DOCTOR VISIT & ELIMINATING EXAGERRATED MISCONCEPTIONS, Pt. 1

Last Friday, I had an appointment with a new doctor. This is always a problem for me for numerous reasons. First and foremost, I hate doctors because of my past experiences with them. Secondly, I have to pay for everything. I lost my insurance in my last job because of the required ACA imposed on corporations. I worked for a small company which was already going under so my healthcare was axed followed by my employment. It wasn’t necessary for the owner to do this but even though I was very knowledgeable at my position, he despised me. Karma’s a bitch, they say, and it wasn’t long after I received my walking papers that he received a social call from the notorious reaper (which probably was followed by a close encounter with Lee the Tree but I guess I’ll know for sure once it’s my turn to travel to “the beyond.”) But, as they also say, “one closed door opens another one” and this resulted in my going back to school for my English degree. The third reason why I do not like doctors is interconnected to the first reason. Fear, at times, may create misconceptions which may develop into highly ridiculous misunderstandings about practically anything. Huh? Exactly! Let me explain.

Here is an example of what I’m trying to say: Just because the doctor has a common Oriental last name, you shouldn’t expect him to look like Fu Manchu or Hong Kong Phooey. Also, the person that draws your blood is not Nosferatu or a giant leech with breasts. In both of these cases, I was wrong but, as I was lying down on the examination table, I wondered why there were so many eye impressions on the office’s roof where blood is drawn. Better yet, why did they insist on drawing my blood while lying down? Simple! You don’t feel anything while you’re being drained from your blood supply. I had something else to worry about once I came to my senses thinking that the eyes belonged to concealed albino vampires lurking within the white popcorn roof. Momma Bloodsucker rolled in an electrocardiography machine and, suddenly, I had a past life regression (or an acid flashback) dealing with electroshock therapy at a castle’s dungeon in Avar Khanate which has to erred because Nikola Tesla was only eight years old when that country became history and the only thing shocking he had experienced at that point was watching a sixty-three foot crab emerge from the Great Sheffield Flood with binoculars anticipating the Battle of Elkin’s Ferry across the great pond. In a matter of seconds, my body was covered in electrodes which brought to mind the two weirdo kids in the dumbest Skittles commercial ever.  Traditionally, the back ends of the electrodes are covered with gorilla glue which would explain the enigmatic roof décor. Once the technician crudely yanks off the electrodes from very hairy chested men, their eyes would jump out of their sockets and attach themselves to the roof thus leaving the impression. To my surprise, the process took about fifteen seconds and my extraocular muscles did not need to be put to the test.

Dr. Fu, I mean, Dr. Wong then walks in and begins his routine consisting of 156 questions followed by a grab and squeeze throughout my tense body. He kept on asking “does this hurt” but I had no pain anywhere. Next came the urine test. I was sent to a restroom which had a small door on the wall where you place your sample. I kept thinking the small door would open and an Allen Funt German clone’s head with a “Wim Wenders rule” tattoo across his brow would appear continuously shouting “Was ist das?” I was actually afraid to open the door and place the small bottle inside.

In conclusion, the doctor told me I was in perfect shape pending the blood and urine results which I should have late this week. This is outstanding news but it also makes me think that my prevalent problem is the yet undiagnosed ADHD and my exaggerated perception of things. That’s what happens to individuals who watch too many Monty Python animations as youngsters. Too late for me! It’s time for some “Lumberjack Spam in Seasoned Shrubberies” made from dead parrots and partial remains of Spiny Norman.

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Diet Walking and Imaginary Creatures

It’s no secret that I am continuously trying to lose weight. Not because I’m obese and may get contracted to do a cameo on the New Zoo Revue 2018 or anything like that. It’s that my family members have a tendency to be on the heavy side (hmm…maybe that’s why they’re all dead). Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mind being a hippo or a cow (oops, gender change) if it wasn’t for the insects. I couldn’t live with flies and mosquitoes flying around me all the time. Ironically, some past ex-friends attracted bugs too but they were always full of s**t so that’s understandable. If you’re male, there’s a self-test you can take to know if you’re overweight or not: stand upright and look down. If you can’t see a trace of your private parts, it means your smelly jelly belly’s been too much at the deli. It also eliminates any chance of being a sex god contortionist unless you get hit by a 1970 bright yellow Pontiac Cutlass 442 at 180 miles an hour blasting late 70’s disco music while you’re waiting in line to ride Space Mountain . . . but that’s another story, darling. Chances are you will be mistaken for a human pretzel if this happens to you.

