I'll show you the life of the mind

“I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.”

- Woody Allen, Annie Hall (1977)

By the time I became a part of the social media community in 2010, it had already become the monster that it is today. No longer was it some trendy, new fad used by college students wanting to keep in touch with high school friends, or by garage bands looking for an audience for their lyrical cries of teenage angst. It had become the lifeblood of society. Instead of the sun, the world now revolved around friend requests, status updates, and direct messaging. And, with the click of a mouse, you could “poke” someone from hundreds of miles away thus circumventing any pesky restraining orders you might have against you. Even my mother - who grew up during a time in which the world was introduced to color television, the microwave oven, Barbie, and the Polio vaccine - was already a social networker.

It’s not that I was afraid of the rapidly changing technology - when I was in college in the late-90‘s, posting a comment on someone’s “wall” literally meant writing a message on the dry-erase board nailed to the outside of their dorm room door - and it is not because I am one of those people who prides themselves on being a non-conformist. In my opinion, not doing something solely because “everyone is doing it” is just as mindless an act as becoming a sheep in the proverbial flock.

The reason I was so hesitant to join this social media circus was that I felt I had nothing to contribute. I didn’t have a wife or girlfriend to profess my love to via a status update. I didn’t have children to follow around all day with my camera in order to capture their every move. I didn’t travel to exciting, new lands where I could post pictures of my view of  the sun rising and setting. And, when eating in a restaurant, I never felt the urge to pull out my cell phone and take a poorly lit, out-of-focus photograph of my dinner. And I was neither opinionated nor outspoken enough to comment on the latest news events gripping the nation. Not that there is anything wrong with these things, it’s just that I never envisioned myself having the need or desire to do any of them. And, yet, one day I found myself on this very computer setting up an on-line account.

Two years later, I cannot remember my exact reasoning, but I am glad that I made the decision to join this on-line community along with the hundreds of millions of others who have done so. Not only has it allowed me to reconnect with childhood friends and classmates, as well as to stay connected with a family that has been spread across the country and overseas, it has helped reignite a flame that I had thought burned out a few years earlier. That is the flame that fuels my interest in, and passion for, writing.

Of course, I must admit that writing is not something I have always enjoyed doing. For me, it was once something viewed more as work than as pleasure. Despite that viewpoint, in my college years, I was fairly proficient in writing reports and research papers. I seemed to have a knack for doing the least amount of research necessary to produce the required minimum amount of pages. Yet, within those pages I was always able to create a cohesive, structured argument defending whatever thesis statement I was able to find at the bottom of my eighth can of Natty Light. (For those who have never been a college student on a budget, “Natty“ Light is Natural Light. An extremely watered down light beer of which a case costs less than the late-night Chinese food delivery to which it would always lead)

It was in these college courses that we were assigned a writing assistant to help review and edit our initial works before they became a finished product to be submitted for grading. Having usually already edited and re-edited my own work while writing it, my papers rarely needing fixing by the time they reached this review process. Because of this, more often than not, my one-on-one sessions with the writing assistant did not last any longer than the walk from my dorm room to the student center.

The only exceptions being those papers written for a freshman seminar in which the writing assistant was an attractive, older coed very much resembling Demi Moore in the movie Ghost. It was no mere coincidence that those meetings always lasted - and sometimes exceeded -  the allotted amount of time. I quickly found that intentionally poorly written papers were my key to unlocking a door that I normally would have had a hard time opening. Run-on sentences, poor grammar, and weak closing paragraphs were my wingman. Sadly, despite my insistence that the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” always be playing in the background during our sessions, none of them ever resulted in a sloppy, shirtless display of pottery making.

Despite this aptitude for technical and analytical writing, I never really displayed any type of ability, or interest, in creative writing. Rather than spend my time experimenting with short stories and character development, my childhood was spent on baseball fields and basketball courts, and on snow sleds and Slip ’n Slides. Instead of Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Poe, my heroes were guys named Bird, Montana, and Clemens.

In a high school AP English class, whose curriculum included keeping a daily journal for self-reflective and creative writings, I would often simply write down the lyrics of whichever song was playing on the radio at the time. (that time being somewhere between the Fall of 1995 and Spring of 1996)   Ms. Eldridge, if you are reading this I can now confess that it was actually a younger, heftier, Blues Traveling John Popper asking why you would give him the “Run-Around“, and it was a man named Hootie - along with his Blowfish - longing for that girl to “Hold My Hand“. And if Worcester, Massachusetts had been a “Paradise“, the “Gangsta” to whom it would have belonged was Coolio, not me.

