I'm... It?

Yeah. I'm "it."

Now when I say "I'm it," I don't mean that as if to say "I'm all that!" (Not that I'd ever use that all-too-trendy expression about anyone...) No, no, no, I mean "I'm it" as in "Tag! You're it!"

And I've been tagged.

A young lady named Marianna -- at least that's her user name -- has magnanimously decided to include me in one of those little internet games popular among bloggers. More on that in a few seconds, fellow babies.

Marianna is one of the many Blogger-bloggers who, like myself, participates in something called "Theme Thursday," which is how she and I "found" each other... you (and she) should pardon the expression. She has a blog called The Momentary Cloudiness of a "Dirty" Mind, which I recommend... thus, the linky thing. It's quite enjoyable, except for the disappointing fact that she doesn't really seem to have a "dirty" mind. Ummm... That's just a joke, everybody. If I wanted porn, I suppose I could find it somewhere on the internet if I searched diligently enough.

Anyway, here are the rules. I've seen slight variations on this list, but this list is the list as... ummm... listed on Marianna's blog! (And yes, silly rabbits, I purposely used the word "list" over & over!)

1. Mention the person who tagged you on your blog.
2. Use your creativity and write 6 things about you (some suggest things "of no real importance," so if you shot JFK, for example... skip that).
3. Tag 6 more blog pals.
4. Notify them by posting a comment or sending them an e-mail saying the words "you've been tagged" (or however else you wanna express yourself really)!

In other words, it's kinda like a chain letter, but I don't get any money.

(Hm. So why am I doing this?)

Now... If there's one thing I've learned about Blogger-bloggers over the past fifteen months or so (when my other blog, David'Z RantZ, moved over from its original Diaryland host), its that they tend to hang together in a (non-sexual) incestuous kinda way, commenting on each other's blogs , referencing each other in their blog posts (which can confuse the hell out of new readers), and generally playing off one another.

So. If I pick any of them ("them" being regular Theme Thursday players, that is), I'll probably be picking people who've already tagged one another. But I'd rather spread this around. For that reason, my List of Six will not use any of the people I've come to know via Theme Thursday. Instead I'll rely on those I've been linked to for the past year or so. In alphabetical order, here goes (and clicking on any or all of these will open a new tab or window, so click away!):

1. Cake's Off-Topic Blog About Nothing
2. Dinosaur Casserole
3. [link deleted]
4. My Family and Other Animals
5. Silver Fox Tales (no "relation" to me, the "Silver Fox" whose crap blog you're reading now!)
6. This Just In

And now, six facts about myself:

1. I write very long-winded blog posts. Actually, since I'm writing to you and not actually speaking to you, there's probably a more appropriate term than "long-winded," but this hoity-toity "writer" ain't got it.

I know I'm not surprising anyone already familiar with my blogs by saying I'm wordy, but I think this will be a great opportunity to justify myself a bit. After all, there are those who feel that a good blogger needs to be brief and to the point.

I'm my own worst critic, and I really don't have all that large an ego -- occasional references by this reader or that reader that he or she is my "fan" makes me feel uneasy, somehow -- but my writing style is indeed a wordy style. And common sense tells me that if you come to my blog again and again over time, you pretty much like what I say and how I say it. I've even had a few people comment that they like reading my stuff even when the topic itself doesn't interest them, which I consider a very high compliment indeed.

Hell, even when I write something that I think is uncharacteristically brief, I spend an extra paragraph pointing out that it is uncharacteristically brief!

Anyone who follows my blog knows what he or she is in for, and I'm sure as hell not someone who's likely to end up on Twitter! Besides, you wouldn't go to see a hard rock band at a bar, and then leave saying "It was awful! It was all loud music, and everybody was drinking and getting drunk!" But I realize some of my entries practically require lifetime commitments, which is why I end almost everything I write with "Thanks for your time," or words to that effect.