At this point, you may be laughing but, if you’re not, it’s probably because you’re condemning my style of writing. I am very conscious of sentence structures and topic continuity. I deliberately break the rules because . . . why shouldn’t I? The run-on sentence is an indication of something exceptionally outlandish. The constant change of topics is me telling my ADHD to do what it’s good at.

Now, back to the original topic . . .

Dieting is not easy. You get to say goodbye to all your favorite foods that would’ve eventually killed you. Walking a minimum of 12,000 steps a day is my routine for now. This is how I lost 47 lbs. last year. I gained all the weight back because I looked like a stick figure and dogs were persistently confusing me for canine calcium treats. Anyhow, it is challenging to walk this amount of steps a day. You must find ways to entertain yourself. I usually walk in parks or malls and avoid gyms because they are filled with flesh-eating bacteria. I want to lose weight but not by being swiftly consumed by ravenous micro-organisms. Walking in parks exposes you to the element of surprise. These constituents include the walking dead, wicked fowl, vagabonds urinating in public, flying scavengers, and an occasional sloth sitting on a bench with hundreds of copies of the latest Watchtower propaganda for your unanticipated excretory system malfunctions. I usually pick the mall for my walking.

At an outdoor mall, you get to see the weekly sales on the window panes as sweat drips into your soon bloodshot eyes. Even this becomes boring after a while especially since I walk at sunrise when there are no shoppers, the stores are still closed, the security guard is sleeping somewhere undetectable or watching porn on his cellphone, and a relative of that damn park sloth is slowly decomposing on the one bench in the entire mall still waiting for unsuspecting victims. It did not take long to come up with a solution to the monotony. I set my mind to “juvenile” and downloaded Pokemon Go! I, now, walk with my friends Pikachu, Snorlax, Squitle, and Jynx even though Jynx reminds me of my first wife at times. This may sound exceptionally senseless but it gets the job done. I am not self-conscious of my environment, the now-rising grueling sunrays, the oceans of sweat, or even the baby Cthulhu which jumped on my head while walking next to the mall’s gigantic pond.

I don’t know how successful I will be with the diet this time around. Perhaps I should cut down on the pumpkin coffee creamer (Wal-Mart carries it year-round!) or the strawberry shortcake cookies baked by elves who do not participate on Pokemon Go! and are intimate friends of Lee the Tree. If all fails, I can always pick up some copies of the Watchtower from the floor and not leave the mall until I re-distribute them to shoppers not fans of Camus or Sartre. I’m bound to have shed, at least, 93 pounds by the time I get rid of them . . . or . . . baby Cthulhu became hungry and made me into a pile of bones which will trigger the damn dogs to come after me again.

