Semi-Colons: Friend or Foe

Recently got into an online argument with a dude who insisted I needed to use a semi colon in the following sentence:

The bridge was too high, the water, black and cold was too, too far below.

Grammatically, he may be correct. The above is a run on sentence. But I never care about such things.

My use of semi-colons has forever been altered by Kurt Vonnegut.

Here's his rule:

Here is a lesson in creative writing.

First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

And I realise some of you may be having trouble deciding whether I am kidding or not. So from now on I will tell you when I'm kidding.

For instance, join the National Guard or the Marines and teach democracy. I'm kidding.

We are about to be attacked by al-Qaida. Wave flags if you have them. That always seems to scare them away. I'm kidding.

If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practising an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

I think that pretty much sums it up.

Thoughts?

Michael Jackson RIP

21,537 People With My Name

Ficly.com allows for sequels and prequels to any story. I was bored and added to my first piece, 51,324 People With My Name

I have a purpose now.

A direction.

I’ve never been more ashamed. I’ve never been happier.

For all my wandering and all my searching for a clue, I have found one thing to be true.

Killing makes my back hurt.

I take a Darvoset every morning and Oxycondine every night. My world is a fog. Last night I hurt my wrist when the crowbar hit a brick wall instead of the much softer middle school principal/pederast crying and dying in the alleyway.

I have a different appreciation of the words “Dead Weight” now.

The newspapers call me a pervert and a deviant. They can not see the message, the gift. I am a true American hero, I am fighting for individuality.

As of this date over 30,000 men have applied for a name change. For the first time in history no babies have been blessed with mediocrity.

And yet I still must work. I am not yet truly alone. A status of being I’ve been destined to.

“Hey buddy, you got a light?”

The guy I’ve been watching crosses the street.

“Hi, I’m James, what’s your name…”

The Last Twenty Four

Original Post of Ficly.com

She looks at me for the final time with no tears in her eyes. It’s the first time since we found out the news she’s been able to look at me.

Breathless and exhausted, we stare into each other souls.

There are no words anymore. Just breath, scent, and heart. This moment is the moment that I’ve been waiting for without realizing it.

Our lungs synchronize with the clock.

Tick.

Tock.

Another couple of seconds burn off. It’s getting darker now.

It’s getting cold.

We spent a furious day in bed. The sex was urgent, insistent. She pulled me into her with more power than her 110 pound should ever produce. The fabled mom strength where she would be able to pull a car off a child.

I walk to the balcony naked. Her hands never leave my body.

“Baby, it’s close to time.”

Tick.

Tock.

“I know Max. Any regrets?”

The sun begins to rise over the mountain. As the light hits my face, I feel warmth for the first time.

“Nah, today was the best day ever.”

We turn to each other.

I succumb.

Into the Arms of Digital Angels

Original post on ficly.com

His death was fast. So that’s a good thing.

I guess, I don’t really know. All I do know is the poor kid has arms and legs in angles I didn’t really even know was possible.

The coroner said that the arms are like that because the bones were near shattered upon contact.

19 years old and he ended up looking like a swastika made of burnt meat.

Christ he smells.

The tech nerds at the station were able to leech some information out of the hardrive. Lot’s of messages and tweets, whatever the hell those are, to a porn star named Delilah Stone. She runs a virtual sex site, complete with user input.

When I asked the tech nerds what that meant they showed what looked to be a blood pressure cuff, complete with Delilah’s open mouth and logo on the side.

Coroner rules it death by electrocution through the penis. The cuff constricted so much his member entrapped him before it disintegrated.

Ah, young love ain’t what it used to be.

I pick up some flowers before I go home.

I love you baby…

Tiles in the Ceiling

Classy Porn Challenge on ficly.com.

92

Blink

93

Yawn

94

Sigh

95

He moves into my vision with that sad, slack-jawed, Droopy McCool look in his eye. He smiles at me like a three year old who went potty like a big boy or a dog that killed yet another gopher and deposited it all self congratulatory on my back porch.

He gets up and moves away, laughingly high fiving the other guys.

The camera guy yawns.

The director snorts another line.

