Quotes

Nothing speaks to an outcast or down trodden individual more than another person’s words. Literally. One struck with insecurities will leech on to a clever spin of words they think represents them. They’ll misconstrue and twist the original meaning of their chosen passage until it fits their situation perfectly. It is all a big delusion. I’m sure that you’re aware that the most cliché culprit is the ever present song lyric.

I asked a connoisseur of this art of repetition what a particular selection of his meant. He could not answer me. He simply recited the origin of the quote and thought nothing more of it. He cannot speak for all people who cite these lines, but all too many are used too hastily and without considering the significance.

I understand that some quotes from songs and poems are meant to talk to us and to be prominently meaningful. Some individuals even go as far as tattooing the language on their bodies. Far too many people overdue it though. I always try to live by the “Everything in moderation” mantra. Too often will you find a human who surrounds themselves with other’s works of word play and colloquialisms. I believe that it is detrimental to originality and creativity.

I don’t wish this to be labeled a rant, but I think that it’s unavoidable. Perhaps I’m just jaded with all of the fakeness. I’m sure if I stayed off of the social networking sites, I’d be far less subjected to the regurgitation of cacophony.

Un-Sung

How much good writing goes un-noticed? I used to work at a design firm in Michigan. We managed many websites and blogs for our clients. One blog that we monitored was for a famous author that lived in the Detroit Metro area. I personally am not a fan of his work but many individuals find him fascinating.

He had a blog that his readers would go to every now and then to see what he’s been up to. He would populate it with his tour and book signing dates, random thoughts, or his personal experiences throughout the day. I do not believe that this is how blogging should be handled, but to each his own.  His readers could also comment on his entries and send messages to his personal email inbox, or so they thought. The emails actually came to us. He didn’t want to be bothered by them.

I was part of a company that thought a little bit out of the box. We were known to have a little fun every now and then and our clients usually joined in. Once in a while during down-time, we would go into the mailbox setup to catch these emails from his fans and read them. I can remember one in particular that caught our eye. It was from an obsessed fan. She was absolutely convinced that her and this married man that she was writing to, were meant for each other. One line that I can remember from her writing was, “I think you’re dreaming of me right now”.

I do not believe that all emails and fan mail that are sent to artists or musicians or actors are opened or read. I do strongly believe that some of those desperate pleas for attention are great works of literature. Sometimes the crazies write the best stuff.

I would like to read all the ramblings.

A letter to Frank

I applied to a database management position on Craigslist.org. The man that got back to me was named Frank. He informed me that the job was actually filling out surveys online and that there was a onetime only, upfront fee that I would make up during my first day. I wrote him back. This was my response:

Dear Frank,

Please find a syringe and fill it with Windex and shoot it into your arm. While you slowly lose consciousness, fill out one of your precious surveys and drool onto your keyboard.

Eventually during your post injection trauma, your mind will begin to slip and the survey’s questions will seem more difficult to answer. The question “What is the length of your erect penis?” will surely become a paradox for you. One for the fact that you are an impotent coward, and second, the Windex will slow your mind down to the point where you won’t be sure what the meaning of “is” is.

A few months later when you have stopped paying your bills, your landlord will enter your room to find your smiling, ghostly, lifeless face holding down the "enter" key while you submit the same survey over and over again. The company that pays you to take the survey would no doubt go bankrupt with the amount of surveys you would have submitted in your months of solitude on top of the “enter” key.

I don’t think that another bankrupt company would be good for our economy. So I’ll have to decline your job offer.

Thank you,
Luke Longuski

The Trash

I often wonder where the garbage comes from. I know that each individual piece has its own testimonial.  The streets are riddled with an onslaught of trash every day. Walking downtown has become such a journey for me. My mind races with the thousands of possibilities of origin for these guttered vagabonds.

I believe the McDonalds cup that I kicked today was once filled with Coca-Cola, but how long ago? Who bothered to throw it in the street? What was their name? I wonder what they had as a compliment to the soda. All of these variables are part of a story that only the cup could spin.

Perhaps the cup didn’t start out on this street. It could have started out in another state. Some eager young man on a cross country road trip could have made this street where I found it his destination. With no intention whatsoever to give this cup a free ride. The cup was the farthest thing from his thoughts. As far as he was concerned, when he had drunk it to fruition, his only want was to get rid of it.

Suppose the cup had spilled onto his lap prior to him finishing off the liquid inside. He would have gotten upset with it, or if he was a man with any intelligence, gotten upset with himself. He would have thrown it out the window of his vehicle in disgust and annoyance. Pants sopping and sticky from the sugars in the cola, he rolls down the window and gives his once beverage a good heave for the opposite side of the road. Drips that remained in the container would have spiraled onto nearby travelers, affecting their lives in ways that the original purchaser of the cup could not begin to conceive or care about.

I imagine a stray drip landing on the door handle of a passing taxi cab. Over the next several minutes it transforms into a sticky residue patiently waiting for some unsuspecting victim to keep it warm. That victim could be the new guy in his office with two strikes on his record. He gets the substance on his hand and surreptitiously tries to wipe it off on the cab’s seats without drawing too much attention to himself from the driver. This only exacerbates his problem at hand. Every little fiber that he touched on the seats is now sticking to his hand. Each little piece also has its own story, but I may digress.

This man’s new primary goal is to get his hands clean. No longer is getting to work on time his objective. He assumes that he’ll have enough time to get to his office and to the bathroom before clocking in and still be considered on time. He is wrong. The extra seconds in the bathroom in the morning before work are his undoing. He is dismissed from his position for his third strike. If the cup’s original owner had known that these events would have transpired, would he have ejected the cup onto the street?

I still would have.

A letter to America's 1950's

Dear America’s 1950’s,

Where have you gone?  Are you cold and lonely all the way back there fifty years? Are the forties and sixties keeping you company? I remember you. Don’t worry. I believe that you deserve a comeback. It has been far too long since the world has seen your elegance and originality.

Long hours have I sat and pondered your genius and how it must have been so miserable for the population to say goodbye to you. You were bordered with such powerful eras. I know that you were strong at the turn of the half century. So eager to stand up and make a name for yourself in the twentieth century and refusing to be the middle child of ten.

Ten years before you came the forties. World War II ended in 1945 and your boys returned home. Soldiers and salesmen switched roles.  This post war hysteria gave rise to the baby boom and an overwhelming boost to your numbers. Some went on to be great and some went on to keep some down.  I myself am the offspring of two baby boomers born in your time.  The events that transpired in the forties have no doubt changed America forever for better or for worse. It’s open to interpretation.

The sixties brought us the drugs. I am sure that you would have frowned upon the debauchery and hedonistic ways that they brought upon America. The people loved it though. You may not be surprised to hear that they’re still employing drugs on a daily basis. Not just the teenagers anymore, but the CEO’s and even our president has admitted to drug use in his past. Only now is the government beginning the serious debate on the legalization of such substances.

I do not feel the necessity to explain your greatness. I am not trying to convince anyone else that may be reading this letter. You and I both understand the complexities of your impact on American history. All I’d like to say is that I miss you, and I wish that you’d visit me here in the new millennium.

Sincerely yours,
Luke Longuski

P.S. – Tell Elvis that I said, “Thanks… King”.