Dead Wall Window

Ready set fail!

2011-12-29T12:05:00.000-08:00

I have no illusions that I'll achieve everything I want to. There's not enough time.

So here it is, the stuff I intend to fail at in 2012. Mostly because there's so much of it, and I need something to post.

1. Reunite with my band in Texas and attempt to pull off an actual, live guitar solo.

2. Finish the goddamn novel. By finish, I mean get all the edits done and get it out there, self publishing if necessary.

3. Finish a second novel. Can this be done? Absolutely not. This is just goofy. If I finish Resolution #2, it will have taken three years for the first novel. But hey, dreaming is free. Just ask Blondie.

4. Get a bigger house.

5. Be able to call my own shots in my professional "straight" life. I'm actually pretty close to this.

6. Learn Spanish. This one's been sitting on the list so long it's starting to rust.

7. Get healthier. That's all I'll say, lest I incriminate myself. Look, I'm not getting any younger. It's about time to put some old habits to bed, dust off the Jack LaLanne juicer and get started on the mid-life, run-every-day health kick -- or at least something approaching it.

8. Get smarter. America is getting dumber and instinctively, I know I am, too. Basically, this boils down to hanging around people smarter than me, reading more, and watching less Family Guy.

This one's a little personal. Eighteen years later, I'm still trying to live down this faux pas:

(For the record, I can't say what kind of state I was in when I gave this quote to a Newsweek intern. But HE certainly knew.)

9. See more bands. Gotta have at least one easy resolution.

10. Meet more writers. I'm lucky to know a few great ones, but I ought to be branching out more. In fact I ought to write more, too, and submit more, and go to more readings...

And see, this is where I have to end the list, because there's always "more." I need to travel, write non-fiction, get my business off the ground, fix up the jeep, fix up the back bathroom. Blah dee-dee blah blah blah.

Just more stuff to fail at. But when it's all over, I expect I'll do better than I thought I would, which is pretty much how things go with me. And that's OK.

Introducing the Sampler Plate

2011-11-27T11:23:00.000-08:00

I've been aching for something meaningful to post for two months now, but I got nuthin'. Life has been reduced to novel revisions and work that actually pays. I have no complaints, except to say that everything is progressing much slower than I'd like.

What I do have is a bunch of unfinished blog posts. So in the interests of getting something up, I'm introducing The Sampler Plate.

RANT: One of my pet peeves has to do with panhandlers. But it's not the panhandlers themselves -- it's the people who complain about them.

First off, nobody I know -- and I mean nobody -- has been approached for spare change more than me. It has a lot to do with the kinds of places I frequent and the wandering, lost puppy dog look that I do little to hide. I'm not going to fine tune this argument except to say that I don't want to live in a society where strangers are not able to ask each other for money, or cigarettes, or whatever, and unless you live in downtown New York, I could not care less that your humdrum trip to Safeway or Starbucks was demolished by some poor soul with his hand out. Please find a constructive use for your ire, stay home, or move someplace where the the fascists have already won.

MUSIC: Five hot "new" albums I'm listening to for working purposes:

Venom - Black Metal
This three piece keeps the riffs simple and the focus where it belongs: Death, Satan and Hell.

Os Mutantes - Os Mutantes
Brazilian psychedelia that will move your brain in funny ways.

Steve Earle - Guitar Town
Avoided this guy for years because he was country. What a dope I was.

Sparks - Kimono My House
Such a fun album. Pre-Angst in my Pants, the brothers Mael were far more progressive, experimental and interesting.

The Pretty Things - S.F. Sorrow
An early concept album based on a very depressing short story that, according to some, influenced Pete Townsend to write "Tommy." Probably the most unique thing I've ever heard.

CONFESSION: I choke on my spit, a lot. Just did it again.

SHOUT OUT: To my good buddy Sean Craven, who is getting some well-deserved attention for his writing, art, and spoken word performances. Surely the world is ill-prepared for the Oaf, but the Oaf approacheth nonetheless. Read Sean's story, "Deep Blue Dreams," appearing in the Future Lovecraft anthology available for preorder in printed form here or available now via Kindle here.

Revising by hand

2011-08-08T11:54:00.000-07:00

So I finally finished writing the sucker. It took over a month just to do the last chapter, but it's done. But revisions... aye yi yi.

I have no idea how revise my work. I mean, I've read about it, and I have experience revising and editing countless newspaper and magazine articles that I wrote. But when it comes to an entire novel, I don't know what'll work best for me. I spent a lot of time on each chapter in an effort to nail things on the first bite and avoid a lengthy revision process. And on the whole it received positive reviews in my writer's group, so I'm hesitant to make too many changes to it.

But I have to do something with it, this I know. And I know myself, too. If I see a snag in the yarn, I could start unwinding the whole damn sweater. And I want to avoid entire rewrites if at all possible.

So I came up with an strategy that I think will fit my particular working style, and I'm gonna see if it works. I got the whole dang thing together and shrunk the text, eliminated the double spaces, and left a wide column on the right side of every page. I printed it out, using one side of the paper only. Then I bought a three-ring hole punch (can't seem to locate the old one) and a cheap binder.

The idea is to do line edits by pen, and use the right side column to make any extra notations or replacement text, and the backside of each page, if needed. And I'll just carry around the binder until I'm done. It's a little crazy, but considering I wrote almost the entire first draft by hand before typing it up, I figure there's no sense jumping off the ink-and-paper train now.

My only fear is that the novel is rather short, at least compared to what I understand is the recommended length for first time novelists. After researching the lengths of some other famous novels, I found it's still longer than both Fahrenheit 451 and Slaughterhouse Five, so I don't feel too bad about it. What I care most about is how it fits together as a whole.

Then again, the primary goal behind writing the novel was to simply see if I could do it. In the process, I learned how. Ain't no different with revisions, I guess.

Bye bye Borders

2011-07-15T07:54:00.000-07:00

I'm sure some folks are happy that Borders is probably closing after "what they did" to local bookstores. But I think the departure of any bookstore is sad, and I liked Borders better than most because they had a larger inventory, were more comfortable to browse in, and had coffee and reading events for kids. And the truth is quite a few Borders, Barnes and Noble and Books-A-Million stores went into smaller markets there was little or no competition to begin with.

But it's now about economics, technology and market demand. And I'm partly to blame. I didn't think I'd be in this position, but I'm growing fond of ebooks, and there are millions like me and growing. I still love books and hanging out in bookstores--all kinds of them, but the bigger the better--but the fact is there is bound to be less of 'em. Obviously I'm a bit at odds over this. I'm fully aware that my grandkids could pick up a book one day and say, "What is this thing?" then proceed to give me funny looks when I say, "Well, uh, it's a book, you see, you take the page here and turn it..."

Wrapping things up

2011-07-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling with the last chapter of the novel. The main trouble is trying to maintain a consistent voice from beginning to end. I know I've strayed and might not nail it on the first shot. I think that's OK.

Concurrently I'm reading a book on writing fiction that is heavy on examples, including full short stories, and writing exercises. I've read it before for a creative writing class. I want to finish it before I start revising, then go through the entire thing and ask myself whether I'm providing the right details. It will be interesting see how my first instincts play out.

I'm of the belief that fiction -- and all art -- should communicate first. And yet, it's such a weird thing writing a novel. Internally you run up against all sorts of crazy stuff -- motivation, ambition, memory, etc. -- that is all a bit mysterious.

Do shyness and fiction mix?

2011-06-27T07:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday The Times had an great article on the benefits of being shy.

I've often thought that being shy is a huge disadvantage for the fiction writer. I say that knowing that writers in general are considered to be a shy sort. But particularly with regards to fiction, it seems that if you have limited experience getting to know people and finding out what makes them tick -- in real life, not through words -- you're going to have a harder time creating vivid characters with details and motivations that ring true.

(I myself have always been an introvert that was sort of lured out of his shell through journalism, alcohol, and a curiosity about other people -- particularly folks who don't fit a particular mold. I like to think I have both things going for me. But in day to day living, the results are not always pretty. I often feel conflicted in social situations and can go either way, often to my own surprise or disappointment.)

The above article (which actually has nothing to do with writing; this is my personal tangent) made me rethink my view, for reasons that seem to be totally obvious. The advantages of being an introvert -- heightened observation skills, imagination and painstaking consideration of possible outcomes -- are critical to fiction. But can they eclipse what the writer is not able to gather through direct interaction and experience? I'm still not sure.

I heart failing fast

2011-06-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

I've struggled quite a bit with the transition from writing non-fiction to fiction. But what made it easier is that, having spent 10 years in daily journalism, I have a invaluable and fairly transferable set of writing tools.

One of them is the strategy of "failing fast." You find this adage in business and it applies well to writing, too. It's not a new concept in literary fiction, in fact, but that's not where I learned it.

As a reporter on deadline, I didn't get writer's block. I couldn't. I simply had to come up with words and fast, and whether they were in the same key or not was something to worry about later. My individual strength, however, was being an extremely fast writer, even for a journalist. I could and often did write 15-inch breaking news stories in ten minutes or less. Not Pulitzer stuff, mind you. But the basic story was there.

This had several advantages. By writing a less-than-stellar rough draft, I was able to see very quickly what elements I was working with and what parts were missing. If I wrote my first draft fast enough, there was a good chance I had would have time to make that extra call to get the final detail or confirmation I needed.

The second advantage of this strategy was that it got me thinking about the story, whether I was initially in the mood to do so or not. Once I had something on the page, even if it was a bunch of poo, and especially if it was a bunch of poo, I couldn't turn away. It had to be fixed.

Which is tied to the third advantage: It is much easier to fix an existing draft than to start with a blank page. It's getting the hard work out of the way -- the content, i.e. the who what where when why how.

I'm not surprised to be running into this concept in fiction. Without even realizing it, this is how I approached the novel. Looking at each chapter as its own story, I found myself getting the words down first (usually by hand, which I often did as a reporter in the field), then refining it until I thought it was good enough for my writing group.

I realize some writers can lay down an entire first draft of a novel straight through, beginning to end, before tackling revisions. I don't ever see this being an option for me; with full time work and five kids, breaking things up was way more practical.

So too has been the failing fast strategy. For folks like me, there ain't no time to fail slow.

Practicing journalism or law?

2011-06-18T06:47:00.001-07:00

Today I got caught up to speed with the drama surrounding the Medill Innocence Project, the Northwestern University-based program that, over the past dozen years, used the work of journalism students to exonerate 10 or so death row inmates who were unjustly convicted of their crimes.

It seems David Protess, who headed the program, was essentially kicked out of the university because he allegedly altered the text of an email that hid the fact that his students were cooperating with defense attorneys in the cases they worked on.

Actually, Protess officially "resigned" -- although that may be a loose definition given the circumstances. In fact the New York Times this morning had a nice wrapup on the shady mess.