Darla comes in over my left shoulder with a towel and bag of ice. One for the mess and one for the swelling. She’s a chubby girl, not a performer, just some sister or cousin or failed film school reject looking for a foot into the bigs. She reassures me, “You’re doing so good…Only thirty more.”

She can’t look me in the eye.

I stretch my legs. Extend my back a little.

I motion to the next guy.

“I’m your biggest fan.” His breath smells like whiskey.

Action

He makes the bed rock. I stare at the ceiling, his shoulder blurs my vision every other second.

96

Yawn

97

Sigh

98

Blink

99

Blink

100

Winsor McCay

Winsor McCay is heralded as one of the great comic artist of all time.

He also is one of the pioneers in animation. Anybody who has ever watched a cartoon owes it to him.

Apparently.

I never heard of him before today. His hometown in Canada is having a Winsor McCay day in his honor and some of the comics I read online all revere the guy.

And then I found the below video and my jaw dropped.





In summary that is full hand drawn animation using FULL COLOR in 1911.

My mind is blown.

Called to the Principal's Office

Another post at ficly.com. Entry into "A Touch of Madness" Challenge

Ah, Clint come in please. You can shut the door.

Now you may or may not know why I called you in here. I must inform you that your actions today will influence my decision whether or not to call your parents and tell them why you are wasting their well earned $55,000 a year on this institution.

Your teachers and roommates have lodged several complaints. We at Chapley Hall are future captains of industry, men of power and action.

We are not, and I quote:

Gilligan’s brother
Half bird
A mutant with the ability to catch on fire by eating sunflower seeds
We are not sunflower seeds

Am I getting through to you?

We men of Chapley do not also:

Have the ability to fly after eating beans
We do not have secret Mongolian Kings as father’s

We are not fanciful.

Mr. Clint, all that you have done at this institution is create fancy and fantastical. I hereby am placing you on probation until you appear to have remorse for all the above and painting the words, “Captain Hamburger” on all your uniforms.

Like You Need Another Hole in Your Head

Originally posted on ficly.com

You know, I didn’t mean it.

I mean I don’t even really like this job.

It’s just one of those things you fall into. Who wants to be a long shore man? Or a grip for porno movies. I, I mean grip as in, you know, a stage hand, not “grip a cock” or “grip some titties.” Anyway, some of these gigs man, they just exist to catch star eyed disappointments.

A catchall for misfits.

I used to be a detective. No shit. Catch the bad guys and all that jazz. It was fun.

It was hell.

But, you can’t always win if you’re a good guy. Fuck, sometimes you can’t stay a good guy.

Dies are tossed, coins are flipped. Sometimes you’re the winner and sometimes you’re the fucked.

It’s just odds. Sooner or later, someone like you is going to think it’s a good idea to get something for nothing and run. Then I got to get my fat ass off the couch and find you.

It’s just nature man. The circle of life. You get born, you get pussy, you get greedy, you get shot.

Not like I got to tell you that right?

One Born Every Minute

Another flash posted on ficly.com

I like to whistle. Something about little diddies made up of my breath helps to calm me when I’m sad. Invisible music.

I am sad today, and I’ve been sad for the last few days. I’ve lost my puppy, Mr. Scraptastic.

He’s fond of trashcans and sewer lines. He’ll run for miles after a ball and sleeps inches from and within my heart.

I whistle “How Much is that Doggy in the Window.”

---

I see some guy dressed in clashing dacyron looking in a trashcan across the street. God damn he is ugly.

“Hey we about ready to go?”

“Yeah Gritz, let’s go.”

“So we gots ourselves a target?”

“I think I just found one.”

“Who?”

“That faggy butterfly across the street…”

“What’s he doing? Is he fooking whistlin’?”

We cross the street. Gritz tightens his fingers around the grip of the bat. I shift my knife to my right hand.

---

I like to whistle. I wish somebody would come help me look for my puppy.

Here comes two guys now…

51,324 People With My Name

First post on short fiction site, ficly.com. Please click here to rate.

My name is, well it doesn’t really matter now does it? You wouldn’t care, it’s not particularly good name, just plain, unassuming. Pretty much just like me and my parents and my grandparents and on and on through time and generations. A whole family populated by wallflowers with social phobias.

