Another Attempt At Blog-World

This is the beginning of another attempt to keep a blog. I've tried this many, many times, but I always seem to lose it, fall off, forget, or become disinterested. This probably has a lot to do with my love of ink-paper journals. Maybe I'm just nostalgic. Maybe I'm a little more guarded than I come off. If anything, I enjoy few things more than sitting down and scribbling myself off into the far corners of my mind. I developed this tendency as a kid. My mother and father always praised the idea of me keeping a journal as something I could look back on one day. My mother and father probably praised this with the added twist that if I was spilling my ideas and thoughts and doing my talking in my journal, then they got more quiet time. This wasn't the only time that my talky-talky self was recomended to write in order to tame my inherent tendency to go on long, long monologues. My sixth grade teacher got tired of keeping me quiet because I always had these fantasy stories I'd come up with and tell my friends during class. The major problem wasn't that my stories were good, the problem was that my stories just so happened to be more interesting that long division or remembering the capitol of South Dakota or the definition of transubstantiation or how to be a good, chaste catholic attending a good catholic grade school. She made me a deal. If I typed out my stories and handed them to her, she would read them. This was in exchange of me not telling these stories during class. Now, my sixth grade teacher was the hottest girl in our class (tall, blonde, and the only girl with serious boobs). I had no other option than to write for her.

I kept my part of the deal. I didn't talk during class, too much. I did here and there, but no stories, no getting my fellow students too distracted, just random, muffled wise-cracks about some of the world's most important subjects: farting, body odor, Sports Illustrated swim suit issues my buddy Pat kept in his back-pack, girls who had tits and those who didn't, girls with nice butts, girls with nice legs, girls with pretty faces and those who didn't, discussions of definitions in the dictonary of words like penis and vagina and cock and cunt.

For a little over a week I didn't hand my teacher anything. This plan was working well for her. She asked if I was doing my writing and typing it out. I told her I was, but the typing was slow since I typed using only my index fingers. I told her how my mind was always so much faster than my fingers, but I'd get her something soon.

That Friday as I was heading out the door I handed her a fifteen page, single space story entitled The Adventures of Rubin and Red. It was the first chapter of the book I knew I'd publish. I told her how I wrote a letter to Disney with my story idea and how I was pretty sure they'd take it and when they did, I'd make millions and give her a couple thousand.

My teacher took the story and said, "Thank you," while flipping past the cover page I'd labored over, "The Adventures of Rubin and Red by David John Clisbee. Chapter One." I told her I had some more ideas for the second chapter and I'd better get working on it over the weekend since I could hear from Disney any day and they'd probably want more of the story.

The following Monday I asked my teacher what she thought of my story. I'd kept pretty true to my part of the deal and I wanted her to stay true to her part. She said she like it so far but wasn't all the way through it, said she was reading it before bed, said she'd read some of it to her husband and he liked that they two boys Rubin and Red were stranded on an island with dragons and evil elves but able to fight them off.

I said, "Cool," then handed over the next chapter ringing in at ten pages, single spaced. Disney would be calling me any day. I had work to do.

I remember telling my brother the plan of how I would become a famous writer. First, Disney will call wanting to pay me millions of dollars to make my story, which was now becoming a book, into a movie. There would be a cartoon version of the book and a film version where Clint Eastwood would play the evil lord of the island Rubin and Red were stranded on. Clint Eastwood and I would ride in the same limo to the Oscars where I would win and oscar and so would he. My brother said, "You have to have a date to take to the Oscars."

This became a temporary dilemma, until I decided I would take my teacher and if her husband didn't like that then he would have to become a more famous writer than me, which would be virtually impossible. Then I told my brother that after the movie of Rubin and Red I would write a new book in one month and it would win the Pulitzer prize and I would be the only person to win the Pulitzer prize at twelve. I'd be rich. I'd be famous. I'd buy my own lake with a big house and our only job would be fishing for walleye of which the lake would be stocked with the worlds largest walleye, an easy job.

