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Cambridge, Edinburgh & Amsterdam: Portrait Of The Artist As A Short Man
Cambridge, Edinburgh & Amsterdam: Portrait Of The Artist As A Short Man
It is said that play is the work of children; indeed, psychologists would have us believe that young people come to understand the world and their role in it by having fun. (If I have assumed the tone of a vacationing zoologist describing the activities of Burmese dung beetles that is because until quite recently fun was an abstract concept for me, and play was something written by Edward Albee.)
By the time I arrived in Philadelphia at age six I had already lived in three different countries and learned two very different languages. My writerly personality - detached, solitary, depressed, thoughtful, lonely, mercurial, disingenuous, acquiescent, analytical, misanthropic and insecure – was already well in place. Drug abuse, chronic isolation, and a rich assortment of self-destructive behaviors lurked just around the bend.
I once asked a professor what it took to make a living as a writer. Without pausing he said, “You have to give up any hope of leading a normal life.” When I asked him that question I thought I had a choice, I did not understand that the decision had already been made for me. I was a serious wee lad, a miniature adult; the world was too much upon me. By six I was already scribbling poetry about God, death, and the meaning of life.
Time allowed me to grow up, or down, into my image of an aspiring, young artist - miraculously I never owned a beret, probably because I do not wear hats well. I pursued sensual indulgence, cheap thrills, and bourgeois decadence with relish.
I enjoyed the feeling of squandering talent, wasting opportunities, and pissing away gifts others might have killed to enjoy. It was an era of bad boys and anti-heroes and although I did indeed turn bad it never made me a hero. Also, somewhere along the way I stopped writing anything more culturally consequential than an ad for foot powder.
After you read Invisible Driving you will come to understand that it was only through traversing the burning landscapes of manic depression (bipolar disorder) that I was forced to break my personality down to its most primary elements and reconstruct. That process, hard as it was, gave me so many glorious gifts, among them the ability to have fun and play.
I read once that it is never too late to have a happy childhood – and I have taken that as my mantra. As far as I am concerned – He who dies having had the most fun wins. I learned at last that having fun is not difficult, complex or costly – it is simply a matter of knowing yourself, being yourself, and enjoying being yourself.
There is a coda to this song. You allow other people to enjoy you enjoying being yourself, too.
I wish I could tell the little boy in that photograph he needn't be afraid.
CLICK HERE To Order INVISIBLE DRIVING
It is said that play is the work of children; indeed, psychologists would have us believe that young people come to understand the world and their role in it by having fun. (If I have assumed the tone of a vacationing zoologist describing the activities of Burmese dung beetles that is because until quite recently fun was an abstract concept for me, and play was something written by Edward Albee.)
By the time I arrived in Philadelphia at age six I had already lived in three different countries and learned two very different languages. My writerly personality - detached, solitary, depressed, thoughtful, lonely, mercurial, disingenuous, acquiescent, analytical, misanthropic and insecure – was already well in place. Drug abuse, chronic isolation, and a rich assortment of self-destructive behaviors lurked just around the bend.
I once asked a professor what it took to make a living as a writer. Without pausing he said, “You have to give up any hope of leading a normal life.” When I asked him that question I thought I had a choice, I did not understand that the decision had already been made for me. I was a serious wee lad, a miniature adult; the world was too much upon me. By six I was already scribbling poetry about God, death, and the meaning of life.
Time allowed me to grow up, or down, into my image of an aspiring, young artist - miraculously I never owned a beret, probably because I do not wear hats well. I pursued sensual indulgence, cheap thrills, and bourgeois decadence with relish.
I enjoyed the feeling of squandering talent, wasting opportunities, and pissing away gifts others might have killed to enjoy. It was an era of bad boys and anti-heroes and although I did indeed turn bad it never made me a hero. Also, somewhere along the way I stopped writing anything more culturally consequential than an ad for foot powder.
After you read Invisible Driving you will come to understand that it was only through traversing the burning landscapes of manic depression (bipolar disorder) that I was forced to break my personality down to its most primary elements and reconstruct. That process, hard as it was, gave me so many glorious gifts, among them the ability to have fun and play.
I read once that it is never too late to have a happy childhood – and I have taken that as my mantra. As far as I am concerned – He who dies having had the most fun wins. I learned at last that having fun is not difficult, complex or costly – it is simply a matter of knowing yourself, being yourself, and enjoying being yourself.
There is a coda to this song. You allow other people to enjoy you enjoying being yourself, too.
I wish I could tell the little boy in that photograph he needn't be afraid.
CLICK HERE To Order INVISIBLE DRIVING
The Tucson University Commencement Address – Taz Mopula
The students who attend Tucson University, America’s most prestigious online learning resource, are scattered throughout the country. Consequently, a traditional graduation ceremony is both logistically challenging and inappropriate.
This year’s graduation ceremony was special indeed. Because Tucson, (sometimes referred to as Virtual U), finds its entire existence in digital ether; featured guest speaker Taz Mopula delivered his remarks in a series of tweets.
