The Real Speech

Advice to a Freshman at Lutheran North

I know the deal. Been there, done that. You’re in Old Testament thinking about everything else but Old Testament.

Examples
“I hear Mr. Slagel pats all the grease of his pizza. Funny, my little sister does the same thing.”

“Wonder what the ratio of Mrs. Neiman’s bows is to how many times Mr. Sprow says “Right” in a lecture.”

‘What is this cootie-less creature next to me?”

Yes my fellow freshmen men… it’s a girl.

And just as this information hits, you remember vaguely something about a dance. Homecoming? Right now I’ll be staying at home.

No worries my children, Papa Brando is here to help.

First you have to pick a specimen. You could go with your average fellow freshmen, but we want to build a name for yourself.

I’m thinking… O I got it; that senior in your pre-algebra class. The age thing probably won’t bother her much. I mean, we both know those aren’t your test answers she’s checking out.

Now, we need a plan of attack, and I got a failsafe way of asking a girl. While other guys are ditching their manhood by thinking of cute ways to ask a girl (who tapes homecoming with me on the back of a sweater?) your goings keep it classy.

I got two words for you: Sex Panther. Yep, the cologne that, 60% of the time it works, every time. Now that you’ve musked up, walk up to her and tell her you bought her a ticket to the dance, and if she is plays her cards right, you’ll grant her free admission to the gun show.

So you’ve made it to the dance floor, date and all, but now realized your date is looking like a skyscraper next to you while you dance “face to face, leaving some space.”

O who am I kidding; it’s a jungle out there, with one rule- Survival of the fittest. So while the poacher herself is picking of giraffes like me, you are safely under the cover of your date, who, coincidentally, looks like she is having a seizure, since no one can see you. It could be worse; I’m sure Mr. Horvath felt the same way at his senior prom.

You’re almost in the clear. You’re on her doorstep. She mumbles something about having the worst time of her life, but it’s barely audible with the voice in your head telling you to kiss her. So do you?
No! No you don’t. Put that voice on mute my friend and think about this logically. What’s the point in trying to reach first base at your first at bat? All you’re going to do is strike out, fly out, ground out, notice the key word yet? Also, you’re on her doorstep and her father is most likely watching your every move.

For all you know he could be…

a) a convicted felon
b) a 300 pound ex football player
c) the mayor of Detroit
or
d) all of the above

You don’t want any of that. Just stick her with a firm handshake and thanks for doing business with you. This saves your life and leaves her begging for more. Maybe even next time you will find yourself being thrown an intentional walk.

About The Artist

The best writers don’t write. The best writers are artists, painting pictures more vivid then anything the retina could ever process. Their words carefully crafted to create landscapes and portraits Michelangelo and Raphael never touched on. Granted a picture is worth a thousand words, but you give me a thousand words and I’ll give you a masterpiece.

But first, a self portrait.

J. Gatz is not a person. J. Gatz does not eat, sleep, breathe. J. Gatz, rather, is a state of being. It is a thought, a motive taken on by a person. He is the derivative of one Jay Gatsby. I am not Gatsby, however, and I am not great. So, please, don’t bring false accusations against me about embodying Mr. Gatsby. In no way am I trying to resuscitate a legend. Gatsby is great because he is dead, and so I leave him…dead.

But J. Gatz is alive. He lives in me. And not just me, no, Mr. Gatz lives in anyone who clings to the past. Who sees what happened as better then what is to come. Gatz lives in the few who dare to wade against the waves of time to find themselves in a place of what once was. Who loved, lost, but won’t let go. He is those who cherish the sand in the bottom of the hourglass and lose sight of the grains slipping through the neck.

J. is the lover. He is the product of pain and casualty of soft lips. His forte: the backseat, Achilles' heel: the backseat. A believer in shooting stars, cursed to fall for women who solely believe in shoes and cars. He is the swagger behind the step, the twinkle in my eye. J. is the anonym, the antidote to the anomaly. Although an arrogant aristocrat, he is still amiable, agreeable, and affable. The antiseptic to allegations, my ambitions and aspirations. Shall I move onto the B’s? Not yet. I am the alternative alleyway. The adaptation and absolute.

I am the author.

I am the artist.

I am J.

Prologue

By no means do I claim to be a virgin blogger. I have theoretically been a resident of the blogging community for some time now. The motive behind my first posts, however, was not what I wished it to be; a grade. I believe the reason these columns were developed to invoke the creative sentences of the lost calling out to be found, for the Marco to find his Polo, and questions seeking answers only to be united by electronic impulses circulating the globe. Blogging should be for sport, not to result in just another mere letter grade.
So even though a man can not erase the past, I have taken the incentive to wipe the monitor clean, if you will, and deleted my previous bulletins. Now with the board set, let me make my first move.

My name? I go by many.

My motive? To bestow the majority of the populous with something to snicker at and a lowered denominator thoughts to take comfort in. Any credit to my writing should be forwarded to the likes of J. Brandt and Apf4, and any critiques to the author himself. And discrepancies… there will be many. I hope to illustrate the thoughts that formulate in my mind while chasing the ever elusive perfect sentence; but let me warn you, this Da Vinci only paints the abstract. Attention to detail will only cause you to miss the big picture. It is with a closed mind that I write, so that only those who possess one that is open will see what I see. I don’t write for purpose of persuasion or to gain the last word, but simply to start the conversation.

Hello. My name is J. Gatz, and I am broken.