The title of this post has been a question others have been asking of J-schools regarding this case. I think it's an appropriate question.

I had already left the newspaper industry for the first time to work for a niche online publisher when Protess and the Innocence Project starting getting national attention -- and attaining a sort of celebrity status in the journalism industry. But I was still captivated by what they were doing. Like many others, I went into journalism with a sense of purpose and to do some good. But saving lives? That's pretty huge.

Although Protess' fate seems to have more to do with university politics than anything else, the Times article suggests that the success of the Innocence Project -- some tie the elimination of Illinois' death row to its work -- may have led to some overstepping of journalistic bounds, which essentially stripped the students from protection under Illinois' shield laws for journalists. And by handing over their notes to defense attorneys (as well as professional journalists), it actually does sound like the students were practicing law more than they were practicing journalism, particularly since they weren't even writing their own stories.

All of which isn't really so bad, given the results -- unless this mess actually impacts those results. Here's hoping that won't happen.

Oscars, stunt people and Yakima Canutt

2011-06-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

I'll start off with a confession: My first dream job was "lumberjack." I don't know why, but the thought of climbing giant trees with sharp objects sounded appealing... and very manly. Tuff, as my inner Ponyboy would say.

That lasted about a year. But my second dream job, "daredevil," lasted much longer. Between the ages of 7 and 12, I was so obsessed with Evil Knievel and movie stuntmen that I would do stuff like jump out of trees in homemade parachutes and swing around on flagpole ropes (and breaking my foot in the process).

Another favorite trick was getting into a cardboard box with a bunch of pillows and having my little sister push me down a full flight of hardwood stairs -- or off the porch railing, a full one-story drop. Ah, good times.

Anyway, when I read this morning that movie stuntmen are lobbying for their own Academy Award (to be handed out before the actual ceremony), I thought, well, of course they should get one. It's about time. In fact, its a bit of a shame that 100 years of movie stunts -- the vast majority performed without the benefits of modern photography or computer effects -- will go unnoticed.

Researching great movie stunts online, however, I was happy to see that one pioneer got an honorary Academy for his contribution to the field. And to think I had hardly heard of ol' Yakima, although I have seen him in action:

A casual observer might argue that the Oscar ceremony is already too long to keep adding awards to it. Who cares? I hardly ever watch it myself. To me, it's a simple case of giving credit where it's due.

'Gay Girl,' a modern day 'Jimmy's World'

2011-06-13T07:42:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, noting a rise in niche bloggers who had carved out a unique identity and legions of fans online, I toyed with the idea of creating a fictional blog that sounded real.

Actually I did less than toy with the idea -- I thought about it for about 10 seconds. Then I shoved it to the back of my mind under, "Stuff I'll never have time for." And there it stayed.

Today I read about the "Gay Girl in Damascus" hoax. The whole story is fascinating, yet one that I have little time for on Monday morning. But what was most interesting is how, before blogger Tom MacMcaster revealed himself -- and even after doubts had been case that his creation, Amina Abdullah (or "Abdallah"), wasn't real, respected news media organizations accepted Tom's blog as truth.

Reported CBS News on June 8:

"Author of the internationally acclaimed blog "A Gay Girl in Damascus", Amina Abdullah, has been abducted and possibly jailed by what family members believe to be security forces of the Syrian government or agents of the Baath Party militia.

Abdullah has received attention worldwide for her bravery and resolve in the face of death..."

That was the lede. In fairness, a hint that there was some trouble with the veracity of Amina's story was in the story, but not until the very end.

No such hint in this Time Magazine piece written before "Amina's" reported "abduction":

"Inspiring the Syrian protest movement is an honest and reflective voice of the revolution: a half-American citizen journalist who, in illustrating her country's plight, risks death herself..."

Nor in this Al Jazeera piece:

"A female blogger has been abducted by armed men in the Syrian capital, Damascus, relatives and activists say..."

No, just the blog said. Whatever happened to making a few calls to check out something you found online?

Again, not a lot of time for such stuff this morning. But this story either proves that certain highly regarded news outlets are lazier than I ever expected, or that good writing can fool anybody. Probably both are true.

PS, I'd link the quotes above but I have a feeling they'll be dead by noon. Here they are anyway:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504943_162-20070103-10391715.html

http://newsfeed.time.com/2011/05/10/a-gay-girl-in-damascus-lesbian-blogger-becomes-syrian-hero/#ixzz1PAO7Pk2c

http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/06/2011671229558865.html

Palin emails, media bias, and Monday morning quarterbacking

2011-06-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

So I woke up this morning to find this article from the Guardian, which prompted a major gut check on my part:

Release of Sarah Palin emails angers US conservatives/Rightwingers accuse media of vendetta against possible Republican nominee and ask why Obama was not targeted too

Reading it, I felt myself starting to turn a corner on the whole media-biased-against-Palin argument.

Before today, I didn't give this issue any thought. I thought journalists were simply digging hard into someone whose political ambition far exceeded her level of competence, and who had a little dirt up her sleeve. Now I'm not so sure.

First, I do think the effort to secure Palin's emails as governor was important, and here's why.

Compared to previous major party vice presidential candidates, most voters knew nothing about Sarah Palin when John McCain plucked her out of obscurity. Of course, many voters didn't know much about Barack Obama, either. (I'll admit that. I knew he was a Democratic Senator who gave a great speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention, but that's about it.) Yet Obama had far more political experience than Palin, who spent most of her political career serving a town of 6,000 people.

So no one knew Palin. Then stuff began surfacing about her that sounded illegal, unethical, or just plain wacky (i.e. Troopergate, using public funds for personal expenses, flip-flopping on the Bridge to Nowhere, shooting critters from the sky, banning books, using private emails for state business, etc.). So all things considered, the media had ample reason to dig in.

OK, but... What did they find? So far, not a whole lot. Nothing truly horrendous, at least, nor anything that Palin herself can't or won't effectively play down with folksy talk and half-truths. In fact the only major thing we've learned from all her emails is that she distrusts the media.

Of course she would, you say. But hers is not just the view of the average politician. More people every year feel the same.

In fact, most "mainstream" news sources in the U.S. – both newspapers and network and cable TV news – are facing trust issues. The number of Americans who have a favorable opinion of network TV news and major national papers have steadily eroded between 1985 and 2007, according to the Pew Research Center. Audience and readership numbers are falling, too.

The reasons may have been valid. But by going after Palin's emails and no one else's – and not just filing open records requests, but engaging attorneys, fighting for three years for the release of her emails, setting up special Twitter accounts to broadcast the findings, hiring additional reporters, and encouraging Americans to join in on the fun – well, that either means the news media has it in for Sarah Palin, or they just see her as a meal ticket. Either way, it seems biased.

And barring the discovery of something truly evil in her emails, the whole effort appears to be working in Palin’s favor by hardening her support base and making the news media look like Geraldo and The Mystery of Al Capone's Vaults.

The other thing bugging me is my personal belief that Sarah Palin would make a horrible president. So did I secretly want her emails to contain some major nasties? Yeah. And I'm still waiting to see what's in the 2,000 or emails currently being withheld for “executive privilege." I don't think that's a fight that should be given up, either.

But as things stand, I don't think the news media is going to come out of this looking very good. Everyone's getting plenty of eyeballs on this story, sure. But I think it would done greater good to do the same digging into every presidential and vice-presidential candidate -- Obama, McCain and Biden. Expensive? Absolutely. Impractical? Probably. But not impossible. And such a strategy would have both dismantled the appearance of bias and increased the chances of finding something newsworthy about the three other candidates.

So how is the news media handling the criticism that they're biased toward Palin? Here's Mike Oreskes, AP’s senior managing editor for national news:

“Palin is one of many officeholders whose public record and leadership the AP has sought to illuminate by obtaining emails, memos and other documents … She's maintained a sizable profile in the current political scene and may run for president. We are pressing to obtain the records of other presidential contenders in the months ahead.”

Sounds a bit hollow to me. Um, where are Biden's emails? Plus Palin isn't even an officeholder anymore.

(Man, I better watch it. I'm going to start sounding like one of them.)

Anyway I think Charles Mahtesian, Politico's national politics editor, was a bit more frank on the issue in The New York Times:

“I think there’s some truth in what the critics on the right say about a double standard for Sarah Palin ... Having said that, she is an incredibly compelling character. And anything she says or does will have a bearing on the 2012 presidential election cycle. So it’s a pretty easy call as a news story.”

And there you have it, I suppose. The eyeballs win.

Turn down the sun, I'm trying to write

2011-06-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

I've always thought there was a correlation between temperature and my writing production. I thought I can't be the only one. But when I went to look it up, the first thing I found was this, from WiseGeek:
"According to at least one study, office temperature does influence worker productivity. A study at Cornell University found that office workers in a warm environment are more productive than they are in colder spaces..."
No, no, no! You've got it all wrong! Warmer temperatures equals LESS productivity! Idiots!

I don't know about you, but I can't write or perform any strenuous mental activity when I'm too hot. So when the summer hits, everything from my regular job, my creative output, my energy level, dips. Worse, my sleeping time -- what little there is to begin with -- crashes.

How warm is too warm? In my case, it's anything higher than 72 degrees Fahrenheit. Pathetic, right? Yeah, I know.

The odd thing is, summer was always my favorite season, by far. At least it used to be, when I didn't have school or kids or a full-time job, and I was in shape and could go skating, surfing and hooping for 12 hours a day. But that was the hyper, more physical Lutz of the past; today the majority of my pursuits are related to thinking. And I dont know what it is, but I have trouble thinking, let alone writing, when I'm too warm. Which I don't point out as an excuse, but as a plea, to the ether, for empathy.

Oh, here's some: This article from AbsoluteWrite, while not 100 percent relevant to my predicament, offers some advice. In the meantime, you can find me with my head in the refrigerator, watching Pengu cartoons on my Droid.

Fear, failure and f*cking wastes of time

2011-06-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I picked up Janet Burroway's book, "Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft," which I understand is something of a staple in creative writing courses. I used to have another copy of it somewhere, or maybe I loaned it out and forgot about it, I don't know. I think I'm on my third copy. But it was worth buying again.

It's a dense book -- not physically, but thick with information and examples. You can tell a huge amount of effort and thought went into it. It's not easy reading. Anyway, I cracked it open again and ran into this bit from an extended quote about fear, from author Dorothy Allison:
"...The best fiction comes from the place where the terror hides, the edge of our worst stuff. I believe, absolutely, that if you do not break out in sweat of fear when you write, then you have not gone far enough..."
This made me think of something Scott Kempner of The Dictators said in "Please Kill Me, The Uncensored Oral History of Punk." Kempner was talking about The Stooges and being "psychically wounded" watching Iggy Pop perform:
"...Iggy put life and limb into every show. I saw him bloody every single show. Every single show involved actual fucking blood.