They appear below.
Tucson University 2012 Commencement Tweets – Taz Mopula
Class of 2012. As you explore what is arguably the world, remember:
It's lonely at the top. Then again, it's lonely at the bottom too, plus, the service is really bad.
There is nothing to fear except you itself.
If I could only give you one piece of advice it would be this: Do not, under any circumstances, take my advice.
The moment you are certain that you’ve got it all worked out is precisely when you finally not do.
If you think education is expensive, try insolence.
Why raise the bridge when you can lower your expectations of the river?
Those who can’t do, teach; those who can’t teach, teach anyway.
How can you think outside of the box when the box is inside your head?
There is no shame in ignorance; then again, it’s no cause for celebration, either.
The more you learn the less you know for certain; the less you know for certain the more you learn.
Be nice to your enemies; you just might be one of them.
Your college selection is irrelevant. However, where you go to high school is crucial; because they will never let you leave.
Thank you.
For more amusing words of wisdom click HERE.
Because You Asked Why Even The Bravest Fear Poetry
Because You Asked Why Even The Bravest Fear Poetry
I took the photograph above in 1967, from atop the aft mast of a Norwegian freighter named Nopal Progress. But my obsession with the sea began long before that.
A Salty Dog
Tattered sails swell with breath
My battered boat groans and complains
As it’s guided from safe harbor to the
Cold and merciless sea
By invisible hands
I am weary of adventures
Scarred from fighting monsters
Hideous ones, beautiful ones
All I ever wanted was a cat
A hearth, a dram, a meal
A woman who knew how to sew
A roof and wall to guard against
The cruelties of winter
But fate decrees that I am bound
Bound to the mast, bound to the sea
Whatever rocky coast is my new home
I’ll tell my story there
Whatever rocky coast is my new home
I’ll tell my story there
Alistair McHarg
Harbor Lights
Outside looming harbor gates
Lightning scars the dark
Winds that shriek a cold lament
Of spirits lost and drowned
Whip the ocean into froth while
Raindrops strike like shot
Giants slumber by a wharf
Massive engines purr
Pushing only running lights
Mast and window, aft and fore
Not a soul dare leave the port
No man lifts a chain
Down the plank of one great ship
Several sailors tread
Collars turned against the storm
Navigating cobblestones
To seek camaraderie
In foreign vessels flying foreign flags
Dank and grimy dining room
Smoky, cramped, and warm
Weathered men drink far too much
Laugh too hard, and sing too loud
In tongues unknown to them
Pump your wheezy
Squeezebox please
Chipped and yellow ivories
Clap your hands ‘til dawn
This night all are safe
And one
Soon the sea will claim us
Alistair McHarg
My Lovely Angeline
Two long weeks at sea, New Orleans to Rio
High above the massive Jesus hovered
Arms stretched wide like a friendly traffic cop
Our pilot ship arrived and we were
Pulled
Right
In
Bacchanalian decadence of land
All the pleasure a sea dog could stand
Beef kabobs popping, chestnuts splitting their skins
Sweet, warm meat melting in our mouths
Music floating in on cool ocean air
Shhhuka shhhuka shuuk of the samba
Soft as an inner thigh
Rugged men from distant lands
Drinking desperately
Sang, yelled, cursed, and lied
In tongues unknown to me
Rushing tide of women, riot of color
Jungle green, parrot red, sun yellow, sea blue
High-heeled shoes and short short skirts, nicely tight
Fish net stockings, yeah, that’s right
Fish nets to catch a sailor
Bottoms twitching in that rhythmic female beat
Conga drumming street life, walking dancing singing
Scents designed to make knees weak
Reefer, incense, cheap perfume
Pretty faces smile and ask
“Short time, sailor?” - “You like me?”
Angeline, above them all
Tall and slim and young
Starched white blouse cut down to here
Cigarette leg slacks
Face that spoke of Europe, but dreamt of Africa
I bent down to your quiet grace
And you pulled me
Right
In
Not a word in common
We only looked and touched
Your soft brown skin, my Angeline
Coffee blessed with cream
Your room, so large and empty
Dresser, mirror, broken chair
Ceiling high, you reclined
A vision in the glare
Of one bare bulb suspended
Thread of fraying wire
Wearing just a shark’s tooth
On a golden chain
You grabbed my hair, pulled back my head
Bit me on the neck
And pulled me
Right
In
I’m a little bit like you, my lovely Angeline
I can’t remember all of them, nor would I even want to
Coming to me, passing through me, leaving me behind
Touched and yet alone, untouched
Keep on smiling, that’s the trick
Life’s a party, live it up, never feel a thing
But long ago, we triumphed for
One heartbeat on the clock
We beat them at their unforgiving game
When it was done you made me swear
That, should I ever come back there
I’d race straight into your waiting arms
You said that you would slit my throat
If I ran to another
Told me that I now belonged to you
It makes me feel like sailing back
To Rio, now, this instant
To stroll your streets and alleys
With a wanton, painted trollop on my arm
Alistair McHarg
I took the photograph above in 1967, from atop the aft mast of a Norwegian freighter named Nopal Progress. But my obsession with the sea began long before that.