Now, that whole bit about ego or lack of same leads me indirectly to another fact about myself:

2. I (occasionally) browse the articles in women's magazines. Yep. They're quite illuminating when it comes to understanding the way women really think -- which is, or should be, important to any man who actually cares about women as people -- as opposed to the supposedly-helpful articles in men's magazines. (And by "men's magazines," I mean those geared to guys who want to live rounded lives, like Maxim -- to list just one example -- as opposed to skin mags like Hustler.)

It's always intrigued me that women appreciate subtleties lost on most men. On the subject of ego, for instance, a guy has to achieve an elusive balance to be appealing. He can't be an arrogant jerk, of course. He does have to be confident. He can be slightly humble, but it's a turn-off if he's too self-deprecating...

What are you trying to do, ladies, make these poor guys think?

(Gee, maybe someday I should dig out that old article that almost sold to a women's mag, and post it here...)

I once made this "confession" about perusing women's magazines to a male friend who winked knowingly and said "Know thy enemy, huh?" but I disagreed. Women aren't the enemy. In fact, most of my close friends are women, and that's a statement I've been able to make for over twenty years. Right now, I have -- probably -- three fairly close friends who are male, and that's as high as that number has been for several years.

I should probably segué from point 2 to point 3 here, and say that although I'm this wonderful guy who appreciates women's intelligence, and their friendship, and all that...

3. I am a self-proclaimed Male Slut. This is, strangely enough, referred to less on The Lair of the Silver Fox than it was on my older blog, David'Z RantZ. And there's a reason for that.

Quite honestly, neither my "RantZ persona" nor my "Foxy persona" is 100% David M. Lynch.

The "Silver Fox" is, generally, someone with minor literary pretensions, a usually-serious and -- dare I say it? -- somewhat sensitive soul. The guy who digs out those thirty-year-old poems, don'tcha know. But that's only a side of me.

The "David" (a/k/a "David'Z" in the various Blogger comments sections) of David'Z RantZ was a much more abrasive, bitchy observer of a world which refused to cater to his sensibilities, a guy who was constantly flirting with -- but never really hitting on -- the female Blogger-bloggers in their respective comments sections. That's only a side of me, as well.

The true me lies somewhere in between. "Probably closer to famous potatoes." (Sorry... George Carlin reference.) I can hang out with a bunch of pretentious intellectuals (which is not to say that all intellectuals are pretentious!), and be fairly comfortable in a biker bar, as well.

And that's the guy -- the guy who can be cultured or crude according to whim or necessity -- who, along with a couple of friends nearly thirty years ago, was lamenting the unfairness of the sexist attitude which lauds horny young men for "sowing their wild oats" yet condemns horny young women as "sluts."

Not fair, we agreed. We also agreed that people would probably never be convinced to stop calling these women sluts -- at least not in our lifetimes -- so in the interest of equality and fair play, we should instead call the "horny young men" I mentioned above by the epithet of "slut" as well.

And since my friends and I were -- you guessed it -- horny young men, we "became" sluts. Sluts with principles. Sensitive, cultured, intellectual, equality-minded, fair-playing, non-sexist sluts!

Just thought I'd share that with you.

4. I am a notorious procrastinator. I even wrote an appropriate quote in "honor" of the fact, although it took me a while to come up with it... fittingly enough: "The only thing that cannot be successfully put off until a later time is procrastination."

Over thirty years ago, I encountered a news story about some national organization or society for procrastinators. I was intrigued, especially when I learned that they'd already postponed their first national convention two years in a row. I made a vow that I'd track them down and join. The first time I actually made the effort to do so was a couple of years ago, however... which, strangely enough, ought to make me a member in good standing.

That kinda leads in to #5...

5. If you ever loan me a book or a video, I'll either have it back to you during the week, or not for several months... or even years. I just have to keep from getting sidetracked before I can read or view it. It's like how you can actually teach a cat a trick, if you can keep his or her interest.

...which leads me to the sixth and final entry!

6. I love how you can say almost anything to a pet, as long as you use a tone of voice appropriate to whatever you're actually trying to convey. After all, they don't really understand more than a few oft-repeated words of "humanspeak." If my cat is on my computer table -- one of the very few places I absolutely never allow him to venture -- and I angrily yell "Flounder!" or "Hairbrush!" instead of "Get down!" he'll still get down, trust me!