"From then on, rock & roll could never be anything less to me. Whatever I did -- whether I was writing, or playing -- there was blood on the pages, there was blood on the strings, because anything less than that was just bullshit, and a waste of fucking time."
As I was thinking about these things, I was reminded how -- a bit of knowledge I picked up from my straight gig -- most small businesses fail. I don't know what the exact stats are, but the vast majority do no better than break even. Yet among the over 100s of CEOs and small business owners I've talked to over the years, most seem to have a practical outlook toward failure that I think writers could learn from.

I suppose it depends what your idea of failure is, of course. But I'd much rather fail than create something that was "just bullshit." Because my worst fear is doing exactly that.

What the hell is an ebook?

2011-06-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

I have ebooks on the brain pretty bad. I hardly thought about them six months ago, but now I can't stop thinking about them. (I just did a search of my blog to see if I've even mentioned them before and came up empty. Talk about being out of it.)

Anyway, are they good or bad? I don't know -- but something pretty amazing is happening and it could either be the best or worst time to be writing a novel. I am, however, seriously considering publishing Denny as an ebook, and not the least of the reasons is financial.

For a long time I wanted to write a novel to say I could. (To me, it always said something about somebody who could write a novel, though I've never been able to pinpoint what that something was.) That was part of the reason anyway -- when I started writing, I wasn't even thinking about getting an agent or getting approval bestowed upon me from some publishing house in New York. I saw friends struggle with these sorts of challenges, and I was still busy writing, so I filed them away in the back of my mind as necessary yuckies to deal with later. Who writes a fiction novel for money, anyway? I knew before starting out that my changes of being published were slim.

But nearing the end of my journey (sans rewrites), I looked out and saw colossal shift has taken place. Amateurs are selling hundreds of thousands of ebooks; professionals are selling millions. (Hatchette Book Group just announced today that James Patterson has tripled his ebook sales in less than a year.) While I haven't figured it all out, apparently the revenue cut for the author is a lot better on Amazon than with most publishers. And when you've got five kids and you're running yourself ragged with multiple jobs to make the bills, the thought of actually getting paid for your art is -- well, it'd make my wife feel a lot better about me going off to my writing group every week, for starters.

Again, I'm just starting to figure it all out. Which is a little frustrating, because I feel as though I'm way behind the curve on this one. But then, I've been busy writing. And no matter what happens, I can't stop doing that.

From One Story comes ten

2011-05-31T11:38:00.000-07:00

Next to music, the short story has to be the most perfect art form ever to exist. So I'm naturally drawn to any top ten list, if for no other reason than to find an unearthed jewel -- or rediscover an old one.

Last week, One Story came out with a Top 10 Short Stories of All Time for Flavorwire, which I just had time to look at. The One Story blog has a "long list" of other stories considered, along with comments from readers. (Turns out I wasn't the only one to find the absence of anything by Hemingway a little strange. Even on the long list? Really?)

Most of my favorites weren't mentioned; "Sonny's Blues" and "The Things They Carried" stand out here. But it was nice to see Denis Johnson's "Emergency" on the Top 10. I just heard Tobias Wolff read it on a past New Yorker fiction podcast recently. Still odd, funny, and totally mesmerizing.

One of the things I'm very interested in is what makes a short story's value last through generations of future readers and writers. While it's helplessly subjective on one or more levels, One Story's list does nothing but boost my intrigue -- well, that and give me more stories to check out.

The new DWW - Read It or Beat It

2011-05-29T09:31:00.000-07:00

So I'm up to 50,000 words in the novel I'm writing. (I would call it my "first novel" but it could also be my last, so I'll wait until there's a second.) It's close enough to being done that I've decided to take a look at this blog, which in theory could become some kind of landing place for anybody curious enough to find me after reading something I wrote.

I was surprised to find Dead Wall Window is -- WOW -- five freakin' years old, which, I don't know why, just seems like forever to me. A ton of stuff has changed in my life during that time. Most importantly, I have two more children, Sonny and Declan. A laugh-riot, those two. I also got out journalism when the getting was still good, and through a few odd turns, managed to successfully transition to a new career making better money. I'm kinda proud of that. And I joined a writer's group, which is the key reason why I have a nearly completed novel and writing this here post today.

But the main thing I realized upon reviewing this blog -- or rather, could feel -- was the solemn frustration and aimlessness behind most of my posts.

Frankly, this blog never really had a point. It was entirely an impulse, a place where I could record odd memories and thoughts about stuff that caught my interest, and occassionally stretch my writing muscles. The expectations were extremely low. It was an outlet. I didn't think anybody would read it or even find it. I didn't even tell my closest friends. And as I kept reading, I could sort of see why.

Many of the posts represented some achy, vague grievance that I was trying to put my finger on. In retrospect I think these posts were extremely helpful to me on a personal level, and were well worth expressing. But to the outsider, they couldn't have been much fun to read (I'm speaking generally; I know some folks read things and liked 'em -- and I thank ye kindly) and I sort of knew it at the time I wrote them, due to the amount of apologizing I did for "whining." All of which seems silly now. One writes to be read. If I didn't want people to waste their time, I should have bought a diary.

And so anyway, I started asking myself: What impression does this blog leave folks who don't know me? And should I care? Up until now, Dead Wall Window read like what it is, and what I initially decribed it as -- "a writer's toilet." And a very self-obsessed toilet, at that. It struck me that this is no way for a writer trying to reach a broader audience to work. I should aspire to something more. Frankly, I better.

So I began thinking about changing the look and tone of this blog. I even mulled starting all over. But then I thought of the past five years and all the stuff that's happened ... and I realized that this blog might have its own story to tell. At the very least, something my kids could point at and say, "See, I told you Dad was a sicko."

So I'm sticking with DWW. And I'm committed to (and I'm going to say it out loud, so hopefully it sticks) posting more, putting myself out there more, sharing insights about writing and publishing (to the degree I'm comfortable doing so), and maybe -- god forbid -- serve as a source of information or guidepost for somebody. The frustrations will still be here, I'm sure. But it's time to kick it up a notch.

I want to fly like an eagle, to the sea

2011-05-25T03:28:00.000-07:00

This is a whiny post, so please forgive me or ignore it...

I guess it was bound to happen. Today I looked in the mirror and decided, I'm old. Not in grandpa old. But old in the sense that, well, I just don't look the same. To me.

Which is weird because I always felt I looked younger than I was. People told me this for years, in fact. I still get carded about once in a while. And those carnival folks who think they can guess your age within five years? They're never, ever close with me.

But I've come to the decision--ME--that I am not a young person anymore. You know, it's easy to kind of fool yourself into thinking you're not much different than you were in high school. You look at yourself in the mirror day after day, year after year, and you don't see the changes build up. It's self-delusional, perhaps, but effective -- thinking that you're not getting older really helps when you're trying to start something new.

Well now I'm looking in the mirror and I see someone totally different. A sea change, even if I'm the only purpose who notices. And it's tied into the fact that I've missed any chance to play professional sports, become a movie star or sell millions of records -- not that I ever had a chance at these things anyway, but now I KNOW I can't do them because I'm too damn old. I'm even kinda old to be starting a career as a novelist. OK, not really, I guess... But most of 'em seem to have started earlier than than I am.

About the only new careers I'd be young at is politics or bathroom attendant. Don't know what more to say about that.

Anyway I'm 43 years old and I have a full head of hair and three gray hairs -- not counting the ones in my beard, which purposefully hides my small chin and keeps me (I hoped) from looking younger than I really am. But now my head and face is fatter and my eyes are noticeably heavier. The crows feet have grown into crows legs. And there are new lines and dryness on my face where neither existed before. The whites of my eyes will never be totally white again.

Physically, I've felt older than my face for some time. Remember those days where you could just, you know, break into a full sprint at the drop of a hat? Totally fucking gone.

Which is probably the saddest part of this whole state of affairs, especially for a guy. Losing the ability to make a break for it.

Fool with books

2011-04-24T15:13:00.000-07:00

I don't read just one book at a time. I have several going on at once. Right now it's Plan B, In Our Time, and In the Name of the World. This is not including Portnoy's Complaint and The Art of War, which are on my Droid Kindle. I downloaded those several months ago now in a fit of ambition. But reading on a phone, well... I should have known.

I have a hard time finishing books once I start them, but I usually do, eventually. This might seem odd for a writer, but I'm not only a writer, I'm too many other things, and the truth is I don't have many opportunities to sit down for more than an hour and focus on one thing. My life and mental energy is scattered and shared between multiple jobs, responsibilities, and the logistics of parenting five children, including driving them to and from two different schools during the day, helping them with homework, taking them to do stuff, feeding them, etc.

Not a complaint, just reality. But it causes me to get several reads going and then to misplace them. One may be in the bathroom, the other by the side of my bed, the third in my backpack. Or they may all be in my backpack. Or one might be in my car, another down the side of the bed, and the third hidden under the toddler's Thomas the Tank Engine train table.

As a result I do not always have the book I want to read right in front of me. This is frustrating. But if I just have SOMETHING to read in front of me when I want to read, I'm OK. The important thing, I tell myself, is that I keep reading. It's true I'm probably cheating myself of the full value of digesting a single book in a week's time, which used to be normal for me. But it's better than nothing.

An ode to Concord

2011-03-23T16:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I started off taking a walk around the block and, feeling sort of ambitious, kept on walking -- past BART, under the Highway 4 overpass and toward Port Chicago, where I turned along one of the business park roads.

This is an odd area of Concord and primo scenic grist for the novel. There's a transit bus yard, a public golf course, a homeless shelter, biomedical buildings, sign makers, carpet cleaners, pest control companies, a reservoir, a refinery, and a cemetery. Just a wonderful part of the world, if you ask me, and I'm only being partly sarcastic.

Last week my buddy Sean came up with the concept of "Concord Noir." Concord certainly is unique. It has the mostly blue collar, service economy of the exurbs like Antioch, but it's uncomfortably close to places where people really want to live, like Walnut Creek, Pleasant Hill and to an extent, Lafayette.

I came here almost seven years ago, after my ex-wife left me and moved here from Fairfield, where I had been working as a newspaper reporter. I didn't know anything about Concord except how crazy it was. For one thing, nothing fits. All the main roads through town bend, creating a patchwork of neighborhood grids that never quite line up. You're always looking toward Mt. Diablo to get your bearings.

It's also a retail heaven, or hell. Besides Sun Valley Mall, I think it has or had just about every chain store you can think of, or at least the ones I could whittle away time in: Half Price Books, Guitar Center, Best Buy, Tower Records, Rasputins, 99 Ranch, CompUSA, Fry's, etc. There is also a Chuck E. Cheese and The Jungle for the kids, and tons of Mexican restaurants for me. Also giving Concord its everything-but-the-kitchen sink feel is a mothballed Naval weapons station, an airport, Costco, the Sleep Train Pavillion, THREE bowling alleys, a real drive-in movie theater that doubles as a flea market and frequent site of random gunfire, and a creek that winds through town to the bay with a growing number of tents along its banks.

