Hi!
Okay, I know a lot of bloggers love to do year-in-review posts around this time every December. Others do the introspective retrospective post - "Oh, how I've grown, this year!" I'm reluctant to do the latter, for fear that it will either be boring or short (or both), or that it will end up sounding like one of those wretched Christmas card letters. Okay, I actually might post one of those later, so stay tuned for that. But for now, here is a brief outline of what went on here, at Mostly Harmless Drivel, in 2012. I'm sure there's something here that you missed, and some of it is actually not bad.
Please clickity-click on the linkity-links included herein, and you will be transported as if by magic to the corresponding blog post, and oh my goodness but won't THAT be awesome for you! You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll kiss ten minutes goodbye!
Come with me...
January 16 - A big-mouth know-it-all hobo gets what he deserves, but KEEPS GETTING UP.
January 28 - Pizza Hut's infamous Priazzo, Crystal Pepsi, Ginsu knives and Joe's underpants, all in ONE SENTENCE! I like making fun of things others do, especially when I'm guilty of doing exactly those things myself.
February 21 - If you're not a fan of the hobo stories, you probably skipped this one, but if you understand the bond between DOGS AND THEIR HUMANS, take another look. The last sentence is one of my favorite ever.
March 25 - Hygiene is very important to people with DOUBLE NAMES.
April 8 - "I got no kids that I know of." My beloved wife [Maris] says this to me all the time. Well, she says "have" instead of "got," but let's not quibble. HA! I knew I could squeeze a quibble in here if I tried! Oh, and EVERYTHING THAT I WHISPER IS TRUE.
April 16 - She can't PRONOUNCE HIS NAME, but can she bring herself to forgive him? Maybe if it's a Douglas Fairbanks picture...
May 4 - Do you like children? Do you like dogs? Do you like WANDERING HOMELESS ZOMBIES? You do? Then this short story is for you! Warning: Hearsay and conjecture.
May 11 - What happens when one of my best, wordiest friends and I give each other blog post titles and one hour and say go? You know how these exercises work - they always somehow end up at HECKLE & JECKLE.
May 17 - I am an excellent EUGOOGALIZER, and that man's death left a hole in many a heart. (sniff)
May 27 - What happens when my blog-challenge-y friend and I provide each other with first and last sentences and one hour in which to write? Obviously, someone gets stabbed with a NAIL CLIPPER. In the neck. On the playground.
May 30 - Skip this one. It's about a man with NO SHOULDERS. Yawnsville.
June - What happened in June? A little novel fell out of me, mostly. At the end, I swore I would never put myself through another novel-writing month. Yeah. See you in June 2013, Camp NaNoWriMo. I'll never learn.
July 8 - The CAMP JOURNAL proves to be less interesting than the novel that resulted from camp. Or does it? Someone brought rum to camp. Just sayin'...
July 13 - Another hobo. I'd say skip this one, but it has GENDER CONFUSION!
July 20 - Pro-beano. Yep. You guessed it. He WORKS FOR BEANS.
August 3 - Getting laid-off is nothing to HOWL ABOUT.
September 13 - Things to do in Zanesville, Ohio when you're a TREE SURGEON.
October - Hmm... All I remember is the heartbreaking end of the Nationals' playoffs, the life-affirming crash of the yankees, and a beachside vacation of staring at the sea and eating too much. Oh, and trying to avoid campaign ads.
November - 30 days, 30 blog posts. What was I thinking?
After starting with a hobo with a DIRTY SNIFFER, I found myself compelled to give a little pre-election LET'S ALL JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN, complete with "Meatballs" references. Then, I fired off a "LET'S NOT" letter to my favorite and most hated drug, defended a BULLYING VICTIM, got breathless with ANTICI . . . PATION, saw a hapless old dude with an unfortunate name as he TRIED to vote, and wrote to my government - with TINA TURNER'S HELP.
Next, I got all positive with a TOP-10 LIST and a not at all made-up list of things for which I am HUMBLY GRATEFUL, followed by some weirdness with that MEAN GUY WITH THE EXTRA DIGITS. Then I introduced my faithful readers (both of you!) to some FRIENDS FROM CAMP, followed by a friend with a messed-up FACE.
Things were going so well, I started a whole new series about TURNING 40. ((YAWN)) Next was a RETROSPECTIVE far more clever than this, followed by some INVISIBILITY TALK with [Maris], a hobo blessed/cursed with IMMORTALITY (?), and an epiphany concerning Muppets, 1930s movies and our WORLDVIEW gone askew.
As we RUSHED toward Thanksgiving, I worked on my PERSPECTIVE, making the earth into a speck, honed my WILLFUL IGNORANCE, and checked in on my FRIENDS' holiday preparations. Of course, there was the traditional fretting over the Thanksgiving SEATING ARRANGEMENTS, followed by the traditional YAMMERING at "Black Friday."
Then, NEEDLESS TO SAY, things took a bit of a TURN after that, as I dug deeper into my notepad of tricks. I reported on the STALKER who stalks millions, analyzed two THINGS that kill writers, and played show & tell with my ridiculous iPOD. I wrapped up the month-long torture session with a little ROMANCE and a little JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE. I might do another novel-writing month someday, but I will NOT be doing another blog-post-a-day month. That was spandiculous.
