A game called “Smear the Queer” probably sounds like hate speech today, but it wasn’t meant that way by the kids I knew who played it in the 1970s.
Smear the Queer was a simple game. All you needed was a bunch of guys and a football. You’d throw or toss the football, everybody would scramble for it, and the kid who picked it up would run around with it until he got tackled. Then the kid who got the tackle (or successfully scrambled for the ball afterwards) would run around with the football until he got tackled.
Whoever had the football would be the target. The target was the “queer.”
Smear the Queer was great because you didn’t need a particular number of guys to play. Anywhere from two to infinity would work. You could play it anywhere, in a yard, in a park, in the street. You could stop whenever you wanted, and newcomers could join. All you needed was a football and a bunch of guys willing to run around and get tackled.
Playing smear the queer is a pleasant memory for me, so much so that I almost included a reference to it in my ONE novel, The Sunset Rises: A 1990s Romantic Comedy, but the scene didn’t quite work, so I had to delete it (I mean, I deleted the scene with smear the queer; I didn’t delete the book).
Even though people today might associate the name with hate speech, “Smear the Queer” has a nice sound to it. The words “smear” and “queer” rhyme. It’s good to have a rhyme when you name your game.
“Tackle the Guy with the Ball” is kind of a boring name for a game. Yeah, it might not be considered hate speech and it’s an accurate description of the game, but it’s not very imaginative.
Despite the negative connotations of the word “queer,” even back when I played Smear the Queer, everybody wanted to be the queer. The whole point was to get the ball and then get tackled. It would have been a short game if nobody had ever gone for the ball. With no queer, there would have been nobody to get smeared.
Even if you think the name “Smear the Queer” is a form of hate speech, I’m not going to blame my pre-teen self for saying the name or playing the game. Somebody else named the game, and we didn’t have an alternative name. Maybe if we can ever find the person who came up with the name “Smear the Queer,” maybe we can blame him. Until then, I’m just the messenger.
I’ll admit, Smear the Queer would be considered sexist today because girls never played. We never asked girls to play, and they never volunteered. If a girl had ever asked, we probably would have let her play and then gone easy on her. If she had then lectured us about how she demanded to be treated equally, we probably would have broken her arm.
Not on purpose. It just might have happened that way.
I’m too old to play Smear the Queer now. I’d probably blow out my knee or get a herniated disc or do something else stupid. But I still have fond memories of Smear the Queer. I guess that when I talk about it from now on, I’ll have to call it something else.
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There was another game that we played when I was a kid, but I don’t remember the name of it. A group of us would sneak up on a neighbor’s porch, ring the door bell, and run away.
What was that called again? Uh, something to do with… knocking?
Uh…
Umm…
Yeah… Never mind. I just remembered what it was called. I’m not going to write about that particular game. That one would be way too tough to explain.
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Read more “Old Things That Are Tough To Explain” below!
Old Things That Are Tough To Explain: The Divisive 1960s
Old Things That Are Tough To Explain: The Ugly 1970s
Old Things That Are Tough To Explain: Research Before The Internet
Old Things That Are Tough To Explain: You Could Only Watch It Once
Old Things That Are Tough To Explain: Why Did So Many People Smoke Cigarettes?
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Enough about me! What do you think? Is there another name for “Smear the Queer”? Is there anything wrong with the name “Smear the Queer”?
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It’s the oldest story in the world, 1990s style!
Man meets woman; man falls in “luuuvvv” with woman; man gets blindsided by reality!
The Sunset Rises: A 1990s Romantic Comedy is now available on Amazon !
My daughter switched radio stations as soon as she realized the song was “Manic Monday” by The Bangles.
“Ugh,” she said. “They rhymed ‘Sunday’ with ‘fun day’ and ‘run day’.”
