of months away.)  No, the staff here at "Just Blowing Smoke" decided that it was worthwhile in chronicling the history of this blog that we take at least some notice of its 1000th posting.  Of course this is not exactly the 1000th post, as careful research brought to our attention that some of the posts put up over the years have in fact been duplicated.  Nevertheless 1000 efforts is a significant bit of writing when you consider that the average length of a post is between 800 and 1000 words.  The number is even more staggering when you realize that most of those words have been produced within the almost perfect vacuum found between my ears.

For those of you along for the ride for what is over five years now, again my thanks.  For those you who have only recently joined us here, I apologize for your exposure to what can often become a rather twisted and toxic truth.  In my own defense, let me say that no matter how horrific you may believe some of these efforts are, there have been worse.  For those of you who have as yet for some unfathomable reason failed to join us, who cares!  After all, if you haven't joined the rest of this twisted bunch by now, there's certainly no reason to suck up to you now; so ........NYEH!

I must tell you that I have often considered giving up these twisted efforts at compositional fame; but every time I get close, someone writes in to inform me of how truly horrible these scribblings are; which forces me to go on out of sheer spite.  With the right coercion however, I might be convinced to give up this life of crime in favor of a more honorable profession like lawyer, politician, or CEO of a hedge fund.  (Oh please, I'm kidding.)  Actually, in spite of what is horrible timing in media, I still have vague hopes of pursuing writing as a profession, rather than as a horribly expensive unpaid hobby. In the meantime, I will continue to attempt to disappoint my audience with the same regularity and frequency that I have done in the past.  

So from the Department of Just Blowing Smoke Security, the SOS Lexicographers, the Senior Editorial Staff, and myself  (Talk about your split personality ... geez.)  Thanks for playing along with my delusional behavior.

Indecent Exposure

It's a rare occasion when I feel the need to admit that I'm wrong.  (Most who truly know me would say that it's an even more rare {rarer?} occasion when I actually do so, and especially in any kind of public forum.)  It's not that I don't find myself being wrong or being in the wrong on a regular enough basis in my life; but since my last marriage ended, the requirement (and perhaps the ability) of admitting to mistaken notions or even more misguided behavior has somewhat withered through a lack of use. Having such survival skills atrophy during a marriage can be fatal, and even now might prove to be dangerous, a fact I'm afraid I may yet come to discover.

I'm sure that many are beginning to wonder what could possibly be the heinous nature of my sin, and why I should feel this apparently overwhelming need for confession.  Have no fear that I will make you wait any longer however, for the moment of truth is in fact upon me.  Here it is:  I admitted both to the writing of this blog and likewise to my efforts for the Toledo Free Press to some of my co-workers.

"What, that's it?" some of you may now be saying. "Jeez, what a let down.  What's the big deal about that anyway?"  Others however, perhaps writers themselves; or at least older and wiser in nature of things must now instead be saying, "Oh my God what's wrong with you? Have you no sense at all, let alone a decent sense of shame?" The former question is one to which many learned doctors have lent their talents, in a long and largely unsuccessfully quest for an answer, so don't expect to get any insight here from me.  The answer to the latter is proving equally problematic however, in spite of the fact that I am more than familiar with the concept.  (Those of the Jewish faith may have cornered much of the market on guilt, but for shame one really needs to turn to those of us raised Catholic.)  For while I always thought I met reasonable requirements in this area, recent actions must call that assumption into serious question.

Now one of my literary heroes Robert Heinlein, was quoted as saying:  “Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.” But that's easier for Mr. Heinlein than some of the rest of us.  Not only were his talents and writing abilities far beyond those of most of us mere mortals, but he has the additional advantage of having achieved room temperature back in the late 80's.  Because of his talent and the fame (along with what I would assume would have been a healthy amount of money), I'm sure that he was far less likely to succumb to embarrassment over his own dirty little habit, even while carrying it out. Being now in the position of taking a permanent 'dirt nap', he is I'm sure less concerned with the vagaries of celebrity, chagrin over the way he earned his money, and the problems involved with ignoring those pesky autograph seekers.