The same goes for when you're holding and petting them. As long as your voice is soft and low, or high-pitched and playful, you can be saying, "You're a little pain in the ass," or "You're a fuzzy little f**k-head," and they don't care. They really don't. It's great.

And you wanna know something else that's cool? The same thing works for babies, too -- the human kind -- for at least the first few months, anyway.

Sometimes, life is good.

I'm done.

Thanks for your time.

A Brief Look Inside My Twisted Mind

I recently got what I think -- hope? -- is a really cool idea for a story.

I must "confess" to having several writing influences. Some of them -- most of them, truth be told -- go back pretty far, both in terms of the authors' eras and in terms of how young I was when these gents became my influences. Today's post concerns four of them: Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville (actually, less Melville himself and more his most famous novel, Moby-Dick), and last but not least, Herman Raucher, who wrote Summer of '42.

Let's concentrate on Summer of '42 for a bit. The book and the movie, both written by Raucher -- although the movie screenplay was written first -- concern three adolescent boys in their mid-teens. The boys are Benjie, Oscy, and the narrator, Hermie, who call themselves "The Terrible Trio" as they scamper around Nantucket Island during -- you guessed it -- the summer of 1942. All of them are as obsessed with sex as the average male of fourteen or fifteen, and the story focuses on this fact.

I once read an interview with Herman Raucher in which he joked
about how the first edition of the novel sported a cover illustration
in which the artist drew a TV antenna on the roof of a 1942 home!
A great anecdote, sure... but it looks more like a weathervane to me!

Anyway, in the early 1970s, when the novel and film were released, I was that age, albeit roughly thirty years later than the year in which the Terrible Trio's story occurred, and some publicity about the film -- which I didn't get to see until many years later -- sent me in search of the novel.

(By the way, need I add that I, too, was obsessed by sex at that age? Probably not. In fact, at 52, I still wonder if I'll ever outgrow that. But I obsess... I mean, I digress.)

Raucher was incredibly entertaining. Not only was the book told from Hermie's point of view, but we were also allowed inside his head for constant smartass comments on the events he was relating. I readily admit that I often do the same thing in my own work, and that's where it started.

Now here's my weird idea:

Instead of Hermie, Oscy, and Benjie, how about a "Terrible Trio" made up of Hermie, Charlie, and Eddie?

As in "Hermie" Melville, "Charlie" Dickens, and "Eddie" Poe.

Picture them as 18th-century post-adolescents scampering about on Nantucket Island. After all, Melville was indeed involved with the whaling community, and Nantucket, Massachusetts, was as tied up with whaling as was New Bedford, Massachusetts, where the story of Moby-Dick began.

This would obviously be a sure test of my readers' willing suspension of disbelief. The main things that I'd stick to from fact would be the characters' ages, and what I perceive as their basic personalities. Anything else... not so much.

The beauty of it, of course, is that all three men were alive at roughly the same time. I've decided to focus on one particular summer, the one in which morbid "Eddie" Poe was 33, serious-minded social activist "Charlie" Dickens was 30, and the young, adventurous, and impressionable "Hermie" Melville turned 23.

And exactly which summer was that? Oh, you're ahead of me here?

Yep, it was the summer of '42.

1842.

Now, all I need is the time to devote to writing this sucker. Wish me luck.

And thanks for your time.

The Wind Beneath HIS Wings -- A "Theme Thursday" Post

Otto Lilienthal

Something a bit different today.

In his hit song "Kodachrome," Paul Simon referred to "all the crap I learned in high school," but I learned my "crap" a few years earlier. The more I learn about history -- both the "World" and "U.S." varieties -- the more I realize that the so-called "history" lessons I was subjected to in grammar school were largely a waste of time. I hadn't even made my way through high school before I learned that the "truth" about Christopher Columbus and the "truth" about the Pilgrims that landed in my own state of Massachusetts was mostly b.s.

And in the thirty-five years since my high school graduation, I've learned a few other, equally disconcerting things, as well.

