Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am

This one's about stuff I don't know, and something I know.

"This week, June 1 through June 5, will be a round table discussion involving the mystery genre. Pretend we are meeting around a conference table and talking away. The prompt for June 1, 2015: If you were writing a murder mystery what would you chose as a method of death?"

What's up you guys? Ok, whereas in the past I've been able to explain away absences from blogging with some credibility, I find that that only goes so far. I even got the random "So, you're not writing your blog anymore?" question from my mom when went home during Memorial Day weekend, and I just kinda brushed it off with "Well, I'm doing other things...<voice trailing>" and "I'll be at it again soon, don't worry..." but while yes, it's true I've been doing other things, the fact is I've been highly unmotivated for the most part. And that stops today. Because over in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ...

Well, I'm honored to be considered as part of a panel discussing anything, but Mystery isn't my topic of choice. In fact, pretty much my entire history with the genre can be summed up in one picture:

For real. I don't read it. It's not that I don't like it...when I was a kid two of my favorite series to read were The Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown. But then I grew up, got bored with reading, met girls, found heartbreak...and the rest is history that I'm still trying to decipher. I am actually starting to branch out though...the next book I plan on reading is Room by Emma Donoghue, and it looks interesting. But anyway...

Suffice to say I have no real adult experience with the mystery genre outside of the game of Clue, and even then I haven't played that since I was probably 13. I'm a bad panelist. But I do have an imagination, so bear with me as I attempt to fit in where I clearly don't belong. [Sidenote: If this gets me investigated for murder charges based on coincidental outcomes, I'm gonna be pissed.]

I can tell you that I wouldn't want my murder mystery to be something common, or something- pardon the pun- exposed to death by crime drama shows on tv. And that probably eliminates 98% of the plots I could possibly come up with. If I were a gambling man I'd easily not bet on this genre surviving another five minutes based on my math, which is why I chose writing as a hobby and not statistics. But if you held a gun to my head and said "Plot a death in a week or you're history!"...well, I'm not cool with history either, but I'm sure I can think of something.

I'd have to go with something along the lines of a scientist who discovers a parasite that can cure cancer, but a jealous rival scientist steals his formula and creates a mutated version that feasts on ordinary human cells when ingested. Ooooh! Scientific things! (Also not a specialty of mine.) The mad scientist starts introducing the mutation through drinking straws, and suddenly an entire shopping mall's customers are dead within two weeks from some "unknown malady" while the cool hero scientist guy is on vacation after saving his test patient's life.

When he comes back he's inundated with talk show appearances and media requests, turning his assistant into an unwilling secretary of sorts, and suddenly his name pops up as a suspect when his lab is under siege by the feds. He has to find a cure for the new set of dying people while backtracking his way through the antidote for cancer so he can come across how it was created, which leads him to the rival douchebag, who has taken the good guy's assistant/secretary/burgeoning love interest hostage in an underground lair/meth lab.

A battle ensues between the good and bad guy, lots of CGI and Hollywood chemical pyrotechnics happen, and ultimately good triumphs over evil. But the bad scientist has already struck a deal with the government to provide his "new, low-cost cancer cure for low-income patients", because SEQUEL! as our hero rescues his assistant/new lover.

I literally just made all of that up, so don't ask me to fill in details or fix plot holes. I write blogs and poems...I'm not cut out for this kinda stuff.

"Write a story or poem about the full strawberry moon (it occurs on June 2 this year). Be creative and have fun."

Also something I know very little about. I heard about this the other day...maybe from an old friend on Facebook who's all into lunar weirdness or whatever. Didn't we go through this last year with the "Blood Moon"? Is there some kind of astronomy festival going on every year that I haven't heard of since the dawn of the internet that is causing these moons? And why do they sound like drinks that should be served at the Enterprise's bar on ladies' night? "I'll have a Strawberry Moon for the lady here, and give me a Crown and Pop-Rocks." Is this why we stopped funding NASA? Because you know once we start operating a fully-functional space station on the moon, and that Elon guy with Tesla or the dude from Virgin (Richard Branson?) commits to legit travel there, the first place that opens for business is gonna be a bar, and they're gonna need a bartender. And who wouldn't like a refreshing Strawberry Moon? Two shots of vodka in a glass with strawberry puree, a shot of triple sec, a spritz of tonic and a lime garnish? Boom! You're over the moon in a few minutes! And I just made that up too while sitting here.

"May 31 is Walt Whitman’s birthday. He wrote: “I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.” And he also said: “The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.” When it comes to writing or reading poetry or life in general, what do you think of his above quotes?"

I also have very little experience reading Whitman (sorry, I know what I like and I tend to stick with what I'm familiar with). But I can definitely speak to the topic of being wounded, and of understanding the process of words that hurt so much even when you're not the intended victim/recipient.