We don’t leave footprints.

We do not matter.

Whether the Mayans’ calender holds true and we are obliterated in a couple years, or we all have to wait until Rapture, one thing is certain.

St. Peter won’t recognize anybody with my last name.

I was always told that I could be anyone I wanted to be, rich, fat, and famous. I just had to work hard. My blood is a composite of generations of non-athletic, scholars who are allergic to hammers.

I am an amalgamation of those who just get by.

I tried for years to get noticed. I was a failed class clown, failed jock.

The only thing I’ve been able to achieve was something five minutes ago. They’ll know my name now.

James Smith, the murderer.

Website Review://Ficly.com

Twitter is the new myspace. Or the new facebook. Or the new Flickr.

Let me start again:

Twitter is the new crack.

Kind of a genius thought. Little updates that can be sent from phone, facebook, myspace, and blogs that are no longer than 140 characters.

Pop-ups of life.

I am a writing type person. 140 characters is not nearly enough for me to clear my throat.

I follow Wil Wheaton on twitter, me and 500,000 others, and he linked over to a story he started on Ficly.com. And now let me start again.

For Brandon, Ficly.com is the new twitter laced with crack and meth.

1024 character chain stories. What the crap?

The website is extremely polished and simple and you get into the mist of things right away. No big login screens or registration. Those on blogger already have an account. A few clicks and presto, creative happenings all over the place.

Each time you read or write a story, at the bottom of the page is two links: Prequel and Sequel. Anybody can write before or after your story, extending the length and presumably the strange.

I'm hooked and just posted my first of many to come stories I'm sure.

Ficly.com

Weekend Update://Oy Vey

Just returned to work from the longest weekend ever. Or at least the most Jewtastic weekend ever.

So much drinking....brain still hurts.

I promised myself during the week that I needed to write more, Pittsburgh especially is dying a little more everyday.

Then I take 6 days off because of family. Dedication you are my bitch.

Friday 6/5/2009://A long day at work dealing with office politics and East/West cultural clashes.

Is there some law about your boss refusing to speak English to you?

At about 8.30 PM, Sarah and I hook up with my grandmother, Bubbie, and start the long drive to Calabasas, CA. For those that don't know, that's really far, about an hour and a half of LA traffic.

We check into the Country Inn and Suites on Calabasas Road in Calabasas, CA. And that hotel Cala-sucked.

Water damage everywhere, and by extension, smelled like gym socks.

Sarah and I go to bed immediately, Bubbie stays up and drinks with relatives.

Saturday 6/6/2009:// The reason we went to Calabasas is for a Bah Mitzvah of some relative so distant I still don't even know who they are.

Bubbie got invited to an Orthodox Bar Mitzvah that morning.

So for those keeping score:

Brandon and Sarah one Bah Mitzvah at 5.oo pm
Bubbie one Bar Mitzvah at 8.00 Am and one Bah Mitzvah at 5.00pm

Bubbie's morning Bar Mitzvah was four hours long!

Again for full clarity. My family was one of the first families to become Reform Jews. That's how we roll. "Brandon, whatever do you mean by this term: Reform?" Good question, myself.

Reform Jews are Jews that said, "I'd like to be Jewish but I got shit to do." Welcome to Reform, the fully customizable religion for the Modern Jew on the Go!!!

Can't make it to Temple? That's OK!

Forgot the Prayers? That's OK!

Didn't go to Hebrew School? That's OK!

You're a Woman? That's OK!

Forget to call your Bubbie? That's still not ok!

Basically a movement in Judaism, mostly influenced by America's short attention span, started cutting out hours and hours out of our collective religious observances.

Orthodoxy isn't like that, everything is still in.

My Bubbie was blindsided by a four hour marathon she never saw coming.

Sarah and I spent the day tooling around town, going to a Farmer's Market and taking advantage of a free hotel room that we had all to ourselves.

The Bah Mitzvah we went to was 45 mins long. Goes without saying it was a Reform Service.

Then it was party time.

The Bah Mitzvah girl has very rich parents....VERY RICH. Like spent $400,000 on a reception rich.