Nudity and disappearing stores in Cocoa Beach

Years ago, I made an Excel file with everything I may need on any given road trip. I printed a few copies and stored them inside my file cabinet. The sheet has an item column and two very narrow columns to check-in and check-out the desired items. It became tiresome to reach your destination and find out you forgot the Pepto Bismol when you most needed it. It was always something: the toothbrush, the hotel rewards card, a sock (not the pair), a fifty-pack of chlorine-resistant sea monkeys to empty into the pool, or simply the reservations. However, the list isn’t foolproof. A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that I had gone to a local beach where I experienced spiritual cleansing as I ran away from a possible emu/Sasquatch entity hiding in the brush. The sea was serene without any signs of life or waves. My swimming trunks were still on a hanger in the garage when I was packing. I checked the box corresponding to underwear when I remembered the missing item. Rapidly, I jogged over to the garage and snatched them from the hanger. I threw them into my duffel bag and continued packing. I had forgotten that they fitted a bit loose since I have been dieting lately. I thought I had checked the corresponding box for the swim trunks but I missed it by one row.
It was a relatively short drive to my destination: Cocoa Beach. The area was jam-packed with people because of the July the 4th celebration. Once I checked into the hotel and started unpacking, I realized what I had forgotten. Nowhere was I to find my vitamins and minerals. How could I have forgotten? Didn’t I realize the duffel bag was nearly empty since it was missing fifteen bottles? I hopped over to the nearest pharmacy and bought a small bottle of One-a-Day to make up for the missing pills. Needless to say, I bought the one with iron which I cannot take because it gives me major stomach cramps. That night, I sat in the oceanfront balcony drinking Cabernet watching the glowing red neon emulating from the Cocoa Beach Pier’s streetlamps. Very peaceful; very pretty.
I woke up at 6:30 in the morning and rushed over to the beach. I have become self-conscious about my weight so I went for a dip before the crabs woke up and the people started flooding the beach. To my surprise, there were a few early birds but they looked much worse than me so I didn’t get discouraged. Unlike my previous beach visit, there were many waves not to mention sandbanks. A huge wave toppled me at the precise time I walked into one of these unexpected surprises. After doing a couple of underwater somersaults, I stood up and revealed my bare butt to the world. Yep, I’ve shed some pounds and the few misshapen beachgoers became witness to my weight loss success.
The following day, I took a quick shower and I drove west on highway 520 passing Merritt Island and into city of Cocoa. The downtown area is quaint and gorgeous reminding me of Naperville, Illinois, or Mount Dora, Florida. It became very cloudy so I jumped back into my rented Rav 2 and headed back. The Indian River bridge is steep with unacceptable railings so I didn’t want to experience the crossing under unfavorable conditions. Once I was back on AIA, I took a left to visit a couple of thrift stores I had seen the day before. I usually visit independent thrift stores because I collect 78 RPM records. They were very close to Cape Canaveral so I had a general idea where to find them. Little did I know, I had just driven into the Twilight Zone. I drove back and forth to no avail. Both stores had vanished. The only thing I saw was Rod Serling playing with a 63-foot crab in a mini-golf park which made me drive to a Mediterranean restaurant for lunch. I walked in to a sparsely decorated eatery with no one in sight. A minute later, someone came from the backroom and greeted me. I asked for falafel but he mentioned kafta and that it was called beef in his insanely strange accent. Huh? He went to the back room and brought a metallic bowl with chickpeas. I understood: “No falafel. Not today. Maybe later.” He then stuck his hand inside the bowl and started munching on the chickpeas. “Go to Pita Palace; good friend.” WTF? I have had enough of strangeness for one day so I drove to Publix and bought their version of a Happy Meal.
This brings me up-to-date as I sit here writing this blog sipping on some more Cabarnet. It has been a strange but relaxing outing. The hotel was fine and I showed my butt to strangers. I think that qualifies as a successful quick trip to the Space Coast. Now, I have to write a short story for a reading next weekend at the SFWA. Happy trails!

A bit of everything going on

This is not your typical post. This is just to update all that’s going on. . .

My diet is going slow. I believe why I’m losing weight slowly this time around is the excessive amounts of flavored creamers. At 35 calories a teaspoon, I am indulging on about 320 calories per coffee. Multiply that by 4 and you have 1280 calories on coffee a day. Luckily, I’m walking an average of 12,000 steps a day.

A quick 4th of July vacation at Cocoa Beach is on schedule. Could you imagine? The beach twice in one month? Sea lice galore! Major Nelson and Major Healey along with Dr. Bellows and Jeannie were invited but there’s been no response…especially from Nelson & Bellows.

I gotta tell you about the little blonde ghost girl that whispers to me every week. This is quite spooky. Oh, and there’s a marathon runner that hides behind walls too. Never a dull moment at the Lynn household.

My birthday is at the end of the month. Not looking forward to it but I hear the 63-foot crab and the emu/Sasquatch are attending. Who knows? Maybe even Lee the Tree!

Doctor visits upcoming. Never a good thing since they’re usually the bearers of bad news.

Finally, after a 2017 that saw the ending of four long-term alliances with “so-called friends & family,” I have managed not to ax anyone this year so far. It does help when I send malevolent, smiling crustaceans to their respective homes to create carnal chaos.

That’s all, folks. I’ll post a blog from NASA in a few days.

BTW, the radio pictured is a 1940’s Fada. Eventually, I will own one.