We were driving to the university that my daughter is attending, and my daughter was in a hyper-critical mood. I had no problem with that. Even back in the 1980s, I disliked “Manic Monday.” Yeah, supposedly Prince wrote the lyrics, but he probably knew the lyrics sucked, so he gave them to some desperate singer. Everybody loved Prince so much that his fans thought his garbage was great. If you said anything by Prince sucked, people told you to shut up. At least, they told me to shut up.
I never said Prince sucked: I said some of his songs sucked.
Anyway, my daughter can get hyper-critical about pop culture stuff too, even when I’m not around. I’m proud of that.
My daughter has a lot of my personality. I think my personality works better for a female than a male. I’m not saying I want to be female. I’m just saying that my personality seems to work better for a female. My daughter has more friends than I’ve ever had. She’s more outgoing. She says the same kind of stuff that I do/did, but when she says stuff, people respond more favorably.
I STILL DON’T WANT TO BE A FEMALE!!
Last year I wrote a blog post about my daughter declaring that she might not go to college. Her indecision didn’t last long. She knew a few weeks later which university she wanted to attend and what she wanted to major in.
College isn’t for everybody, but it might be good for her. My daughter knows what she wants to do. The university she’s attending has a great program (the best, according to the university, if you can trust it) for what she wants to do. My daughter has already demonstrated a talent for what she wants to do. As negative as I can be about the university system (if it’s not a scam, it is at least scam adjacent), attending is probably the correct decision for her, based on what we know right now.
My daughter’s dorm room was just as tiny and muggy as I remembered mine decades ago. I recalled why some students panic in college; not everybody is designed to live like a lab rat. I was able to find quiet places and times (I was willing to get up earlier than most students), so I could fake some semblance of a quiet life.
My daughter’s college town was cool, but my wife and I have aged out of cool, so we just followed our daughter around and paid for stuff.
My wife told my daughter that we could visit her every few weeks, but that might not be a good idea, even though the university is less than three hours away. My wife would be a hardcore mom if I let her. A hardcore mom is like a helicopter mom but knows better. When I suggest to my wife that she should back off a little bit, she does without arguing about it but begins meddling again when I’m not around.
I understand why my wife is a hardcore mom. She didn’t have a lot of support growing up and had to take care of all her college details herself. Because of that, she missed out on some opportunities, and my wife doesn’t want my daughter to miss out. I get it. But still, my daughter is 18 and has to take care of most of the details herself now. We can help, but she has to do it herself.
Hugging my daughter goodbye in her dorm room was a little rough. She’ll probably be a different person the next time I see her, and I won’t have witnessed the changes taking place. I felt a wave of sadness when I walked into my daughter’s empty bedroom after we had returned home.
My wife, the hardcore mom, was more practical.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’m turning this into my office.”
It’s easy not to read The Great Santini by Pat Conroy. The novel came out decades ago, and statistically nobody reads it anymore. I don’t even know if many people read The Great Santini when it originally was published. All I know is that I can proclaim that I’ll never read The Great Santini and nobody will care.
I sometimes read books that I say I’ll never read. I said I’d never read A Song of Ice and Fire until George R.R. Martin finished the series, but I went ahead and read sections of each book anyway. I wasn’t lying when I announced I wasn’t going to read the series. At the time, I didn’t intend on reading the books. But I’m still pretty sure I’ll never read The Great Santini.
Back in the early 1980s, my dad and I were watching the movie version of The Great Santini starring Robert Duvall, and my dad quit half-way through. He said it was too tough for him, that the title character reminded him of his dad. That was funny, I thought; the title character reminded me a lot of my own dad, but I didn’t tell him. We didn’t talk about the movie after that.
In some ways, my dad was worse than the movie’s title character (I’m not going to get into the details), but he wasn’t worse all the time. I have some good memories of my dad. I’d rather focus on those instead.
I don’t like to think of my dad as a version of The Great Santini. Instead, I refer to him as an extreme parent. He was extremely funny sometimes. He could also be extremely angry, extremely generous, extremely violent, extremely selfish, and especially extremely unpredictable.