I might write about this party later but it was obnoxious.

It did have an open bar with only top shelf liquor.

Brandon blacked out. Ended up in an elevator holding one woman's shoe. No one knows to whom it belongs.

Sunday 6/7/2009:// Hangover thou are loosed. Sarah didn't drink and spent the day nursing me back to health. Oy Vey.

Went with Bubbie to a pre wedding brunch in Calabasas. Future daughter-in-law and Mother-in-Law DO NOT GET ALONG. Painful to watch.

Drive back an hour and half to Ontario for some much needed sleep in my own bed.

Sarah decides to go shopping, I'm too exhausted/hungover. She is more tired than she thought and locks her keys in the car.

I walk 2 miles to keep her company. She was at a different gas station that was only .5 miles away.

Monday 6/8/2009:// Sarah goes to work for the morning and I go to the laundrymat.

Then at 12.00 I pick her up to...Drive to a wedding in Malibu. An hour and 45 mins away.

That's right, I have a family member that sent out invitations to a wedding on a Malibu beach. On a Monday. At 4.00 PM.

All in all the wedding was beautiful and the 50 or so miles driving up PCH on cool sunny California day made up for the driving back and forth to LA County.

One of the very, very few things I'm actually going to miss about Southern California when I get out of here.

The reception was another hour drive away in Westlake. Great food, great drinks, and every body's tension was finally released.

Brandon doesn't drink but Sarah did.

Tuesday 6/9/2009:// Hangover thou are loosed upon Sarah. I took two full days off work but Sarah took half days. Tuesday she had to go in at 1.00 pm. Spent most of the day relaxing trying to get some life back into the Mrs.

I go to the dentist and get four fillings.

Finally back at work on a Wednesday and I feel absolutely drained.

Have fun out there,
BA

David Eddings, RIP

David Eddings died yesterday.

Mr. Eddings, for those that don't know, is a New York Times Bestselling Fantasy Author. He also resides in the Pantheon of Writers that fill my head.

I loved, loved David Eddings and by all rights Leigh Eddings.

David and Leigh Eddings, Leigh being his uncredited wife/co-author until recent history, are responsible for some of the bestselling fantastical works not called Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter.

The Belgariad and The Mallorean, The Elenium and The Tamuli are each seminal works. Mr. Eddings was the only writer that seemed to understand that fantasy fiction doesn't have to be long winded diatribes better suited for a D&D session.

His characters were funny, collquial, fierce, human. The Eddings' answer to Gandalf's archaic ramblings was a drunken 7,000 year old fool named Belgarath.

More than anything, as a child, I was struck with how strong and powerful his heroine's are. Fantasy seems to steamroll over the fairer sex, always another damsel in distress. Polgara and Serephina were islands of strong calm in the chaos around them.

From the ages of around 12 to 23, I read everything the Eddings' wrote once a year. Everytime I did I was connected to that insecure boy that huddled in his room listening to Nirvana and Tool. I miss that wide eyed bastard sometimes.

After I graduated college with a degree in Creative Writing and Lit Theory, my critical eye was more harsh to the works and I derided the books I loved so dearly at one time. So I haven't paid attention to the Eddings' recent works. I was sad to see that David's writing partner, Leigh passed early 2007 and more alarmed at the weight of age seemed to be having on David when he burned his house down working on a car.

Some kids have baseball or fishing at the lake with their dad to anchor them to a specific time or emotion.

My happy place was with Ender Wiggin, Pug, and Belgarion.

In the words of my favorite now deceased author, Kurt Vonnegut, "So it goes..."

A Poem by BA Boucher

Once upon a time
I was full of exuberance

and words

Full from my lips
expelled from my protuberance

the words

Now they have left me
my muse slaughtered, and will vacate

the words

I can't think of anything to write
So I fake poetry, just satiate

like a turd

I, Enraged

I will probably post more about this later but today my wife and I had to file a formal complaint with our apartment management company stating that their lack of providing adequate security is making us question if we are victims of a hate crime.

I swear to god I went to a class over the weekend and was laughing at the name Martin Buber (Boob-er) for a solid hour and now I have to conceivably go to court because of Antisemitism.

When did I grow up?