In my last post I created a to do list on a monday with nothing to do. This is video footage proof that I completed my to do list.

You know what I really hate? This guy ^above picture^! Yes I mean the sun. Beautiful weather can have a surprising way of making you feel completely useless. It's a gorgeous sunny monday and I am so blessed to not have a job or be in school and what am I doing? Sitting inside watching youtube videos. This beautiful day completely upsets the balance of my life. During the winter when the outdoors are wet and dreary, inside is such a bright and a cozy place filled with warmth. But on a beautiful warm summer day the indoors transform into dark and dreary dens (especially ones as poorly lit as mine) It's an enlightening fact that I'm probably more of a recluse than I thought. When I venture forth outside I am offended by the blinding beautiful sun and its rays of vitamin D. You feel tired in the heat and restless at the same time with nothing to do. Bad weather is almost an excuse to do nothing as you are confined to the indoors and you watch movies and play games to pass the time. Suddenly in the sun these activities become completely unfulfilling.  Today I have written a list of things I all to often start and never get around to pursuing . I shall take this rare day of oregon sunlight and flowers to accomplish accomplishments. No matter how small the summit!

 The picture above is a document I have written to lay out the objectives I have to complete, my only reward being a feeling of fulfillness. Upon this ancient parchment that I have inherited from my great great great great grandfather George Washington, (not General George Washington this was a different guy) I have documented these objectives, a to do list if you will. Today I saw an episode of "A Day in a Life" which gave me an idea. As this will be a day in MY life i shall document me accomplishing each goal as proof of my productiveness.

If you are blind, or a bat, or as blind as a bat, or a bat that is blind, or if my hand writing sucks the list contains the following in print:

1. Read a book

2. Blog a blog

3. Paint a paint

4. yellow a coat

5. book a train

6. write a wrote

7. Eat some meat

8. Run a run

                     Since this paper is like, really old, it is both legally binding and awesome.

The Shocking Truth About Authors or Why F. Scott Fitzgerald Kept A Chicken In His Hotel Room Part II: The Other Side

The "Strange Little Man" of Zelda's letter did not think himself small, (indeed where he was from he was considered fairly normal sized) and certainly not strange! He was one of the most normal people he knew, he could not fathom why he was considered strange. His name was Maluvia the Time Walker if anyone was wondering. At first he thought that coming to earth would be a simple and easy journey, perhaps even enjoyable. However he found that it was going to be frustratingly difficult. He had a hard time even communicating with the inhabitants and eventually decided to give it up and go on with his task unseen and unheard by those he was observing. His task was to follow a certain being and guide his life in such a fashion that he produce great works of art at the appropriate time.

From the moment he was told that this was to be his job he was very excited, this kind of task was only appointed to a very few and now he was one of them! He imagined that he would appear to this Fitzgerald fellow and act as a sort of muse but, after his first encounters with the humans, he decided this would be very difficult indeed and came up with another way of influencing him. He made certain that Francis came upon certain books, at certain times; made sure that certain "accidental" acquaintances were made; and most importantly planted the seeds of ideas in him while he slept. This, Maluvia the Time Walker deemed to be the best way to encourage the right books from this man, and so far it had worked. Maluvia made sure that Scott Fitzgerald's first submitted story, a little piece about detectives submitted to his school newspaper, was published, thus cementing his resolve to continue and write more stories. When he went on to Princeton, Maluvia ensured Francis's meeting with certain writerly friends. And it encouraged the Great Gatsby, which Maluvia knew would become a classic.

Maluvia continued ensuring several of Fitzgerald's encounters and writings, guided him safely through WWI, and silently encouraged him during the writing of his first novel (even placing the poem that inspired the title in Fitzgerald's reach.) He did not, however, foresee Francis's meeting with Zelda, and indeed was unable to stop their eventual wedding. He did, once they were married, attempt to break it up, and in the end he did succeed, but then Fitzgerald moved to California, which was not in any one's plan certainly not Maluvia. It lead to certain, shall we say difficulties, in his plans for Fitzgerald. How could he possibly correct this?

In his attempt to break up Fitzgerald's marriage Maluvia had made Zelda less than mentally stable. When he remembered this an inkling of a plan blossomed in his mind. He appeared to Zelda and told the most absurd tales he could think of. Fortunately in her less than healthy state of mind, she believed him and sent a letter to Francis. More appearances and more letters, until he was sure Fitzgerald would believe him when he saw him. And so, that fateful day in January Maluvia appeared to Fitzgerald and told his tale.








