An Ink Blot of Focus

Most of us have heard the saying: "He has the attention span of a gnat!." While many people take offense, I would gladly accept the complement. Yes, these little buggers could be the poster children of an ADHD campaign. But if you have 4 months to live, wouldn't you have a purpose so calculated that every step would be more mapped out than the human genome? These pesky blood suckers have two things to accomplish in life: eat and procreate. Now this should create nothing but an olympic-like drive, accompanied with a bucket full of focus. It would be like having an orgy at McDonalds for 120 days straight without succumbing to boredom (talk about a storyline for the sequel "Fast Food Nation").

Refocusing my thoughts, I think everyone has had their IQ tested. During this marathon of the brain, you are given pictures of disfigured blots of ink and asked to interpret their meaning. While you are consciously questioning the IQ of the test makers, your right prefrontal cortex is doing mental calisthenics of unknown proportions. The results vary tremendously, but they lead to a more clear understanding of your apptitude to interpret abstract meanings; hence, an ability to see a gnat that doesn't need a prescription for adderall.

What does this all add up to (more than Todd having nothing better to do between his server shifts at the Oxford but to compose drivel)? Take a moment out of our your hectic lives and look at things from another perspective. Don't allow the the concrete building blocks of our culture stand in your way of seeing things differently. It is now more than ever that we need our fearful minds to unwind from the stress that binds them and open our eyes to opportunities which lie ahead. Moreover, don't lose focus on what turns the wheels of our economy: free thinkers who take action in the face of adversity to create goods and services which feed our system and bellies. Otherwise, you might end up living the feckless life of a gnat.

Broken Arrows

I am neither intending this to parody a country music song, nor am I mocking Indian (feather vs dot) weapons of warfare; I am just trying to bring some levity to a heavily romantic holiday. Yes, I have had my heart broken and probably have broken many hearts, but does Valentines always have to be served with a box of chocolates and a bed of roses? Actually I will be serving Prime Rib and Shepherds Pie on the 14th at the Oxford (www.oxfordraleigh.com), FWIW. So for those sitting on the sidelines Saturday night, here’s a humorous anecdote to set an alternative mood.

Mrs. Sanderson was my 3rd grade Spanish teacher @ a small Catholic school in Morehead City, NC. Although I retained little information, the memory of her heavy accent and gullible nature left its indelible mark. Fast forward 7 yrs, and I am amongst a motley crew of underachievers, myself included; for the horns that protruded from my head grew longer during second period. And yes, Mrs. Sanderson was again my teacher, still needing a translator for her broken English not to mention her Spanish. On the week of Valentines, she gave us the most trivial assignment: writing a Spanish Valentine which would be childishly displayed on the bulletin board (flashback to the 3rd grade). Little did I know this banal exercise would have such an academic impact? Though I was not the guilty party, the arrow that I had used so many times to cajole my peers would find its bittersweet revenge, break my teacher’s heart and give my mom a heart attack.

Beau Watkins, God rest his soul, was the leader of the Spanish circus. We all fed off of his antics and advanced ADHD. Well, Beau had the great idea to write Mrs. Sanderson a licentious Valentines. However it was affectionately signed: “Love Tito”, my Spanish nom de plume. I can’t remember the exact wording, but he pretty much wrote, on a poorly constructed cardboard heart that more resembled a liver, “you are a bitch.” Mrs. S took her impetuous disgust and thick brogue directly to her counterparts and ultimately my mother, then a teacher at WCHS. As implausible of an idea it might have been for me to sign such an indictment of guilt, Mrs. Sanderson was convinced I was the sole perpetrator. There was really no argument to be made, just utter disbelief that she could be so freaking naïve. How can you argue with someone so inept? Needless to say, she gave me an “N” on conduct, which excluded me from the hallowed National Honors Society (ooooohhhh!).

Whether it's poetic justice or coincidence, Cupid’s arrow did not work in my favor. I would even go as far to say it was one of those Australian boomerang arrows at work. I’m not going to celebrate V Day with any fireworks this year. But at least I will chuckle, thinking for that moment, Spanish had lost its place as a romance language. Día Feliz de los Valintines!