A Salty Dog
Tattered sails swell with breath
My battered boat groans and complains
As it’s guided from safe harbor to the
Cold and merciless sea
By invisible hands
I am weary of adventures
Scarred from fighting monsters
Hideous ones, beautiful ones
All I ever wanted was a cat
A hearth, a dram, a meal
A woman who knew how to sew
A roof and wall to guard against
The cruelties of winter
But fate decrees that I am bound
Bound to the mast, bound to the sea
Whatever rocky coast is my new home
I’ll tell my story there
Whatever rocky coast is my new home
I’ll tell my story there
Alistair McHarg
Harbor Lights
Outside looming harbor gates
Lightning scars the dark
Winds that shriek a cold lament
Of spirits lost and drowned
Whip the ocean into froth while
Raindrops strike like shot
Giants slumber by a wharf
Massive engines purr
Pushing only running lights
Mast and window, aft and fore
Not a soul dare leave the port
No man lifts a chain
Down the plank of one great ship
Several sailors tread
Collars turned against the storm
Navigating cobblestones
To seek camaraderie
In foreign vessels flying foreign flags
Dank and grimy dining room
Smoky, cramped, and warm
Weathered men drink far too much
Laugh too hard, and sing too loud
In tongues unknown to them
Pump your wheezy
Squeezebox please
Chipped and yellow ivories
Clap your hands ‘til dawn
This night all are safe
And one
Soon the sea will claim us
Alistair McHarg
My Lovely Angeline
Two long weeks at sea, New Orleans to Rio
High above the massive Jesus hovered
Arms stretched wide like a friendly traffic cop
Our pilot ship arrived and we were
Pulled
Right
In
Bacchanalian decadence of land
All the pleasure a sea dog could stand
Beef kabobs popping, chestnuts splitting their skins
Sweet, warm meat melting in our mouths
Music floating in on cool ocean air
Shhhuka shhhuka shuuk of the samba
Soft as an inner thigh
Rugged men from distant lands
Drinking desperately
Sang, yelled, cursed, and lied
In tongues unknown to me
Rushing tide of women, riot of color
Jungle green, parrot red, sun yellow, sea blue
High-heeled shoes and short short skirts, nicely tight
Fish net stockings, yeah, that’s right
Fish nets to catch a sailor
Bottoms twitching in that rhythmic female beat
Conga drumming street life, walking dancing singing
Scents designed to make knees weak
Reefer, incense, cheap perfume
Pretty faces smile and ask
“Short time, sailor?” - “You like me?”
Angeline, above them all
Tall and slim and young
Starched white blouse cut down to here
Cigarette leg slacks
Face that spoke of Europe, but dreamt of Africa
I bent down to your quiet grace
And you pulled me
Right
In
Not a word in common
We only looked and touched
Your soft brown skin, my Angeline
Coffee blessed with cream
Your room, so large and empty
Dresser, mirror, broken chair
Ceiling high, you reclined
A vision in the glare
Of one bare bulb suspended
Thread of fraying wire
Wearing just a shark’s tooth
On a golden chain
You grabbed my hair, pulled back my head
Bit me on the neck
And pulled me
Right
In
I’m a little bit like you, my lovely Angeline
I can’t remember all of them, nor would I even want to
Coming to me, passing through me, leaving me behind
Touched and yet alone, untouched
Keep on smiling, that’s the trick
Life’s a party, live it up, never feel a thing
But long ago, we triumphed for
One heartbeat on the clock
We beat them at their unforgiving game
When it was done you made me swear
That, should I ever come back there
I’d race straight into your waiting arms
You said that you would slit my throat
If I ran to another
Told me that I now belonged to you
It makes me feel like sailing back
To Rio, now, this instant
To stroll your streets and alleys
With a wanton, painted trollop on my arm
Alistair McHarg
Thelonious Monk & Johannes Vermeer: Live At The Delft Blues Festival
Thelonious Monk & Johannes Vermeer: Live At The Delft Blues Festival
My father was from Scotland and my mother was from Holland. It would be difficult to find two more different countries. Scotland is an intensely spiritual, melancholic place roaring with mad, natural majesty. Holland is a tiny, quiet garden where one luxuriates in order, calm and reason.
I have lived in both countries and know them intimately. Despite my fondness for Holland, I’ve always identified far more strongly with Scotland. As a bipolar bear my appetites invariably draw me towards grand, intense, excessive sweeps and the raw, ragged Highland glory, ungodly bagpipe wailing, and merciless rain, wind, and snow fit my disposition as snugly as a broadsword might have fit into my hands short centuries ago.
But four-plus decades of life with manic depression (bipolar disorder if you must) have changed me; the highs are not so high, the lows are not so low. A decade of abstemious recovery has had an impact too. Life today is in the center lane; extremes have become simultaneously dangerous and tiresome; thoroughly unappealing. Recovery and health have shown me that the real depth, the value, is deep within the gray scale.