I was told about the Wright brothers, Orville and Wilbur, and how they invented the airplane and conducted the first successful manned flights (not counting guys who'd "gone up" in hot-air balloons).

And whenever they talked about the Wright brothers, the teachers spoke of previous, unsuccessful flights made by others... notably, how some idiot named Otto Lilienthal leaped off a cliff and fell to his death, much like the urban legends of those kids who tied towels around their necks and leaped off roofs in emulation of Superman. He'd built some kind of glider, evidently... We never got the details. But somehow, this guy Lilienthal became famous just for that one jump of his which sent him unceremoniously to the ground? Poor sucker.

Personally, I always pictured some nut flying too close to the sun with his wax-coated wings, like the mythological Icarus.

Well, Otto, we hardly knew ye (to screw up an old expression).

If you want the tip of the proverbial iceberg in regards to the "real truth," you can start here. But if you don't want to learn any more than what I'm willing to impart personally, chew on this:

The reason Otto Lilienthal was mentioned in my history classes was that he'd received quite a bit of fame before he was mortally wounded in his famous glider crash. He was a true, respected aviation pioneer, having made roughly two thousand successful glider flights prior to his final attempt! In fact, the Wright brothers themselves learned a lot from his writings.

And needless to say, modern-day hang-gliding aficionados owe him a debt of thanks for his experiments, as well.

So thinking of him as some kind of "idiot" or "nut" would be tantamount to calling Dale Earnhardt the same simply because of how he met his end.

Lilienthal aloft.

"All the crap I learned," indeed!

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (fifth and final entry)

I started writing as a little child.

Poems and songs sprang from my developing imagination at, roughly, age eight and beyond. I did a lot of songwriting and poetry-writing between 1974 (when I was 17, 18) and 1982. Most of these songs and poems were only shared with my closest friends. Some of the songs were introduced to small segments of the world via a handful of bands I fronted in the very late 1970s and early 1980s.

Speaking objectively after several days of re-reading my old shit stuff, I can honestly say that I think that some of the songs and poems I wrote were pretty good. A few -- like the Morrisonesque poems I wrote circa 1981 -- really stank. Most fell somewhere in between.

I've spent the last few days sharing songs from thirty years ago, more or less. I wanted to end this streak of poetry posts with something more recent.

And I did find something that fits... But first, one of my typically wordy introductions.

Unlike my previous four posts, I'm not sure when this poem was originally written. Sometime in the early 1990s, IIRC. I was working as one of three overnight bakers in a supermarket chain. The store I was stationed at was, at that time, open 24 hours a day.

One morning, well after midnight but long before dawn, I was in the far corner of the bakery frying doughnuts when one of the other bakers walked up to me and said something to the effect of "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I replied.

"A woman just asked me to write on a cake for her."

"And?"

"She had me write 'I love you, but good-bye' on it!"

I immediately thought of three or four reasons why someone would want to express that sentiment to someone else -- most involving cheating lovers with guilty consciences -- but couldn't get over the idea of having those sentiments put on a cake! "Wow," I told him, "If someone gave me a cake with that written on it, I'd either thrown it out onto the lawn, or right at her!" He agreed with me.

But naturally, I walked away thinking, "There just has to be a song or a poem I can get out of that!"

And there was, of course. So here it is.

* * * * *

I Love You. Good-Bye.

I woke last night, and washed my face, and roughly rubbed it dry.
The towel held your perfume's trace. It nearly made me cry.
I went back to the cold, cold bed that seemed so warm before,
And fought the tears and creeping dread till you walked in that door.

Neither of us had to speak. We both knew where you'd been.
You do this three, four times a week and then come sneaking in.
I'd like to play your games, your way, and beat you at this race,
But when I try, I just can't stay. The girls all have your face.

You won't see me cry.
You won't see me cry.
I love you.
Good-bye.

I guess there's nothing I can do to keep you true to me.
It must be me; it can't be you. I wish that I could see
A way to change your life, and mine, just like a fairy tale,
And leave this rotten life behind. But if I tried, I'd fail.