Mercifully, December has been too December-y to allow much writing, although I do like the post to which THIS LINK leads. Also, despite having a smelly hobo in it, the post from CHRISTMAS EVE reminds us that we might be wrong when we give up on our attempts at redemption.
I've had a lot of fun here, this year. Please continue to stop by and say hello, and to share my mostly harmless drivel with your friends.
'Til next time, then...
-Joe
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Santa Fe Santa Jinglebell, The World's Most Christmassy Tramp
The last Christmas Eve train, a coal drag headed for Baltimore by way of Hyattsville, rumbled southeastward into the DC suburbs. The light Mikado locomotive that had pushed it up the hill from Brunswick had turned around on the "Y" at Gaithersburg and was headed home. Motor cars puttered in the distance. The air hung motionless and frozen. It felt like snow. A lone figure, hugging himself against the cold, stepped out of the shadows and stood under one of the handful of street lamps that dotted the small downtown that stretched for less than a mile along the tracks.
He figured it was already at least seven o'clock, and if he was going spread any goodwill this Christmas, he would have to get to jingling, and soon. He checked his shoes, he checked his sleeves and then his tattered cap. With all his bells fastened tightly, he did a little dance. Jingles filled the chilly air. He wiped his face as best he could with his dirty old washcloth, then cleared his throat and let out a few practice "fa la la's."
Gaithersburg, Maryland was not by most accounts a hobo-friendly place, although to be fair, no place was. The B&O mainline snaked through town, but there was no yard - only a short siding and the Y-shaped engine turnaround. It was a small farm town, and its 25 mile distance from Washington, DC might as well have been 250 miles in the 1930s. The lonely tramp beneath the street light had walked and ridden and trespassed his way here from New Mexico over the past four months.
He had two reasons for making sure he was here for Christmas. First, he knew he was unlikely to run into any other hoboes, here. This was important. None of the other rail-riding bums could stand him or his incessant jingling, singing or preaching about the Nativity. Plus, he was a hobo, and most hoboes didn't like each other very much.
The other thing that attracted him to this sleepy little town was a small two-bedroom house on Chestnut Street, near the fairgrounds, and that's where he was headed this Christmas Eve. He stopped a block away from the train station and did some jingling and singing. Usually, this netted him a few pennies and a threat or two of arrest. Tonight, the last-minute shoppers were many, and after a few minutes at the corner of Summit and Diamond, he had nearly three dollars and a new pair of second-hand gloves.
He bought a yo-yo, a cheap rag doll and a few candy canes at the drug store and jingled over to Chestnut Street, humming the Coventry Carol to himself.
He was earlier than last year, and the lights were still on inside the tiny house. This meant a longer wait in the cold, but more importantly, it also gave the drifter a chance to peek inside. He crept, keeping his jingling as muted as possible, up to the side of the house, to the window that he knew was the living room.
They were still up. Both wore flannel pajamas; James covered in firetrucks and little Caroline still in pink footy things. He hadn't gotten a look at them last Christmas, so he was a bit taken aback at their increased size. Their mother, adorned in her favorite Christmas apron, was helping them hang their stockings, trying to hurry them off to bed. The drifter-turned-peeping-Tom felt a wave of hurt slosh through him. They were fine. She was fine. The house looked well-kept. There was, still, no man in sight. He felt low - lower than usual.
It had been five years. He had never met Caroline, who was a few weeks from entering the world when he had left. He only knew her name because he had seen it scrawled in glue and glitter on her Christmas stocking. Every year, he came to the house on Christmas Eve. Every year, he brought with him a bag of candy and a couple of toys, as well as every last cent he had managed to beg, borrow or steal since the previous December. Every year, he stood there searching for the courage to knock on the door, to beg forgiveness, for permission to re-join the world. Four times, he had failed.
This year, he came close. He watched the children hang their stockings. He saw them scamper off to bed. He watched their mother as she poured herself a glass of wine, then carefully filled the kids' stockings and arranged a small pile of gifts beneath the tree. He waited about half an hour after the last light had gone out, then tiptoed up the steps and onto the front porch. He placed his annual gift to his abandoned family gently on the doormat, along with the same note he always left, a barely-comprehensible apology for taking off the way he had.
He hesitated. He put his hand on the door and whispered, "I love you," then turned and started down the front steps. From the darkness behind him, in the porch swing, he heard a throat clear. His instinct to run was overwhelmed by his instinct to freeze in his tracks, so he froze in his tracks.
"You know, Franklin, those jingle bells are a lot louder than you think they are."
"I was afraid of that."
"Sure you were, sweetheart. Sure you were. You know what I think? I think you wanted to be heard, jingling around out here like one of Santa's elves."
"I don't know what to say to you, Nancy. I don't know where to start. I should go."
"You can start with 'I'm sorry,' Frankie, and see where it leads. Come inside. It's freezing out here."
"I know nothing can redeem me, but I am truly sorry, Nan."
"Merry Christmas, you smelly old hobo. Come inside."