I will never lose my abiding love for Scotland, and the feeling that my soul has wandered those rough slopes for countless generations. But today I am happy to inhabit a landscape as ordered as any Mondrian canvas, where barges drift along canals straight as knitting needles. I have come home to Holland.
There is a wonderful painting by Vermeer (is there a Vermeer that isn’t wonderful?) of a woman making lace, which provided the starting point for this poem.
It was said of Thelonious Monk that, while the notes he played were astonishing, the real music, the genius, was found in the space in-between the notes.
White Lace Handkerchief
Once, in Delft, a humble
Young woman gazed upon
Lush silken fabric cut square
And saw within a perfect place
That longed to be discovered
Pointed pins like tiny arrows
Pierced a velvet cushion
Miniature scissors in hand
Bits of thread fell like snow
Remove, reveal, loop, twist
Braid, again, again, again
And so, pattern and
Symmetry fashioned the cloth
Into a song; flourishes and
Trills evoking wonder and
Delight, but in between the
Sparkling notes, in silences
And gaps, a small tattoo is
Etched upon the heart
In Amsterdam, a fine
Lady surrendered the
White handkerchief
And watched it fall
Into the grasp of a
Gentleman, did she
Think of that humble
Young woman in Delft?
Did she know that what is
Unsaid speaks most clearly?
Alistair McHarg
CLICK HERE to experience the most bodacious writing of my entire life!
My father was from Scotland and my mother was from Holland. It would be difficult to find two more different countries. Scotland is an intensely spiritual, melancholic place roaring with mad, natural majesty. Holland is a tiny, quiet garden where one luxuriates in order, calm and reason.
I have lived in both countries and know them intimately. Despite my fondness for Holland, I’ve always identified far more strongly with Scotland. As a bipolar bear my appetites invariably draw me towards grand, intense, excessive sweeps and the raw, ragged Highland glory, ungodly bagpipe wailing, and merciless rain, wind, and snow fit my disposition as snugly as a broadsword might have fit into my hands short centuries ago.
But four-plus decades of life with manic depression (bipolar disorder if you must) have changed me; the highs are not so high, the lows are not so low. A decade of abstemious recovery has had an impact too. Life today is in the center lane; extremes have become simultaneously dangerous and tiresome; thoroughly unappealing. Recovery and health have shown me that the real depth, the value, is deep within the gray scale.
I will never lose my abiding love for Scotland, and the feeling that my soul has wandered those rough slopes for countless generations. But today I am happy to inhabit a landscape as ordered as any Mondrian canvas, where barges drift along canals straight as knitting needles. I have come home to Holland.
There is a wonderful painting by Vermeer (is there a Vermeer that isn’t wonderful?) of a woman making lace, which provided the starting point for this poem.
It was said of Thelonious Monk that, while the notes he played were astonishing, the real music, the genius, was found in the space in-between the notes.
White Lace Handkerchief
Once, in Delft, a humble
Young woman gazed upon
Lush silken fabric cut square
And saw within a perfect place
That longed to be discovered
Pointed pins like tiny arrows
Pierced a velvet cushion
Miniature scissors in hand
Bits of thread fell like snow
Remove, reveal, loop, twist
Braid, again, again, again
And so, pattern and
Symmetry fashioned the cloth
Into a song; flourishes and
Trills evoking wonder and
Delight, but in between the
Sparkling notes, in silences
And gaps, a small tattoo is
Etched upon the heart
In Amsterdam, a fine
Lady surrendered the
White handkerchief
And watched it fall
Into the grasp of a
Gentleman, did she
Think of that humble
Young woman in Delft?
Did she know that what is
Unsaid speaks most clearly?
Alistair McHarg
CLICK HERE to experience the most bodacious writing of my entire life!
Everybody Wants To Know Why I Sing The Blues
Everybody Wants To Know Why I Sing The Blues
I felt as though the air had grown thick; I navigated it laboriously, as one walks through knee-deep water. Sweetness and flavor were gone; colors had faded into a thousand gray variations. I was 26 and thoroughly adrift. In need of employment I followed a path worn smooth by thousands of over-educated lost souls before me, complete immersion in a dead-end, service sector job.
Penn Radio Cab was a poorly managed, independently owned taxi company that prospered by transporting Philadelphia’s under-served population throughout its most distressed neighborhoods. We were not Yellow, parked in front of swish hotels, on our way to the airport, oh no. Our days and nights were spent prowling the forbidding landscapes of North and West Philadelphia where money was scarce and life was cheap.
The management at Penn Radio exploited its drivers mercilessly - 12-hour shifts, 6-days a week, weekends mandatory, no exceptions. Saturdays were okay, but Sundays were useless, no fares, no money. Rolling the desolate, trash-lined streets, awash in post-apocalyptic rubble, cars on cinder-blocks, hookers, junkies, cops, and newspaper delivery trucks, we ate donuts, drank coffee, and smoked cigarettes.
