Italics: having letters, numbers, etc., that slant upward to the right.
Chirography: handwriting, penmanship.
Rathskeller: a usually basement tavern or restaurant.
Bold: fearless before danger.
First, let me get this out of the way: CLEVELAND. Now I have given yeahstub.com a reason for this piece of … writing. Every once in a while I have to mention Cleveland, Ohio to maintain my status as the Cleveland Writing Examiner. CLEVELAND! That now entitles me to two off the cuff and unremarkable articles that have nothing to do with Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A. This will be the first one, and the second will follow sometime next week after my extended vacation in which I will celebrate July 4th – the weekend 400 years ago when Canada defeated the Russians in the War of 1812. Are you ready to be smacked upside your head with some cold honest facts? No? I don’t care. I know all 3 of my subscribers are dying to know what I have to say, so here we go.
It is a cliche for a writer to say he or her sits in a bar all day and night while he or she writes the next great American novel. Or the last great Pakistani novel if the first great Pakistani novel ever existed; as this I do highly doubt. I am not a cliche but I am. I have never contended to be writing the next great American or Pakistani novel, but I have sat in public houses while writing. I am a fair-to-middling cliche I suppose. I am here at Daly’s Pub in Sandusky drinking a few beers and writing this so, yeah, I am a partial cliche at the very least.
Brendan Behan (google him you uneducated and illiterate Sanduskian fools) once stated, “I am a drinker with a writing problem”. Again, it is a cliche to be a writer with a drinking problem but he spoke and wrote so eloquently when drinking that I imagine he would’ve gotten along quite well with Oscar Wilde had time been more cyclical than linear. I believe that time does not move, we move through time. We humans share the same place but at a different time. This belief is part of my theory on ghosts and spirits. Same space, different time. We pick up on echoes of the past; residual memories ingrained on the solidity of certain objects. Psychometry. Google that too or, if you are so inclined, Bing it.
I am not ashamed to admit that I have a writing problem and I wonder if there is a support group for people like me. I don’t need AA, I need WA. My head is full of thoughts, ideas, memories and sometimes weird and insane beliefs that oftentimes pour out of my brain like an emotional waterfall; my body surfs Niagara Falls and crashes into the Maid Of The Mist (again, google) and kills dozens of tourists who only really wanted to visit some run of the mill wax museum but the cousins they’ve not seen for three decades wanted to get on a boat. Now you all will pay for me having an imagination and being somewhat Canadian as well. It’s all your fault. I’m not to be blamed for having writ.
Once the corpses wash over the falls and, before the ghosts of so many lost souls are given to time in a waxy misrepresentation in a touristy town, my spirit will move through time immemorial and tattoo your flesh like a cannibal warrior in Papua, New Guinea. I am a writer with a drinking problem. A drinker with a writing problem. A thinker with a problem. And the problem is you.