 

Posse & Clique: Surviving Ostracization

YOU ARE UNIQUE! You are special because you have some identifiable characteristic and I don’t mean a nose in the shape of a Doritos chip, ridiculously large ears that would make Dumbo cry, or having Tourette’s episodes in the middle of religious sermons. What I mean is that everyone in this strange world is trying to achieve something in their own distinctive manner whether it is to have a great job, a picture-perfect, lasting relationship with someone, or an exceptional education.  Sure, there are people who have unpleasant traits about them such as never showering or showing up to funerals wearing thongs and nothing else. Someone could also be a recluse; a total anti-social, introverted, bitter individual but that’s not the case with what I’m trying to put forth here.

Some people, for unknown reasons, won’t fit into any clique. Political or religious differences are stereotypical explanations why they would not be welcomed within their posse. These manifestations are observed in every culture around the globe but what if this phenomenon transpires when you’re a child or a teenager? Let’s use an example . . .

I went to a small private high school where essentially everyone’s parents were established professionals.  I met a few guys that became lifelong friends. These friends did not belong to any external circle of friends and if they did, the group became inconsistent. Years passed and social media became the quintessential place to congregate with old friends and schoolmates. I discovered that the same high school cliques were still active and new memberships were still unavailable. In the past, I arranged class get-togethers with “cyber” help from other classmates and even though these were successful reunions, I still didn’t get my “personalized V.I.P. pass” into their cult-like posse. So . . . what’s the problem here? It can’t be the race because, for the most part, we were all the same race with the same customs and culture with the exception of TWO black students in the whole school. Is it personal wealth that determines whether you would be ostracized or not? It is a possibility but I doubt my classmates are still anticipating their “Hey, you are now mature” notice in the mail. I will admit, I was a hot mess in high school skipping three out of the five days of the week and not caring a bit about my grades but, again, is THIS a legitimate reason?

I have come to the conclusion that perhaps these individual have detected that I am a shapeshifter and they are not at ease with such beings. If only they knew that it was I who transported them to Earth in an intergalactic, flying Ford Galaxie many centuries ago after I rescued them from a faraway planet where the inhabitants (they) fed on their own regenerating toes and had a habit consisting of discharging internal methane through their nostrils while doing ritualistic belly dances in the presence of sixty-three foot space crabs prior to their bedtime.

But seriously, I believe it’s just a matter of perspective. It is THEM who are blemished and impaired possibly from pre-pubescent peer pressure. They have limited themselves to socialize exclusively with their kind . . . somewhat like an incestuous tribe. Perhaps that’s why their children looked slightly suspect with their oversized heads, hindered speech, and unusual blood types K squared or TX+3/4. This act of ostracizing could even be considered bullying in some strange circles.

Just remember that you are much better than them. You don’t have scruples and you are not biased. You are not pretentious by worshiping your magnificent home, vehicle, children, and profession to others. Chances are everything they boast about is a fabrication. You may be standing over their subterranean meth lab if they ever lower their guard to invite you to their incognito soiree. And once you’re there, avoid the bowl with the Little Smokies. Those hors d’oeuvres being served may be their best friend’s severed toes.

 

Oceanic Adventures

I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. It’s been the beginning of a head cold, wild blood pressure fluctuations, tired bones, over exhaustion, and so on. All of this could possibly be linked to lack of sleep which I am a “blue ribbon” winner in this category. I say this because I feel great on nights when I sleep over six hours. I’m not too worried about this because I spent the first twenty-three years of my life being awake at night and taking short naps during the day. Once, I even had some dumb kid walk up to me with a lollipop while I was napping on a tree limb. What nerve waking me up to ask me how many licks it took to get to the center of his stupid candy. I showed him! I guess I wasn’t too refined in those days. They’re making us look better these days by being helpful and informative. We can sell you cheap eyeglasses, find you hotel deals (cheaper if you room with roaches), and even persuade you to buy medicine which would probably expedite your demise.

But I totally got off subject . . .

Late last week, I was involved in a soul-searching, karma cleansing, self-pilgrimage of epic proportions. In other words, I went to the beach . . . alone . . . at sunrise. Now, you may think: “Big deal. Who hasn’t done this before?” However, this beach was completely empty. I mean, this is the perfect place to be if you want to be abducted by aliens in broad daylight. This might be a good idea if you owe too much in credit cards, alimony, child support, and unpaid I.R.S. taxes. The experience was beyond surreal. There were NO cars in the parking lot and not one person anywhere on the beach for as far as the eye could see.