I’ve noticed recently that some people seem to love reliving trauma. I get suspicious of people who announce their past traumas to the world. I’m very suspicious of people who profit off of their alleged traumas, especially writers. Whenever I hear a famous person talk about how he/she has suffered in the past, I think he/she is making it up or exaggerating.
I know not everybody with extreme stuff in their past is like me and keeps quiet about it, but I’m still suspicious of post-trauma profiteers when I see them.
I’m also not going to watch the movie version of The Great Santini again. If I had to choose (and I don’t), I’d rather read about trauma than watch it. I have cut out a bunch of stuff like that in my life, gratuitously violent movies, sexualized videos, cable news (TV news in general) because all of that stuff increases fear or anger or other negative emotions. I’ve been sleeping a lot better recently because of these sensory input changes, I think.
I might not ever write about the extreme stuff that happened to me growing up. I don’t want to put that on people who know me who might read my blog. On the other hand, writing about it now wouldn’t hurt anybody because almost everybody involved with the extreme stuff has died already. Even so, I don’t think it does the younger generations of my family much good to get into explicit details.
I don’t care if other people read The Great Santini. I’m not calling for a boycott or anything like that. It might be a great book. I’m simply not going to read it, and I think I have a good reason.
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Enough about me! What do you think? Is The Great Santini worth reading (when your dad doesn’t remind you of the title character)? What books won’t you read and why not?
A co-worker asked how I was doing last week, and I said, “I don’t know.”
It just slipped out that way, but it was the truth. I really didn’t know how I was. There’s some turbulence in my personal life, and I have a lot of conflicting emotions about a lot of stuff. I had just started the work day and wasn’t sure how mentally prepared I was for the tasks ahead.
“I’m great!” would have been a lie.
“Fine” is too generic for somebody with my vocabulary.
“I can’t complain” sounds like there is a lot to complain about.
“None of your business” is a bit negative.
“I don’t know” is almost perfect. It’s the truth. Everybody knew what I was talking about. And it’s a somewhat original answer.
At least it used to be original. Now it’s my go-to response.
“I don’t know” works in most situations:
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“How are you?”
“I don’t know. Ask me around 4:30.”
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“What do you think about the economy?”
“I don’t know. It will either get better or get worse.”
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“Who’s going to win the big game?”
“I don’t know. We’ll probably know after they play the game.”
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“What are you doing with your life right now?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully it’s what God wants me to do.”
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“Do I look fat in this?”
“I don’t… No, you definitely don’t look fat. You look fantastic!”
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“I don’t know” is honest at least. I’ve tried faking enthusiasm, but I seem to get punished for it. The worst example was when a co-worker asked how I was doing, and I said “Great!” and then I walked face-first into a wall. I wasn’t doing so great then. “I don’t know” would have been a perfect answer because I hadn’t known that I was going to walk into a wall.
I also like “I don’t know” because too many people act like they know things that they don’t. Life became much easier for me when I realized that almost everybody is incompetent in most things. A person is lucky if he or she is an expert in one or two areas, but even then, people could still lie about their fields of expertise for their own advantages.
I spent 30 years in my field of expertise, and to my credit, I didn’t pretend to know stuff I didn’t. My “I don’t know” honesty might have worked against me a few times, if you look at things from a financial/professional perspective, but I didn’t harm anybody with my honesty.
Yes, I have my opinions. This blog is filled with my opinions. But I usually state that they’re my opinions, and I don’t pretend that my opinions are facts. Opinions are less stressful when you can admit that you really don’t know stuff.
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A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about The Answer Book, a book that answered a bunch of science and history questions in long-winded fashion; at least the answers seemed long-winded at the time when I was a kid reading The Answer Book. Nobody would have bought The Answer Book if every answer in the book had been “I don’t know.”
If you want to make money from being a know-it-all, “I don’t know” isn’t a very good answer.
It’s almost unfair to make fun of a dead guy’s writing. The author isn’t around to defend himself, and his fans are either dead too or don’t see the point in defending him.
