We're back! (On Google)

I'm very pleased to announce our return to the Google search engine.

On the 20th June I realised that this blog had vanished off the face of Google, while still being visible on Bing. There was a message on the Google search page saying that some results may be filtered due to the new GDPR Privacy laws, and I wondered if perhaps that was what had happened to this blog. Maybe another Chris Young (we are many) had mistakenly thought I was calling them a knucklehead. 

So I fired off a message to the team at Google using the privacy form explaining my predicament, and today received a very nice reply confirming my fears and resolving the situation forthwith. 

No apology, but you can't have everything.

Hey, have you bought my book yet? The Old Mice Killer. It's really good.

Confessions of a Knucklehead

Well, it's been about a month since my last confession, so I thought I'd drop in again and exercise the old writing muscles. "Use it or lose it!" they say, but at the moment I'm actually trying to lose the repetitive strain injury of my right wrist. I still remember the time when I first got this RSI - ironically editing a short film called "Last Hand" (now deleted and lost forever) using nothing but the track pad on my mac when I was living in Japan around 2006. That's 12 years. So yesterday I got a wrist support tube and some Deep Heat to see if that'll help.

Knucklehead Noir

I've just submitted a longish short story of mine (that I wrote in Japan around 2009) called 'Thick as Thieves' to an anthology published by Coffin Hop, on a friend's advice, as the brief is :

Tales of dimwitted criminals and unlucky twits on the wrong side of the law. Nimrods, numbskulls and rejects. Bumbling sidekicks and idiots-gone-wrong. 

I wrote the story just for my own amusement, and enjoyed having it workshopped at West Lothian Writers a few months ago where I got and implemented some good advice, so we'll see if it bears fruit.

Funny how I found myself slightly reticent on submitting a short story again after all these years, even though due to luck the brief happens to be quite appropriate to the story, but this alone of course does not necessarily guarantee success. They say before submitting stories you should be familiar with the publication to know what kind of content and style they're used to, but I have no choice as the story is already written and the deadline is the end of the month, so here I go.

But it again seemed to reinforce the sensation that I'm not afraid of failure - I'm more afraid of success. I'm sure fear of success is not an uncommon stumbling block. Failure is easy. Anyone can do it with very little effort on their part. It's something I have lots of experience with and I'm quite comfortable staying in the shadows being an undiscovered underachiever with limitless untapped potential, than someone who can actually succeed at something and then set themselves up for a public fall.

Did you know goldfish were actually artificially bred from black fish, and are always psychologically uncomfortable standing out so much all the time? The things you learn teaching English as a foreign language.

Time to Face up to Facebook

On 25th May FB gave me (and most other people) an ultimatum: Read and accept their new terms and conditions, or be deleted forever. And you know, the second choice is actually quite tempting. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure there are lots of good things about Facebook, for example for people who are separated, isolated or incarcerated. I am interested in the lives of my friends and family, but there's something about the social media site that leaves me with an itch I just can't scratch. You see, I prefer the old fashioned human - human interaction, where you get to see the person's face, hear their voice, enjoy their smile, things like that. It's a much more intimate one-to-one connection, rather than the cheap one-to-many proclamation of the Facebook wall, which is better suited for a town crier ringing a bell shouting, "Hear ye, hear ye, three o'clock and all's well!", or announcements such as "Hey, we're getting married," or "Sadly someone has passed away," or "Happily such and such was born weighing 3 pounds and whatever," which was traditionally the job of newspapers. But it's too easy, and for someone like me who regrets almost every second thing I ever say or do, that's not necessarily a good thing. 

So at the moment I'm in Facebook limbo. I have neither been deleted nor agreed to the new terms and conditions. 

I am become the Unsociable.

One thing I have noticed though, is that my relationships with people I meet face to face now seem to be better - less overshadowed by stupid things I may have typed, misunderstood jokes, or posts I may or may not have reacted to. 