I haven’t been to this beach in ages and it has gone through many changes since the last time I visited. All the trees and picnic benches are gone. Back in the day, there was no formal parking lot. You would park your vehicle between trees on their roots. I guess the ecologists became infuriated. The actual beach has also been cleaned up. No more submerged huge boulders where assorted fish would congregate and tickle your legs (visual, please) as you walked by in three feet of water. There is a trail with heavy brush on the sides that lead to the sand. I AM SURE there are some exotic and, perhaps, extinct animals living within the dense greenery because I heard sounds coming from there that I last heard while having a nightmare where Timothy Leary and I were walking through the Brazilian rainforests. I will admit: I sprinted through the trail twice because one thing is to have aliens conduct a procto exam on you and another thing is to be swallowed alive by a nefarious emu/sasquatch hybrid with a preference for writers. (There’s an obscure document on a cave wall written in hieroglyphics at Florida Caverns State Park in Marianna, Florida, which states that the emu/sasquatch hybrid prefers to boil writers before eating them in a huge pot to create alphabet soup but I, personally, don’t think it’s true.)

Rapidly, I submerged myself into the salted, fish-urinated sea a total of five times and walked out. As I was drying myself, a security guard on a golf cart materialized. The older man smiled, slowly waved at me, and drove away towards the parking lot. I believe my mental RPMs slowed to a minimum because it reminded me of the scene with the fire truck/fireman at the beginning of David Lynch’s “Blue Velvet.” Was I going to find a human ear in the sand? Was I in Lumberton? This happened again as I was getting into my car except, this time, the older lady in the golf cart said “good morning” as she, too, gave me the hand wave on Quaaludes.

In conclusion, I don’t know what came over me but I felt invigorated after the quick dips. It was an awkward experience but, I believe, I left behind something malevolent at the beach. Perhaps this is what the emu/sasquatch feeds on until the capture the right specimen to consume.

PS: I took a few pictures of the creepy beach and the trail. They are posted on my Douglas Lynn Facebook page for your enjoyment.

On death and marsupials

Death is one of the few unsolved mysteries of the world. It surprises you most of the times unless you’re diving off the Verrazano Bridge, shooting up liquefied phencyclidine, snorting Mount Everest, or trying to deceive the IRS. Some other people cannot handle the reality of growing old. They feel they’ve become inadequate, unattractive, or have simply given up on life after recognizing that they’ve failed in mostly everything. Death is not supposed to be enthusiastically anticipated as you mature. “Old” is in the mind. Sure, the physical body throws hints at you periodically to remind you that you’re not the “brick house” you used to be but this shouldn’t derail your mission in life. You are never too old to try anything new. Start doing whatever you desire now because thinking about it is as good as anticipating Harry Potter ringing your doorbell on Christmas Eve and gifting you with his virtues. If you really think this is plausible, re-read the second sentence of this post.

This interruption of your timeline becomes an even bigger burden when you come from a family where “kicking it” has occurred more often than not prior to hitting the big 5-0. An example would be my own family and this is one of the reasons why my address is a post office box. The reaper would have to go through the inconvenience of activating my antiquated GPS tracker implanted under my skin when I was born to look up my street address. This would greatly delay “it” (we must consider the possibility that the reaper might be female and potentially my ex-wife dressed in Goth). Chances are “it” won’t find me because I would have been notified by my undercover lemur friend residing within my neighbor’s Surinam cherry tree. Once I get the marsupial tip, I’ll use my ticket bought in advanced from SpaceX to vacation around “green (cheese) land.”

But seriously, this is a complex topic to openly blurt out to friends, family, acquaintances, sensitivity readers, frail shrubbery, and peers. It is an actuality and ignoring it won’t make the inevitable go away. Much of the world’s population find comfort in what religion teaches them: “When you die, you go to the heavens and Saint Peter will be there to direct you to the land of rainbows, unicorns, past family members, yellow stars, pink hearts, orange stars, green clovers, the pet turtle you flushed down the toilet when you were five years old, and Glenn Miller and Amelia Earhart sitting in a tree (don’t ask what they’re doing there).  You also get a reduced cable TV and cell phone bill along with complimentary celestial wings.” Umm . . . no! Doesn’t work that way but if it’s going to make you feel better prior to “hanging your sneakers,” then, go for it. Just remember me when you’re writing your will.