Also of course, he doesn't have to go back into the office next week and face people who by then may well have made the fatal mistake of reading some of his literary version of natural fertilizer.  He will never have to survive the guilt of having wasted some part of their finite time on this Earth (time they'll never get back) in joining even temporarily, with the rather twisted following that he might have gathered over the years.  Worse still, he will not be worrying that in doing so, they may perhaps have gained a greater insight into the shallow nature of the intellect and trivial nature of the soul that produces this malodorous tripe.  He will not have to face up to the fact that having thus plumbed the depths of a personality that's usually found wanting in fathomage by comparison to the local kiddy pool, they must now attempt to cover (at least as best they can) the obvious disdain in which they must now hold this mostly disreputable scribbler in an attempt to maintain some semblance of good order and discipline in the office. 

Having now exposed a soul best left to hide in the shadows however, there will inevitably be changes ahead.  You know what I'm talking about.  Sidelong looks filled with equal parts of pity and disgust, reluctant handshakes with oft-averted eyes, and of course the whispered conversations just out of earshot (accompanied by the sadly shaking heads) that must inevitably follow.  No blame of course can be attached to such behavior on their parts, since what these co-workers have been presented with is little more than a form of Indecent Exposure.  They didn't necessarily ask for the experience they were subjected to.  They were innocently minding their own business when confronted by something that no reasonable person can hope to be prepared for.

You know, come to think of it, perhaps I should be accepting responsibility for what I've put all of the rest of you who have been following "Just Blowing Smoke" for some time now (and apparently in ever-increasing numbers).  The fifth anniversary of the creation of this blog on this venue is fast approaching, and there are times when feelings of guilt for the damage that I might have caused to a faceless and mostly blameless audience over that period is all but overwhelming.  To be honest with you, I have from time to time seriously considered giving up this horribly perverted exhibitionist behavior in the name of common decency.  Having done it for as long as I have often makes it difficult to face myself in the mirror in the morning (which may in some way account for the beard).

Please note that I do not in this self-flagellation, count the efforts that I pen for the Toledo Free Press.  Nor is the inestimable Editor-in-Chief of that esteemed publication in any way responsible for the often stinking offal that makes its way onto these pages.  Not only have I desperately attempted to write to a higher standard in gratitude for his confidence (at least as much as I can), but his guiding influence and strict ethical code would no doubt prevent much of what passes for composition on these pages from ever seeing the light of day.

While I am more than willing to tender my most sincere apologies for all that I have put you through, I unfortunately find that I have neither the strength of character, nor of will, to abandon these disgusting practices that have become so much a part of my life.  Overwhelmed by my own twisted desires and the demented sense of satisfaction that I gain from continuing this personal perversion, I suspect myself likely to continue for some time.  (Besides, I don't want to add to the national unemployment figures by throwing the JBS staff  out into the street.)

I fear however that in spite of the increasing temperatures here in Kansas City, this most recent breech of office etiquette (and perhaps even 'below the line behavior') may force me to don the trench floppy hat that have long served as a uniform for those committing similarly depraved acts.  If after all, I'm going to reveal my disgusting nature through this form of Intellectual Indecent Exposure, I might as well look the part.     

Hey, I wonder if I've still got that old Army helmet liner around somewhere.  There might at least be something kind of retro-cool to looking like the title character from the 1971 Jethro Tull classic that I used to perform in my youth ... 

 Aqualung

Sequels Mostly Suck

Based on the writing schedule that I try to keep, I produce close to 2500 words per week on average in the way of blog posts and and columns. With a bit of simple math (which is about as much as I am capable of in spite of a couple of years as a math major in college), this adds up to over 10,000 words per month. I write on any number of subjects in a given thirty day period, some of which I would consider of some importance, some that act as intellectual exercises in writing, and some that are little more than mindless entertainment (usually for me rather than those few twisted souls reading them).

It may surprise you to find that not all of these exercises will ever be remembered as works of literary genius. (Yeah, I can tell you're shocked.) In fact, when looking back, I find that many of them barely pass the sniff test. The simple truth of the matter is that for me at least, it's lucky if even a tiny percentage of what I write is remembered 24 hours after I've sent them on their merry way into the ether of the Internet. If one of them is remembered however, more often than not it's a piece of ridiculous rubbish that wrote itself without any conscious thought on my part; and that I find myself barely able to take credit for. (Hmm, there may be something worth learning there...) 


