Bob, The Column

This was not written by me. But I found it in the latest Writer's Digest (a very good investment, if I may say so myself), and thought that by typing it up, some of the wittiness and allusionary skill might sink into my own cranium. Enjoy!

Hey, you. Yeah, you, Mr. or Ms. Aspiring Professional Arranger of Words in an Interesting and/or Informative Manner Person. Are you fearless? Resilient? Tough? I don't mean recumbent bicycler tough or brow-pierced barista tough or clove cigarette-smoking competitive ballroom dancer tough, I'm talking bring-it-on, hard-as-nails, I-eat-esoteric-synonyms-for-petit-dejuener writer tough. (Think Hemingway, right up till the instant he pulled the trigger. Or Isaac Bashevis Singer on days he was tweaking on crystal meth.)You better be. Because if you plan to make your living by putting some part of yourself (brain, heart, spleen, colon, meniscus, et al.) on the page, you need to be a rock. If you aren't, or if you've chosen, unwisely, to be a softish, non-igneous rock, like sandstone or shale, the criticism that will inevitably come your way could crush and shatter you, something rarely covered by health insurance.

Allow me to illustrate with some reactions to my first book: "Wretchedly execrable." "Wholly deficient." "Delusional." "Mumbo jumbo." Those reviews, thought the kindest I received, still hurt. That they came from, respectively, my biological mom; my adoptive mom; my imaginary friend, Cliff; and Cliff's mom, hurt even more. That the book in question was my personal diary ratcheted the pain up to the stubbing-one's-pinky-toe-while-passing-a-kidney-stone-during-childbirth level. Still, I survived. Literally! And you can, too. (Not a guarantee.)

How? By being psychologically and emotionally prepared for the withering condemnation of your work by the cruel, malicious, heartless, damnable bastards who are kind enough to read it.

Easier said than done, I know. An artistic nature is necessarily one of heightened sensitivity and lowered self-worth. For most of us, a diurnal life of tears and a nocturnal life of night terrors are the price we pay for our talent, though some muses now take Discover Card. But I can help. Before your next (or first) bad review(s), consider these strategies.

1. BE READY TO RESPOND IN KIND...TO THE EXTREME!
Believe me, if more writers answered their critics with, say, a waterboarding, unfavorable reviews would be rarer than undisgraced televangelists.

2. WEAR A CALLUS ON YOUR PSYCHE
Incessantly debase yourself and your abilities; insistently deem your writing "pathetic tripe." It's easy to ignore the slings and arrows of others if you've already gun-shot yourself.

3. WRITE FLAWLESSLY
Elevate every element of your work from excellent to perfect. Remember: The only problem with perfectionism is your imperfect approach to it.

4. SWITCH TO WRITING POETRY
Ain't nobody reads that.

L'eau and Lotti

This week I want to talk about a musician who's a bit...different.
But first, a tale from the land of chiggers and sunburns.
On the second day of our trip, June 11, we went to visit the worksites. It was strictly supposed to be a visit, just to see what all had to be done, so we had permission to wear flip-flops. So, the majority of us wore flip-flops!
FAIL FAIL FAIL etc.
First site. All good. Walked into the church, complimented the architecture, visited the school, complimented the computers.
Second site. All appeared to be good. Saw the church, met the people.
Then we were invited to go see the waterfall which is the water source for the surrounding area! Sounded like fun. Waterfall. Only a short hike.
FAIL FAIL FAIL etc.
Three blisters, five stops under Honduran 'shade', three wet wipies, a whole bottle of Gatorade, climbing, almost falling to my death. Two hours later.
WATER. AGUA. L'EAU. LIFE.
Hawaiian Falls has nothing on this baby.

It was worth the two-hour uphill hike. And even worth the waterless (I drank all the Gatorade, remember?) downhill stroll. But maybe not worth the three blisters, which made shoes uncomfortable for the next eight days. All in the name of sacrifice.

Now for my musician. He's pretty famous. In Europe, at least. Helmut Lotti started out as a Belgian Elvis impersonator.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DfXSvO8nwhs&feature=related

Then he had a stint where African and Latino hits were his thing. THEN he became 'classical'. But though he speaks with an obviously European accent, his singing reminds the listener vaguely of a Southern twang. Andrea Bocelli, country style. Not pleasant, you think?

My favorite sappy Helmut love song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlxZxSGZw9g

From Wikipedia: Helmut Lotti sings fluently in Dutch and Afrikaans, English, French, German, Russian, Hebrew, Italian, Latin, and Spanish.
Not from Wikipedia: DUDE. SWEET.
His Kind of voice doesn't appeal to me. But his Voice does. Just like Johnny Cash, Helmut is able to appeal to those who aren't originally fans of his genre. Of course, for the best listening experience, watch a live performance on youtube. This 40 year-old singer fails to age. Watch his brown eyes and melt. And a name like Helmut (pronounced hell-moot)? Definitely ranks on my favorite name list.

Compulsory listening: (not the complete song, sadly, but this is my favorite duet on the world wide web.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIgRle6GMrc&feature=related
By no means am I a Lotti expert quite yet. I can't say I like all of his recordings. His Bohemian Rhapsody was a fail. But, then again, aren't all Bohemian Rhapsodies fails? Barring, of course, Queen's original genius, the Muppets version, and the Ten Tenors masterpiece. And sometimes Helmut goes overboard with the arrangement, or chooses those songs that only work for real opera singers. Caruso is not meant to be sung by romantic swingers.
And to close, my favorite gory Big Band Bobby Darin classic.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7N5A_AL9zZc&feature=related

The Ping-Pong Song

Right now I have an ice-pack around my head, am listening to Shakira and Enrique alternately, and trying not to let the oxycontin I took a few minutes ago get the best of me. Yes, I got my wisdom teeth out today, all four of them, two of which had grown around the nerve of my bottom teeth (don't worry, though! the only side effect of that is possibly having a numb bottom lip for the rest of my life!). Today, I've pretty much been watching movies or sleeping or pretending to sleep. The Darjeeling Limited, with the wonderful Adrien Brody, was the first I watched. It lacks a point, but has that strange factor that makes it enjoyable in a strange way, ya know? Now I'm starting on Bottle Shock, with the actor otherwise known as Snape, another actor otherwise known as Captain Kirk, and finally the actor otherwise known as Meg Ryan's ex-fiance in Sleepless in Seattle. So far I am bored out of my mind. But it's only been 20 minutes or so, so hopefully the movie will improve.
(And for all of you wondering just how bad I'm feeling, I actually have felt no pain except for a nasty caffeine-withdrawal headache...)

Last night, while eating my last chewy food - blueberry pie - I had a moment where I really missed Honduras. Like, seriously close to tears. I missed the ridiculous heat, the not-feeling-guilty for anything, the physical work-out, and the kids, of course.

This post has absolutely no objective. But so many people were curious to see how much pain-killers affect me (and yet none of those said people expressed much sympathy-thanks for the support, guys), that I decided to take a break from my chair and show that I can actually handle the experience.

Or, at least, I think I have...