You care enough to still come home, yet let me die by inches.
Your love's the cruellest thing I own. It pulls, it cuts, it pinches.
There's nothing here I care to pack, so next time you go cheating,
I'll leave for good ere you come back, to save me one more beating.

You won't see me cry.
You won't see me cry.
I love you.
Good-bye.

* * * * *

See? This is why I stopped writing poems and songs over ten years ago (with rare exceptions). My regular stuff is depressing enough, but the poems and songs were worse!

Okay, fellow babies, here's the plan: Tomorrow is my "Theme Thursday" entry for this week. Friday or Saturday will bring an announcement of sorts, and after the weekend, I plan to debut what will probably be a four-part story. Each subsequent chapter will appear on a Monday.

Anyway, as I said, that's the plan... subject to last-minute changes, as always.

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (fourth entry)

And now, for better or for worse, here's the sequel to " ...I Put Away Childish Things," the continuing story of the young man nicknamed "Moses," he of the all-too-vivid imagination.

And be warned. Outside of The Godfather, Part II and Rocky II, sequels are rarely as good as the originals!

* * * * *

Another Look at Moses (05/29/1979)

There's a young man in a graveyard,
Known as Moses when a teen.
You'll find twelve lots to a section.
Moses stands at Lot Thirteen.
Long ago, when last we saw him,
Moses shot his phantom mate,
Thinking surely it would free him
From his pre-determined fate.
He threw off the dreams of childhood,
Then found out too late his curse.
"One can't flee one's own creations."
Roxanne's slaying made things worse.

Take another look at Moses,
Putting flowers on a grave,
Wishing memories would fade off
And his sinner's soul be saved.

There is nothing where he's standing
Save what's in his tortured eyes,
Telling him the girl he murdered
'Neath the ground before him lies.
When he leans to place no flowers
On no weather-beaten stone,
The child Moses grieves for her,
And the adult's glad he's alone.
It's been years since his solution
Proved more trouble than 'twas worth.
Now he curses his decision,
Curses more his very birth.

Take another look at Moses,
Looking sadly at the grave,
Wishing memories would fade off,
Sort of crawl into a cave.

Now his soul-searching has ended.
There's but one road left for him.
Things must always come full circle
To appease the Planners' whims.
He should never have denied her,
Never made her leave that way.
Not-so-sadly now, he joins her.
He shall not grieve one more day.
On the next day, when they find him,
He'll be cold and dead, for sure,
And they'll never see the weapon
Moses used to find his cure.

Take a final look at Moses,
Lying lifeless 'cross the grave.
All his memories have faded
With the life he gladly gave.

* * * * *

As I said... a vivid imagination. A real killer, ya know? A real mind-blower! And I'll bet he used the very same gun to blow his brains out as he did to off his little sweetie! Hee hee hee heeeeee!

Oops, sorry, turning into the Crypt-Keeper, there! Guess that all this morbid poetry I've been revisiting (plus the whole Bea Arthur thing...) has warped me a bit.

Current plans are to end my belated tribute to National Poetry Month tomorrow, the day before the next "Theme Thursday." I'll try to find something more cheerful -- and more recent -- to end this week or so of poems & songs with, but knowing myself as I do... I doubt it.

Oh, and by the way... How'd you like that ominous quote, "One can't flee one's own creations?" I put it in quotes like that to give it an air of gravity, but... I wrote that line.

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (third entry)

Here we go with the third entry -- another song -- in our salute to National Poetry Month... which was last month. Sue me.

This was written for a friend named Robin -- a Scorpio, like myself -- who literally asked me to write a song for her. I said I would, on one minor condition: If she'd give me the title, I'd tailor it to the goings-on in her life.

She did so, and I ended up writing a so-called "advice song," the kind of song my friend Dave always said he hated, for some strange reason.

But it didn't matter if Dave liked "advice songs" or not. It wasn't written for him.

Robin loved it.

The first line of the song, "Never step on a scorpion," was from the title of a 1965 Spider-Man story written by Stan Lee, believe it or not!