Such was the case two weeks ago with an effort entitled "In Praise of Sliders". The whole thing started with a couple of my cousins complaining on Facebook about abdominal pains after a recent visit to White Castle, continued through the soul-crushing case of jealousy that I experienced because I couldn't get to one, and came to a head on a Saturday morning that required a writing effort that I couldn't come up with a subject for. What came next wrote itself with no more research that how to find the home position on the keyboard for touch-typing, and no more critical analysis on the subject than whether to use a comma or semi-colon at a certain points in a sentence. 


Now at some point I should probably back up and say that I actually take writing seriously, often agonize over every word and punctuation mark and edit my efforts almost to the point of nausea (something that many of you appear to experience while reading them). I enjoy taking on serious subjects, and occasionally even believe that my perspective on them carries some value by putting in writing what many might be thinking. (Yeah, I know. We all have our delusions.) 


All of that being said, it has become apparent in the last couple of weeks that writing about a steamed hamburger has had a far greater impact than much of what I've written of a more serious nature. To my credit, let it be said that not only am I not disturbed by this, but in fact am secretly pleased. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm mostly about nonsense, with a healthy sense of the ridiculous thrown in. (Some might even say that's its an unhealthy sense, but those are people that I never buy a drink for.) 


This is also the long way around to telling you that after agonizing for almost two weeks on a way to do a suitable follow up for the 'Sliders' effort, I have come up more sadly empty than that small, white cardboard box after its tiny treasure has been removed. I'd like to give you a suitable explanation for this, and believe me when I tell you that I had any number of grand excuses lined up for the attempt. (I edited them out of the piece, thank goodness.) 


I tend to believe however, that the actual reason for my lack of consistent achievement has something to do with blind squirrels and acorns. So if you're reading this today in the hopes of finding a riveting sequel to the posting on 'belly-bombers', you will be sorely disappointed. Good sequels, as most of us have come to understand, are almost impossible to produce. (Just look at 'Caddyshack'.) 


If you'll stick with me though, I promise to keep trying to be occasionally entertaining, if not insightful. I promise to be no more disappointing than your average politician, no more a waste of your time than your average reality show, and no more tasteless than the frozen variety of White Castles (which currently reside in my freezer, BTW). You know, the more I edit (and re-edit) this week's pitiful effort the more I come to the conclusion that no matter how hard you try, sequels mostly suck.

Trying To Stay Inside The Lines

As well as being a source of entertainment for me, I firmly believe that writing is the exercise of a form of artistry. Oh don't get me wrong, I don't consider myself an artist, or even a half-decent cartoonist (no insult intended to cartoonists). What I mean is that like those who are truly capable with either pencils or brushes, I try as best I can to communicate by painting pictures (in my case word pictures). I then labor to frame these likenesses carefully with facts, shade them with considered judgment and opinion, and color them with sarcasm, metaphor, and hyperbole. (Hell, sometimes I even manage to stay inside the lines.) 


Like many art forms, there are truly gifted professionals out there whose literary efforts can make one's own seem so poor as to leave them almost impossible to hang on the refrigerator, let alone display in public. For me, it's reading the prose of virtuosos like George Will and Charles Krauthammer that make me almost ashamed that I decide to sit down in front of a keyboard each week. Their ability, while almost terrifying in nature, makes me wish that I had the time, the training, and the ability to depict the world around me as they are capable of doing. In fact, I often find myself avoiding efforts on subjects that they have covered in sheer embarrassment over what my own poor examples will look like by comparison. 


I am equally humbled when I hear someone like Dennis Miller go off on a verbal rant and use rapid-fire comparative imagery so far above my head that it gives me a nosebleed, and I have to Google search it before reaching even the most rudimentary level of understanding. Such a combination of intelligence, wit, and humor is indeed rare and I am thankful that I have been exposed to it. There are also those whose efforts draw slightly less attention on the national stage, but who are likewise worthy of praise. I could name a half dozen at least whose efforts I read with relish every week (and who if they somehow find themselves reading this, will probably know who they are), but won't risk their names and reputations by associating my own opinions and faint praises with their extensive creative attainments. 