Concord is, incidentally, the land of regrettable tattoos. It also has the kind of bars I like -- ones with "normal" folks but also with bikers, losers and women of questionable intent. The novel was a short story born from a daydream, but it was in these places, like Vinny's, The Office, and Scores, where I made it into something else, downing beers and scratching away in notebooks in an increasingly indecipherable manner.

It's true I have aspirations to live somewhere else. The reasons are purely economic. If I'm able to buy property again, I will choose a neighborhood that is more in demand, probably cleaner, and has better schools for my kids, where the property values didn't crash as bad as they did in Concord. I have no illusions about "keeping it real" and staying put, nor am I in love with my city. But from an creative standpoint, it's been pretty good to me.

Panama Red's

2011-03-01T10:38:00.000-08:00

Here's the problem with this blog, in a nutshell: I can't write a single decent post.

I look at other writers' blogs and see a professional level of critical thinking, opinion and insight. I look at mine and think, wow, what a waste.

I have tons of excuses for my shitty blog, not the least of which is the fact that I'm a breeder with a bunch of kids, I work full time, I like to get loaded, and I have the constant noise of kiddie shows, video games and leaking tempers droning on all day in my tiny, depressing little house. Every single one of obstacles is nobody's fault but mine.

The result is a shitty blog, reflective of a life drenched in chaos.

Here's what happens: I get a great idea -- something short and sweet, a witty opinion, or a video or book that crossed my paty. I get the inclination to post so the few kind readers who find their way to this site get to know I'm still alive and capable of original thought. But whatever I think of, I can't get it down just right. For example, I can't write about how the Ramones are the personification of rock and roll, because after I think about it for a while, I realize there are tons of other bands I haven't listened to. Who am I to judge?

Or if I stick with my original idea, I have to edit it. And edit it. And edit it. The post gets longer and unweildy. When I read it over, I grimace. I look at my clock; I could be working on the article I'm ghostwriting for some CEO, and making money. So what happens? I give up.

What I do manage to post barely merits a shrug, or I was too drunk to care when I hit "Publish." I ain't really proud of any of it. And I guess what bugs me about that is that well, hell, someday someone might read what I wrote in Swill or someplace else, go here, and think, "This guy's a joke."

That didn't bother me when I started this blog (and self-defeatedly labeled it a "toilet"), but I suppose I should sort of give a shit now or simply delete the whole damn thing. Why? Because I really don't want to ghost write articles for CEOs for a living. I want to be taken seriously as a writer. And a few things--just a few--have happened over the past two years to make me thing that it's slightly, miniscule-ishly possible.

Yet, just right now, I've gotten three IMs, two from co-workers and one from my boss. The cruelty of it all! So I give up, again. At least for today.

FYI, the best coffee shop in downtown Concord is Panama Red's. Good Americanos, lots of table space and electrical outlets, free Wi-fi, books, games... not even close.

Chester Himes

2011-01-17T06:21:00.000-08:00

Reading If He Hollers Let Him Go and wondering why they didn't add this to the books I read in high school.

I've probably said it before but I love Chester Himes' writing, especially in his Harlem detective novels (though I've only managed to read three). I can't stand scenes that are overdone; details ought to count. Himes usually nails it.

The broken concrete paving was strewn with broken glass bottles, rags and diverse objects thrown from the back windows: a rusty bed spring, a cotton mattress with a big hole burnt in the middle, several worn-out automobile tires, the half-dried carcass of a black cat with its left foot missing and its eyes eaten out by rats.
- The Real Cool Killers

Resolved

2011-01-03T00:53:00.000-08:00

I know they're corny, but I'm all for new year's resolutions. There's a ton of shit I want to change in my life, things that aren't happening for me the way I want them to. There's a lot of self-hatred, a lot of missed opportunities. Way too much frustration and anger, more than I ever show to friends. A lot of sadness and fear that I'm not going to live to be an old man. At least not the way I've been living.

There's been times over the past several months where I thought I needed to talk to someone. A "professional." But deep down, I know it's about making smarter decisions, mostly about everything. I'm just not making enough of them.

I spent the morning on New Year's Day seeing an old friend I hadn't seen in about 12 years, even though he lives right across the bay. (Thanks, Mark Zuckerberg.) It was good to see my friend hadn't changed all that much, really at all. He's the same caring, thoughtful, honest dude he always was. I think beyond all the crazy resolutions I'm going after in 2011, I need to hang on to the good, thoughtful, honest people in my life, and try to be one myself.

Sort of like a flu shot for depression

2010-12-28T09:45:00.000-08:00

It happens every Christmas without fail: After unwrapping presents, one of the kids figures out his or her load is smaller than everyone else's, and the tears start to flow. Even though you emptied your checking account and stayed up half the night wrapping presents, you do a quick comparison and realize the kid is right; there is an imbalance.

The ensuing depression is contagious. No matter the reason, if your kids are crying on Christmas, you feel like a failure.

This year, however, as it all began to unravel, I wasn't all that fazed. I didn't even reach for a drink. Before the big day, I had tried something different: I consumed a steady stream of Saint Vitus and Charles Bukowski. And while I'm not exactly sure why, that did the trick.

Can you believe this shit?

2010-12-20T15:58:00.000-08:00

It's really hard to write about my mom without making her sound like some crazy roommate from hell. For one thing, she's a great liar. Not because she's a believable liar, but because she refuses to throw in the towel.

After she kicked my dad out, my mom really took control of the house. My sister and I could always stay there. We just couldn't use the stove. Or the microwave. Or the toaster oven, the washer, the dryer, or the garage door. Basically anything with moving parts. Personally I think it was her way of kicking us out and keeping us from moving back in. This way, she could spend her days undisturbed and in her bedroom, surrounded by People magazines, throwing back Tostino's pizza rolls, and watching Montel with the ferocity of a heroin addict.

Anyway, because Mom had no idea how to fix stuff and was too stubborn to ask my dad to come over to help, most of the appliances we were forbidden to use eventually broke down. Yet she had a hard time facing this fact.

The kicker came when the sewage line broke and Mom's, ahem, collective fecal output began erupting into the backyard. Fortunately I was gone by then. But when I came back, saw it, and tried to inform her, she refused to acknowledge it.

"Look," I said, having dragged her down to the back porch. "It's spewing shit."

Below us, little burps came from a pond of smooth, greenish-chocolate mud. Sprinkled on its surface, like coconut flakes, were tiny bits of toilet paper. A cloud of bugs circled and landed, as if we were watching the world's tiniest, busiest airport.

"No it's not," Mom said. "I don't see anything."

She turned back toward the house, shaking her head and pointing at me.

"You're seeing things," she added, holding up the bottom of her bathrobe as she climbed the top stair. "I think you need to lay off the sauce."

From the corner of her mouth I caught the edge of a sly grin. Then Mom quickly shut the back door, as if I wouldn't be able to hear her laugh.

Gray skies

2010-09-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

I used to love hot weather. I sweat a lot, and when it was hot I could sort of resign myself to this, not worry about it, and then go play basketball for three hours. But now, in my 40s, the heat bugs the shit out of me.

I can't focus. Thoughts and plans reel off inside my head. It's like flipping through the pages of an art book and not being able to stop. The best remedy is cold beer, but with kids and work, drinking during the day is pretty much out of the question.

Hope came today with the overcast skies. I have no idea whether such weather is healthy or not, but it sure feels like it. Whatever it is, the condensation, cool air hitting my throat -- I feel as though my body is getting what it needs.

In my 20s, an overcast morning usually meant perfect surfing conditions: warm water, glassy waves, even if the waves were smallish. It meant hot coffee, reading the newspaper outside, and smoking Camels. It meant being at ease with myself, even if I was in debt and not getting laid. That stuff could be fixed. I had time.

Man, I wish that feeling would come back. It won't, but at least the gray has.

Ridin' the no-sleep train

2010-07-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

OK, not really. Everyone needs sleep. But I'm finding out that the more I deprive myself of adequate slumber, the more I get done -- even if it's executed in a fitful, manic sort of way.

I'm also finding that with very little sleep comes near-catastrophic visions of genius (at least that's what it feels like), coupled with the impulse to off myself if my beer, while it's precariously balanced on the arm of my infant son's high chair, happens to spill. Good thing I don't own a gun.

They say Edison survived on naps. That he slept in a chair while holding ball bearings, and when the bearings fell, it would wake him up. Then he'd be back inventing toaster ovens.

I've been trying that. But truth is, naps leave me zoned and insane. For example, my oldest son just now walked into the living room and, for lack of anything better to do, pee on, or destroy, decided to kick a ball across the floor and knock over my 22-ounce bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale.

I've already boxed his remains. The funeral's in two hours. After my nap.

You're tearing me apart, Tommy Wiseau!

2010-07-08T13:23:00.000-07:00

I highly, highly recommend the film "The Room" -- not in the manner in which it was conceived, but in the way it will make you pee your pants before going out to toss a football in a tuxedo while talking like a vaguely European, half-dead smack addict.

The following interview with director, producer, writer and star Tommy Wiseau provides just a glimpse of this movie's absolute glory. Personally, I don't know how the interviewer managed to keep a straight face:

Choice lines from the film:

"I like you. Very much. Lover. Boy."

"I got the results of the tests back. I definitely have breast cancer."

"I did not hit her. It's not true. It's bullshit! I did not hit her, I did NOT! Oh, hi Mark."

"I gotta go see Michelle in a little bit, to go make out with her."

"You betray me. You're not good. You're just chicken. Cheep cheep cheep cheep..."

"You don't understand anything, man. Leave your stupid comments in your pocket."

"Thank you honey, this is a beautiful party, you invited all my friends. Good thinking!"

And my personal favorite:

"I'm fed up with this worwald."

Another day, another exercise in futility

2010-07-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

Battling a fly. This is what it's come down to.

It was brazenly flying around my face in the bathroom, unable to find the two-inch hole ripped in the window screen. I tried to whip-kill it with an unnamed family member's swimsuit (shh, no one tell) and thought I had gotten it. But it resurrected himself during my shower. Flying on half power, but still alive.

Confronted by its will to live, I could no longer kill. So I tried to steer it toward the two-inch hole. I could not grab it because my hands were wet. It circled ever so close to freedom, but could not find it. Our frustration was in perfect sync -- the fly, slowly walking across the screen wondering how to get out, and me, cursing and wishing the fly understood English. It didn't seem to matter that flies only live for days, and that this one may have only had one day left to live, should it have escaped.

Finally, I gave up, only after I began to turn pruny in the shower and after my frustration had grown to wanting to kill it again. Only at that point did I realize the fly had to be someone I knew, just had to be. And it was just another one of her damn, dirty tricks.