Early one Sunday morning in April, gritty city trees in graffiti-smeared planters bravely pushing buds out into the carbon-monoxide, I answered a radio call in North Philly. It was a slim brick row house in a block of identical dwellings distinguished by the presence of bright green Astro-turf on the front steps. Out of the house, moving with precise determination; came a distinguished, buttoned-up black nurse. She got in the cab.
Philadelphia is known for its hospitals, so when she gave me the address of a Baptist Church I was confused. In my innocence I asked her if she was attending church on her way to work. She said no, she worked at the church. More curious still I asked her why a church would need to have a nurse on hand. She said, “You know, in case somebody gets too happy.”
Then it all came to me, like a wave. Being a choirboy at St. Martin’s in the Fields, my mom driving me and my friends to the service on Sunday, listening to the live feed on WHAT from The Cornerstone Baptist Church at 33rd & Diamond Streets and the way the entire congregation sang with a completely unqualified euphoria of jubilee shout halleluiah until we couldn’t figure out why the building was still standing and even then I ached for that kind of belief, that faith, that mad commitment and wondered how it must feel to give yourself up to the divine and surrender and then we would go to St. Martin’s in the Fields and sing and men in tweed with their women in mink would fall asleep and I thought this can’t be what religion is.
And so I drove the nurse to her church.
For The Ride Of Your Life CLICK HERE
Fashion Fundamentals For The Wacky
Fashion Fundamentals For The Wacky
How many times have you found yourself in this all-too-familiar predicament? You’re handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police car, on your way to yet another mental hospital, rehab or county lock-up. As thoughts cascade through your cattywhumpus consciousness like an unruly herd of Slinkies descending a dark, dilapidated staircase, you inadvertently spot your own reflection in the rear view mirror and stop to consider your attire.
Pre-WWI leather football helmet (complete with earflaps) and Dame Edna rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses pilfered from your Aunt Belinda’s attic. Cinderella costume with fishnet stockings and engineer boots. The alligator handbag resting next to you on the seat contains two partially thawed flounder fillets, a small jar of mayonnaise and the collected poems of William Shatner. “It’s bold and dramatic,” you think to yourself, “but is this the fashion statement I want to be making when I’m being fingerprinted?”
Of course, in the case of you women out there it might look quite different.
Either way, if you are about to stroll the aisles of Cookoopantsatopolis, it behooves you to remember that it’s not about what your wear, it’s whom. You are going to be evaluated on what your ensemble says about you, and you would be well served to remember what your needs will be after the doors have been locked. A Gianni Versace jumpsuit is certain to get you noticed, but nothing says, “I’m ready for my meds” like traditional work wear from Levi Strauss.
Know chic, Sherlock!
Fashion on the inside of Cookoopantsatopolis is very much like fashion on the outside – the idea is to give the impression you are something that you aren’t! Doctors, nurses, cops and Ken Burns will be watching your every move and recording anything noteworthy, so make your wardrobe say what you want it to say.
Here are a few fashion do’s and don’ts intended to hasten your reintegration into society.
Don’t:
1. Spill borscht on striped pants. (Staffers call this the “psycho-killer” look.)
2. Wear white after post-partum depression day.
3. Wear “busy” patterns. (Staff shorthand states – Busy is dizzy!)
4. Dress in the dark. Wearing clothes backwards will lengthen your stay.
5. EVER wear a T-shirt with an arrow pointing straight up at your chin that says, “I’m with stupid.”
Do:
1. Change your clothes at least once a week – staff will be impressed!
2. Pockets! Spend hours hiding things from yourself and hunting for them!
3. Trendy leisure togs. Jog corridors purposefully; check heart rate often.
4. Tennis whites. Staff will think you are identifying with them!
5. Corporate attire. Mingle with visiting family members and leave when they do!
Spoiler Alert: Do NOT read this if you are sane!
[We’ve all been there, we know. Even in the heights of whackadoomiousness the little voice inside is whispering “show time” - if we would only listen. So take a few minutes to change out of that gorilla suit and into something that says, “All right Mr. Freud, I’m ready for my close up.”]
Enjoy satire? Click HERE.
WWF (World Writing Federation) Presents Cage Match Aphorism Smackdown!
WWF (World Writing Federation) Presents Cage Match Aphorism Smackdown!
The use and abuse of aphorisms has grown to epidemic proportions; today the Internet is awash in frequently misattributed, pithy sentiments. For this reason, the WWF (World Writing Federation) has sanctioned a Cage Match Aphorism Smackdown.
It works like this. Every thought nugget listed below appears with the names of 4 possible authors. You get to guess which writer originated the quote. Author with the most votes wins (allegedly).
In the true spirit of WWF entertainment, the result is fixed, but it’s a grand opportunity for cheering, screaming and banging Ernest Hemingway in the head with a folding metal chair.
