A Complete Oddball
My house is a haven for oddballs.
I don’t take in strays, that’s not what I mean. I mean that it is a house that contains, houses, breeds and encourages same said oddball activity.
There is no one odder than the head of the household, your humble author, the person tapping these small letters into the computer.
Perhaps I should explain. It all comes down to a cluttered mind, I suppose. Maybe it’s attention deficit. Perhaps it’s just over-ambition.
I am a journalist for a living. That’s my day-job. It pays the bills, I enjoy it, I encourage it and I believe in it. The Fourth Estate isn’t a textbook and esoteric for me. When I see something worth digging into I do it and when things like new laws of criminal cases or other things come from what I do I feel that my belief is proven again.
I am a writer part-time. I have written a novel that didn’t get published. I used to write here daily in therapeutic and sometimes prosaic phrasing. I write about my life, about raising kids, about being alone while doing it, all with tongue firmly in cheek and smirk clearly on face.
I am a musician. That may be the first and foremost thing after parenting four kids. I play guitar daily if I can. I am writing music again. I hope to go into the studio. I listen to blues and jazz and rock and world music and many other forms because, again, I’m an oddball.
But it’s not just the things I do that are ingrained in my personality.
While cooking I sing. Sometimes, in July, I sing Christmas carols. I shouldn’t, but I do it.
I quote Monty Python and This is Spinal Tap and The Princess Bride and a myriad of other movies, TV shows and whatever else hits my brain.
I talk to the kids like Bullwinkle Moose. I do crazy voices, talk like Daffy Duck, Charlton Heston, bad versions of Christopher Walken.
My house is a mish-mash of decorator things. There are leftover decorations from when my late wife put our home together, for sure. She had a knack for decorating, far more than I did. She’d explode if she saw the home now, though.
For one . . . the guitars are out. They are out and everywhere.
In the office, in the living room, bedrooms too. There are guitars all over.
We love cartoons. They are art to us. I have a wall of cartoon art. I have an animation cell from one of the episodes of the cartoon Animaniacs. I added to the wall this week:
Boris Badenov, the inept villain of The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends. I got this cel from one of the cartoons just because . . . well because it’s cool, that’s why.
Then there’s the Pink Panther. It’s one of my favorite cartoons from when I was a kid and then this came up for sale, a cel from one of the cartoons I grew up watching as well. This is 1/24th of a second of an actual Depatie/Freleng cartoon and I’m thrilled. It’s part of a cartoon art wall in my home.
The oddball-ness of my personality may very well be what makes me seemingly un-date-able for many of the female persuasion in my sphere of influence. I firmly believe and think I can go on the road once the kids are grown and be a musician for the rest of my life. It’s no less feasible than being a field producer for 60 Minutes or a network news reporter or anything else.
I’m an odball. I’m growing a house full of odballs.
But then again, we’re having fun and living life. So who’s really the odball here?