Insomnia

2010-06-29T02:30:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep. It's too hot.

Couldn't stand the kids tonite. I played with them like a madman, throwing Sonny and Deck all over the living room, then got sick of it and sort of shoved them away. Felt pretty bad about it but I had very little sleep the night before and was totally fucked. Of course I had to hike four miles in 100 degree weather Sunday and nearly died of heat stroke. Still recovering from that.

It was so hot I couldn't cook, so I ordered Domino's. The driver was on drugs. I did the online ordering thing and saw that it took him over a half an hour after the pizza was done to get here. He called to say he was running late, I'll give him that. When he arrived, though, he smashed right into all our empty garbage cans. They went all over the street. Mary happened to be following him as she came up the hill and saw the whole thing. I'm sure he was out scoring. He had the same tone of voice and bullshit patter that Mary's brother has when he doesn't do what he says he's gonna.

The pizza was still warm though, so I tipped him anyway. I thought about complaining but figured you can't really rat out someone who delivers pizzas for a living. I mean how much lower can you sink? If I had that job, I'd probably be on drugs too. Plus his arms were covered with these really shitty tattoos. I felt bad. I did, however, give him a dollar less than I usually give the old Chinese guy from Round Table. That guy is funny and seems genuinely happy to have a job. Plus he actually acknowledges the presence of my kids. That's gold to me.

I should have tried to sleep but He Got Game was on. I'm a sucker for sports movies and I like Spike Lee and Ray Allen. Ray is one of my favorite players and Spike's movies are very drippy but he's got certain style and I dig how his characters are riddled with imperfections. Then I noticed it was almost 2 a.m. so I talked myself into driving down to 7-11 and getting a Mickey's tall boy, thinking it would help me sleep. So I came home and watched the end of Carrie--because it was on and you sort of have to. Now I'm energized, but only blandly so, in a I-can't-sleep-but-I-should-do-something sort of way. So I made a to-do list and now I'm writing and maybe I'll get back to Tropic of Cancer.

It's been so fucking hot out these past couple of days, it's ridiculous. It was over 100 yesterday and probably close to it today. I have a hard time working when it's that hot. I have to totally psyche myself up for it. Part of the problem is that I sweat like someone with much darker skin. Always have. Throughout school I played sports during lunchtime and came back to class completely soaked. Now it pours down my arms and down my nose and right onto the keyboard. The only way through is to strip down to my boxers, surround myself with fans, position the laptop "upstream," and focus on some deadline like my ass depends on it.

Music helps. Lately I've been going through an old school punk thing. Germs, Stooges, Saints, etc. Sort of coming to terms with the fact that I'm not a huge Minutemen fan. I listened to them back in the 80s and now I understand why I stopped. I dig who they were and what they were about and their originality and talent. If I was a friend of the band I'd probably go to every show. Everything I've read and seen about them makes them out to be really swell guys. But easily four out of five of their songs I could do without. That other one-fifth is some pretty awesome shit, though.

OK enough of this...

Poem

2010-06-26T11:19:00.000-07:00

In the drive thru line
Marysa shotgun, Joey in back
complaining again.
I don't want Taco Bell, he says
I'm thirsty.
Ahead of us a bumper sticker
some crap about Christ and hell
and how we have to choose
I pick Jesus, Marysa says
What about you?
She waits patiently for my answer
with perfect blue eyes
and face like fresh pancake batter
It's hard to imagine she'll ever face the Dark
or feel differently about such things
She says, well?
I say
I don't know about that stuff
(because I don't)
I say,
Sorry.
She smirks like I'm crazy
like it's so square peg=square hole. Hello?
Shaking her head as a voice behind us says
He chooses Sprite

Workplace hazards

2010-06-25T08:22:00.001-07:00

Back from Disneyland almost a week now. I've lost a little weight. Except for rare instances, I've quit drinking and eating fast food and all meat besides seafood. I started running again and I'm spending more time with the kids. I feel good. I wonder how long I can keep it up.

I'm not sure what's up with me, at least professionally. I'm still working, though not as much into certain aspects. I've decided I'm not into pitching or "sales," at least when it comes to selling anything but myself and my writing. I guess I knew that already, but I tried--for the sake of career and finances--to get into it. "Hey, you should talk to this person, he's an expert at blah blah blah. By the way, I can totally see you living in this house!"

I'm done trying. I'll still do it, but I won't attempt to enjoy it, if that makes any sense, and will endeavor to stop. I'm happiest helping people get what they need or want, or finding out what that is and helping them get it. But I don't want to tell them what it is they want, or assume it. I want to root out the fake. I'm embarrassed I haven't and that I've actually embraced some of the shit.

I'm trying hard to believe I have enough talent to get by on my own terms. It's hard when you have six people depending on you, though. Compromising almost seems inevitable. I just don't want to get swallowed by the beast.

Hostage

2010-06-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting at the lobby of the Paradise Pier in Disneyland, watching Disney "XD" on a large flat screen TV. Mary and everyone is in the park with our friend who we flew down to help out with the kids. I drove halfway, taking over in San Luis Obispo last night. It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be, but there were a couple episodes.

Joey gets amped up whenever he's off his routine and does his best to annoy the shit out of the girls. When we found out we were an hour away from Disneyland, Tanner decided to count down the rest of the way in seconds. She got up to the hundreds when Joey knocked her off her game, and she flips out. I asked Tan if she'd like me to hold Joey down so she could kick him in the nuts. I was tired and not really thinking about my choice of words, but it cheered her up. I asked Joey what he thought of that idea. It was the funniest "no" I ever heard.

We spent last night in Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara. I thought Santa Barbara was a bit stuck up, ritzy kind of place. Goleta is worse. Everything was way too clean, everyone moves like they're on lithium, and the shops and streets take up way too much space. Cities that are too clean get on my nerves. People looked at us and our road-cranky kids like we were white trash and kept a healthy distance. Strange.
I looked at the local Homes & Land while at Dennys. Who can afford to live here? What do people do for money? No clue.

So I'm waiting for my room to be ready and trying really hard not to order a beer, because I know it will knock me right out. After working eight hours before leaving home, I put another four hours in after reaching Goleta, going to bed at 3:30 am. I hardly had the strength but I promised a friend I'd look over her resume and send it to the CEO group I work with. Hope I get a couple stars on my behavior chart for that one. But right now I'd rather have a beer.

Bad thoughts and premonitions

2009-11-27T10:25:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking lately of all the times I could have died a violent death.

Falling on my head in the street. Riding on the hood of a car. Learning to surf in a storm and getting carried out to sea. Falling asleep at the wheel. Crashing while riding my scooter drunk. Riding double on a bike into oncoming traffic. Taking turns too fast on single lane farm roads and spinning out. Loading up in a car young people, of all of us drunk. Shooting weapons and throwing knives close to friends. Scaling buildings and trees while drunk. Getting hit by a garbage truck.

Altogether, it doesn't seem like an unusual amount of risk for a human male. Many boys grow up surrounded by war and violent crime. I personally know poeple who have lived more dangerously. But for each risky thing that happened to me, I've heard stories about someone who did something similar and bit the big one. There are people I grew up with who died violently, too, people who probably took no greater number of chances in life than I.

Of course, I truly hope to die in my sleep at a ripe old age, surrounded by loved ones. And of course, now that I have children, I like to think I make better choices. Yet my nightmares are chock full of head-on collisions, plane crashes and 10-story falls that seem way overdue.

Sappy post alert

2009-11-22T22:49:00.000-08:00

I love that I get to spend the rest of my life attached to this guy. He teaches me so much -- frankly, more than my biological children. Thanks, Joe.

Going soft

2009-09-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

As I get older I find myself more frequently in need of The Big Shakeup -- a major or sometimes minor change of lifestyle that lights the match under my ass. But this technique seems to lose its effectiveness over the years... either that, or I'm just getting less and less eager for change.

I've always had a list of stuff I want to do. Lately, that list is being ignored for simpler pleasures: Watching the kids play soccer. Failblog videos on YouTube. Fantasy football. Lovemaking. Beer.

On one hand, these are truly enjoyable activities, and I feel -- for the first time in a while, actually -- that I deserve them. I have not had a real vacation in over a year, so it's probably natural that my body and mind are retracting a little.

On the other, I feel quite strongly that I'm losing my edge. This scares me.

I have a new job and the work is not adding up like I thought it would. But instead of taking the extra time to find extra income, or at least plug away at the novel, I'm gravitating toward my base instincts.

And the guilt builds...

Shifting gears

2009-08-02T19:54:00.000-07:00

So it's been a productive week. I've outlined the rest of the story through to the "big finale" and some ideas for ending scenes, then I went back to where I left off and just started crankin'.

The old plan was to write something to move the story forward and to get feedback from Homework Club. The new plan is to keep doing that, but to stay three chapters ahead in terms of outine.

Changing tactics a bit, too...

Neary every word so far has been written in ink, then transcribed into Word. Still think that's ideal, if a bit of a time-waster. I type too fast, and by writing it out, I'm forced to think about each word a little bit longer. (Plus I get really, really excited writing with a pen, I don't know why.) Transcribing it is a bit wasteful although opportune for initial edits, after which I go through the section again and again until I feel it's ready or I just give up.

Now that I've got the fire, I'm anxious now to, er, expel the entire load of crap out of my system. So I'm writing directly into Word from an outline. Cause basically, I go through the shit again and again anyway.

Right now, though, I'm polishing up another recycling mailer so I can watch The Day the Earth Stood Still for the first time (yes, the original) and still get enough sleep.

I have seen the light!

2009-07-24T23:04:00.000-07:00

Maybe all it took was starving myself.

I'd been in a funk for a while. Kind of a long slow descent. Not even a descent, really. Just ... BLAH.

I've been pushing myself in all sorts of ways, but the progress was slow and unsatisfying. Worse, I'd become something of an emotional liability to the family. Even in my best moods, I let a lot of the frustration seep through.

So, I basically starved myself. Why? To shake things up, I suppose. I don't know, felt like the thing to do.

Now all the crap's out of my system. I'm eating healthier, drinking less, and learning to let go of stuff. Toying with the idea of giving up one or more of my many jobs (when you're the main breadwinner in a house of seven, a damn terrifying thought) and pouring my energies into writing. Seriously, how much time do I really have?

As soon as I thought about that, I mean really considered where my focus might belong, it hit me. POW.

I saw the end of my story.

It's a long way off, and it'll be hell. But I know where things are going. At least I think I do. Anyway, it feels good. Like I can do it.

ah jesus effin christ...

2009-07-04T23:32:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I really don't.

I feel I'm on a crossroads at so many points... and I don't even know where to begin.

How about the fight I almost got into, walking out of the sushi bar, when some tool commented on my wife's tits? Thankfully I was so drunk, all I could think to do was drop a bunch of f-bombs at his stunned ass... yet right in the middle of downtown Concord. Way to go, family guy.