1. "Why pay to exercise in a gym when you can enjoy an exercise in futility for free whenever you like?"
a.) Cicero
b.) Snooki
c.) Nostradamus
d.) Taz Mopula
2. "You have the right to remain silent, and listen. Might be advisable to exercise it before they take that one away, too."
a.) Marcel Marceau
b.) Lao Tzu
c.) Boxcar Willie
d.) Taz Mopula
3. "Don’t honk if you love auditory hallucinations."
a.) Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
b.) Sylvia Plath
c.) His Holiness the Dalai Lama
d.) Taz Mopula
4. "Laughter is the best medicine; except when it comes to poisonous snakebites, then it’s the second-best medicine."
a.) Albert Schweitzer
b.) Baron Rochefoucauld
c.) Kim Kardashian
d.) Taz Mopula
5. "The real tragedy of political correctness is that it has given lying a bad name."
a.) Pliny The Elder
b.) Pliny The Younger
c.) Regular Pliny
d.) Taz Mopula
6. "Think twice before burning bridges; you never know when you might want to jump off one of them."
a.) Zig Zigler
b.) Pema Chödrön
c.) Reverend Ike
d.) Taz Mopula
7. "Looking for self-worth in someone else’s eyes is like trying to breathe with someone else’s lungs."
a.) Maya Angelou
b.) Charlie Sheen
c.) Gertrude Stein
d.) Taz Mopula
8. "It’s not that I don’t love you, I do love you; I just don’t love you enough to lie to you."
a.) Dante
b.) Paris Hilton
c.) Shakespeare
d.) Taz Mopula
9. "Should you meet someone who claims that visualizing a thing makes it so; tell them to visualize being flattened by a bus."
a.) Tom Waits
b.) James Dean
c.) Hunter Thompson
d.) Taz Mopula
10. "Life is good! Death is poopy!"
a.) Dr. Wayne Dyer
b.) Oprah Winfrey
c.) Tony Robbins
d.) Taz Mopula
11. "You can’t fool all of the people all of the time; but why would you even try when they’re so eager to do the job for you?"
a.) Abraham Lincoln
b.) Will Rogers
c.) Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli
d.) Taz Mopula
12. "Why raise the bridge when you can lower your expectations of the river?"
a.) Albert Camus
b.) Søren Kierkegaard
c.) Jean Paul Sartre
d.) Taz Mopula
13. "Ultimately it’s not what you don’t say that matters most so much as how you don’t say it."
a.) Harpo Marx
b.) Tomás de Torquemada
c.) Oscar Wilde
d.) Taz Mopula
14. "Be nice to your enemies; you just might be one of them."
a.) Pogo
b.) Socrates
c.) Ozzy Osbourne
d.) Taz Mopula
15. "The best things in life aren't free, the worst things in life aren’t free, and the cost of mediocrity is hidden."
a.) John Lennon
b.) Jack Lemmon
c.) Blind Lemon Jefferson
d.) Taz Mopula
The use and abuse of aphorisms has grown to epidemic proportions; today the Internet is awash in frequently misattributed, pithy sentiments. For this reason, the WWF (World Writing Federation) has sanctioned a Cage Match Aphorism Smackdown.
It works like this. Every thought nugget listed below appears with the names of 4 possible authors. You get to guess which writer originated the quote. Author with the most votes wins (allegedly).
In the true spirit of WWF entertainment, the result is fixed, but it’s a grand opportunity for cheering, screaming and banging Ernest Hemingway in the head with a folding metal chair.
WWF Cage Match Aphorism Smackdown Questions
Who Said The Following?
Who Said The Following?
1. "Why pay to exercise in a gym when you can enjoy an exercise in futility for free whenever you like?"
a.) Cicero
b.) Snooki
c.) Nostradamus
d.) Taz Mopula
2. "You have the right to remain silent, and listen. Might be advisable to exercise it before they take that one away, too."
a.) Marcel Marceau
b.) Lao Tzu
c.) Boxcar Willie
d.) Taz Mopula
3. "Don’t honk if you love auditory hallucinations."
a.) Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
b.) Sylvia Plath
c.) His Holiness the Dalai Lama
d.) Taz Mopula
4. "Laughter is the best medicine; except when it comes to poisonous snakebites, then it’s the second-best medicine."
a.) Albert Schweitzer
b.) Baron Rochefoucauld
c.) Kim Kardashian
d.) Taz Mopula
5. "The real tragedy of political correctness is that it has given lying a bad name."
a.) Pliny The Elder
b.) Pliny The Younger
c.) Regular Pliny
d.) Taz Mopula
6. "Think twice before burning bridges; you never know when you might want to jump off one of them."
a.) Zig Zigler
b.) Pema Chödrön
c.) Reverend Ike
d.) Taz Mopula
7. "Looking for self-worth in someone else’s eyes is like trying to breathe with someone else’s lungs."
a.) Maya Angelou
b.) Charlie Sheen
c.) Gertrude Stein
d.) Taz Mopula
8. "It’s not that I don’t love you, I do love you; I just don’t love you enough to lie to you."
a.) Dante
b.) Paris Hilton
c.) Shakespeare
d.) Taz Mopula
9. "Should you meet someone who claims that visualizing a thing makes it so; tell them to visualize being flattened by a bus."