Some others believe in reincarnation but the problem with this philosophy is that you cannot foresee the transmogrification. What if you return as a deep angler fish and you’re afraid of depths, darkness, and the sea? Or maybe you come back as a deformed Chihuahua because you had a massive collection of Frito Bandito erasers when you were a child. Finally, you may come back as an inanimate object . . . like a septic tank or a fire hydrant.

The point is that everything you hear about death may be true or it may all be BS. There’s no way of telling. We do not get injected with religious faith and eternal wisdom prior to being born (but we are slowly inoculated with life-altering, GMO poisons subsidized by some big corporate establishment and supervised by an advocate of the aforementioned dark entity since the day we’re born.) Stop worrying about things you have no control over and don’t let this bring you down and, most importantly, don’t let any manipulating, false prophet restrict you from doing whatever the hell you want to do. Remember that those who preach about the things you should and shouldn’t do aren’t any smarter than you. They, too, will eventually become worm meat or ashtray contents too (or lemur food if they’re around my neighborhood).  So, enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think!

Interview with Douglas Lynn

Recently, I was interviewed by Fiona Mcvie for her AUTHORS INTERVIEWS blog site. Get to know the strange man in his strange world! It is available at :

https://authorsinterviews.wordpress.com/2018/06/19/here-is-my-interveiw-with-douglas-lynn/

Again, I must reiterate that my blog and my independent writing are very different from each other. The blog mainly displays my humor which has been referred to as slapstick and extreme. My stories are the more serious and bizarre side of me.

“The Psychopomp”, mentioned in the interview, is a novelette on the surreal forces of good versus evil with both being the same entity at times (a recurring topic in my stories and past songwriting). It should be published this autumn along with some other short stories and flash fiction.

And then came June the 15th . . .

Situation:

Car #1 – Needs two back tires

Car #2 – Needs back brakes

The unpaid bills

Landscapers M.I.A.

The local weather

 

So it’s Friday and all is fun and joy because it should be. Most of the times, I would be chillaxing with my wine and getting ready for the weekend. This is not one of those times.

I start the day with my morning stroll which is usually 10,000 steps. As I’ve mentioned previously, I am on a diet . . . again. My fitness hours are interrupted today because I have to take car #1 to a new tire place. If you’ve ever gone to Goodyear or Firestone, you know you will have to shave your 5 o’clock shadow before they’re done. These are sloths in disguise. They work slowly and periodically turn towards you and smile. This new place, however, promised me that their work would be done in half an hour or less but I must get there when they open. So, I drive the car with the bald tires to them and, lo and behold, they kept their promise. The tires were quite inexpensive too . . . suspiciously cheap. So I skip a day of megawalks.

Next thing on the agenda is paying bills. I have it set up in which most of my bills are due on the 15th. No problem. However, I remembered a few other tidbits I had to take care of. By the time I’m done with these, it’s time for lunch. This is the one meal which is crucial since my breakfast is a towering cup of coffee with my beloved pumpkin spice creamer (Yes, my local Wal-Mart takes care of me and it carries this flavor year round). Lunch consists of a non-soy, veggie burger and eight ounces of grapefruit juice. I went back to the computer to pay the bills. The phone rings. The mechanic is coming over in a few hours to change the brakes. I realize I have four (yes, 4) pennies in my wallet. I have no cash and he only takes cash (Does he report it? Don’t know and don’t care. Not my problem). Off I go on car #1 with the new (possibly black market) tires to the ATM and get some cash. The Freon is leaking so I have no A/C. The sun and the heat are punishing but I make it back home with only one-seventh of my skin melted off.

