November 11 was the birthday of Kurt Vonnegut. Happy belated birthday Kurt, you dead person you.
In 1999, Mr. V. wrote a piece called "How To Write With Style." He ended this essay by summing up his seven most important tips: (1) find a subject you care about; (2) do not ramble; (3) keep it simple; (4) have guts to cut; (5) sound like yourself; (6) say what you mean; and (7) pity the reader.
Here now, in my continuous effort to gain your approval, I show that I am a multi-dimensional writer of style.
1. Find a subject you care about. At the top of the list, I care about Chobani Blueberry Non-Fat Greek Yogurt. And my care for it is deep. Chobani yogurt is authentically strained by authentic Greeks who have been straining hard ever since that one Greek ran all the way to Marathon. Chobani has two times more protein than other regular crappy yogurts. The blueberries and the blueberry gop on the bottom, when consumed slowly, causes a sexual tingle. This explains why the blueberry flavor of the product keeps flying off the shelves. Meander down a downtown sidewalk and you'll notice that many passersby have a certain smile with a purple stain on their lips. I am one of those passersby. I care about Chobani.
2. Do not ramble. I took my first driving test in a 1959 Rambler coupe. I was under the influence of cannabis sativa at the time, so technically, I ran a risk for getting arrested for driving while under the influence of drugs while trying to show the State of Michigan that I would be a safe and capable driver. Chances are I had some pot in my pocket to boot, but the State of Michigan thought I did a fine job in that borrowed Rambler and gave me a driver's license. I could ramble on in this rambling tale, but Kurt would be proud if I stopped it now.
3. Keep it simple. Amen to that Dr. V.! There is nothing so mortifying in the strands of the soul, nay to the very heartbreak of psoriasis, than to lie supine like the mythical Nell, hog-tied and screeching bloody murder in the perpendicular between railroad tracks, tracks of bloated words, tracks of puffed up and self aggrandizing piffle, tracks that lead like a tedious argument of insidious intent, those railroad tracks that endure the incessant hum and vibration of a thunderous locomotive that vomits an utter vacuousness, that fails to deliver on the dried and salty sprits of spittle of so many arrogant "literary adventurers"! No, just call the cops. Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties arrives backwards on his steed. Dudley is just in the nick to save Nell from becoming bloody hamburger under the cow catcher. All you really need is a good looking cop, a damsel in distress, and a horse that knows the way.
4. Have guts to cut. Let's face it, it's tough to toss pure gold down the shithole. Every year I construct a Christmas letter to our beloved brethren, and over the years I have received invaluable feedback as to what's not been informative, what's not been amusing, what's not been appropriate, and especially about what not to do next time. This year, I've taken a vow to follow this advice. Per my readers' pleas, I now have guts to cut. Here is a draft of this year's version:
"Dear Family and Friends:
We're all fine, except for the bats.
Merry Christmas.
The Bohnhorsts"
5. Sound like yourself. This is sound advice, I suppose, if you know who in the hell you are. But I would like to expand on The Gutt's proviso: "Sound like yourself, but not too much like yourself." Allow me to illustrate from an experience I had in 10th grade geometry, Lafayette, Indiana, in the fall of 1967.
We were assigned homework assignments and as customary, given time before the bell to work quietly at our desks. I was bored and decided to pass a note to Mark Garrison, the kid sitting across the aisle from me. The note read: "Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" Mark read the note, gave out a soft chuckle, and quietly passed his response back. It read: "No, that's just my enormous tongue of cow that you're always trying to bite."
For some reason, this caused me to chuckle quite out loud in that silent place and in a moment, the outstretched hand of Mr. Hobaugh, our drab and dour math teacher, was at my left. I handed him the folded paper, he read it to himself, became an even dourer man, and ordered Garrison and me out into that empty and cavernous hallway. Mr. Hobaugh then handed back the note and commanded solemnly, "Read it. Out loud."
My voice had not fully changed, and my soft chirping echoed down the hall. I started out meek and scared: "Is that a banana in your pocket... or... are you... are you just glad to see me? No... "
I paused as I began to shake, began to struggle with keeping a cork on the funny monkey in my gut.