a.) Tom Waits
b.) James Dean
c.) Hunter Thompson
d.) Taz Mopula
10. "Life is good! Death is poopy!"
a.) Dr. Wayne Dyer
b.) Oprah Winfrey
c.) Tony Robbins
d.) Taz Mopula
11. "You can’t fool all of the people all of the time; but why would you even try when they’re so eager to do the job for you?"
a.) Abraham Lincoln
b.) Will Rogers
c.) Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli
d.) Taz Mopula
12. "Why raise the bridge when you can lower your expectations of the river?"
a.) Albert Camus
b.) Søren Kierkegaard
c.) Jean Paul Sartre
d.) Taz Mopula
13. "Ultimately it’s not what you don’t say that matters most so much as how you don’t say it."
a.) Harpo Marx
b.) Tomás de Torquemada
c.) Oscar Wilde
d.) Taz Mopula
14. "Be nice to your enemies; you just might be one of them."
a.) Pogo
b.) Socrates
c.) Ozzy Osbourne
d.) Taz Mopula
15. "The best things in life aren't free, the worst things in life aren’t free, and the cost of mediocrity is hidden."
a.) John Lennon
b.) Jack Lemmon
c.) Blind Lemon Jefferson
d.) Taz Mopula
An Alcoholic Bipolar Bear Reveals The Irony Of Reversible Stigma
An Alcoholic Bipolar Bear Considers The Irony Of Reversible Stigma
HealthyPlace Mental Health Radio Show Gary Koplin/Alistair McHarg Interview
Regular visitors to Funny In The Head know it is a weekly mental health humor blog found at HealthyPlace. I rarely, if ever, reveal anything resembling a personal detail there. As a long-term professional writer, I am very careful, and selective, about what I do and do not say. Like a spy, I know how to offer only the appearance of self-disclosure. As a mentally ill person moving incognito among “sane” citizens, one becomes a skillful actor.
Reveling In Shamelessness – Repudiating Stigma
However, I am temporarily discarding this policy. Shamelessness has been a wonderful byproduct of my recovery and there is little I am not willing to do in the battle against mental health stigma.
When I began writing Invisible Driving (my bipolar memoir) in 1990, I realized there was no longer any room for privacy, anonymity, and secrets. Terrified, confused, and completely overwhelmed, I painstakingly recreated the bizarre and harrowing odyssey; thereby taking charge of my own healing. That, dear friends, was transformational.
The journey lasted many years; I worked hard. In diverse settings I received kindness, guidance, and wisdom from a wide spectrum of wonderful people. Triumph over fear and shame, acceptance of life as it is, celebration of self, and peace of mind, grew gradually through the incremental process of recovery.
So, a few facts about me. Male. White. Dad. Hetero. Highly educated. Posh lineage, famous father. Christian upbringing. Widely traveled. Diverse, prestigious work history. In other words, I began life at the very top of the food chain and learned early that – when everything is designed to fit you, and society itself is doing backflips to please you, it is easy to succeed.
Worse, it is easy to believe you did it yourself. Worse still, it is easy to believe you are entitled to it – simply because you are a white male straight Christian who went to a good school, drives a nice car and looks good in Madras. When the world is beneath you, everybody carries just a whiff of stigma, and the mentally ill are at the very bottom of the heap.
I’ve Looked At Stigma From Both Sides Now, Win & Lose, Still Somehow…
But life beat me down, way down, all the way down to the streets, the prisons and of course, the madhouses. There is no lonely like the lonely of a madhouse. Everything was taken from me and I had to rebuild from zero many times. It was a process that might have killed me, but instead, it made me. Today, I live a life beyond my wildest dreams; I am the only person I envy.
Madness took me places most folks could not spell, much less imagine. I had every stupid scrap of entitlement, superiority, and prejudice ripped away – I was reeducated in the realities of life, of being a moral person, of daring to be the very best me, the me that finds joy in contributing to this world without the expectation of benefit. Of all the unexpected blessings of life, ironically it was mental illness that gave me most.
At this point, I regard the attempt to stigmatize as a public admission of fear, insecurity, and unapologetic idiocy – like a self-administered learning disability. (We fear what we do not understand, and, to be fair to the apple pie crowd, insanity really is hard to fathom when viewed from the outside. Of course, that’s why I wrote Invisible Driving – to give a name to the unknowable.)
My problem today is an intense desire to stigmatize those who actually believe they are superior to people suffering from an illness. This cruel illusion is revolting and ludicrous; almost like believing one person is better than another because of their skin color. I mean, can you imagine?
HealthyPlace Mental Health Radio Show Gary Koplin/Alistair McHarg Interview
Open Letter From Alistair McHarg, President & CEO of alistairmcharg.com
As President and CEO of alistairmcharg.com, I am directly responsible for the conception, development, and dissemination of recklessly creative efforts ranging from books (Invisible Driving, Moonlit Tours, Washed Up) to poetry, cartoons, blogs (serious - humorous – cumulus), and enigmatic Taz Mopula quotes.