...and since then, it's been one weird freakout after another. At Joey, for his lack of discrepancy (I mean, geez, the kids' f-in seven years old), and at Marysa, for ordering dish after dish that she can't finish and yet slathers with ketchup so no one else can eat it, either... but so what?

And numerous verbal assaults at Mary, for one thing after another. Seriously, I need a gajillion Hail Marys for this crap...

The origins of horror

2009-06-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my two-year-old son, Sonny (man that sounds weird but I love his name) brought home two balloons from Round Table Pizza. It's one of the few places we'll take him. He's the sweetest boy you'll ever meet, but he can't sit still for shit, and at a place like Round Table, it just don't matter.

First he grabs these other balloons, picks a sweet-looking female toddler across the room, and proceeds to give them to her. And this is how big of a sap I am -- I start to cry. Yes, kind gestures from my children turn my eyes into faucets, I don't know why.

Anyway, he takes a couple balloons home for himself. And immediately upon exiting the car in our driveway, he lets them go.

Oops.

I need to tell you that, as a child, a similar event was one of my earliest memories. I was at some zoo with a red balloon, and I let it go -- with absolutely no idea what would happen. My father jumped for it and came up empty.

Now I'm watching Sonny's face, and I'm sure it mirrors what mine looked like almost 40 years ago.

The first look is amazement. Wow, there they go!

The second look is open-mouthed shock. Um, wait, how am I going to get them back?

The third look is, of course, pure unfiltered horror. I can't get them back.

"I want it, I want it," he cries, as the balloons become mere red and blue dots in the horizon, then reach the limits of our vision and disappear forever.

The true horror, of course, is that Dad can only do so much. Dad can't get them back. He looks at me and starts to melt.

All I can do is hug him and say, "I know."

Magical Scorsese

2009-05-30T01:54:00.000-07:00

I know heaping praise on the movie Taxi Driver isn't very original of me, but I'm amazed how it just gets better and better every time I see it.

I own a tape of it with an abridged "Making of Taxi Driver" featurette at the end, which I saw for the first tim tonight. I don't usually watch the "making of" stuff. I like not knowing and simply being left entertained. But tonight curiosity got the best of me, and I'm shocked how much planning and tweaking went into the making of this movie.

This is dumb, I know. I live under the illusion that artistic masterpieces -- and Taxi Driver comes about as close to this term as I know in cinema -- are borne out of happy accidents. Maybe I envision this as being the more romantic view ... that art cannot be fully controlled or contained, but merely captured, when inspiration and energy collide in a certain way.

Anyway, there's a part in the "Making of" where director Martin Scorsese talks about feeling the emotions of the characters in the movie after reading the script...

"If I could verbalize it, I wouldn't have had to make the picture ... I felt all those feelings in that story, at that time.... and so this was something I thought that was special to express."

...which reminds me that that's what I always thought made a great film, book, work of art, song, etc. truly great. Expressing the unexpressable. It's like making the impossible happen. It's like magic.

A couple other fun things...

Roger Ebert's original review of the film.

The Making of Taxi Driver, via YouTube.

Drinking

2009-05-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

We're talking about alcohol in "homework club" last week and I'm wondering what it is about my own drinking that I enjoy, fear, crave, and sometimes fear because of the craving.

I do think humans, by and large, are somehow drawn to intoxicants (and all sorts of other things), but in my case, I don't think it's as simple. And when I look around I'm amazed how pervasive it is in my life.

Ten years ago it would not have bothered me if I had no beer in my fridge. Now it does. It is the same fridge, in fact, that I had growing up -- filled with the same sort of cheap beer that I fetched for Dad. Or the guy that was physically there when Dad was drunk.

Adding to these thoughts was my slip into memoir territory a few days ago, when I picked up Augusten Burroughs' Dry, which is about, of course, alcoholism.

I'm a cynical about memoirs, and Burroughs seems to have made a career out of them. Two-thirds the way through, my cynicism remains intact. But this book has planted in me this notion -- that there's a slight possibility that I have another person inside of me, a person with desires different than my own, maybe even contradictory desires. And that this person could be working against me. That maybe I need to watch it.

Warm fuzzies time

2009-05-09T16:40:00.000-07:00

To me, good writing is about the communication that happens between writer and audience, but it's basically a one-way street -- until the reader is right there in front of your face, telling you what works and what doesn't. Or, like Evil Kneivel, taking a baseball bat to your arm.

Anyway, I don't know why I waited 41 years to join a writer's group. I've been traveling down a one-way street for a long, long time... unless perhaps it was fate guiding me, because the writing group I'm in is pretty effing amazing.

Of course I have nothing to compare it to. But I can't imagine a more talented, funny, and self-motivated group of individuals. Every week I learn something new, and leave joyful and inspired. And thankful.

Random thoughts and oughts

2009-04-18T22:22:00.000-07:00

I'm a man of conflicting goals and desires.

One is to create art. The other, to earn money for a wife and five kids.

One is to wander freely, explore, and expand my knowledge of the world. The other is to calm a child's panic attacks, change a diaper, and show up to work on time after five hours' sleep.

I've been running full steam for more than two years since I left the newspaper business. I don't know how it's going to play out.

I do know a few things. I have comrades. I have people in my life who care about the person I am, even if they don't understand the madness of my world.

And I have drive. If nothing else, I have that.

No one has ever had to kick my ass out of bed in the morning. I've always enough crazy in me to do it myself.

This is what I'm talking about

2009-04-04T10:37:00.001-07:00

They are riding scooters in the driveway, Joey and Tan.

Joey: "Taste my fire, alien!"

Tanner (singing): "Never I did, but my face, to be I must, you mean my fellow..."

"Ha ha! I popped a wheelie!"

"I can't describe what I am, and to be, and to they, and you be us, when... I be, I can follow my trust..."

"Tanner, what are you doing?"

"To be, I must!"

"I got to go pee."

"I can't be you anymore. But for now, I can trust, some hoooowwwwww! ....Dad, Joey is touching a dead mosquito."

"No, it's alive."

"What?!"

"Oh Tanner, I just did a three-sixty turnaround!"

"Think of it, you can have friends, and more! I stick with you bro, and you're my favorite bro..."

My firstborn

2009-03-28T23:38:00.000-07:00

Just some not-so-random thoughts about my first born and all the stuff that makes her Awesome yet Drives Me Crazy...

Awesome:

What an imagination. Now this could easily fall into the Drives Me Crazy realm, but not for me. I adore a healthy imagination, even if it does drive me crazy.

Is a live-for-today sort of kid. Can bounce back from defeat pretty darn quickly.

Whipsmart funny... and how.

Has a lot more self-confidence at school, particularly among her peers, than I ever did.

Seems to be grasping "the big picture" about her mom and I.

Tells me exactly what's up.

Talks to me. Yeah, she's only eight, and these aren't the deepest conversations and they may not last. But we talk. Let me enjoy it for now.

Drives Me Crazy:

The meltdowns. Not as bad as her other genetic influence, but a near-daily obstacle.

...

Oh shit. I thought this would sort of balance out, but it totally doesn't. My kid's awesome. Shame on me!

...

2009-03-14T14:22:00.000-07:00

The other night I got mad at a good friend. I finished my drink, grabbed my shit and walked away.

The seconds between getting up and reaching the door of the bar were like a dream. I couldn't believe I was doing this.

Once outside, I had no idea what to do. It was cold and I was too drunk to drive. I leaned my head back on the car and threw it out to the universe. What to do, what to do...

Apologize. Promise not to bring it up again and ask him to do the same. Hug him. Try to forget, and try to remember.

When you really, really needed him, he was there.

Bukowski Tapes

2009-03-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

Getting back into Bukowski and stumbled upon a string of YouTube posts of his poetry and interviews here.

Incredible how much output this guy had considering he wasn't very active in his early years and seems to have spent most of his waking life drunk or drinking, even during interviews and performances. A crafted, schtick-ish element to that persona, perhaps. Still impressive.

Best podcast ever

2009-03-04T22:22:00.000-08:00

Someday, I tell myself, I'm going to write a novel about my band days. We're only talking about a total of two years (not counting last year's reunion), but they were two of the funnest years of my life.

As a family man, I don't make it out to many shows anymore, but there is something that keeps the music alive in me. And it's totally, amazingly, free.

All I know about KPunk is that it's a podcast run by some guy named Kevin who has incredible taste in music -- good, good punk music. Every three weeks like clockwork, dude hauls out a brilliant, 45-minute old-school style mixtape filled with new and classic tunes that makes my heart wilt with love.

Just one of these things is so loaded with meaty, balls-out tunes, that before you know it, three weeks have passed and another one comes out -- before you've even thought of getting sick of it of the last one. I mean it's just incredible. The fact that KPunk favors certain bands -- like the Copyrights, the Errgs! and Teenage Bottlerocket -- doesn't bother me in the least, cuz they're pretty friggin' awesome. (Just ask my two-year-old, Sonny, who simply adores both the song and the vid for In The Basement.)

Of course I know not everyone is a fan of punk and the fact I'm burying my declaration of love in superlatives probably does more harm than good. All I know is, if I ever do write that band novel, I'll do it listening to KPunk. Thank you, Kevin.

Once a upon a Lester

2009-03-02T21:53:00.000-08:00

If you lived in San Mateo around 1980 and happened to spy a squeaky-voiced white kid running around town with his hand up the ass of a black Lester doll and making it talk like Fred Sanford meets Bugs Bunny, I have just one thing to say.

Thank you for not killing me.

Don't get it

2009-02-27T20:50:00.000-08:00

It's been a week of horrible news for the newspaper industry, and I can't stop thinking -- who dropped the ball?

I miss journalism, but I don't miss the head-in-the-sand approach to the newspaper business. It isn't like nobody saw it coming.

I simply don't get why newspapers are dying, especially in the Bay Area. We have more entrepreneurial talent, more writers, more READERS than practically anywhere in the country.

If journalism is to survive the passing of newspapers, it ought to survive it here. And it's not.

The idea of newspapers going out of business doesn't really concern me. What concerns me is the death of news. The fact is, newspapers are the first source of many, many news events that get picked up by other media like radio, TV, film, and Google. And in this respect, the death of any newspaper, no matter how bad, is concerning.

Because there's nothing taking it's place. OK, we have blogs, social networks. But there's one less organization going after the who, what, where, when, why and how, like only a newspaper can.

One opinionated blogger doesn't have the manpower, objectivity or legal assistance. One TV news report doesn't have the time.

I thought I was done with journalism. Yet I'd be lying if I wasn't secretly thinking about a way to somehow make it work.

