Breaking all the rules

As I mentioned before, I’ve developed a habit of carrying around a pocket-sized notebook. This habit became more pronounced when I quit smoking. In essence, the notebook replaced my flip-top box of Parliaments and instead of lighting the paper with fire, I scribble ferociously into the tiny pages with poor penmanship that is highlighted in cheap blue ink.

Here are a few more observations extracted from the scribbles:

On Healthcare:

Medical professionals must desist from making small talk while touching your private parts.

If you made a habit of collecting club wristbands in your 20’s, you will inevitably collect hospital bands in your 30’s.

Medical marijuana may help with chronic pain, but it is not the proper remedy for writer’s block. Sure, it will ignite your inspiration, but when you sit down to write you will immediately forget what you wanted to say.

On following rules:

Old people refuse to follow any rules.They are the honey badgers of the human race.

If a musician or DJ has to give you instructions on how to participate in their performance (e.g. put your hands up, clap your hands, jump) they don’t deserve to be on the stage.

On what not to say in a meeting:

Unless you work in the food industry, you should never use the phrase, “We got a lot of meat here.”

It is also not wise to yell, “I got it up, what do you need?”

On Jewelry:

By wearing a ring on his pinky, a man is letting you know that as soon as you turn around, he will stare at your ass.

By wearing a ring on his middle finger, a man is illustrating his penchant for gay sex.

By wearing a ring on her pointer/index finger, a woman is indicating her desire to lose it inside your wife’s vagina.

Public speeching

I discovered yet another talent in my arsenal of unmarketable qualities:

I am able to read, out loud, in perfect slam intonation.

(If you don’t know what that is, it’s a style of poetry delivery that is rhythmically associated with hip-hop. It’s showcased on HBO’s Def Poetry series. Okay. Now you know. Please continue below.)

I’ve attended open mic nights, slam events and I even served as a judge for a poetry reading contest. In retrospect, I think that was a case of mistaken identity. I think they thought I was Isabel Allende. Which explains why they kept on addressing me as Ms. Allende. Yeah, it was weird.

The point is, I never participated. Ever. I never tried writing that way. And I certainly wasn’t going to read, out loud, in front of people. As a matter of fact, I have a slight stutter that becomes pronounced the more nervous I get. It’s what killed my dream to be a radio host. It’s what killed my dream to be a weather girl.

(Not really. What killed my weather girl dream was my rather large bottom. At a screen test, I discovered that my ass completely covers the Florida Keys, always making it cloudy there. Okay. Now you know. Continue reading.)

So, the other day, I was reading through some blogs and articles and I came across something that needed a little help. Not that what I do is art by any means. I write by blog on my phone for Pete’s sake. But this was, well, bad.

It wasn’t even about grammar or spelling — God knows, I have no idea how to operate that machinery. It wasn’t about the facts or fiction or style or language. It was just complete nonsense. It was a bunch of random words put together in no particular order and masked as some deep artistic reflection.

For a moment, I thought it was that I just didn’t understand it. Like the time I attempted to read Ezra Pound’s Cantos.

So, I decided to read it again, out loud. As if hearing it with my outside voice would help decipher the meaning, plot, main idea, and/or purpose of the story.

I took a quick breath and through my exhale began reading. Only, instead of a monotone whisper, a weird rhythmic beat just flowed out of my mouth. It sounded like this:

“Do-you-knowwww—-that-the-painofthecow-and-the-horssssse—–are the measure of-the-cy-cle in the washhhh.”

That was weird.

I continued, “Youuuu—You-are-more—de-ee-li-ciousss–thanaglass-of-mar–bles-in-a-desert—–storm.”

I couldn’t believe it. I actually made it sound great. Like the words had meaning and depth and emotion behind them. And I thought, I can add this to my resumé. I can market this talent to companies as part of my skill set. I can hold a press conference and read from my prepared statement in this style.

“Good-afternoonnnn—Ihavethe-di-fi-cult-task—-ofannoun—-cing—-the-layyy-offff-of-many-many-m-a-n-y—employees…”

Reporters will weep.

But what if I take my talent beyond the traditional realms of PR? What if I can take it to Washington and use it to explain the healthcare bill?

“Blah-blah-blablblahhhh—-bu-l-la-lah-ah-ah-says-sec-tion-three-pointsixtythree.”

And then America, collectively, would say, “Oh, I get it now, I can get full coverage, regardless of my pre-existing conditions. You know, when President Obama said it, I really couldn’t understand him. But now, now that you’ve used a musical variation in your tone and spaced out words and emphasized consonants, now I totally get it.”

And once again, reporters will weep.