Day 16: Shakespearean English

(The Shakespeare Festival Theatre in Montgomery, Alabama.)

Well, considering I didn't want to do an obvious take on Shakespeare...like how there is the Shakespeare Festival Theatre here in Montgomery, Alabama...and how it is the largest theatre outside of England which does his plays year-round (or maybe the seond largest - I know it's one of the two, I think)...or how I could really use a good half-hour of "pre-Shakespeare" talk before I watch any Shakespeare film...because it takes a while for my mind to start thinking in that form of talk...but I won't.

Instead I bring you:  "Classic Hollywood Movie Lines...as Shakespeare Might Have Penned Them".  Please bear in mind my knowledge of Shakespeare is quite minimal...but my knowledge of old Hollywood films...is not.

Lauren Bacall to Humphrey Bogart in "To Have and Have Not": "You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."

Shakespeare: "O, then, let lips do what hands do...they pray...and pray thee, dear Steven, you with a wisp of air upon thine lisping lips...do beckon me to come again."

Clark Gable to Vivien Leigh in "Gone With the Wind""  "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Shakespeare: "I once suffered gladly your fools my dear...but be damned --I suffer with fools like you no longer!"  (Yes, the original is much better than anything I could come up with...and, believe me, I tried.)

Humphrey Bogart to Sam in "Casablanca":  "Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine."

Shakespeare:  "Where minstrels quench their parched throats...where wine does flow from all the coasts...where beggars languished on the Rhine...her body doest walk into mine." (You have to pronounce "parched" as "par-ched" otherwise it doesn't rhyme that great.)

Marlon Brando...to someone (I never saw the whole film as I don't like Brando) in "A Streetcar Named Desire":  "You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am."

Shakespeare:  "With much envy thou woulds't have shown me once...but in mine own haste to perchance sup with those whose houses I'd caught but a glimpse in passing...whose despicable nature I am bound to in this mortal life...I await -- as always, but a carriage footman - and thine own boot...the door between our worlds."  (You know...I have no clue what I just said...but I like it.  I think it's a sillyoquy.  Ha!  I made yet another word up...which is both "silly" and "Shakespeare-y".)

Humphrey Bogart to somebody (again, I never watched the whole film as I don't really like Bogart, either)  in "The Maltese Falcon":  "The stuff that dreams are made of."

Shakespeare:  "To sleep...perchance to dream...to dream of stuff...that dreams are made of."

Okay, that last did kind of sucketh, as old Will would probably say if he wrere alive today, but it struck me as odd that all the quotes I did...and I didn't do this on purpose...were from films I just don't like.  I think Shakespeare would have a fancy was of saying it...but I find that pretty ironic.

Now go on over to "We Work for Cheese" and check out all the other writers' takes on "Shakespearean English."

It's Always About Me, Isn't It?

After quite a long hiatus, I've decided I'm going to start writing again -- but not because I'm a writer...as my son clearly keeps reminding me - that, since I only write a blog (and sporadically at that) this does not a writer make.

I am doing this because I need to -- not because I want to -- altho I do...I did some inner soul searching and it IS actually more of a need. It's definitely right up there with me needing water, food, and air - I also need to have a voice - even if only a handful of people ever "hear" me.

Oh, I'm not remotely suggesting anything I have to say is ground-breaking or Earth-shattering - it's not even in the realm of mind-boggling. Head-shaking, perhaps...grimace-producing, sleep-inducing, and just plain whack -- yeah, a definite strong possibility.

And, be forewarned, they're about me. Everything is about me: my thoughts, my observations, my life, and my misconceptions -- and how things influence me in some way - and inspire me...at least enough to write about them.

So, despite what my son says about me...I remain steadfast in trying to convince myself that, if Shakespeare were alive today...not only would he be very, very, very old...but also "just" some blogger trying to have his voice heard as well -- albeit speaking it MUCH more eloquently than I ever could.

But, hey, he's also got a LOT more years doing this kind of thing than I ever had...so don't discount me just yet. 

(I felt like I had to do a quasi-biographical announcement as I haven't been around a while. While this might sound a bit silly, ludicrous, or just plain bombastic - I felt like a re-introduction of sorts was in order. So, there you have it.)

My Self-imposed Exile aka "Did anyone miss me even a little bit?"

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players..."

Shakespeare wrote that line ages ago and it has been ages ago since I've written a blog.

I first figured I'd take a little break...you know, the collective juices in the mind of a wannbe writer pooling up in that place real writers know all too well about...and then that water just sat and stagnated...waiting for enough time to pass to dry it all up.

Instead of the writer of my destiny...I became one of the players...a has-been drama queen to be precise.