"Read!" commanded the teacher.
"No, that's just my tongue... my tongue of cow... my TONGUE OF COW! my TONGUE OF COW!" I was a goner. I doubled over in laughter, out of control, crying helplessly in this supremely absurd moment, now lost to any possible lessons that might come. Mr. Hobaugh really couldn't deal with this hysterical meltdown and simply pointed us back into the classroom after I caught my breath. I walked back to my desk, laughing all the way before the bewildered class. And from that moment on, Mark Garrison and I forged an unspoken bond for life.
This is an example of what I mean by not sounding too much like yourself. In that delicate and dangerous moment of impending doom, my words "tongue of cow" came echoing back to me, destroyed me, but also provided an odd salvation. Be careful that you not scrape the innards too closely.
6. Say what you mean. Here's how I describe the early days of dealing with our new puppy, Dog. And I mean every word:
Dog is a drum major on four legs with the parading forth of toilet plungers and waving embarrassingly soiled undergarments. Here are the battle scars of puppy potty training as yellow ovals splotched with paper towels freckle the floors. They must resemble the oozing sores of biblical lepers. I've grown accustomed to sidestepping regurgitated Kleenex and the transmuted skeletons of moles. But it's hard not to love a dog who falls asleep with her head inside a boot.
7. Pity the reader. I am sorry to put you through all this. Notice that I did not say that I am SO sorry. Well, I'm not SO sorry, I'm just sorry. When the hosts of the Today show take their turns for their inane morning TV segments, Al Roker might say, "And now here's Ann." And Ann Currie will respond, "Thank you SO much, Al." They're always SO appreciative of each other or for some guest, Madame So and So, coming on and explaining that to lose weight, a person needs to watch their diet and exercise. Ann will end by saying, "So and So, thank you SO much."
I try to take responsibility for other people's feelings, for your feelings. If you are cranky, I did that. If you are bored, my bad. Therefore, I am sorry to put you through all this. But then again, you didn't have to visit here, did you? All right, then. We're even.
Still... I'm sorry.
Comments are welcome at tombohn2@yahoo.com
In 1999, Mr. V. wrote a piece called "How To Write With Style." He ended this essay by summing up his seven most important tips: (1) find a subject you care about; (2) do not ramble; (3) keep it simple; (4) have guts to cut; (5) sound like yourself; (6) say what you mean; and (7) pity the reader.
Here now, in my continuous effort to gain your approval, I show that I am a multi-dimensional writer of style.
1. Find a subject you care about. At the top of the list, I care about Chobani Blueberry Non-Fat Greek Yogurt. And my care for it is deep. Chobani yogurt is authentically strained by authentic Greeks who have been straining hard ever since that one Greek ran all the way to Marathon. Chobani has two times more protein than other regular crappy yogurts. The blueberries and the blueberry gop on the bottom, when consumed slowly, causes a sexual tingle. This explains why the blueberry flavor of the product keeps flying off the shelves. Meander down a downtown sidewalk and you'll notice that many passersby have a certain smile with a purple stain on their lips. I am one of those passersby. I care about Chobani.
2. Do not ramble. I took my first driving test in a 1959 Rambler coupe. I was under the influence of cannabis sativa at the time, so technically, I ran a risk for getting arrested for driving while under the influence of drugs while trying to show the State of Michigan that I would be a safe and capable driver. Chances are I had some pot in my pocket to boot, but the State of Michigan thought I did a fine job in that borrowed Rambler and gave me a driver's license. I could ramble on in this rambling tale, but Kurt would be proud if I stopped it now.
3. Keep it simple. Amen to that Dr. V.! There is nothing so mortifying in the strands of the soul, nay to the very heartbreak of psoriasis, than to lie supine like the mythical Nell, hog-tied and screeching bloody murder in the perpendicular between railroad tracks, tracks of bloated words, tracks of puffed up and self aggrandizing piffle, tracks that lead like a tedious argument of insidious intent, those railroad tracks that endure the incessant hum and vibration of a thunderous locomotive that vomits an utter vacuousness, that fails to deliver on the dried and salty sprits of spittle of so many arrogant "literary adventurers"! No, just call the cops. Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties arrives backwards on his steed. Dudley is just in the nick to save Nell from becoming bloody hamburger under the cow catcher. All you really need is a good looking cop, a damsel in distress, and a horse that knows the way.