Dropping Eaves

I was sitting in a cafe the other day and happened to overhear a couple of job interviews taking place. I was trying not to listen but short of stuffing cotton wool in my ears and dipping my head in a basin of jelly there wasn't much else I could do. 

As each interview went on, I found myself reacting (inwardly) to things they were saying, such as, "Ooh dear, that doesn't sound good. I wouldn't employ them if I were you," or "Why are you telling them proudly that you will supply their uniform, branding their souls with your logo forever as if that's such a great gift?" 

But in the end both got hired for the positions - people I wouldn't have employed for an employer I wouldn't have wanted to work for - and everybody was satisfied. 

And they will probably go on to earn a decent wage, build up a pension, get annual holidays, enjoy job security, get off benefits and pay taxes. So well done all.

None of my business really.

Conformity 

The other day I put up a shelf (using a spirit level) in my shed (which is squint), and looking at it now I finally understand about the rules of conformity and non-conformity. Even if you are RIGHT, you still look WRONG.

21st May 1942

Yesterday was my father's birthday. He would have been 76. Born in 1942.

Here he is in a picture that I now keep in my passport, probably taken by my mother when they went out on their many scooter rides together back in the black and white days. He's doing a Fonz impression, hands out palm up with a cigarette, shrugging with a smile. He's probably in his twenties as there don't seem to be any babies in the picture on a scooter side-car or such, meaning this photo must have been taken more than 50 years ago. 

Last night I raised a glass for him. Though we didn't see eye to eye much of the time growing up I had been looking forward to spending mellower times ahead with him, but that sadly wasn't to be, as cancer took him in March of 2012.

So the last lesson he taught me was this: 

Sometimes late is not better than never. Sometimes it's the same.

Hug your loved ones. Live life. Do it today.

Spiderman And The Battle Of The Bulge

My great uncle Ben 
is a prizewinning baker.

He says it's because 
he's a great flour maker.

But he doesn't take 
his creations too lightly.

He takes it real serious, 
often baking all nightly.

He shoots in each morning 
on his scooter mobility

"With great flour," he says, 
"comes great responsibility."

Jam donuts, yum yums,
danishes and such,
Caught in the act, he growls,
"Don't eat too much!"

"Don't eat this, don't eat that!" 
Drives me up the wall.
Had I not sticky fingers
From his cakes I might fall.

"But I'm fit as a fiddle 
I say with a grin
A fruit scone or two 
won't do me in."

"Fit as a cello's more like it," 
he grumbles and moans.
"On top form you ain't. 
Pushing pencils and phones.

Since starting your desk job
and your big promotion
you just don't have the puff
to deal with commotion.

"Your job's to catch bad guys,
To wait and then pounce.
But your web might snap
And then you might bounce!"

"I don't care if my muscles should bruise,
My bones should crack and my back should ache
Cos I'd rather die
than not eat this cake."

"You can't fit in your suit
You can't face the Green Goblin
With three double chins
and spare tyres wobblin'."

I'll show him,
I'll shift this weight
Just soon as I've scoffed
a cream donut or eight.

© Chris Young 2018 

Photo credit : https://www.flickr.com/photos/emiline220/4273700175

Notes From The Multiverse

I'm very pleased to announce that not one but two of the short stories I wrote while voluntarily exiled to Japan are planned to be published along with a host of other great pieces from some excellent writers in the third West Lothian Writers anthology, "Notes From The Multiverse".

Mine are One Last Tale and Multiversal.

One Last Tale (2007) is a short story born (as many surely are) from the frustrations of not knowing what to write. It's set in the distant future when all the good stories have already been told (several times) and there really is nothing new under the sun. It begins with a publisher lamenting to an old friend that he has nothing truly original to publish any more. He refuses to hire the services of professional time-traveling heavies whose job is to go into the future and bring back original stories from authors not yet born, as they've been doing for centuries. But his friend has a surprise in store.

With all the sequels, prequels, remakes and origin movies around these days it's beginning to feel like this story is becoming a little prophetic.