Of course there are likewise all too many of us amateurs out here who labor in relative obscurity by reason of either a lack of ability, lack of desire, or lack of opportunity. We too have something to contribute, if only as a caution to others or caricature of real talent. But we need not write ourselves off too quickly or completely, as we sometimes discover that 'even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and again'. Every once in a while, even we are surprised with an idea not yet brought to light or a writing effort worthy of more than passing consideration. 


The humility unwillingly forced on some of us by the talent demonstrated by our betters provides more than humiliation however, it affords us inspiration as well. Anyone who loves a challenge cannot help but be enamored of having the bar placed so high in order to force us to improve our own meager talents. Those who love the idea of competition (and are too old, broken down, and overweight to continue to further attempts at athletics) find this exactly the type of contest that we are still capable of entering. It's easy enough to recognize the simple fact that in the end, not all of us can be a DaVinci (I for one can't do the codes) or Van Gogh (I need both ears so I can listen to my Ipod). 


Some of us may simply have to settle for painting 'Dogs Playing Poker' or 'Elvis on Velvet'. It may never be displayed in a museum, but it might at least make it to some starving artist show at the local Holiday Inn, and from there come to be appreciated on the wall in someone's living room. I cannot promise that I will always manage to stay within the lines of good writing, good sense, or even good taste; I do affirm however, that each will at the very least be my best effort.

State of the Union - The Writers

Far too many people have already commented on the content and delivery of President Obama's recent State of the Union message, as well as the Republican and Tea Party responses; so I won't bore you with my own blow-by-blow on the subject. Besides, history has continued on its course and the speech has already been supplanted in the news by world events in Egypt and the blizzard recently experienced across much of the Midwest and the East. 


In point of fact, the latest SOTU was pretty a typical and forgettable example of recent ones delivered by presidents of both parties; long on rhetoric and short on details. It may have broken no new policy ground, but neither did it create new controversy. It simply went over much of the same doctrine that has been espoused by President Obama since he began campaigning for office, and was just another in a string of fairly well-written and well-delivered political speeches by a president who does pretty well reading off of a teleprompter. 


In going over my own thoughts on the SOTU however, I found them drifting to "The West Wing", an Aaron Sorkin series that has been off the air for a couple of years now. While Mr Sorkin's political views are for the most part diametrically opposed to my own, his skill (and that of the other series writing contributors) in crafting the show in general, and in particular the political speeches given by President Bartlett (played by Martin Sheen) always captured me. The more I thought about it, the more the words of the latest SOTU faded away, to be replaced by the soaring rhetoric of a fictional president on a canceled TV series.  


I realized that even while we can disagree with the politics of the person speaking, we can nevertheless appreciate a well-written, well-delivered line. While there were a couple of episodes covering the SOTU that I could have used to illustrate my point, I chose another speech instead from the episode entitled "20 Hours In America". It's short enough to make my case and good enough to illustrate the necessity of really good speech writers to craft the soaring rhetoric of political speeches. 


Besides, I was particularly taken by the comment made by Bruno Gianelli (played by Ron Silver) to Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn (played by Rob Lowe), one of the president's principal speech writers. I have always viewed it as the ultimate compliment to a writer and something to aspire to one day about my own humble efforts.

So I would ask those of you who found the speech a particularly effective one (apparently so, since the president got a 90% approval rating for the speech) and even those who didn't; to instead of judging the president on his message, consider instead the people behind the scenes who sweated for weeks over every word and turn of phrase to create it. Remember as well that the best actor in the world can only perform as well as the script he is given.

Driven To Distraction

I was up fairly early this morning, and completely at a loss for a worthy topic for use as a weekend rant (not that worth has been a particular consideration a great deal of time when I get in front of a keyboard). In keeping with the theme of this blog however, I decided to take a break from my labors by taking a walk in the beautiful fall weather and clear my head by 'blowing a little smoke". The feeling was that perhaps through the enjoyment of some of the simple pleasures in life I might become inspired to some lofty subject or great piece of writing. 