(click here only if viewing on mobile device - please excuse the corny montage, it's not mine)

 

(click here only if viewing on mobile device)

About ten years ago, as if a switch had been flipped, I suddenly found writing as a therapeutic way of expressing myself. Verbal self-expression had never been one of my strengths and, quite frankly, I had never really had a whole lot to talk about. Now, through new life experiences, I finally had something to say and a way to say it. I even went so far as to enroll in a local university under the guise of working towards a second bachelor’s degree so that I could take some writing courses.

As my love for movies evolved, I developed aspirations for writing a screenplay. The director‘s commentary audio tracks on the DVD’s of my favorite movies served as private lessons during which I would take notes. Inspiration was found within the scripts penned by the likes of Woody Allen, Kevin Smith, and the Coen brothers. I began to carry small notebooks with me at all times so that I could jot down ideas as they appeared. Whether I was at the grocery store, stopped at a red light, or at work, I was prepared to grab any thought racing though my mind and trap it in those little notebooks. The restaurant I was working in at that time proved to be an endless fountain of ideas and stories, most of which now lay dormant within those pages. I promise to all those that roamed that hallway with me from the kitchen to the hostess stand past the salad bar that I will, one day, tell those stories.

Then, for whatever reason, just as quickly as the inspiration and motivation for writing had come to me, it had disappeared. Those little notebooks that had spent so much time in pants pockets and on car seats began to collect dust on a shelf. Movies were still watched, but solely for the purpose of short, two-hour escapes from reality. And those days spent taking food orders, during which there was never a dull moment, had now been traded in for days behind a desk buried in paperwork and monotony. My relationship with writing seemed to be on life support. But I was not yet ready to pull the plug. It was time to issue a Code Blue.

         

Aside from the obvious benefit of being able to catch up with, and follow, the lives of those who had been a part of my life at one point or another, the social network provided me an opportunity to get reacquainted with the creative side of my brain. For me, the “status update” could be used more as a stage than as a means for letting everyone know where I was or what I was doing. Just as a stand-up comedian uses five free minutes on “Open mic night” at the local comedy club to try out new material, I could write an idea or thought and have an immediate response from a built-in audience.

Granted, there would be times I felt compelled to disclose my whereabouts or express my feelings, but why do so in five words or less when the same could be accomplished in, what I thought, was a cleverly crafted joke or metaphor? With so many people boasting Friends lists resembling the phone book of a small town in Idaho, I knew that what I wrote would not always be seen. But I figured if you are going to be bombarded with hundreds of status updates each day, I would do my best to try and make you laugh, at the very least, at one of them.

Before deciding to create this page, I asked myself “Why?” “Why should I write this?” And, maybe more importantly, “Why should anyone read this?” The short answer to the first question was “Why not?” To answer the second question, I can only ask that you continue to read and decide for yourself.

There is no underlying theme to what I write. My days are constantly interrupted by arbitrary thoughts and ideas that arrive with no notice or explanation. My mind is like a house left in the care of a teenager whose parents have gone out of town for the weekend and, while it is okay for a few friends - or ideas - to come over, things can quickly get out of hand when unknown and, sometimes, unwanted guests arrive. For me, writing is my way of politely asking those unruly guests to leave before any furniture ends up in the swimming pool. The phrase “controlled chaos” best describes my style of writing. My train of thought derails more often than Amtrak, but I promise that if you keep reading, I will eventually get you from point A to point B. I just hope you enjoy the brief stops at all points in between along the way.

While many will stick to the theory of “write what you know,” I prescribe to the philosophy of “know what you write.” As my main interests are limited to sports, movies, and music, it will be hard for me to abstain from discussing those the most often. But I will not shy away from other topics if it means doing a little research on the subject beforehand. Two arenas which will probably never be visited are politics and religion. I have made it a personal rule to never discuss either of those in a public forum or setting. Both invoke too many strong feelings and opinions and I would like for this to be a place you can come to to get away from the seriousness of everyday life.

As suggested by its alliterative title, this blog will also be a place for me to share my experiences in another field of interest. And while my time spent as a bachelor has been nothing less than awe-inspiring and full of intrigue, these shared experiences of which I speak will be limited solely to those related to baking. Periodically, I will post some of the recipes that have been enjoyed by my family, friends, and co-workers in the hopes that others can make use of them as well as share any of their own recipes.

If you have enjoyed any of what you have just read, I hope that you will follow along with me on this wild ride. So make sure your luggage is stored securely in the overhead bins and that your seat backs and tray tables are in their full, upright and locked positions, and fasten your seat belts as I fully expect us to experience some turbulence along the way. As shouted by a shotgun-wielding John Goodman running down a burning hallway in the Coen Brothers’ 1991 classic film, Barton Fink, “I’ll show you the life of the mind!” Well, at least, the life of my mind.