"Even the greatest paintings are flat; they only become three-dimensional in the eyes of those who behold them." Taz Mopula
As Taz, our company spokesman, reminds us – an artist without an audience is like a blind ukulele salesman arguing with a passive aggressive mime, in Rio. For this reason, the alistairmcharg.com team has developed a six-point plan designed to make our sweet product suite readily available to the largest number of people as affordably as possible.
Our commitment to you is
absolute, and we are serious about comedy.
Six-Point Customer Delight Creative Rollout Strategy Implementation Plan
- All 3 of our books are available from Amazon.com - paperback & digital. CLICK HERE to visit product pages, read reviews, and purchase.
- Home sweet homesite. www.alistairmcharg.com is your online resource for poetry, Taz, cartoons, blog, links and more. RSS feed. Updated daily.
- Taz Mopula on Twitter! https://twitter.com/#!/TazMopula 7,000 Twitter followers can’t be wrong! (Well, they could be, but in this case they aren’t.)
- Healthy Place showcases “Funny In The Head” – our weekly mental health humor blog. http://www.healthyplace.com/blogs/funnyinthehead
- Humor, mental health, spirituality & deconstruction of what passes for contemporary culture – this blog has it all. http://blog.alistairmcharg.com/
- Facebook Fan Page. Phat, fun & funky as
a bow-legged monkey. LIKE IT! https://www.facebook.com/pages/Alistair-McHarg/324729607581189
"Technology has democratized the tools of creativity, resulting in a tsunami even more cretinous and loathsome than anticipated." Taz Mopula
Life today is a cacophonous serenade; adrift in a digital sea we can only marvel at the endless succession of water-skiing squirrels. It is difficult to navigate the hoarse latitudes and find shelter in a safe harbor of calm, reason, and silly. But you have done so; enjoy the respite and return as often as you like.
Sincerely,
Alistair McHargPresident & CEO
alistairmcharg.com
Pithy Literary Quote Quiz: Match The Message To The Master
Ever noticed that there is almost nothing more insufferable than an actor talking about acting, a musician talking about music, a painter talking about painting, and – gasp – a writer talking about writing?
The reason is simple. Most creative artists have the psychological sophistication of an ambitious egg salad sandwich. They live in a world of exploration, instinct and impulse and are at their very best when ruled by forces they themselves do not control or understand. Trusting the art, not the artist, is recommended.
While you haven’t been to hell until you’ve heard a comic explain humor, the most egregious offenders of all are writers. Most are no more spiritually evolved than the average, semi-literate sculptor, but they have no match in the art of deception. Using phrases carefully selected to intimidate, these bloated gasbags inflate their self-image as one might fill a dirigible, torturing those too slow to escape them with interminable dissertations on the scary, alleged brilliance of their creations.
It took time, but I have assembled some pithy quotes on the subject of art, literature, and poetry that, mercifully, do not fall in this wretched category. Just to make it interesting, I’ve given you four possible authors for each. (Contact me through the Blog Responses feature for the answer key.)
Guidance & Advice From The Masters Of Creative Art
Who Said The Following?
Who Said The Following?
1. "Poetry is far too important to be left to the sane."
a.) Rod McKuen
b.) Richard Bach
c.) Erich Segal
d.) Taz Mopula
2. "Mediocre art misrepresents reality; great art obliterates it."
a.) Grandma Moses
b.) Norman Rockwell
c.) Andrew Wyeth
d.) Taz Mopula
3. "If you need mania to be creative, then maybe creativity isn’t for you."
a.) Lord Byron
b.) Ernest Hemingway
c.) Terry Gilliam
d.) Taz Mopula
4. "Without life, poetry itself would be meaningless."
a.) Nipsey Russell
b.) Mark Russell
c.) Tom Lehrer
d.) Taz Mopula
5. "No artist, however prodigious his talents, can create a great audience."
a.) P.T. Barnum
b.) Cecil B. DeMille
c.) Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
d.) Taz Mopula
6. "Great soldiers are brave; great poets are reckless."
a.) General George S. Patton
b.) Audie Murphy
c.) Hannibal
d.) Taz Mopula
7. "Writing great poetry becomes much easier when you’re willing to die for it."
a.) Dylan Thomas
b.) Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade
c.) Wayland Flowers & Madame
d.) Taz Mopula
8. "The audience is never wrong; that said, one does occasionally wander into the wrong theater."
a.) Abraham Lincoln
b.) Ronald Reagan
c.) Gerald Ford
d.) Taz Mopula
9. "Art is the shortest distance between two points, when one of the points has no known, or knowable, location."
a.) Albert Einstein
b.) Stephen Hawking
c.) Carl Sagan
d.) Taz Mopula
10. "Even the greatest paintings are flat; they only become three-dimensional in the eyes of those who behold them."
a.) Clarence Fountain
b.) Art Tatum
c.) Andrea Bocelli
d.) Taz Mopula
To receive the correct answers simply enter a request in the Blog Response section.
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