As this unfortunate result might indicate, it did neither. It did however distract me from the pursuit of such a lofty goal long enough to foster the very idea that you see before you. I find this to be often the case, and carry a pad of paper with me, lest I forget one of these occasionally interesting notions. 


Perhaps it's a mild form of ADD that exhibits itself as an inability to focus attention on a subject for any great length time. Perhaps it's just an increasing form of male immaturity that manifests itself as the attention span of a two year-old (no offense to two year-olds intended). Perhaps it's simply the need that we all have from time to time to be carried away from our cares and concerns of the moment by some random thought. 


It occurs to me in fact that perhaps many of us achieve our best thinking when distracted from the circumstances of our lives and find ourselves and side-tracked by something else entirely. It likewise causes me to wonder how many of the world's great discoveries were made by those who were similarly looking for one thing and through some random distraction of thought discover something else that proved to be potentially world-changing. 


Sure Edison was looking for the secret of light bulb, but how many other things did he invent (or allegedly steal from other inventors) while searching for it? Galileo was attempting to make some of the greatest scientific discoveries of his time and to pursue his true passion for sculpture when he was distracted from such pursuits by requests for paintings. Columbus (whose holiday is Monday) was looking for a route to the East Indies when he was distracted by a little thing that later came to be known as the 'New World'. 


It seems in fact that many of the things that have become pivotal to the world in one way or the other were in fact mere distractions to those involved. The famous science fiction author Robert Heinlein once said, "Progress isn't made by early risers. It's made by lazy men trying to find easier ways to do something."


And while I couldn't agree more, I would venture to add that it's also often found by people driven to distraction in the pursuit of that easier way; and finding something entirely different and equally valuable instead.

A Bit About The Writing ,,,

Weekend postings are where I normally like to kick back a bit, focus on the less serious aspects of life, and let my fingers do the talking (doing so makes it easier for me to keep my foot out of my mouth). Even writing nonsense however, is something that requires effort (and heavy doses of spell check) to do well.  

The problem is that I take every writing effort seriously. This is not to say that I take myself seriously. I clearly understand that my opinion and $1.50 will get you a cup of coffee in most convenience stores (I think it's still $5 at Starbucks, sorry). Some of the subjects that I touch on are deadly serious however, and I believe that my particular form of ADD allows me to connect what would normally be considered disparate things in a way that may not normally be found out there. 

I was thinking about this as I finish up the work on my next column for the Toledo Free Press. It is one of those pieces in which I attempt to stretch myself. It is an effort at a George F. Will / Dennis Miller type piece that manages to come out of my keyboard from time to time, and that attempts (in my own poor way) to create the type of word pictures that these two genius wordsmiths do on a consistent and regular basis. Its goal is to intrigue and inform, and to do so in a way that might force one to the Merriam-Webster.com website in the process. 

I do this not out of a sense of intellectual superiority (oh, far from it), but with a sense of humor at my own normal discomfort with the efforts of my writing heroes, and from a gut feeling that we all need to be challenged on a regular basis. If everything that we are exposed to comes easy for us, if every idea that we are exposed to can be absorbed like a sponge, we will become intellectually as well as physically lazy (and on that, I may be considered more than a bit of an expert). It is only when we set the bar a bit out of reach that we realize how much is within our grasp, only when we set ourselves a goal that even we are doubtful of reaching that we achieve something worthwhile. 

Likewise, it is only when we place this effort in our consciousness that discover that we are able of making the effort required and likewise what we are truly capable of achieving. In my own particular case, I believe that I am still learning as a person and growing as a writer, and that I have a long way to go. I am humbled by that challenge, but convinced that the goal is something attainable some day (though I may be very old indeed when it occurs). 

Meanwhile, I hope that you enjoy and are entertained by the effort expended each week. It takes considerable time, good cigars, and often a fair amount of brain lubricant (CnH2n+1OH or alcohol for those unfamiliar with the chemistry) to produce the particular brand of nonsense that I call my own. And though I don't say it often enough, thanks for hanging out and humoring me in these efforts.