He figured it was already at least seven o'clock, and if he was going spread any goodwill this Christmas, he would have to get to jingling, and soon. He checked his shoes, he checked his sleeves and then his tattered cap. With all his bells fastened tightly, he did a little dance. Jingles filled the chilly air. He wiped his face as best he could with his dirty old washcloth, then cleared his throat and let out a few practice "fa la la's."
Gaithersburg, Maryland was not by most accounts a hobo-friendly place, although to be fair, no place was. The B&O mainline snaked through town, but there was no yard - only a short siding and the Y-shaped engine turnaround. It was a small farm town, and its 25 mile distance from Washington, DC might as well have been 250 miles in the 1930s. The lonely tramp beneath the street light had walked and ridden and trespassed his way here from New Mexico over the past four months.
He had two reasons for making sure he was here for Christmas. First, he knew he was unlikely to run into any other hoboes, here. This was important. None of the other rail-riding bums could stand him or his incessant jingling, singing or preaching about the Nativity. Plus, he was a hobo, and most hoboes didn't like each other very much.
The other thing that attracted him to this sleepy little town was a small two-bedroom house on Chestnut Street, near the fairgrounds, and that's where he was headed this Christmas Eve. He stopped a block away from the train station and did some jingling and singing. Usually, this netted him a few pennies and a threat or two of arrest. Tonight, the last-minute shoppers were many, and after a few minutes at the corner of Summit and Diamond, he had nearly three dollars and a new pair of second-hand gloves.
He bought a yo-yo, a cheap rag doll and a few candy canes at the drug store and jingled over to Chestnut Street, humming the Coventry Carol to himself.
He was earlier than last year, and the lights were still on inside the tiny house. This meant a longer wait in the cold, but more importantly, it also gave the drifter a chance to peek inside. He crept, keeping his jingling as muted as possible, up to the side of the house, to the window that he knew was the living room.
They were still up. Both wore flannel pajamas; James covered in firetrucks and little Caroline still in pink footy things. He hadn't gotten a look at them last Christmas, so he was a bit taken aback at their increased size. Their mother, adorned in her favorite Christmas apron, was helping them hang their stockings, trying to hurry them off to bed. The drifter-turned-peeping-Tom felt a wave of hurt slosh through him. They were fine. She was fine. The house looked well-kept. There was, still, no man in sight. He felt low - lower than usual.
It had been five years. He had never met Caroline, who was a few weeks from entering the world when he had left. He only knew her name because he had seen it scrawled in glue and glitter on her Christmas stocking. Every year, he came to the house on Christmas Eve. Every year, he brought with him a bag of candy and a couple of toys, as well as every last cent he had managed to beg, borrow or steal since the previous December. Every year, he stood there searching for the courage to knock on the door, to beg forgiveness, for permission to re-join the world. Four times, he had failed.
This year, he came close. He watched the children hang their stockings. He saw them scamper off to bed. He watched their mother as she poured herself a glass of wine, then carefully filled the kids' stockings and arranged a small pile of gifts beneath the tree. He waited about half an hour after the last light had gone out, then tiptoed up the steps and onto the front porch. He placed his annual gift to his abandoned family gently on the doormat, along with the same note he always left, a barely-comprehensible apology for taking off the way he had.
He hesitated. He put his hand on the door and whispered, "I love you," then turned and started down the front steps. From the darkness behind him, in the porch swing, he heard a throat clear. His instinct to run was overwhelmed by his instinct to freeze in his tracks, so he froze in his tracks.
"You know, Franklin, those jingle bells are a lot louder than you think they are."
"I was afraid of that."
"Sure you were, sweetheart. Sure you were. You know what I think? I think you wanted to be heard, jingling around out here like one of Santa's elves."
"I don't know what to say to you, Nancy. I don't know where to start. I should go."
"You can start with 'I'm sorry,' Frankie, and see where it leads. Come inside. It's freezing out here."
"I know nothing can redeem me, but I am truly sorry, Nan."
"Merry Christmas, you smelly old hobo. Come inside."
Friday, December 7, 2012
LOOK OVER THERE!!
Made you look! Well, hopefully I made you look. Check it out. The very nice people at S30P are so very nice, they made me their Featured Writer Of The Day for Friday, December 7th, 2012.
I know! I'm pretty excited about it. Nervous, too. You see, S30P is an online community of over 400 fellow bloggers, many of whom have published books, and most of whom are really good writers and clever, witty people - so it can be a little intimidating to novices such as myself. They are very kind, though. In fact, I often think of S30P as my own little support group.
Please visit us there, today.
And if you're a blogger, or thinking of becoming one, please join. We're an extremely supportive bunch!
Oh - and if you're too lazy-- I mean, busy to click on the links above, I'll post today's Featured Writer piece here in Mostly Harmless Drivelville in the near future. It's a good one, about turning forty while your body goes kablooey.
Did I mention that it has pictures? Like this:
Now, just what does THAT have to do with turning 40? Intriguing, right? Go see for yourself. It'll all make sense.
I don't see how you can wait, really.
GO!
GO NOW!!
Here's that link again...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)