I lulled about the house sitting down each time to write a blog and then harkening back on the words of a couple of my friends and my two kids (my poor kids who have to read it no matter what) who mentioned they "didn't like" or "didn't think it was funny" or thought "it's too long...so I stopped after the first couple paragraphs" -- and then I backed away from the keyboard and had a private pity party with me being the guest of honour. I probably even toasted my self-imposed obscurity once or twice...or 30 or so times. With glass raised in ceremonial fashion, I'd utter some rot like, "Je reviens...something something French-sounding blah blah..." for impact. I was, after all, drinking wine or French-made "Grey Goose" vodka -- I had to keep the drama up.

And I took those critical comments like...well, like anyone would take any critic who makes or breaks a play, film, or restaurant. And then, like a chef in that panned restaurant...I put everything on the back burner and let it stew a while.

Oh, I'd get spurts of ideas and feelings -- "things to write" simmering inside of me...but, again, I'd push it to the back burner and the critics' words would come back out to haunt me..."I didn't like this one so much...".

I found out in the past month or so that I am my worst critic.

Instead of listening to the other people who said they enjoyed it...and people I would run into around town who would say "Hey, I always read your blog at the Montgomery Advertiser and I really like it" (they are the people I always have to quiz - and sure enough, I'll be damned, they DO read it)...I listened to the harshest voice I could: My own.

I "boo-hoo'd" around the house day and night...I'd start to write and then semi-storm off in a huff saying things like "Oh, who cares?" or "Why even bother?" under my breath. I figured I'd be like that aging movie star from the "golden era" who waits for the great come-back script...who waits for the calls from Hollywood to come in...who waits...and then fades away like the heroine in that final frame of the last flickering film she starred in.

I'd wait...I'd wait until people started asking why I'm not writing anymore.

I waited a while.

Those "calls" just weren't coming in...oh, one or two did...but not the maddening frenzy I was hoping for...so, I waited some more.

Then, I did what anyone would do given enough time and gaining enough courage: I asked those friends if I really was that horrible a writer. One said he was "just busting my chops" and the other stated he never said I wrote horribly...and why would I say I welcome "all comments" at my blog if I only wanted to hear the good ones?

Touché. Point taken...point processed...back on point.

And that point being: I am now going to step out of the limelight of that stage...and get back behind the curtain, writing, where I belong.

(If you're wondering about all those "chef" references interspersed with the "stage" ones...tune in next blog to find out why. Yes...this is my first "Tune in Next Time" promo/teaser tag. Does it work? Tune in next time to find out.)

Shakespeare, Dickens and Me?

I hit a milestone of sorts the other day: I posted my 250th blog.

Now, that might not seem that monumental in the grander schemes of accomplishments mankind has made, but my blogs aren't all about my cat, or what I made for dinner last night, and none of them ever just had the "I feel :( today" comment.

Oh, trust me on that last one, there are people out there who do only that as a blog. What's worse -- there are people out there who "FOLLOW" those people's blogs.

Since I've written about so many different things...I wonder if there's a point where I have done -- or at least touched on, everything that's out there.

This recurring thought of mine has crept into my mind many times. And it's got to have come into the minds of people who are songwriters or writers of books.

Stay with me here on this one...

Beethoven had it easy.

So did Shakespeare.

The writers for "I Love Lucy"? Sheesh...all those episodes were a walk in the park compared to what today's writers have to deal with.

Back in the "olden days" - there were like, what? Five people writing songs? ANY tune you came up with was new. NOTHING sounded like anything else because 30 songs, tops, were written. How easy did those music "geniuses" have it? ANYTHING they wrote was new and innovative.

Seriously, is there any tune left that doesn't sound remotely like something else someone came out with? You might not even know the sound sounds the same - and you might not have even heard of it...totally innocent and all...but it sounds like some obscure polka ska band from Lichtenstein - and all of a sudden someone points it out via YouTube. You are now "BUSTED". Katy Perry move over.

And writers back then. Sure, there were people writing back then - but there were only like seven famous ones. Coming up with any book idea must have been - well, a writer's dream. I know for a fact, if I would have been an author in 1884, I would have been on several dreaded Victorian "summer reading lists" in schools.

"Please, sir, can I read some more?"

While I can bask in the heady thought that I probably would have been famous back then...I'd also certainly be dead by now...so it's pretty much a moot point and does me absolutely no good pondering the prodigiousness of my proposed pious past.

Alas.

So while people like Stephen King gobble up the last remaining 17 ideas which haven't been done yet...and you are on page 221 of some 93rd remake of some re-vamped vampire book from some 24-year-old author who undoubtedly has a relative working at HarperCollins, remember that I'm continually slaving away trying to think of original blogs to entertain you people.

And all for free...dammit.

:)

(Okay, I hit my 250th blog about 16 blogs ago...I'm just late getting around to writing this. I also never claimed I was good at alliteration.)