Authors Note: Again if you have any questions regarding Mr. Fitzgerald or his wife, please don't hesitate to comment or send us an email at threecrazyguys@gmail.com, we will do our best to respond in a timely fashion. See more anecdotes of Mr. Fitzgerald's here

The Shocking Truth About Authors or Why F. Scott Fitzgerald Kept A Chicken In His Hotel Room Part I: The First Encounter

To start off Today's post let's begin with a brief anecdote from F. Scott Fitzgerald:

Once there was a whole lot of bird seed around the room because an author had adopted a chicken. It was impossible to explain to anyone just why he had adopted the chicken but still more impossible to know why he had bought the bird seed for the chicken. The chicken was later broiled and the bird seed thrown out, but the question of whether the man was an author or a lunatic was still unsolved in the minds of the hotel servants who had to deal with the situation. The hotel servants didn’t understand it. They didn’t understand how months later the author could write a story about it but they all bought the magazine.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Notebooks  Quote shamelessly stolen from Biblioklept

Although most of you undoubtedly know all about F. Scott Fitzgerald the basics, mainly for the one or two random people who happen to be clueless, are covered in the FAQAF (Frequently Asked Questions About Fitzgerald) In this handy sheet many such obvious and menial questions are answered, such as what does the F stand for? Who does this guy think he is? Where in tarnation did he live? How old should this guy be? And what, if anything, he actually accomplished (Beyond just confusing everyone with his strange choice of hotel-room pets).

Note: If you only have the vaguest idea of who he is, or know him just as the author of The Great Gatsby many things in the FAQAF are sure to surprise you.

Only recently avid Fitzgerald fans have uncovered new letters and journal entries that expand upon this anecdote and reveal the real reason behind the chickens and the birdseed. Was it really so innocent, or is it covering up something so strange, so bizarre it hasn't been revealed until now. This letter is from Francis' wife Zelda Fitzgerald, sent sometime in 1938:

                             My dear Francis,

                   I am glad to hear you have settled in and found an apartment, here things have

                  gone on pretty much as normal. Although there is one instance I feel I must inform

                  you of. It is this: some time late last week I had a visit from the most strange little 

                  man. He could not have been more than three feet tall with oddly long arms but his

                  legs were quite stumpy and short. I could hardly believed what I was seeing! Yet he 

                  spoke to me! he told stories of things so exceedingly strange I was not sure whether 

                  to be astonished or frightened. By the end of his tales I was most intrigued. I began

                  to reply to this strange little fellow when he made the most curious sound. You can

                  imagine, surely, the calls of the whippoorwill? if you add to that a low humming 

                  sound, like that of an automobile when you put your head against the side of the 

                  vehicle, or if you have heard the rumble of an aeroplane, it is something like that.

                  This curious sound rose in pitch and volume until, I confess, I had to cover my ears

                  and turn my head. When I looked back the little man was gone! I do not know what

                  to make of this singular instance and would welcome your response. I have mentioned 

                  it to several people and have gotten everything from laughs to worried looks. I will

                  close by wishing you the best of luck in your screenwriting ventures and say that i hope

                  to hear from you soon,

                  Best wishes,

                       Zelda Fitzgerald

Mr. Fitzgerald had moved to Hollywood in order to try his hand at screenwriting, for some easy money, and to try to ween himself off the bottle. He too was not sure what to make of this strange little  man his wife had seen. He sent her a comforting letter, telling her "not to worry yourself overmuch" that "providing it doesn't happen again it is most probably the result of too little sleep and an overactive imagination". However he took a very different stance in his journal entry, dated July 1938.

                  I have become increasingly worried over my poor wife's vision. She has claimed to

                  have seen a little man, who tells strange tales, then disappears with a crescendo of 

                  sound, I am not sure what to make of it, although I have told her not to worry, as it 

                  has only happened once, I fear this may become a recurring hallucination

These letters from his wife continued over the next few months, and each time included a story of the little man with the ill proportioned limbs. The stories grew so bizarre, so fantastical, that Fitzgerald began believing them himself. One day, early in 1939, Fitzgerald saw the little man himself. He was even more bizarre than his wife had described. Somehow his face was not quite right, and his walk was funny. His wife had not even mentioned his clothes, bright colors and shiny like nothing he had ever seen. Recorded in his journal that night we have found this revealing entry

                   January 17 1939, It has finally happened, as Zelda has expected it would for 

                   some time now, I have met her Little Man. He is exceedingly strange and has 

                   told me the most fantastical story. A strange tale about and extraordinary kingdom

                   and outlandish fashions, a missing prince and an evil sorcerer. I do not know quite 

                   what to make of it all, it seems too strange to be true, yet so fantastic and detailed

                   that it must be fact! I suppose all I can do is wait and see if he ever returns to me.

The little man did indeed return and with a tale so extraordinary it made Fitzgerald doubt his entire life.

Authors Note: If you have any questions regarding Mr. Fitzgerald or his wife, please don't hesitate to comment or send us an email at threecrazyguys@gmail.com, we will do our best to respond in a timely fashion. See more anecdotes of Mr. Fitzgerald's here