Illustration © Miyuki Young 2018 

My wife, Miyuki Young, has drawn a scene from One Last Tale and hopefully this illustration will also find a place in the anthology.

Multiversal (2007) , as I've mentioned before on this blog, is about what happens when Bob reads in a science magazine that the multiverse theory has actually been agreed to be true by many notable and respected scientists. This is very loosely based on truth as it is inspired by what I actually felt and wanted to do upon reading the exact same article. But because I couldn't do it (or wasn't brave enough) I instead explored the possible chaotic and amusing ramifications of what might happen if I did, and made it into a short story.

I'm especially excited and honoured for Multiversal to be spearheading the theme of the anthology, and am very grateful to be picked up.

The book, expected to be about £5 or £6, will contain roughly two dozen pieces - short stories, poems and novel excerpts - and will no doubt be a very readable variety of genres, styles and imaginings from active writers in the West Lothian area.

Out soon!



© Chris Young 2018

Modest Trumpeter Gets Fired

Ultimately we had to ask George to leave the brass band. He was just too modest. He hated to blow his own trumpet. The conversation went like this:

“I'm sorry George, you're really good, but you have to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you don't do anything. Don't get me wrong, you're really the best player we've ever had, but you just sit there doing nothing, missing your parts and taking up a chair.”

“Well, I don't like to blow my own trumpet.”

“But you have to.”

“I don't want to.”

“Then why do you come here then?”

“I love music, it's a part of my life. I love playing the trumpet. It's like breathing. Out.”

“Yes, you're a real musician. We've never heard a better trumpeter.”

“Thanks. You're too kind, but it's really nothing.”

“But there's no point you being here if you don't play in the concerts. We need a trumpeter to play your parts.”

“But I don't like blowing my own trumpet.”

“I understand that.”

“Can I blow Tom's trumpet?”

“No, you can't. Tom blows his own trumpet. He needs his own trumpet for his parts.

“Can I play the clarinet?”

“But you're shit at the clarinet. Mary is much better than you at the clarinet.”

“I just have a problem blowing my own trumpet. Seems wrong somehow.”

“Have you taken it to a trumpet repair shop to have a look at it?”

“It's not that.”

“What is it then?”

“I think my trumpet may be haunted.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Every time I blow into it, I – I feel out of breath somehow. A strange stiffness in my joints. Especially the knuckles of my right hand. I hear voices.”

“Voices? What do they say?”

“They say 'Ooooooh, Ooooooh, Rrumpety pumpty pump.”

“Those are the noises a trumpet makes.”

“My trumpet used to belong to my great uncle Arthur, who died playing it one winter's day.”

“How did he die?”

“He got his tongue stuck. Maybe I could be the conductor?”

“That's my job. Look, I know you don't like to brag about it, but there's a time and a place where we have no choice other than to blow our own trumpet. Especially if you're a trumpet player and you're in a brass band.”

“How about the triangle?”

© Chris Young 2018

Image Credit : https://www.goodfreephotos.com

On Baseball

When I was a kid, while all other guys played football, and being somewhat of a non-conformist from an early age, I preferred baseball. 

I'm not sure what the attraction was for that American sport - maybe watching too much TV had a lot to do with it - but it was something about batter versus pitcher mano a mano in the diamond, the crack of a homer in the midst of a silent expectant crowd, which seemed much more alluring than a team of guys versus another team of guys on a muddy pitch kicking a ball around.

Plus, I was rubbish at football. 

I was rubbish at baseball too, but because it wasn't that popular in Scotland my rubbishness could remain undiscovered posing as unreleased exotic American potential, rather than out-in-the-open Scottish rubbishness that was clear to everyone.

Being the only kid interested in baseball in my house, street, town, country meant two things: 1) I was quite good (to my limited knowledge and in my limited circle) and 2) I had no-one to play baseball with. I think this must be the lazy person's fast track to excellence - choose something that absolutely no-one else does - and I realise now it's been a subconscious philosophy of mine from an early age. Explains why I'm not really good at anything.

So to practise I experimented with Swingball. Many long minutes over two or three afternoons per season I spent in the back garden trying to hit the swinging ball round and round with my homemade baseball bat. 

That was hard. 

It's difficult enough to hit a normal pitch from a guy you can see straight ahead of you, but to hit a ball that's unnaturally swooshing round anticlockwise is another kettle of octopi altogether. You'd think it might make me better at hitting curveballs. I don't know, I've never found myself up against someone who could throw one.

One day, in a sports shop, I bought a full-size adult baseball bat that had "Louisville Slugger" printed wonderfully on it which I could hardly swing. But I loved that bat. 

It's funny, baseball is so popular in countries like America and Japan, that it's fine to walk around with a baseball bat because it's clearly a sport accessory. Not so in Scotland. You can't really wander down the shops swinging a baseball bat around. You'll end up with your head bashed in.

Fast forward thirty years. 

I still have that Louisville Slugger baseball bat, and now two catcher's mitts that a good friend gave me in Japan to go with it, and a kid to play baseball with. 

One becomes two.

The bat is too big for my son to swing, so we got him a smaller bat and a couple of small, soft practice balls from ToysRUs. So just to get him out the house on these long Scottish summer evenings we went to the local playpark. To warm up we practise throwing and catching and do some stretches. Then we assign some bases and take turns pitching and batting. His pitching is better than mine because of his snowball throwing over the winter. 

Then they refurbished the local playpark so there's more play and less park, so we go instead to the enclosed sandy football pitch nearby, which is actually much better, because in the park whenever one of us missed the ball it went out through the railings, but the football pitch is fully enclosed with wooden boards and high chain link fence so the ball just bounces right back. We take plastic plant pots filled with stones to act as bases, and a couple more gloves just in case other kids want to join us.

On Sunday just gone we went up to the football pitch and had a practice, but I wasn't really in the mood and I think it showed. I'm a good bit older and slower now, and my energy levels have become unreliable, but it was good to get the kid out the house for a few, so I pressed on. 

When I was pitching I threw one overarm (which he preferred) and inadvertently hit him on the body. The balls we use, as I said, are a bit softer but still probably hurt a bit more than a snowball. I apologised and a few shots later hit him again. Things weren't going well. He looked hurt but he was holding back tears.

Time went on and it was getting close to hometime. He pitched a good one to me and I hit it a cracker and dropped the bat to run while he turned and went after the ball. But to give him a chance and to try and cheer him up a bit I ran in slow motion round the bases while he ran up behind me with the ball, laughing, to get me out.

Ha ha! I've done it, I thought, my dad skills are awesome.

And then somehow elbowed him in the teeth.

That busted the dam and the tears flowed, and the phrase I'd sensed was coming but dreaded nonetheless : "Let's not play baseball again."

We walked home slowly, together but apart, and he went into the house and I stayed outside to see if having another go at painting the fence would dispel the large rain-filled cloud of shit fatherness in which I'd found myself.

The baseball holdall was relegated to the dusty darkness behind the sofa.

A few days after that it was a sunny day after school. He comes home and says the phrase I'd been hoping for but not expecting: "Dad, do you want to play baseball?"

So we packed up the baseball bag and made our way up to the football pitch, passing the playpark, where four little kids were playing.

"Where you going?"

"We're going to play baseball."

"Can we come?"

So now I'm teaching four kids how baseball works. We warm up by practising throwing and catching round the bases, and then move to pitching and batting. I realise that one of the kids is the one who punched out one of my son's baby teeth many years ago, and who had joined us once last year for some baseball practice. He was getting pretty good.

Two days later the doorbell goes.

"Who is it?"

"It's X and Y, asking if we want to go and play baseball."

Two become four.

I smile inside. 

But with a straight face I say what my kid was probably both expecting and dreading to hear.

"No. Homework first."


© Chris Young 2018
Image Credit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_(ball)