Judy's got it

2009-02-24T20:26:00.000-08:00

My oldest kids -- Joey, Tanner, and my stepdaughter Marysa -- now all read above their grade level. Like, waaay above their grade level. In fact, Tanner's teacher won't give her more difficult books, because they're too "adult." Whatever. So Tanner reads my motivational books, titles like "The Magic of Thinking Big." Pure cheese, I admit, but totally sex- and violence-free.

It's my own fault. I started to read when I was three, and I held off teaching Tanner... but only until she was four. Marysa was close behind. And both of them taught Joey, who's now in the zillion-page reader club at school, or some such uber-literary nonsense.

Yes, I'm very proud.

So I'm in Bay Books, looking for chapter books -- because it's now all about chapter books with these kids -- and I come across a copy of "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing." Suddenly I'm towel-whipped by nostalgia, along with the notion that Judy Blume is, without a doubt, one of the greatest Americans who ever lived.

I have to admit my initial exposure to Judy Blume sent me into prepubescent male giggle-fits. Looking back, though, "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret" was probably my first exposure to feminism and the idea that girls actually didn't have the world on a string. Seems hokey to say that, but feels true.

"Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" was more up my alley. I didn't have a crazy two-year-old brother named Fudge, but I did have a younger sister who stole all the attention and drove me nuts with Oscar-worthy crying performances and the repeated theft of my Cleveland Browns football helmet.

I'm super-stoked that Tanner and Joey are enjoying this book on their own and finding it particularly relevant, since they actually have a two-year-old brother/monster on their hands who's not so unlike Fudge. I'm also stoked there's still much more Judy Blume where that came from.

Updike

2009-02-21T10:26:00.000-08:00

Gonna try to be brief about this but this guy's death needs mentioning.

Count me among those who drank in Updike's portrayals of the sex-centered male existence and, not unlike AC/DC's music, made me feel OK thinking and feeling some of the things I think and feel.
My first encounter with Updike was as a teen reading A&P, which I found confusing and intriguing much in the same way I encountered most adult fiction at the time. What did I miss, I wondered at the time, reading it again and again.

Later on I latched onto the first three Rabbit books, discovering devices for Scene that didn't bore me to tears, as well as a male character who I might not have been friends with but whose soul I could identify. I felt Updike was writing about the inner crud that swirls inside many white men -- particularly those with flimsy cultural backbones and family structures, not unlike myself -- yet who are compelled to "buck up" and march (and sometimes stomp) ahead with our lives, knowing that not all feelings can be spared ... including our own.

Can't say I'm a major student of his work -- not much of a student of any author, in fact. There's just too many good ones to latch on too strongly to any in particular. But I've read enough to know we lost another master.

Kludge

2009-02-19T08:20:00.000-08:00

Amazed that I haven't come across this word before, given how much of my life I've devoted to kludging.

From Wikipedia:

A kludge (or kluge) is a workaround, an ad hoc engineering solution, a clumsy or inelegant solution to a problem, typically using parts that are cobbled together.

Kludges are particularly widespread in computer programs, where processing speed is such that they may not make a big difference in performance.

I admit it, I kludge a lot.

I do it as a proposal writer, slapping boilerplate text together in a fashion that answers RFPs and RFQs as quickly as possible.

I've done it as a songwriter, by randoming choosing particular keys and chord constructs, and resurrecting some old, angry high school poetry or mushing a friend's lyrics to fit. Examples include "My Mom's A Bitch," and our ever-popular family ditty, "Pretty Kitty."

I do it as a dad, with magical five-minute meals that look very, um, interesting yet still touch on all the major food groups. If the kids eat at least half and a little bit of everything on their plate, I figure I kludged it pretty good.

Probably the only time I don't kludge when attempting fiction -- but even then, I seem to be digging into wells inside my head for some memory, artifact, or sensation, and then figuring out how to make things work. In fact, my novel, if it's ever complete, will be something of an homage to kludging, since it's coming out in bits and pieces that I have yet to completely assemble. Kind of like creating a human body by starting with the heart, a couple of fingers, an eyelash, some teeth, and a nut.

I'm fairly certain I've heard the word "kludge" before, but can't be totally sure. It's the sort of word in which one instantly discerns its meaning -- which makes it difficult to remember when one first heard it.

Yesterday, when two different co-workers used it, it made me stop and think.

Kludge. K-l-u-d-g-e.

Mmmmmm.

So unchild-free

2009-02-17T21:56:00.000-08:00

I'm a 40s male, married, lots of kids. Young kids. I love kids. Even adopted one.

I also, despite better judgement, read Craigslist's rants and raves section ocassionally and see posts about people boasting about "child-free." And looking about the Web, I see entire blogs devoted to preaching non-procreation.

And I can kind of see their collective point -- you don't want to have children for selfish reasons, but by and large, that's exactly why most of us have them. I wonder, though. Is that so bad?

I understand children aren't for everyone. I understand many people have children who shouldn't. I understand many people who might make great parents won't ever have children, for whatever reason. And believe me, I understand the personal benefits of NOT having kids, cause I didn't have kids until I was in my 30s... and before that, man, I had a blast.

But what's the point in making fun of people with kids? Or even worse, demonizing them?

Raising kids is tough, I won't lie. Sometimes it's a real pain in the ass. I'm thankful I have a partner who understands how tough it is, and doesn't give me a hard time about busting out of the house on ocassion. I'm also thankful to have some pretty amazing kids who, for the most part, wake up practically giddy to be alive, which makes me feel pretty giddy to be alive, too.

I do believe this: You can't be a good parent and be a glass-half-empty type -- or be convinced the world is going to hell, or believe that most parents are selfish idiots, or be the least bit suicidal, or too much of a hypocrite (though a certain amount of self-delusion is OK). Point being, you're either an optimist to begin with, or learn quickly to be one, or you're pretty much frakked.

I believe one life CAN be a gift, OR it can be quite less than that. I think there's something instinctive and genetic about keeping the species going, and yet at the same time, absolutely unnecessary.

My personal opinion, however, is that it's kind of neat to keep the party rollin'. If you're up to it, of course. Selfish as that may be.

The Wrestler

2009-02-16T06:58:00.000-08:00

It's very good, although I tainted my perception beforehand by listening to a NPR interview with the director, who said he didn't believe Mickey Rourke gave 100 percent. I found myself too focused on this idea, and it didn't help that the ending is sorta hokey.

What was surprising about this movie was how depressing it was. Pro wrestling is a world I know little about -- I wasn't one of those teens who salivated over Wrestlemania of the 80s and its dumbed-up theater for the masses. The Wrestler does show a reality many fans don't see: the washed-up, shot up, broken-wheeled "pieces of meat" its characters can become. Kind of gives you a new respect for guys like Dwayne Johnson, Mick Foley, and to some extent, Hulk Hogan, for at least trying to break out of the box.

I don't think it deserves all the superlatives being heaped on it. But I'll say it again: It's very good. The scenes where Rourke's character, Robin Ramzinsky, "relapses" into wrestling's enticements -- and its consequences -- hits hard.

Old age and bitterness, a weird post

2009-02-14T06:57:00.000-08:00

I certainly don't know much about the former, but I know plenty about the latter.

"Is it just me" or are people more bitter these days? It's like, closing in. I can feel it rustle inside me, too.

Is it the economy? Or are these times triggering deeper wounds? I look at myself sometimes and I can't tell.

Thoughts for the day

2008-12-31T07:44:00.000-08:00

Seriously, my life is not this screwed up or depressing as what follows, actually it's quite joyful most of the time and I get many things done... although I struggle sometimes with why I'm here and what I'm doing and whether I'm using all my limited minutes wisely enough...

It’s like a crazy dream or nightmare – every day I’m hit with a thousand different ideas from money making schemes to story plots to new websites I must visit to ways to finance that someday trip to Europe to teaching moments with kids to new bands and new books... I can’t take it sometimes, the constant beating of my brain into a bank-account checking, survivor-focused gummy type solution, all tin residue in my mouth from the gunpowder of millions of misfired brain cells, al the contriving of fantastic plans at work only to see them flush into the mental ether when the office parks, green hills and million dollar homes suck past on the drive home to be suddenly awash in children, beautiful children yet so needy, the kid-naps into their worlds and tears and frustrations and giggles and “look, dads” and vocabulary assignments and ridiculous math sentences crafted to entice but fated to create a 7-year-old terrorist armed with a late night meltdown... It’s like the same crappy practical joke and I go to bed too tired to even be properly depressed about it, with some vague notion that what I didn’t tackle today I’ll get to tomorrow, leading up to my final act of setting some ungodly early alarm on my cell and praying – why? — it will actually wake me up…

Click click

2008-12-27T07:28:00.000-08:00

This is crazy. I need another hobby like I need another hernia. Like I don't have enough to do.

A couple weeks ago, I went onto Flickr to find Creative Commons works for a brochure (to use with attribution to the artist). I had never spent much time on the site, and I was blown away--not so much by the quality of photographs, but by the size and depth of the shooting community, the camera comparisons, the ability to see which camera and which settings were used for so many shots, the comments, the ability to control rights, blah blah blah and etcetera.

I was hooked. I wrote down the names of cameras I was interested in, that I might be able to afford. I didn't actually think I'd buy one... I had way too much Christmas shopping to do.

Then I went to Circuit City's going away party in Concord, looked inside a lonely glass case, and saw the Nikon I had researched only a few days before--for neary $300 less than its normal retail.

Mind you I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this thing, or with Photoshop for that matter. It doesn't matter. I'm printing out free guides from friends and the Internet. And already I have nicer photos of my family than I ever had before. If I could just squeeze some non-working time out of the daylight... if if if...

"Already dumb"

2008-12-08T06:35:00.000-08:00

I read something like Already Dead and wonder about the limits of my own imagination. Denis Johnson besides being deliciously poetic captures the interiors of multiple charaters without ever being duplicitive or cliche.

On the one hand it's inspirational. On the other, I look at my own writing and the complete life and death struggle that goes on just creating Scene, and I want to cry.

At least I'm enjoying a great read.

Knife Rider

2008-11-30T12:58:00.001-08:00

I'd promised, but I really didn't want to go ice skating. It's a rotten business. I last went years ago and nearly died. I'm tall with weak ankles and have trouble keeping my feet on top of what are essentially knives turned sideways. Plus the slip-sliding part and the ice being hard part ... it all sort of makes my tailbone want to hide inside my colon.

But when they opened up the yearly ice rink as they do each holiday season, I was stuck. If you break a promise to a kid you lose respect, and when you lose respect you lose everything. That's my thinking. So if not losing everything meant I had to ride on knives, so be it.

The kids and I started out by clutching the wall, then letting go and slowly getting better, each in our own way. Joey became Brian Boitano on crack. Tanner employed what she called "the bicycle method," and stopped hollering for me every fiften seconds to save her. I scritched, jiggled and flailed, but my tailbone did not go down.

I began to sweat. I took off my jacket and let November raise the hairs on my skin. I hummed along to Christmas tunes. I guess I bounced a little.