Ernest Hemingway’s writing gets mocked, even though (or maybe because) many of his novels are required reading at a lot of schools. Being required reading isn’t usually the author’s fault, but that’s how it goes.
I know Hemingway gets mocked because when I was in college, a friend of mine gave me a “Best of Bad Hemingway” book as a gift. It was a cool gift. I had no opinion of Ernest Hemingway at the time, but I knew enough about his writing style to get the joke.
I recently chose to start reading The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, partially because I read East of Eden by John Steinbeck a few months ago. So far, I’m not enthusiastic about The Sun Also Rises. It seems that Hemingway doesn’t like his characters. Or maybe I don’t like his characters and I’m projecting onto the author.
Plus, there’s way too much dialogue. Don’t get me wrong; I like dialogue. I’ve read several Fletch books. The dialogue in The Sun Also Rises, however, seems to be more like self-indulgent chit-chat than storytelling.
Take a look at six straight pages!
Maybe this dialogue shows character development. Maybe this was Hemingway’s way to show without telling. Maybe it’s good dialogue but a bad use of it. Or maybe Hemingway should have listened to an editor (if the editor wasn’t afraid of him).
Whatever is going on, I’m not looking forward to continuing The Sun Also Rises. Dialogue can be a great storytelling tool, but I think this is the stuff that gets an author mocked, even/especially after the author has died.
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What do you think? Is this bad use of dialogue? Or should I shut up because I’m just some random blogger?
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After more than ten years of blogging, I’ve finally written a novel.
A grammar-obsessed English teacher falls in ‘luuuvvv’ but discovers how chaotic and dangerous ‘luuuvvv’ can really be.
The Sunset Rises: A 1990s Romantic Comedy is now available on Amazon and from the trunk of my car at various local bookstores… until parking lot security kicks me out. Buy it now while supplies last!
The 4th of July is the only national holiday that I’ve written a story about. It’s a memoir type of story, maybe more like a personal narrative. If I ever write a full blown memoir, I’ll probably include this.
The title “4th of July Story,” is important. Yeah, I know there’s already “A Christmas Story.” That movie was called “A Christmas Story” because everybody has a Christmas story. The letter “A” in the title was an acknowledgement that there were countless other Christmas stories and that “A Christmas Story” was merely one of many.
This is simply “4th of July Story.” I don’t have a good reason for leaving out the letter “A” at the beginning. I’m not implying that this is the only 4th of July story out there. It might be the only 4th of July story I have, though.
“4th of July Story” is one of the shortest blog serials that I’ve written. “Long Story” was 16 episodes. “The Literary Girlfriend” was 60. Several “Awkward Moments in Dating” segments run four or five episodes. “4th of July Story” is only three episodes. But I like it, and it’s stayed relevant.
So here we go, without the “A” in the title.
4th of July Story
I was 10 when the United States turned 200 years old. It was a big deal back then, but at the time, the meaning of the 4th of July was lost on me. As an adult, I understand July 4th is the annual celebration of the signing and approval of the Declaration of Independence by the Continental Congress.
I understand how important the following sentence from The Declaration of Independence is:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
That one sentence had a bunch of concepts that were unique way back in 1776.
The Declaration of Independence is also known for John Hancock’s really big signature. As an adult, I appreciate how momentous the signing of that document was and how it began the process of liberating the colonies and forming one of the greatest nations in the world. I appreciate John Hancock’s really big signature. I even remember a couple jokes about how a guy named John Hancock had a really big signature.
When I was a kid, I didn’t understand all this, including the John Hancock jokes. Back when I was 10, the 4th of July was about shooting off fireworks. And 1976 was a great year to shoot off fireworks.
Read more at 4th of July Story: The Box of M-80s
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What do you think? What great (or traumatic) 4th of July stories do you have? Should I add the letter “A” to the title “4th of July Story”?