And this isn't an elitist discovery. The cheerleader who's happier than god-know-what all the time has a reason for thinking the Top 40 station's #1 song is about her. That emo kid knows the singer feels his pain in the song he thinks no one's heard but him. And the quiet girl in your math class rages out to metal because it speaks her language.

It's an ancient topic. Empathy is a subject that should be directly taught...it's pussyfooted around all the time, in examples bordering on "Here's how you should feel when 'x' happens." But no...humans aren't born like that. We're unique. We don't all act or respond the same way. I don't cry at funerals or weddings, but if a story touches me a certain way I'll sniffle and weep.

And we all have triggers. We may act hard, but deep down we know what will break us in private...some are better about it publicly than others. I cried the night the very last episode of "Friends" aired years ago, and I shed a few tears last week when I was at my mom's and it re-aired. Moments in life can do that on an instant...much the same as other moments prepare us to be emotionless, and/or stronger for others around us.

And this is where I circle back to empathy. You can look at a plant and not know it from the seed, but the seed went through a traumatic process. You don't have to understand the person to get that maybe they've been through some things you hope you'll never have to go through. Sometimes we get so blinded and sidetracked with our own dilemmas that we just don't care enough to see things beyond the perspective of what's right out in front of us.

You can read words and think "Oh wow, that's cool!" or you can put yourself in the place those words were meant to put you, and see it from the author's perspective. It's always the latter that makes everything mean more, and that's something that anyone who writes anything should look at as a tool for enhancing what they do. I admit I think I'm guilty of not having that talent when I write, but as a person I'm learning that more and more as I get older.

Ok, I know I rambled a little, and I contemplated briefly going with "Building A Mystery"  , but I settled on this because I think it was the first time in my life I began to actually care for someone other than myself in a relationship sense...you could say it taught me empathy. I started dating a girl, Tracy...when I met her she gave me all the bullshit back to me that I gave her. Sarcasm, honesty, truth...and it was fun. But I knew I shouldn't have started seeing her, because I was gonna have hernia surgery and wouldn't be able to be a "fun boyfriend" for awhile. And I didn't think rationally or seriously. But she did, and opened up to me in ways I wasn't used to or imagined girls would to someone. She'd been through a lot of abuse via an ex-boyfriend and parents that didn't seem to give a shit. And here's me, haha, cool, cute girl . Tracy would've stuck with me through damn near anything, and I was pretty dumb to see it because I was too wrapped up in my own merrymaking. But when I think of her, this is the song that plays. We're all wounded in our own ways.

"You tell 'em, that's just my battle scar.
I want to kiss you, and knock 'em down like we used to...
You're the marigold."
Lyrics.  

It really feels like forever since I last blogged...but I have to tell a story about something coming full-circle to me. If you know me, you know I'm a fan of comedy and of late-night television. I remember one of my first nights as a teenager, probably 13, sneaking out of bed to watch television (I had trouble falling asleep even then). All the lights were off in our apartment, and I crept into the living room to watch David Letterman. I may not have understood all of the jokes or his wit, but I was more in awe of him than I was of the fact that if I got caught what kind of trouble I'd be in. And I kept doing it, for as long as I could keep myself up without getting busted. There was nothing like him on tv at the time...not on network tv! We didn't have cable, and cable now isn't like what it was 25+ years ago. So the humor was fresh, new, subversive...it wasn't a joke; you were in on the joke that wasn't necessarily supposed to be a joke. And that was Dave. For me, at least...I was in on something I wasn't supposed to be in on. My first night back in Buffalo at my mom's was Dave's last show...and there I was, by myself in the living room, trying to be quiet and taking it in and hoping someday I'll be as funny, or weird, or something. It was a sublime evening. #ThanksDave

Speaking of comedy, you guys know I love Saturday Night Live, and one of my all-time favorite performers is Tracy Morgan...who lived through a horrific car crash last year. He gave an interview on Today   about it, and it breaks my heart. This guy lives comedy. He speaks it. He embodies it. And he's been through a lot in the past year. I don't care if you don't agree with me...he's hilarious. And I can't wait until he comes back.

I finished off this thing called "Slurred Emotions" . It's not great...it's no "Cabin Fever" . There are legit crazypants moments and gestation periods of shudderness awaiting me. But it's done, I did it, and I'm already thinking of another notebook- the inbetweener one- that when I find it, will be going up. And maybe then I'll move on to current stuff.

And finally, yo...I hate to slag on my hometown, and I know this shouldn't be funny, but it was when I was still a resident and now that it's still happening it's even more funny. Old people crash cars into buildings. And I know Buffalo can't be the only place where this happens, but the rate that it has occurred is alarming enough that someone made a friggin' map for it. The WNY cars-into-buildings epidemic  .

Ok, I know you guys have better things to do right now...like me, I need to eat something. So that's what I'm gonna do. Then I'm gonna try not to nap, and hopefully not be mortified by this in a few months or tomorrow morning. Peace, nothing to do with me, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!