I make my second attempt on paying the bills now keeping in mind of the 5 PM deadline. There’s a knock on the door after I had paid a couple of the utilities. It’s the mechanic. I have a friend who is also a mechanic but he can never get here because his vehicle is always broken. Figure that! He had bought the brakes for car #2 a while back. Well, guess what? After the “new” mechanic took the tires and old brakes off, I give him the box of brakes and he tells me that those don’t fit. Now, mind you, I had asked the mechanic how much the labor would be and I took out the EXACT amount from the ATM. So, car #1 with the suspicious tires is blocked in by car #2 on a jack. The mechanic’s car is full of crap reminiscent to Fred Sanford’s home so I cannot go to the auto parts store with him because I don’t fit in there and it would be a frosty day in Cameroon when I lend him my credit card. He tells me he will get the correct brakes and I could pay him later. He leaves and soon after, the landscaper parks his truck in front of the house. By the way, he is scheduled for Tuesdays but lately Noah has been picking that day to go sailing on his ark so he couldn’t come. I walk to greet him and tell him to be careful on the driveway because the mechanic left car parts and tools close to where he works. The guy who reminds me of the Doobie Brothers’s Patrick Simmons looks at me as if I had a platypus’s bill growing out of the side of my head. Luckily, he understood. So, Rodney the mechanic (I call him Rodney because he has a striking resemblance to the late Mr. Dangerfield) goes on his merry way to find the elusive brakes. Mr. Simmons and the rest of the landscaping Doobies finish. Apparently, Rodney was abducted by the big-headed, 55-eyed aliens from the planet Sumadre. What else can go wrong? Oh, yeah . . . we have new thunderstorm warnings for the vicinity. So it starts raining and I worry the car parts might wash away and find their way to Noah now doing the limbo with disgruntled giraffes somewhere north of Cyprus. Once I saw the first of the raindrops, I called Rodney to find out if the aliens had finished the rectal examination. I guess they did because he answered and assured me not to worry because he was on his way. And, like stepping on roadkill while trying to impress the new neighbor with the string bikini, I remembered the bills. Oh, the damn bills. Screw it. I pay after the 5 P.M. deadline and hope for the best. I finally finished paying them all at exactly 6:15 P.M. and, just then, Rodney finally shows up. It is now 8:30 P.M. and he’s still out there working in total darkness. I see some movement so either he’s working or a battalion of insects are feeding on him.

Well, there’s always Saturday. I’m sure it’ll be a better day after I have my coffee with pumpkin spice creamer and dispose of the carcass the insects left behind.

PERSONAL PARADOX VOL. 384: PROSE VS. MUSIC

There’s an overused saying that goes “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket” which is considered good advice by many. This is not a rule, though, since there are exceptions. Some people play two-hundred lotto tickets every week hoping the more they play, the greater the chances of winning. Others would spend their well-earned money by playing different games, i.e., Powerball, Fantasy 5, Mega Millions, etc. Logic would dictate that diversifying increases the chances of winning. If only life were this easy . . .

My dilemma this wonderfully overcast evening is on the similarities I’ve encountered with this philosophy. My conclusion is that prose and music can be handled in the same exact way and the end result will most likely be devastating. As far as prose, it came to my attention as I was checking my stats on my blog. There are times when I post a blog and receive a respectable amount of likes while, other times, I post on the same genre and you can hear the chilling sound of a dead June beetle’s dehydrated exoskeleton withering in the wind around you as you take your post-dinner, nightly stroll around the community park. What exactly does this mean? Does it mean that I should either 1) stick to one genre exclusively 2) post at the exact time every time I post a blog 3) find a more diverse audience perhaps out of the country? Obviously, I’m doing something wrong and I haven’t pinpointed the problem.

Here’s when the overactive brain takes over (or the ADHD decides to become an a-hole once again). Diversification should not be limited to social or cultural applications. It should be a general rule which enhances your quality of life. So, I “diversify” in prose genre or style and I get nailed. The same happened to me with music many years ago. I would write and/or produce a track with a distinct genre in mind. Luckily for me, the very first track I wrote and produced became a hit within its genre and almost crossover to the pop charts. For the second release, I changed the genre thinking I could maximize my audience by catering to a different market. The point is that every release was different from the next one and the glory days ended unexpectedly quickly. After all, who want to be pigeon-holed, profiled, or typecasted into a specific label?

So . . . my quandary is: why does this happen in these fields when diversification applies to practically every other asset of life with success?

I would like some honest opinions on this post whether they are good or bad. Should I stick to one genre, one style, a hybrid, a timeframe, an audience?  Maybe videos? More pictures?