When I was six, I received a copy of The Answer Book for Christmas. I liked The Answer Book. It had answers to a lot of questions that I never asked.
I asked stuff like this (keep in mind this was the early 1970s):
- Who would win in a fight between Hulk and Superman?
- Was professional wrestling fake?
- Why did people think that Fonzi was cool?
- Why were afternoon cartoons always preempted by Watergate hearings?
Instead, The Answer Book answered science-related questions. Pffft… science.
While flipping through The Answer Book book recently, I discovered the answer to the question “What Is Quicksand?”:
Because of this book and a few movies, I believed for a long time that the dangers of quicksand were real. But according to several sources on the internet, there aren’t any documented cases of anybody sinking into quicksand and disappearing forever.
I don’t know who to believe, the book from the 1970s or the internet of today. The book said it can happen; it doesn’t say that it actually has happened. That’s a sneaky word trick to play on a kid. I don’t blame movies for trying to scare kids with quicksand. Movies are supposed to scare people. But a science book should know better.
Even if quicksand is/was technically dangerous, it’s statistically never hurts/kills any kids who read The Answer Book. There are scientific things that are way more dangerous for kids than quicksand. The fear of quicksand seems kind of manufactured to me and unnecessary.
If they did know that quicksand wasn’t statistically dangerous (and they probably knew), why would they legitimize this urban legend?
I still like this copy of The Answer Book. I just wish it had a section on Bigfoot!
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It’s the oldest story in the world, 1990s style!
Man meets woman; man falls in “luuuvvv” with woman; man gets blindsided by reality!
The Sunset Rises: A 1990s Romantic Comedy is now available on Amazon !
Don’t read any further if you get sick to your stomach easily.
Don’t look at the picture below! Whatever you do, don’t look at the picture.
Don’t look at it!
If you look at it, it’s your fault.
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Opening a library book is like being the first cop at a crime scene; you never know what you’re going to see.
Below is a picture from a library book I just checked out. The book itself is titled (not that it matters all that much for the purpose of this blog post) Don’t tread On Me: A 400-Year History of America at War, from Indian Fighting to Terrorist Hunting by H. W. Crocker III. This book is unabashedly pro-American (whatever that means) and approaches America’s history of violence with no shame or guilt. According to this book, at least from what I’ve read so far, the Native Americans almost had it coming.
I mean, the Indians had it coming.
At any rate, a previous reader must have been disgusted by the author’s point of view. I was pretty disgusted when I saw this. I don’t even know what this is, but my imagination has a few ideas. Is it nose debris? Partially chewed food/condiment droppings. Or is it simply a set of mustard stains?
My gag reflex didn’t kick in or anything, but I’m not showing this to my wife. She watches pimple popping videos, but I still won’t show this to her. Her imagination can be just as vivid and as inaccurate as mine.
This is probably just mustard. It seems a bit flaky to be mustard, but I’m not tasting it to find out. I’m not that curious about it.
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What do you think that is? Nose debris? Spilt food? Would this be enough to keep you from checking out library books in the middle/end of a pandemic? What is the most disgusting sight you’ve discovered in a library book?
Three days. The book had been sitting on the counter by the sink in the break room at work for three days, and nobody had claimed it. I don’t think it had even moved.
The book was a paperback copy of Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry. Even though I’d already read the novel decades ago, I’d been thinking about reading it again recently. I remember enjoying Lonesome Dove a lot.
This copy of Lonesome Dove was in nice condition, but it was in danger of getting wet from so many coworkers washing their hands. I thought about just taking the book home with me. It wasn’t mine, but I wanted to read it.
On this particular day, there was a chocolate cake next to the book, and coworkers were hovering over the mystery cake.
“Who made it?” one guy asked.
“It’s chocolate cake,” another guy said. “With chocolate icing. I don’t care who made it.”
“Is it safe to eat?”
“Whose book is that?” I asked.
“I want to know who made the cake,” the guy kept saying. “If it was Jackie, she’s always licking her fingers.”