* * * * *

Games (12/08/1978)

Never step on a scorpion, people.
No, never mess with its head.
If you're heartless, you'll wind up a'suffering,
If just careless, you'll "just" end up dead.
When a wound's deep, its healing takes longer,
And its bleeding alarms all your friends,
But there's method to all of this madness,
More like means justifying the ends.

CHORUS
It's a shame when you see friends with problems,
And you're buffeted 'round in their wake,
But first, look to yourself,
Rest your friends on the shelf,
And avoid all these games for your sake...
All those games that are making you quake.

Find a way to back off from surroundings.
Find a listener who also can talk.
Take advice only if it's worth something.
If a ride comes along... try to walk.
No one knows more than you what upsets you.
Only you have to deal with such stuff.
Don't find solace in false ways of dealing
Or the going gets rougher than rough.

CHORUS
It's a shame when you see friends with problems,
And you're buffeted 'round in their wake,
But first, look to yourself,
Rest your friends on the shelf,
And avoid all these games for your sake...
All those games that are making you quake.

REPEAT FIRST VERSE AND CHORUS

* * * * *

I couldn't resist a private joke -- in addition to the Spider-Man reference -- when I wrote "Games."

When I write a song, I often picture a certain celebrity singing it.

"Don't Let Me Love You on the Rebound" -- from my last post -- was written with Jerry Reed in mind. Another song, "The Life You Never Find" -- which I wrote years ago and recently included in a story called "Angelina" -- was composed "for" Barry Manilow.

The tune I attached to "Games" was tailored to Jimmy Buffett... hence my use of the word "buffeted" in the second line of the chorus.

Hey, what can I say? These little things keep me amused.

(Now let's wait to see if I just "cursed" Jimmy Buffett.)

Thanks for your time.

It Was LAST Month? (second entry)

So, here I am, once again defying that "bloggers take weekends off" practice so many Blogger-bloggers follow...

In honor of National Poetry Month, which... umm... was *ahem* last month, here's the second in a rapid-fire series of old poems and/or songs written when the Silver Fox's hair was still light brown.

The following song is one of my personal favorites, primarily because of the wordplay. I really wish you could hear the tune I gave it! It's a bouncy, upbeat, banjoey C&W kinda thing, something I wish I could have sold to someone like Jerry Reed.

* * * * *

Don't Let Me Love You on the Rebound (10/19/1978)

When people start to treat me hard, I just grow harder,
And their cold shoulders just make me more cold.
I need companionship before my troubled life ends.
Oh, Lord, I guess I'm really gettin' old.
I'm also gettin' kinda sick o'losin' lovers.
So many women put me on the shelf,
And told me they were kinda sick o'lovin' losers.
So here I'm feelin' sorry for myself.

CHORUS
Don't let me love you on the rebound,
For it might up'n'fade away.
This lover's fog I'm in might vanish
Before the cleansin' light o'day.
Oh, yes, I'll love you on the rebound,
When it's too late for you, you'll finally see,
And you are much too sweet'n'sensitive a lady
To be sufferin' for love o'scum like me!

My life has been a downhill trip to darkest Hades,
An' lots o'people say it's just as well,
Cuz I ain't never gonna get to Heaven, darlin',
So here on Earth, I'll just prepare fer Hell.
My friends are special cuz they truly can accept me,
But you, m'dear, see somethin' thet I'm not.
You see good in one who's somewhat less than Satan,
But acts if he's somethin' more than God.

CHORUS
Don't let me love you on the rebound,
For it might up'n'fade away.
This lover's fog I'm in might vanish
Before the cleansin' light o'day.
Oh, yes, I'll love you on the rebound,
When it's too late for you, you'll finally see,
And you are much too sweet'n'sensitive a lady
To be sufferin' for love o'scum like me!

Yes, you are much too sweet'n'sensitive a lady
To be sufferin' for love o'scum like me!

* * * * *

Hey, it could be worse... I could be showing you some the things I wrote when I was going through a heavy "Jim Morrison phase" in the early 1980s. Very derivative of Morrison's type of poetry... and the worst shit I ever wrote. But it left me with a very important lesson: Don't copy anyone's style unless it's for the sake of parody.

See you tomorrow.

Thanks for your time.