I’m just hanging out at my house this Sunday, trying to muster the motivation to do something productive. So far, it’s not working out for me. I had really hoped that the girl I met in Dallas last week was going to give me a call, and I could blow off whatever responsibilities I had this weekend, thus proving my committment to being productive was fairly shallow. Instead I’ve been coming up with tidbits of busywork and sipping beers in front of thuTeeVee.
I also was reading some of my various caches of writing this weekend. I keep a couple other low traffic blogs that I don’t tell anyone about. I’m sure they’re google-able and I’m sure now that I’ve mentioned them, someone will go out there, find them, and link them to my site to embarrass me; but by and large they are so non-descript that they blend in with the rest of the internet chatter.
One blog in particular has sort of evolved into a blog I type in when I feel particularly emotional about my love life. It’s a little weird to read, there’s only about twenty posts going back about three years or so. Paging through it, you’d think the author was some sort of manic-depressive if you didn’t read the dates on the entries. The tones vary, from goofy romance, to cynical mysogenism.
As an interesting sidenote, Technorati notes a spike in the search term “goofy romance” for earlier this week. If you compare the number of times people used “goofy romance” this week vs. back around Valentines day, you’ll see that those are the only two times the mentions match up. I wonder what is the root cause of it?
Much like this entire blog entry, the previous paragraph makes no real interesting point; this reminds me of a story-telling technique I learned this week which, if you are able to master, is sure to spice up any droll tale. I’ve got to credit one of the better story-tellers of our time, Dane Cook, with pioneering the technique that was previously only reserved for movies by a certain director notorious for their unsure grasp of linear time. Of course, many of you know of which I speak, the concept is called “Tarantino-ing it up.”
I’ve been telling a particular story that happenned to me last weekend to just about everyone I meet lately. I enjoy telling stories, and I assume most of my friends enjoy hearing the stories, because they don’t tend to tell me to shut up very much. Unfortunately, this particular story appears to be of interest mostly to myself and no one else. I can tell this because whenever I start the story, people either start fidgeting about two minutes into it, or their eyes glaze over to the point I can actually see my own reflection.
Tarantino-ing up a story involves finding the punchiest part of the end of the story (this works best if it’s a double entendre when out of context), delivering that part of it, then explaining the concept of tarantinoing it up (“we’re going to tell this story from back to front”). Then you start at the beginning of the story, going off on little tangents here and there, and then finally surprising them with the punchline you started out with.
With a droll story, sometimes, you don’t know exactly when the story is over. When you Tarantino up a droll story, when you finally get to the end, the listener is relieved to finally get to the end of it, and at the same time impressed by your clever storytelling style. It’s a win-win.
Sweet mercy, there are so many other things I should be doing right now that typing this blather up. I need to finish some web work. I could be working on my music. I could be finishing a project that I have due first thing in the morning. Heck, I could be sleeping!
Ah well. What are ya gonna do?