“It could have been Dolores,” the other guy said. “She wears two masks and always washes her hands, even when she has gloves on.”
The guy turned to me. “Are you going to eat this?”
“I’m fasting,” I said. I don’t eat food unless I prepare it myself, but I just claim I’m fasting to avoid awkward situations. The problem is that then I can’t be seen eating for a while. That’s why lying is bad. I probably should just tell people that I don’t eat food unless I prepare it myself.
After much deliberation, everybody except me ate the cake, but nobody claimed the book. I decided to wait until the end of the day to make my move. Friday was clean-up day, and the custodians would throw out everything unclaimed at 5:30. If the book was still there, I’d take it. It’s not stealing if it’s about to get thrown out. In that situation, I’d be saving the book, not stealing it.
At 5:30 I was ready to make my move. I’d stayed a little late to get ready for Monday, and I hung around the corner waiting for the custodian. He was a young guy with air pods (I think). First he wiped the tables. Then he threw out everything in the refrigerator (and there was some truly disgusting stuff in there). What was taking him so long to get to the sink? He was doing everything except cleaning the sink!
Finally he grabbed the cake remnants and tossed them into the trash can. Then he reached slowly for the book… and… and…
“I’ll take that,” I proclaimed as I stepped forward.
“Is this yours?” he asked. I had expected him to just hand me the book.
“No…. um… no… it’s just been sitting there for three days.”
“This doesn’t belong to you?”
“No,” I said sheepishly. “I just want to read it.”
“So do I,” the custodian said. “Do you mind if I read this over the weekend, and I’ll bring it back?”
I almost said, “You’re going to read Lonesome Dove over a weekend?”
Instead, I said, “Sure, it’s not my book.”
So the custodian took the book.
And I haven’t seen him since.
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A couple days ago I just went ahead and bought a copy of Lonesome Dove for a few bucks at a used book store.
Yesterday I had some time to read it, but I didn’t feel like it. I’m pretty sure I’ll get to it today.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald was panned by reviewers when it first came out, and it sold relatively few copies. Now The Great Gatsby is required reading for students, many of whom already don’t like to read. So what changed along the way?
Did the original reviewers and buying public have it right? Or have recent generations of readers just been smarter by recognizing the genius of The Great Gatsby??
I ask these questions because of a book I’m browsing through, Real Artists Don’t Starve by Jeff Goins.
It’s one of those books that takes anecdotes and tries to force them to fit the points the author is trying to make. I’m not even going to explain the author’s point about F. Scott Fitzgerald because it has nothing to do with my own rhetorical questions.
Still, I’ll give the book some credit. Here’s an excerpt:
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The Great Gatsby was published on April 10, 1925, with one New York paper headlining its review: “F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s Latest a Dud.” The rest of the literary world was equally critical, with H. L. Mencken calling it “no more than a glorified anecdote” and referring to the author as “this clown.” A bit more bluntly, Ruth Snyder wrote, “We are quite convinced after reading The Great Gatsby that Mr. Fitzgerald is not one of the great American writers of today.” Gatsby did not achieve the success its author had hoped for, selling fewer than half as many copies as any of his previous novels (53).
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Again, what has changed since 1925? When I first read The Great Gatsby in the 1980s, I thought it was overwritten for such a short novel and not as insightful as teachers claimed it was; I agreed with Mencken’s opinion without even knowing who H. L. Mencken was.
A part of me believes that pop culture is a test to see what the public will accept. For example, Bob Dylan was an adequate song writer, but there’s no way he should have been allowed to sing. Maybe, just maybe, Bob Dylan was a test to see what the public would accept.
And maybe, just maybe, similar powers in the literary world wanted too see if they could take a substandard literary piece and make the public think it was brilliant. Maybe they believed that if they could trick the public into buying The Great Gatsby, they could trick the public into buying anything.
I can’t get too angry with the literary powers in this case; at least The Great Gatsby is short.
Dysfunctional Literacy 