 

The Agony and The Ecstasy

I am sitting in front of the computer tonight trying once again to come with anything with some degree of originality and in the hopes of likewise being able work it into something of at least reasonable quality for tomorrow's posting. Unfortunately, it seems that I have failed. 

For those of you who have never attempted to write a blog, a newspaper column or anything else on a regular basis for that matter, this is the agony sometimes dealt with by those of us who do. With the submission of this posting, my total for Just Blowing Smoke is now 340 in slightly less than two years. I have likewise penned some 22 columns (counting the one for this coming weekend's edition) in about 5 months for the Toledo Free Press. It's hard to come up with that many things to write about, even in a target rich environment like Toledo. 

While there is certainly some duplication in the topics that I have dealt with in both of these arenas, that number is surprisingly small. Equally small during these periods when the Muse has apparently abandoned me, is my ability to string together sentences coherently or intelligently. There is little worse than the feeling as I agonize over each turn of phrase, berate myself over improper sentence structure, and recognize later that I have even failed to properly run spell check. 

Quite frankly, the experience leaves me in a state of both physical and mental anguish. I started doing this whole writing thing because I enjoy it, and the only thing worse than not being able to produce anything is only being able to produce something of poor quality. There is ecstasy as well however (though I find it hard to believe tonight). 

Every once in a while you get a phrase just right. With what often seems about the same regularity as the coming of locusts, an entire paragraph comes together exactly the way you want it to. With the seeming frequency of Halley’s Comet, an entire posting or column comes together as something you don’t mind having your name over the top of. (Well, that’s what I’ve heard anyway … I’m still waiting and hoping.) 

Maybe the problem this week is that I have been on the road too long on this trip, that attending two conferences back to back has allowed me to kill too many brain cells in a short period, or simply that I’m in Hershey, PA and distracted by all of the chocolate around here. And since it appears that the concept of an ecstatic feeling from writing seems far beyond me this evening, I think that I will go down to the gift shop and indulge in a bit of milk chocolate mood enhancement. 

 

A Writer

Like most, I was subject to grand aspirations in my youth. Hockey player, astronaut, scientist, actor, and teacher were all on my list at one time in my life. I even thought that I had a calling to be a Catholic priest until the implications of a life of chastity managed to penetrate the raging hormones controlling my body at the time. 

One thing that remained constant through all of those periods however was my desire to be a writer. Writers were cool guys who smoked pipes and wore tweed jackets and spoke intelligently and eloquently on a wide ranging number of subjects. Writers lived in exciting places, knew interesting people, and collected neat stuff (like Clive Cussler's car collection). Writer's worked long hours, but didn't have to go into the office and usually didn't have bosses. 

To seek that particular goal, I did what you were supposed to do and wrote. Bad poetry, pointless essays, and nonsensical short stories, I wrote them all. I even fancied myself a lyricist, and attempt to become the Bernie Taupin of my time. (Bernie Taupin, for those of you who don't know, wrote many of the lyrics for Elton John's most famous songs.) 

Fortunately for the reading public, none of those efforts were ever brought to light. As I grew older and gained the responsibilities of family and job, these aspirations were set aside in the interest of doing what was necessary to provide for my family and advance my career (such as it was). In those days the only thing that got written were business proposals and the endless reports that make so many jobs all but unbearable. Writing then was a burden, and projects were taken on with the same sense of dread that a visit to the dentist usually engenders. 

Eventually however, I reached a point where I was writing technical manuals when called for. Later I began to write some of the advertising copy for the companies that I worked for and I found myself bitten by the writing bug again. When personal circumstances provided me with far more free time than I wanted, I found myself filling that void with writing, even managing to produce of work of novel length if not publishing quality. 

Change continued, and while most of that free time thankfully disappeared, the writing continued, with this blog fulfilling my need to write things that I felt were worth sharing. I would love to tell you that all of these efforts were brilliant, but they weren't. Some of them at least reached the level of clever however, and I believe that the gaps between those clever efforts is not as great as they once were.  

