sixfootdwarf

For my own reference:

1. The first rule of Write Club is: never, ever use names.
2. The second rule of Write Club is: never, ever use names!
3. The third rule of Write Club is: if you’re going to write about someone you know, make sure it’s something they wouldn’t mind other people reading.

The obvious reason for these rules is, someone is going to get hurt. Or pissed off.

But the less obvious reason is, I want my writing to appeal to both friends and strangers alike. I want to write with no assumptions about who my audience is. Or rather, with the assumption that my audience is everyone. I don’t want my friends to worry that I might publicize their innermost secrets, nor do I want to force the casual reader to refer back to earlier writings just to figure out who I’m talking about.

And honestly, I just think it makes it all the more challenging for me and ultimately more interesting for you.

I like to think I am a person who speaks his mind and keeps his word. You’d like to think that this would be a positive character trait.

Unfortunately, you’d be wrong.

Because in the world of social poker faces, nobody really wants to see your hand, so you had better be damn good at bluffing. Because being honest just means you’re gullible, or worse, desperate. God forbid you’d have to actually live up to something you said. Reliability has far too many syllables, so from now on let’s just call it liability.

Just take it with a grain of salt. Your daily recommended dosage.

Remember: never, ever show emotion. Unless of course you’re inebriated, in which case no one will remember anyway.

And if you’re speaking your mind, your big mistake is that you were thinking in the first place. So just talk about the trends—in the weather, or in fashion, or in what amounts to music these days. Whatever it is, just make sure it lacks substance, and make sure your hair looks fantastic.

Because to show passion is to show weakness. Because to plan is to be predictable.

So who’s in? I think I’ll sit this one out.

Tonight, as I drive past flocks of sky-gazing spectators, it strikes me: this is the closest most of us ever get to war, this choreographed sequence of colorful chemical combustion.

Meanwhile, North Korea launches its seventh ballistic missile of the day into the Sea of Japan, and NORAD security alert climbs to “Bravo-Plus” status. One day before, North Korea threatens to counter a pre-emptive U.S. attack with nuclear war.

In what’s being called “a major escalation,” an Israeli airstrike hits the Palestinian Interior Ministry building. The same building was attacked last week. In other local news, another Israeli airstrike hits a university in Gaza City, while a Palestinian rocket plows into an Israeli school.

In Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, two buses carrying government workers are bombed during morning rush hour. Insurgent violence, including ambushes, assassinations, and suicide bombings, is at its worst there since the Taliban was overthrown five years ago.

And these are just the big CNN headlines. Just today. Not even to mention Iraq.

Yet, here we are, safely insulated from the outside world, and drenched in the irony of celebrating our nation’s birth by watching all these impotent imitation bombs bursting in air. All these harmless crackles and pops, relentlessly provoking the car alarms on our military grade SUV tanks. Watching this sulfur cloud descend upon us like nuclear winter in some low-budget sci-fi flick.

Our little Hollywood dramatization, censored safe and sound for TV, without all the danger and dread. Just good old-fashioned American entertainment. Fun for the whole family. Our fake little war, the play we put on so that we don’t feel so left out of all that action.

After all, it’s probably the closest we’ll ever get.

Last night I stumbled across a shocking revelation that blew my fucking mind.

It was an ordinary evening, just like any other, and once again I found myself wondering, as I do from time to time, about a certain special someone.

Yes, I must confess… I was reflecting upon the life and times of Billy Dee Williams, perhaps best known for his riveting performance as Lando Calrissian in the classic Star Wars trilogy. He would later go on to portray Lester, the good-hearted narrator of the critically acclaimed film, The Ladies Man.

I was deep in thought about Billy Dee and suddenly it dawned on me… Billy is short for William. Could he actually be named William Williams? No… no, it just couldn’t be true… no parent would ever be so cruel, so lazy, so hopelessly dull. But alas, my curiosity prevailed, and soon I found myself turning to Wikipedia for answers…

“Billy Dee Williams (born William December Williams Jr. on April 6, 1937 in Harlem) is an Afric…”

WHAT THE FUCK? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?

Not only is his name William Williams, but he’s a fucking Jr. That means his dad’s name… that’s right. It’s William Williams, too.

“Well, son, we wanted to name you after one of the relatives, but we just couldn’t decide which one, so we just picked all of them…”

I’m so sorry, Billy Dee. I never knew…