4. Have guts to cut. Let's face it, it's tough to toss pure gold down the shithole. Every year I construct a Christmas letter to our beloved brethren, and over the years I have received invaluable feedback as to what's not been informative, what's not been amusing, what's not been appropriate, and especially about what not to do next time. This year, I've taken a vow to follow this advice. Per my readers' pleas, I now have guts to cut. Here is a draft of this year's version:
"Dear Family and Friends:
We're all fine, except for the bats.
Merry Christmas.
The Bohnhorsts"
5. Sound like yourself. This is sound advice, I suppose, if you know who in the hell you are. But I would like to expand on The Gutt's proviso: "Sound like yourself, but not too much like yourself." Allow me to illustrate from an experience I had in 10th grade geometry, Lafayette, Indiana, in the fall of 1967.
We were assigned homework assignments and as customary, given time before the bell to work quietly at our desks. I was bored and decided to pass a note to Mark Garrison, the kid sitting across the aisle from me. The note read: "Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" Mark read the note, gave out a soft chuckle, and quietly passed his response back. It read: "No, that's just my enormous tongue of cow that you're always trying to bite."
For some reason, this caused me to chuckle quite out loud in that silent place and in a moment, the outstretched hand of Mr. Hobaugh, our drab and dour math teacher, was at my left. I handed him the folded paper, he read it to himself, became an even dourer man, and ordered Garrison and me out into that empty and cavernous hallway. Mr. Hobaugh then handed back the note and commanded solemnly, "Read it. Out loud."
My voice had not fully changed, and my soft chirping echoed down the hall. I started out meek and scared: "Is that a banana in your pocket... or... are you... are you just glad to see me? No... "
I paused as I began to shake, began to struggle with keeping a cork on the funny monkey in my gut.
"Read!" commanded the teacher.
"No, that's just my tongue... my tongue of cow... my TONGUE OF COW! my TONGUE OF COW!" I was a goner. I doubled over in laughter, out of control, crying helplessly in this supremely absurd moment, now lost to any possible lessons that might come. Mr. Hobaugh really couldn't deal with this hysterical meltdown and simply pointed us back into the classroom after I caught my breath. I walked back to my desk, laughing all the way before the bewildered class. And from that moment on, Mark Garrison and I forged an unspoken bond for life.
This is an example of what I mean by not sounding too much like yourself. In that delicate and dangerous moment of impending doom, my words "tongue of cow" came echoing back to me, destroyed me, but also provided an odd salvation. Be careful that you not scrape the innards too closely.
6. Say what you mean. Here's how I describe the early days of dealing with our new puppy, Dog. And I mean every word:
Dog is a drum major on four legs with the parading forth of toilet plungers and waving embarrassingly soiled undergarments. Here are the battle scars of puppy potty training as yellow ovals splotched with paper towels freckle the floors. They must resemble the oozing sores of biblical lepers. I've grown accustomed to sidestepping regurgitated Kleenex and the transmuted skeletons of moles. But it's hard not to love a dog who falls asleep with her head inside a boot.
7. Pity the reader. I am sorry to put you through all this. Notice that I did not say that I am SO sorry. Well, I'm not SO sorry, I'm just sorry. When the hosts of the Today show take their turns for their inane morning TV segments, Al Roker might say, "And now here's Ann." And Ann Currie will respond, "Thank you SO much, Al." They're always SO appreciative of each other or for some guest, Madame So and So, coming on and explaining that to lose weight, a person needs to watch their diet and exercise. Ann will end by saying, "So and So, thank you SO much."
I try to take responsibility for other people's feelings, for your feelings. If you are cranky, I did that. If you are bored, my bad. Therefore, I am sorry to put you through all this. But then again, you didn't have to visit here, did you? All right, then. We're even.
Still... I'm sorry.
Comments are welcome at tombohn2@yahoo.com
