I was a Cub Scout, a Boy Scout, and a Brussels Scout growing up.
We’d go camping, hiking, and log countless miles helping old ladies cross the street.
My fondest memory of Scout camp involves the Assistant Scout Master’s son waking me in the middle of the night by wrapping a chain around my neck and demanding I stop snoring.
I play fast and loose with the facts here in this blog, but that’s a true story.
And why my kids didn’t go into the Boy Scouts…
I have other pleasant camp memories.
Stomping through a field of poison oak.
Going out with my shovel to poop, only to find the frozen ground hard as a rock and having to ‘shallow grave’ it.
Putting on every stitch of clothing I’d packed in a vain attempt to stay warm when a blizzard unexpectedly hit.
Discovering I had forgotten half of my cook stove.
The kiddos, in their first camping trip, so excited they ran around the inside of our tent until they threw up. And then, because we spent so much time in the van after, the battery died, and it wouldn’t start. And the ranger just shrugged and said, “That’s too bad.”
Oh yes, I’ve been camping all right…
Oh man, when you enter “An old man in his underwear struggling to pitch a tent” as an AI image prompt, boy, do you get some rude images!
When it’s something I’m excited about and I get started right away.
If I get what I think is a great idea and immediately begin working on it, odds are I’ll be done within a day.
Depending on the scope of the project, of course.
This is how I’ve handled a lot of short story ideas.
Idea manifests while lying in bed at 11pm, first draft done by 2am.
On the other hand, I’ve also been struck by a great idea at 11pm and thought to myself, “That’s amazing! But I’m too tired to work on it now. I’ll wait until morning when I’m refreshed.”
Come morning, assuming I even remember the idea, I’m scratching my head trying to figure out what I was so amped up about the previous night, and ultimately nothing comes of it except a vague sense of misgiving.
I also feel productive when my job’s at stake if I don’t get it done (funny, that) and when I’m in the shower and can’t possibly act on all the ideas I’m having (let alone write them down).
The rest of the time, I’m just trying to sleep…
I write down my ideas only to have the shower water make the ink run. Not only can I not read my notes after that, but I inexplicably need to pee.
I mean, immortality isn’t a thing, and honestly, who would want to live forever?
Really.
Either it’s just you and everyone you know and love grows old and dies in front of you, or else no one dies and then we have to stop reproducing or overrun the world and fall into endless wars over resources.
And what if immortality meant you could starve, just not to death?
Or you live forever but keep aging and physically declining?
Who wants that?
Being remembered is the next best thing.
I’ve been thinking about my legacy, how I can expand who I touch and am remembered by in this life.
There’s always friends and family, who will remember you as long as you weren’t a douche and found yourself excommunicated.
But that lasts a couple generations, maybe four or five if you’re lucky.
Then you’re just an entry on a family tree.
Movie stars and talented writers manage to last longer.
Just look at Homer (not Simpson!).
Though specifics about him are thin on the ground these days…
And while I like to think I’m a reasonably good author, I’m not going to permanently imprint myself onto the human psyche with any of my books.
And certainly not with my acting!
I’ve decided the trick is to create something that paints a picture of you for people to find, even generations from now.
But it can’t be too accessible. That would make it cheap and uninteresting.
It has to be a challenge.
It has to be interesting.
It has to be mysterious.
It has to be, paradoxically, personal.
But not personal about me, per se.
I mean, yes, it does, a little bit.
But it needs to be personal for each individual who encounters this project.
The act of opening or solving or discovering the remembrance of me has to be a personal experience for them, too.
Which makes putting something together like this challenging.
Interesting.
Mysterious.
And most of all, for me, a very personal act.
I have some ideas.
They need a lot of fleshing out, but they’re there.
Who knows? Maybe this post will be the start of something grander.
Prompt: Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.
I changed my mind.
She was the first in line.
She was on the phone, talking about still being free.
That sounded like justification to take a chance to me.
And I had no place else to go.
I needed to get ahead, so I let her know.
Normally I would have been content to wait, but since I only had one item and it was ice cream, which I didn’t want to melt, I asked if I could go ahead of her.
You see, I’ve noticed that lately, commercials and ads are priding themselves on showcasing ‘real’ people rather than using unrealistically attractive people.
All in an effort to set realistic expectations for impressionable people about what their bodies should look like.
You know, people immersed in pop culture media and unable to distinguish that from reality.
Except they’re only doing this with women.
A body wash ad triggered this. The women in the ad have body types all across the spectrum, no ‘so thin you can see through her’ lack of realism.
But the men?
The men were all Adonises.
And this coming from a super straight hetero.
Naturally, I worry about myself. How this impossible standard deflates my already fragile ego.
I mean, I’m married, so this unrealistic standard isn’t exactly going to impact my dating life.
But now, everywhere I go, I can’t help but feel sized up and found wanting by every single woman I encounter.
(And probably the gay men too, but as I’m now holding them to the same insane standard, I figure we’re even…)
It’s demoralizing.
It’s also a problem for the next generation of men, including my sons, but let’s be honest: they’re not me, and I feel the impact of this on myself more than anyone else feels the impact on me.
Clearly, there is only one solution: In order to preserve my self-esteem and maintain a healthy body image, I must become the face (and body) of all advertisements featuring males.
It is not a task I relish, but when called, one must serve.
I must become the standard by which all male beauty is measured.
And the new battle cry amongst us normies that my selfless act will inspire?
“Bring on the uggos!”
Follow your dreams, you can reach your goals, I’m living proof. Beefcake!
When I was a kid and felt bad, my dad would say, “I used to stick a needle in my lip when I was hurting. Because it always felt so much better when I pulled it out.”
I really took that lesson to heart because he’s right. Sure, my lip still hurts after extracting the needle, but nothing like when it was first stuck in.”
Everything is relative (Dad joke not intended).
Which is why, after a demanding, stressful, absolutely awful day at the office, I go home and then turn around and go right back to work.
I stay about an hour, get really really miserable, and leave.
The relief is palpable but short-lived. Lasts about the duration of my commute.
So when I get home, I turn around and head back to work.
I do this several times every weeknight (and sometimes on the weekends if there’s trouble on the home front). Each time, the magnitude of the relief is diminished and less effective.
But that’s OK, because after several rounds, I’m exhausted and fall asleep. Hopefully at home.
Ah, the sweet, sweet numbness of being unconscious…
I’m going to the happiest place on Earth. Are we there yet?
Prompt: Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.
I was sitting in a café, typing away on one of my many long-neglected WIPs.
I’d just hammered out a nice turn of phrase that I was rather proud of. I saved the file (“Save early, save often”, I always say) and looked up while stretching.
As I tilted my head left and right, causing my neck to pop, I inadvertently made eye contact with an attractive young woman at another table.
A brief moment passed between us. It is best described thusly:
Me: Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.
Her: I can immediately tell from this soulful glance that you are an introvert and you want absolutely no contact with a total stranger. I respect this.
She looked away and I never saw or noticed her again.
And for that I’m forever grateful…
Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but can I read what you’re writing over your shoulder?
ian m dudley 