Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Green Scallions Returns to Write Again

One mid afternoon in August, I slouched in my grey chase lounge up in nordern Wisconsin trying to decide if I'd come back for another season of blogging. My head slowly moved back and forth -- eyes focusing on the left side of the paper on the word pro, shifting to the word con on the right. I had a sense my eyelids were drooping while in the depths of despair trying to decide. Like an out of body experience, suddenly the face of a familiar looking Scallions follower appeared on the deck chair next to me.

It was my old friend Brett who was en route to the Twin Cities along with some work friends. At the last minute he told the pilot to land at the Island Airport. Brett was concerned about how I was healing after some undeserved criticism was heaped upon me earlier this summer by a small number of fair weather readers. They had taken offense with some pictures of naked streakers at a baseball game, I had used in a blog.

Jez, I reflected back to that time, what did they expect someone wearing a formal gown to streak? This isn't the Sunday comics or Mr. Rogers mouthing "won't you be my neighbor". I've reviewed the link below. I'm not like him! No similarities in our wardrobes, hair styles, or approach to the audience. He's more like Felix and I am Oscar from The Odd Couple. Check it out if you don't believe me. You're a Scallions reader so grow up you whimpies!


Sorry for my meltdown. I just needed to vent.

Now back to Brett, as usual. Brett seemed edgy, saying a number of times, "I need to escape from Wisconsin" with some urgency in his Mississippi drawl, if you can imagine that. What a guy, taking the risk to visit me with old Packer Backers walking the Lake Superior Boardwalk wearing their green and gold tight ass Speedos with a "#4 Favre" dead center on the backside. We terrified visitors with Minnesota plates yield to those Wisconsin pickup trucks sporting rifle racks in the back window with a purple and white #4 bulls eye decal with the words "SHOOT ON SIGHT" underneath. God Brett has guts.

His time was limited. He minced no words, "Ya know son, we'all wanya back this fall". Choked up I sensed for the first time my fans liked me maybe even more than my prose. He teared up some as we hugged asking, "Bubba, is 'bout the money"? I broke down with my lying lower lip quivering and did my southern imitation "no way ole man, tain't about the money Son". He left quickly, giving me two thumbs up as he sped off to the airport in his rented limo.

There were other fans who came forward with encouragement. Readers worldwide confided in me how happy they were I had taken a break to recharge my batteries. Some suggested it would be good for me if I even took more time off. A Japanese guy wrote an email in busted up English closing off his message with "asshole". I'm sure he meant "Ah so". I'm guessing something I wrote was lost in translation.

Others offered ideas on other things I could do in retirement beside blogging. I know they're not serious though. How could they be serious if they read Scallions?

After weighing all my options, I decided to recommit and return for another season. Right now I'm working on a story based upon a feature from The Id. In case your not familiar with this ragazine, The Id caters to all Bachelorette wannabes from the post Barbie Doll phase to a time in life that she'd just rather knit than sleep with a scruffy old man. I think one of my kids must have left that rag sheet here when they were visiting.

The Id is written to make every female reader feel as if this is their own personal private publication, as the name suggests. Scallions hopes to respond to questions raised in one of their recent features entitled "Will He Still Make Love to Me if He Finds Lint in My Bellybutton"?

Anyway Brett, thanks to you I'm all in! Just like you.

Back for the Scallions team! My Carpel Tunnel Mind may flair up from time to time, but I'll fight through the pain. So gut it out, stick with Scallions. We need you back for another championship season.

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