The reason that I bring all of this up this weekend is that I just submitted my first invoice for the columns that I have been writing for the Toledo Free Press. In addition to being willing to print what I write, the TFP has likewise agreed to pay me for my efforts. It's not a lot of money, but then again, I'm not that much of a writer. 

So while I didn't manage to become an astronaut, a teacher, or a priest (something for which I feel my children and grandchildren might be grateful for), while I don't smoke a pipe (at least not when a cigar is close at hand), and I don't live in an exciting place (though it is occasionally interesting), I believe that I have crossed a threshold. For when they pay you for it, you are indeed a writer.

Writing, & Why I Do It

I occasionally had cause to wonder why I write the postings for this blog. (I am sure that many of you out there, having read one or more of these postings, have cause to wonder why I am allowed to. ) Oh sure, it's fun to do it, and every now and again I even manage to string a few words together intelligently (ususally by accident); but it sometimes seemed to me that there had to be more than that.  

Don't get me wrong here, I have no pretensions about the stuff that comes out of my head and onto these pages (apprehensions yes, pretensions no). I recognize that the nonsense that I put forth has more to do with Tom Arnold than Thomas Jefferson (and I don't even like Tom Arnold). I am not crusading for a better and smaller government, more freedom, or to protect the common man in this blog (at least not so you are supposed to be noticing). There are better and smarter people doing that in the blogging world already, and I do not place myself in their class. No, I would have to say that there is more Play-do than Plato in the what I put down on these postings. Hell, maybe I am the court jester or comic relief for their efforts, which really wouldn't be so bad a gig.

As I often do when confused on an issue, I looked at some of the quotes that I have collected over time. There is often great wisdom to be found in the words of wit from writers far greater than me:  

The reason why so few good books are written is that so few people who can write know anything – Walter  

It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no real talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous. - Robert Benchley

The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can't help it. – Leo Rosten  

Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard. - Daphne dy Maurier  

A good many young writers make the mistake of enclosing a stamped, self-addressed envelope, big enough for the manuscript to come back in. This is too much of a temptation to the editor. - Ring Lardner  

A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. - Thomas Mann  

... and my favorite  

Your manuscript is both good and original, but the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good. - Samuel Johnson  

These are all true, somewhat relevant (and occasionally funny), but of no real help in seeking the answer to my quest however. So I turned to my fellow bloggers, hoping that they might have some answer or insight that I might wrap my head around. The closest that I was able to come up with came from http://hooda-thunkit.blogspot.com/. Hooda claims that he writes because the voices in his head make him. 

While I have to say that this concept scares the living crap out of me, I find unfortunately, that I can relate to it. I have written in one form or another since I was a kid, and during the periods of my life when I was not writing felt somewhat lost and disconnected. I guess that for some people, there just seems to be something that forces them to create things. They don't have to be good, but they do have to provide a sense of satisfaction when they are completed.


As for where it all comes from, I like the way that Harlan Coben put it in his book "Just One Look", that we often bore ourselves "... to the point where inspiration must emerge if only to preserve your sanity". (Oh sure, it's too late in my case, but there might be hope for others.) So maybe in the end, I have the City of Toledo to credit for the amount of writing that I am doing these days. Maybe if I lived in a more exciting place, or had a more exciting life, no inspiration would be forthcoming and little in the way of writing would be accomplished.  

Then again, it's more likely that living in this target-rich environment and being who I am, putting all of this on paper helps me to keep a healthy sense of the ridiculous in life.






For myself, I have a more important reason that will force me to continue to make these efforts now. You see my father past away this last week, right before Thanksgiving. He had been ill for some time, but managed to hang on until my son and I made it out to Kansas City for the holiday. One of the things that he really enjoyed in these last months were my efforts, and the last picture that I have of him is one where he is sitting in front of the computer, catching up on the postings for this blog site. I think that he was relieved to discover that his son could string words together coherently if he was going to do so in public. I think that he also got a chuckle over the perspective that I took on various subjects. So I will go on now, knowing that the one reason that I continue to write, if for no other, will be that it will give him a continued source of amusement.