Weeks passed until an 8 x 11, manila envelope addressed to Master David Joh Clisbee from Disney showed up in the mail box. This was it. They wanted to make a movie. In my hand written letter to them I'd told them how my story, now book would make a smash movie or a great cartoon series at least. They were taking the bait. They wanted it. This response was pretty dang fast. They respectfully decline.

I read the letter more than ten times. How was this possible? How could the Director of Marketing say no to such a great idea. I'd told everybody I'd be famous. I'd promised my teacher a couple thousand bucks. I slid the letter back into the envelope carefully then put it in a safe place in my room so I could mail it back to the Disney people with a big, hairy penis drawn on it once somebody took my movie idea like Steven Speilberg. Yeah, Speilberg would dig it.

To my mother's extreme disapproval, I walked outside our neighborhood and down to the public library to ask a librarian for Steven Speilberg's address. I knew librarian could find anything, even Speilberg's home address.

I waited in line and waited in line until an old lady librarian asked me, "What can I help you with?"
"I need to know Steven Speilberg's home address," I said.
"Are you a friend of his?"
"Not yet."
"Okay...come with me."

The oldy librarian walked to a counter with what looked like huge phone books and started flipping through.
"Since your in the Ss, can you please look up Slyvester Stalone too, mam?"
"Sure thing, sweetie," the oldie said.
I tapped my finger on the desk waiting on her, "Got anything yet?"
"Still looking. Is your Mom or Dad ready to go?"
"Nope," I said thinking that a safe answer since it didn't mean I was there alone.
I waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and about two or three minutes later the oldie said, "You might have to go to the Post Office to request those addresses."
"There's nothing about Speilberg or Stalone in those big books?"
"Not that I can see, young man."
"Okay, well, thanks anyway, mam."

The next week at school I told my teacher about all of this and how I was surprised how stupid Disney Company was and how the oldie librarian could figure out where Speilberg or Stalone lived and how I was sure she saw the addresses but just didn't want to tell me. She told me how good my story was and how she couldn't believe it either. She said her husband started reading my stories before she did and he didn't like to read. She said I shouldn't take Disney saying no as a bad thing, but a good thing because maybe there was a better deal out there for me. I didn't understand that. It didn't make sense. I had everything planned. Even my brother thought it was a good plan and he didn't like anything I ever came up with.

The night I got in big trouble for walking outside of our neighborhood to the post-office I sat at my desk in the attic room my brother and I shared. I was mad at the world. My mom and dad were mad at me for being bad. I was mad for Disney not getting it. I was mad at the oldie for not telling me the mailing addresses of Speilberg or Stalone. Then I did what I still do from time to time to this day, I let sadness take over, I let failing at an impossible task let me feel like I'd failed at completing a simple task.

My brother and I were a long way from being friends to each other then. For a long time I used to think we became friends when he graduated from high school then moved off to college while I was stuck at home in the high school he went to in Kansas City. As kids, John and I fought and punched and wrestled as if beating and hurting each other was our job as human beings born to the Clisbee name. That night, when everybody was saying "No," and I was being scorned by my parents for trying to create a "Yes," John came up to our room and saw me sitting at my desk; he saw me holding that manila envelope from Disney; he saw me put the envelope down and fold my arms; he heard me sigh.

I'm pretty sure my brother and I became friends in that very moment. No matter how much we beat each other or punched or wrestled or swore, we could only handle doing that to each other; no one else was allow to do that.

John didn't say anything; he carried his chair from his side of the room and set it down next to mine. He sat there with me and kept quiet. John folded his arms and rest his head on my desk. He wasn't making fun of me this time. I could tell. He could tell I needed someone so I could just be still, someone to make me feel safe. Some one like him, the boy who I climbed into bed with when thunderstorms kept me up and scared; someone who found me annoying yet necessary; someone who said, "That teacher likes it, right?"
"Yeah."
"That's pretty good."
"Yeah."











1. DULL KNIVES: