Week 587: Sometimes it Helps to Hear Another Voice

(Elliott the Pigeon is on Vacation this week; Daisy Kloverleaf and her brother Fenwick are the header stars. Daisy is on your left)

One of life’s burdens involves processing repetition. Some people are sensitive to it, others meet it with the awareness of a cantaloupe. I am not always smarter than produce, but I have a keen sense for repetition. Therefore I know that the eternal concepts of Good and Bad dictate the perception of welcomed and unwanted repetition. A woman who keeps peeling off twenties is obviously a good thing to have repeated at you, but unless she is gaining something worth it the peeler may have different feelings in her cold little heart–that emotional storage bin that imploded eons ago and is so compressed into inner dimensions that it takes three journeys through as many event horizons just to reach the outskirts of her kindness. You may assume that she, the peeler, has developed a sense of negativity for the old “again and again.”

Early on, this peeler was taught that she should display good manners to other people–not for the purpose of making other people say “My, what good manners that little girl displays”–but as a deliberate effort on her part to acknowledge the existence of the other people. Even the fuckheads deserve to see basic good manners. Why undeserving persons should earn that right is another item swallowed by the extreme gravitational forces that sucked the gentleness of this peeler’s heart into a completely different universe. One that is found at least three down and two to the left of this particular organization of cosmic particles.

Anyway, one bit of repetition I must delegate in my pre-dotage is my reception of submissions that blatantly refuse to follow site guidelines as well as submitters who do not get the picture of what we hate and like even though such items are clearly stated. The fuckheads. Sometimes I get the feeling that there has been a release of fentanyl in the drinking water, which will be all right when I see my fair share. Now, of course, I know that no one reading this is on the Bad List (seriously, the names that constantly appear in the comments section are made by high end writers, who have survived and even defeated the devils found on the dark side of town). But I feel that everyone might enjoy a look behind the veil, a glimpse of how things go when an Ed. considers handing over the confirmation-response email duties for certain submissions to a magick talking herbivore, one who gracefully types with two hooves better than most can with all ten digits (magick is not a typo). So now I yield this post, till the middle, to Dame Daisy Kloverleaf, the Pygmy Goatess, who was born with no tolerance for repetition, and after being raised in a magick Barnyard believes that manners (like wages) should be earned before paid. One note: Daisy is devoted to adverbs or her own construction. I will let a couple get through, but we have agreed that the full version may be found in the Ongoingly Ongoing Paperly Papers of Dame Daisy Kloverleaf, The GOAT For and Of One and All (her site exists in a realm of reality known as Other Earth).

Behold a sample response email writ by Dame Daisy to a person who has obviously not read or is simply disregarding both the guidelines, along with the basic fundamentals of civility and common sense:

Dearingestly Dear Writer

It must be difficultly difficult to live in a round-thinking world with a block-shaped head. Therefore I will be briefly brief and succinctly succinct. [enough Daisy-verbs, you get the gistly gist–L.A.]

Clearly “Submission Guidelines” is a term new to you. It means that a submitter (you) who sends a publication (us) a group of words that takes the shape of a story (aka “Submission”) that follows a list of rules peculiar to the publication (i.e. “Guidelines”). The funny thing about submission guidelines is they are not broadcasted in a psychic manner. They must be read, understood and followed. Anything less will result in much sadness in the village. Your village. Ours will keep bopping in line, keeping time, getting its fair share of graft and vice.

This is where the sharp angles of your head get in the way of a happy result. We seek fiction between 500-3000 words. However, your The True and Awesome Non-fiction Tale of My Blockheadedness weighs in at three times the maximum, which you did not include in your email. A less generous soul might assume that you aimed to conceal the word count from us, even though we view thousands of submissions on a yearly basis; it rather angers me to think that you might think “It’s alright, they’re too stupid to notice.”

Moreover, the submission guidelines, you remember those, don’t you? Ask that your name, the title, word count and genre be included in the body of the email. “Blank verse” emails or bizarre personal statements are not desired. Quite often we receive submissions from the various Centers of the Universe, and the only thing you guys have in common is a staggering lack of reality.

Therefore this is being returned un-opened. We now will block you and salt the link that this was sent to us on so nothing may rise from it again.

Before going, we offer one bit of advice that the future will thank you for: No matter what else you fail at, please strongly resist every opportunity to reproduce.

Dame Daisy Kloverleaf, Associate Ed. of Literally Stories (at Other Earth)

Anyway, let’s put together our hooves and smart appendages for Dame Daisy and move the show toward gladder tidings.

The Week That Was is always the soul of this wrap business, yet in specific details it must go lightly limned as not to queer the deal for those of you who remain strangers to the run of six. It all began on Sunday with Doctor Everywhere by Geraint Jonathan. LS Sundays are frequently populated by the likes of Michael Bloor, Dale Williams Barrigar and Geraint due to the off the normal path their works often take. This time Geraint gave us a wonderful little conversation piece based on a prose poem by Charles Baudelaire. ‘T is brief but beautifully telling, and it begs an obvious question that goes perfectly unasked..

Monday saw Last Day by JD Strunk, who made a happy return. He brought us a fantastic robot story that proves even a topic of frequently stated Editor antipathy can get over when done with style. Truly imaginative and something some people will do, ages from now (as in after my death). Yet in a way, the depicted actions can be looked at as strangely positive, which is highly disturbing. Heaven forbid that an AI Overlord finds out.

My Dad the Dragonfly is James Staynings first LS appearance. Much of this tale is told from a court mandated distance. Therefore much of it is a necessary patchwork of facts and hearsay gathered by the MC; but this is one bright and resourceful kid, who could not choose their (here I must use a dreaded incorrect for me pronoun because the gender is brilliantly elusive) parents, but muddles on as best as can. Wonderful construction with a sense of purpose.

Mitchell Toews often returns to our skies like a comet and did so Wednesday with James and Pruina. Under a lesser hand much of what Mitchell produces would come off as sentimental or even, frankly, shit-tay. Those unfortunate qualities are the result of laziness and a lack of confidence. Mitchell has the goods to locate the humanity in a situation, which gives his work style and integrity.

Karen Uttien returned on Thursday with Kinda Blindsided. I am still waiting for the day when I get an idea as simple yet complicated as the one in this tale. I’m jealous. The “mopping up” after the boy by using the truth is brilliant. Simple yet complicated. And it works out well for everyone, even the bad guy. So, I guess I will have to forgive Karen for her excellent work, that has nothing to do with luck.

Bob Derosa closed the shop this week with How to Not Keep a Vampire Out of Your House (In Eight Easy Steps). Now, I must remind myself from time to time that I am only a “myself speaker-forer”, and that my opinions are neither the gospel nor always entertaining enough to gain popularity amongst mental defectives. But when I saw the title of this tale, yet another Vampire thing, something in my soul sounded as though it were about to finally give way (yet like Monday my soul setting was off the mark). But that is why we read the submissions. And this one is a fresh delight that didn’t go up with a poof at dawn. And since it was published you may safely assume that no one reached for the pyx or holy water (you can buy a pyx holy water squirt gun; a necessity for young priests considering a posting in the haunted old world.)

Anyway, there we go–another fine week. And as I fill out my application for Opening Sentences and Paragraphs with “Still”, “Regardless” and “Anyway” Rehab Camp, I strongly encourage you to read any that you somehow missed this week.

Oh, and one more thing for the road. A confession. After nearly sixty years of writing I’ve noticed that some people complete their use of quotations with the second quotation mark inside a comma or period, aka “Still”,–as seen above–but ever since learning to write in the 1960s I have been using “Still.” ‘T is awfully late in the game to admit to ignorance about such a basic thing, but there you have it. I’m guessing it is not a new thing but an old one that I have successfully ignored for all and five decades and parts of two others. Funny thing is I never see a red line under either, so I assume both are correct. Might be one of those different standards in the US and UK situations, like writing the date or “our” suffixes over “or”. (Or “or.”). I refuse to google this one. But I’m willing to seek answers from online friends, acquaintances, Mad Dogs and Englanders.

The List O’ The Week

Another group of dullards who need to hear another voice are the useless boobs who run the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, ostensibly located in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, but really, isn’t it over the next rainbow?

The hell it is! It is just another corporate platform ruined by politics, money and cowardly New Age ignoramuses who need to check every social media source before they dare issue a “heartfelt, respectful” opinion. And yes, issue, like tissue like something to daub nasty body fluids with. I know I know better than to worry about this kind of nonsense, but since it exists I feel a strong responsibility to champion people who should be in the damn thing yet are not due to their current (lack of) standing in the social bullshit verse; a great many of these folks have been in my life far longer than many of my friends. Super hard rock and the other end of the dial appear to be the main victims of R&R HOF oversight, as are a couple of bands you really cannot define. I call the level of unfairness “Below The Checker Line”–because since one hit wonder Chubby Checker is in, these people way the hell belong.

Behold:

Leila’s Top Ten R&R HOF Snubs

(Although there are ten, further suggestions are always welcome.)

• Neil Sedaka (he along with Carol King, wrote an incredible amount of the early age of Rock and Roll, Upon his recent death I learned he was somehow Below the Checker Line. A hideous mistake)
• The Carpenters (I understand the ones who find them a bit gooey. But her voice is as shockingly personal as a voice gets.)
• Jim Croce (An early demise due to a plane crash has not been a hindrance for others; Ritchie Valens is in. He lived long enough to release three songs in a career measured in months, so this omission mystifies me)
• Mary Wells (She was on the first two final ballots and none since. Why? She was good enough to be on the same ballots with Berry, Elvis, Little Richard Beatles, Dylan etc, but she is now under the Checker Line. Please explain?)
• Motorhead (I believe that a man who was a Jack drinking, chain-smoking, speed-freakin’, and somehow a gentlemanly sex machine deserves to get in for making seventy without much changing his behaviour. Lemmy Kilminster began as a Hendrix roadie, then made Hawkwind cool and was also a great rocker who started the world’s loudest band. I think it is the fools who only gaze at the image who have caused the oversight)
• The Dead Kennedys (I am a big fan and they should be in if only for being able to knock thirty songs in under forty-five minutes)
• The Pogues (Another bullshit job. One needn’t be rock and rollers to be in the R&R HOF. And besides, would you rather have seen them drunk or listened to Chubby Checker spout The Peppermint Twist ten times at the county fair?)
• Judy Collins (Extremely important singer, still active, thank you very much. I am shocked to learn she is not considered over the Checker Line)
• X (Exine and John Doe voiced this classic LA punk act. And although the soul of punk is anti-hall of any kind of fame, same as with the DK, I cannot let them languish below the line without throwing shit at it. They deserve an invitation if only to tell the bastards to go to hell like the Pistols did)
• Kirsty MacColl (Now, this is a special case. She died protecting her children; I cannot think of a higher accomplishment. All halls of fame are second rate in comparison. What she did is Medal of Honor and Victoria Cross stuff. But I say she goes in and Michael Jackson, who clearly, and I am very fair, was a fucking a ped, should be kicked out–though he can stay in as a member of the Jackson Five. There are all kinds of felons in the HOF, but kiddie rape goes way the hell too far)

Word of the Post: Pusillanimous (adj): Lacking courage and resolution. Just like the Rock and Roll Hall of Shame.

I have loved this song since I was fifteen years old. Although the lips and the words do not always match in this clip. Odd because it is obviously a live performance.

Leila