Tag Archives: Babies

My Kingdom, my Kingdom for a Decent Pile of Dirt

Coincidentally my blog post this week mirrors last weeks. I guess you could say “the more things stay the same, the more things stay the same.”

Pause for uncontrollable shudder……

The statement I just penned (by my way of thinking) makes sense. It shouldn’t and that scares me.

I’ll force myself to man up and plow through.

Have you ever tried to maintain continuity throughout a long novel with many characters in different situations? Your ultimate goal is to bring them together in a glorious climax rivaling the works of Tolstoy, Hemingway, and Whitman.

After reading through your first draft, you realize that the poor dead tree you hold in your hand wouldn’t give Jughead, Archie and Veronica a decent run for their money.

A lot of this is due to continuity. You can’t murder your heroine in the middle of the book, then forgetting she’s dead, have her reappear as a cage dancer in the final chapter.

Think of the disasters this one unfortunate event might set into motion. The protagonists (we’ll call him Bob) heartbroken from the death of his main squeeze (we’ll call her giblet) who is still very much alive.

Bob falling into the depths of despair begins to drink heavily. He takes notice of Penelope, the kingdom’s fairest maiden. In actuality Penelope is covered in bumps and bruises due to being poked and prodded with ten foot poles by the townsfolk. to

Looking through beer goggles Bob takes Penelope for his wife. Unbeknownst to either party, Bob’s father is Penelope’s mother’s brother, which makes Bob and Penelope first cousins.

This becomes evident when their first offspring is a three headed baby. They are forced to move to the land of three headed babies, where Bob continues to drinks heavily and Penelope designs armor with triple neck openings.

Giblet not understanding Bob’s shenanigans falls for Bob’s head scribe and pedicurist, Leon. They inherit the kingdom, birth nine single headed babies and start the first medieval baseball team.

See how easy it is to turn what began as a romantic comedy into a work of stupid, all because of continuity or the lack thereof.

It’s similar to climbing Mt. Everest….Okay it’s a stretch but hear me out. Sir Edmund Hillary probably took months if not years planning his attempt to climb the highest peak in the world. He would have to hand pick his fellow climbers and Sherpa’s.

Be certain there were adequate supplies to meet nutritional needs for the entire team. Portable shelter, ropes, oxygen and a multitude of items I could not begin to speculate.

They would begin at base camp and methodically worked their way up the mountain.

Then came that fateful day, the assault on the summit. It was for this very day that all their plans and months of work had come down to.

They bravely made their way upward after a breakfast of dirt soup. They donned the latest in woolen Bermuda shorts, tank tops instead of oxygen tanks, flip-flops and the cutest little beanies with propellers removed to avoid an unplanned takeoff.

Making the summit they planted their flags in a teary-eyed celebration and were promptly arrested for trespassing on old man Crowley’s property. A second charge for destroying a large mound of topsoil was later dropped.

The defense argued that dirt was dirt and since no precedent had ever been set, now is not the time to begin such foolishness. The prosecution was awarded punitive damages in the amount of eight dollars and forty six cents to cover the cost of several trampled lilac plants.

So you see whether you’re climbing a pile of dirt or writing a book on the subject of climbing a pile of dirt.

It’s continuity… Continuity… Continuity.

And just to set the record straight, it wasn’t Sir Edmund Hillary but Ed Bugmeyer and his three rat terriers. It seems Pauley over to the general store bet an already inebriated Ed a six pack that he couldn’t shave his dog’s slick as a baby’s bottom and climb that pile of dirt.

So now you know…

 

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And Down Will Come Baby, Cradle and Whatever Else Has No Business In the Top of a Tree

Dog Looking at and Listening to a Phonograph, ...

(Photo credit: Beverly & Pack)

As I sit in my lonely writer’s room, I ponder my very existence. Do I actually exist? If so, why am I here? How can I possibly accomplish the task for which I was brought into existence to accomplish? “How,” I ask you.  “How?” As my soul sinks into the depths of despair, I feel my very life’s blood flow into nothingness, for I am nothing…a mere thought, unable to accomplish the simplest of accomplishments.

 How sappy can you get? I almost threw up writing it. It may have flown a hundred years ago, and although my version was a little over the top, it just goes to show you how writing styles have changed over the years.

 I used this intro to segue into sayings we use today, but which have lost their relevance, (had they possessed an iota of relevance to begin with.)

 Remember this one?

 “Work like a dog.”

 Now I’ll admit that there are breeds of “working” dogs that actually labor today and this practice was much more prevalent back in the day when dogs were bred for a specific job.   The notion that, “work like a dog” has any real meaning today careened down the mountain side, through the veterinary specialists (including psychiatry) canine insurance, into businesses catering exclusively to our four-legged friends  complete with gourmet food, sweaters, bows and, the crème de la crème, fake reindeer antlers.

  My dog’s definition of work would be as follows:

 Eat, drink, lick, standup, yawn, chase squirrels, become bored, give up, bark at a cloud, water bowl too far away, yawn, circle twice, plop down, lick, take nap. Repeat process until bedtime.

 “Work like a dog?” I think not.

 How about this one?

 “Sleep like a baby.”

A friend spends the night at your house. The next morning you meet in the kitchen for breakfast. During coffee you make an offhand comment.“How’d you sleep last night?” “Like a baby,” comes the reply.

So you went to bed around 8 p.m., I think to myself. Cried yourself to sleep, woke up at 10 and 12 for a feeding and diaper change. At 2 a.m. you drank your bottle, burped ever so slightly and then pressure-puked all over your mother, your crib and yourself. Finally returned to sleep at 3 a.m., woke up at 4 a.m. for bottle and diaper change , then laid back down just in time for a rectal blowout. This little slice of heaven managed to push through the diaper legs and all over the crib. Someone cleaned you up and all involved were back to sleep by 5:30 a.m.. You were up for the rest of the day by 6 a.m.

 Once again, “sleep like a baby.” I think not.

 So what can we take away from these paragraphs of wisdom? Unfortunately, not much, so I’ll leave you with this tidbit:

 Elephants could fly, if bicycles would stop eating ham sandwiches… Now think on that one a while and get back to me.

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