Rounding a curve, an arm reached over the wall and grabbed at me. Momentary panic -- I couldn't fall, not now! -- turned and saw a co-worker from one of my 37 different jobs. I once helped her out with some online flyers. "Hey!" We smiled and hugged. I felt a warm kiss on my cheek.

We chatted a little. Then I pardoned myself and went on skating. Because I hate ice skating, you see. Can't stand it.

...

2008-11-26T08:17:00.000-08:00

Toss out this model and find me a substitute
It doesn't work for me
Its functions are limited, like my body
its scale is uneven, unbalanced
like my temperament
it's portrayal of reality is inaccurate and ugly
like my thoughts.
It's a poor enunciation of my hopes and dreams.
In fact
just forget the whole thing
and get me
a cupcake

Regret

2008-11-25T07:55:00.000-08:00

When I’m close to operating at maximum bandwidth, my mind contracts, and I go straight for the TV. It really is heroin for the brain and I can’t help but succumb. I go and go and go and then I drop and allow all the cynicism of the Daily Show and Family Guy and the violence and cynicism of sporting events to take over.

This duality seems to be my fate. I've been unable to escape it, even though I know I should by reading more, or meditating more, or just watching the wind push around the trees. And the days fly past, I mean really fly. Kids grow. My stomach grows.

Something’s gotta give. Just hope it’s not a stroke, at least not yet. I was actually thinking about it before I went to sleep last night. Man, that would just screw up everything.

Happy Thought For The Day!

2008-11-16T07:35:00.001-08:00

This is a beat up world. The world is getting beat up. It’s a bad world, though.

-Joey, 7

Sucking is good for you

2008-10-04T12:05:00.001-07:00

I'm not the rabid Ira Glass fan, but what he says here on the creative process is pretty dead on ... and makes me more comfortable about sucking so badly.

RIP

2008-09-27T15:43:00.000-07:00

My father is my greatest hero, not so much for what he achieved, but particularly for what he surmounted late in life. He was tough, unflinchingly honest, and sensitive -- and always my biggest fan.

The closest I ever came to idolizing any other man was Paul Newman, who happened to be born in the same year as my father.

What I learned from Newman's movies, and later, from what I read about the artist himself, was no less than how to be a man. From his philanthropy and playing against his looks to the gutsy, unforgettable roles in Hud, The Hustler, Butch Cassidy, Slap Shot, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and my favorite (and that of many guys I know), Cool Land Luke.

Even though I've known this day was coming, I still feel like a baby. A world without Paul Newman is just weird.

Shameless

2008-08-30T22:19:00.001-07:00

Republicans aren't stupid, but compared to Democrats, they have a better idea of how stupid Americans are. Too often, we prove them right.

I hope this isn't one of those times.

...

2008-08-26T22:40:00.000-07:00

Nowadays, when I move my head too fast, I get dizzy. I discovered this while playing with my 18-month-old son, Sonny. What I do is I turn my head in big circles and “snap” it into a funny face pointed directly at him, which always makes him smile. After I do this a few times, my eyeballs start feeling like they’ve detached from whatever fleshy goo holds them in place.

It makes me sad that my body doesn’t hold itself together like it used to. I feel like I should start riding roller coasters, or surf, or run – something – to get my body tight again. It’s the only way, right? I can’t just take a crescent wrench and turn every loose nut, like I did with my green Schwinn with the flatback rear tire that I Evil Knieveled over sidewalk squares a long time ago.

But sometimes it seems no matter how much body maintenance I do – and I’ve done a fair share – Sonny, or his children or his children’s children, will eventually find me one day in the back corner of the garage covered in cobwebs and rust, and they will try to climb on and discover some unknown, disgustingly sticky substance, or some part will fall off. I’ll be useless, or just not useful enough, and they’ll be disappointed and leave me in some dark, dank place where the pace of my deterioration will be left unfettered, until no one can stand the sight of me. The image won’t wash with the person they knew. It will actually be painful for them.

Then, in my final moments, as they’ve gathered around some technological feat of a hospital bed that hasn’t yet been built, I’ll snap my head and make that same old funny face -- but this time with big, yellowy, darkness-encroaching eyeballs and a mouthful of nubbed and missing teeth. It may not be my choice, but I may even expel loudly a load of auburn-tinted diarrhea smelling of dead cat, just for extra impact.

The reaction will be my joy. The horror on their faces, the running around to plug my holes, the frantic search for the nurse button. Someone may barf. Or, on the other hand, they may just laugh. Either way, it'll be sweet.

And I’ll close my eyes, apologize, and promise never to do it again.

'They were just there to make us look as ninja as possible'

2008-08-22T07:43:00.000-07:00

I don't have the time to really put this into personal context.... just imagine me and an unnamed friend in this photo, and replace any altrustic excuses in story linked below with police discovering certain substances in our car as well as a video documenting the depths of our stupidity.

Video here and story here.

Q: What are you doing with weapons?

A: Those weapons, they were just there for show. They were just there to make us look as ninja as possible.

Lessons...

2008-08-09T10:23:00.000-07:00

Joey and I are listening to some of my favorite tunes on YouTube. Joey loves punk rock. To mix it up a little, I play “Straight To Hell,” a menacing yet slower tune than what we had been listening to.

“This isn’t punk,” Joey tells me.

“What are you talking about?” I say. “Of course it is.”

“No, it’s not!”

“What’s punk, then?”

“You know."

Joey immediately flails his entire body like only Joey can, like linked, snapping wires -- like those tiny plastic dolls that when you push the bottoms their limbs collapse and fling back into place, except Joey does over and over again and in a blur, convulsing and contorting… I see a foot here and a butt there and I swear a hand almost touches the ceiling despite the fact he just turned seven and does not yet reach four feet. This entire display lasts but three seconds, whereupon I decide that my son is the King, no-- the POPE of this particular kind of physical madness that falls one step short of epilepsy and a trip to the emergency room.

I’m so enthralled I’ve completely forgotten his point. But he hasn’t.

“THAT’S punk, Dad," he says.

...

Why, yes... Yes it is. Good boy, Joey.

F.U. to arrogant so-and-so's everywhere

2008-08-08T07:10:00.001-07:00

Six months or so after my first iPod committed suicide, my wife got me a new iPod Nano (as some sort of make-up present for neglecting the dishes) and it’s simply awesome.

Watching Metalocalypse cartoons at lunch is bomb-riffic. But the best thing is that I’ve rediscovered podcasts, including the jazz, poetry and fiction ones I can listen to while driving (always with one earplug) or during non-demanding periods at work.

Yesterday I came across two stories. One was about Steve Almond, a short story/essayist who recently came out with “My Year as a Poet,” about his failed attempts at poetry. It’s pretty funny. However, I was a little saddened to hear Almond gave up his awful poetry after a more established poet, who Almond won’t name, told him that, well, he wasn’t really a poet.

Almond thanks this guy, quits his folly, and seems much better and happier for it. Good for him. I, on the other hand, am left somewhat shocked and disgusted. Who the f&%$ does this other poet think he is???

I’m all for someone’s ability to criticize my work, even if they have no talent whatsoever. That’s part of the craziness that is America. But who is anybody to tell Almond – as bad of a poet as he may be – is not a real poet? If you set about writing poems as your main “thing” in life, and you write and perform poem after poem, you are a poet regardless of your talent level, which is entirely subjective – even if you poems are so horrible they trigger mass suicides.

I mean, the arrogance!

Man, I was pissed off. I’m getting pissed off just thinking about it again.

But then I heard a story that made me chuckle at the self-importance of entire literary industry construct (a construct, which, I admit, I have had little to no dealings with, save for a handful of rejection letters).

Let me say right off that “The Lace Reader” by Brunonia Barry is a book I’ll probably never read. It’s apparently about women who can “read the future from a pattern of lace.” I might read it, I don’t know. But the subject doesn’t really appeal to me.

The beauty of this book is that it was initially self-published – on unbound sheets of paper – and passed around at a series of book clubs long before the plus-$2 million publishing deal came around.

Rare, perhaps. Still, for circumcising the entire we-bestow-book-deal-upon-Thee-ishness that makes or breaks writers (real writers and "not really writers"), Brav-O, Ms. Barry.

Why I don't do math

2008-07-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

I was looking up the word "catenary" for work and I see this:

..and I think to myself, thank God I learned to write.

I remember being about 7 or 8 and finding some old book on calculus in my parents' bookshelves. I thought, "I'm going to read this book and go right to college. Everyone's going to be so impressed!"

Then I saw stuff like the "thing" above. And I thought, there's no way. My mind isn't built like that.

I'm a curious person if nothing else, but my brain actually seizes when I see mathematical formulas of even mild complexity. I still think people who do those things are somehow alien life forms.

Pieces

2008-07-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

Can we please stop?

Now what?

Just stop.

The car skids and leans sharply on the Twinkie-soft embankment. I can't catch the notebook. It slides across the dash, slaps off the passenger window, and lands on Candice’s lap.

Hell, I would have opened it, too.

Ka-blooey.

Always a great quote from this pisser

2008-07-04T11:54:00.000-07:00

Johnny Lydon, interviewed in '87 while drinking beer for breakfast (which is one of my favorite treats, by the way):

Q: One last question. What do you think of Deep Purple?

Lydon: Nothing. My mind is a blank. (laughs) Why, are they big here?

Q: Yes.

Lydon: Oh, how pathetic. I thought we buried that lot years ago. Ah well. Bad habits die hard.

Off to work we go

2008-06-30T05:23:00.000-07:00

No, we don't just regurgitate cracked-out reality TV stars on this blog. Here's a fuzzy view of the monkeys streaming in from Pittsburg at 4-something in the morning--and at 4-something a gallon. You can almost smell their deodorant and taste the protein bars still stuck to their teeth. At least I can. I know, that's gross.

I'm losing my marbles

2008-06-29T07:57:00.001-07:00

Verne Troyer sues over sex tape. World jolted by news, loses collective breakfast. Sewers clog, panic ensures, society collapses, Earth implodes. *Poof*

Hey, at least one freaky midget/dwarf/little person/weeble is getting some, as well he should. I wonder if he did it in his electric cart and peed on a flower pot afterward. Cuz if he did, like, he would so be the "mack."

Rock!

2008-04-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

It happened.

Eleven years later, Kung Fu Grip returned to the scene of the crimes (of which there were many) and ripped it up.

We rocked. We sucked. We were loud. Every band we played with was better than us, but we still felt like kings.

I saw people who were KIDS when I last saw them, now grown up, and playing in their own bands. They said we were the shit. I admit, that felt gooooood.

There were no kids, no wife, and no money. For a week, I lived off Lone Star Beer and V8s. Check out the pint of whisky in my back pocket.

There's not a lot I can write about it, except I love Brent, Tom and Pete like brothers, and I never even realized it. There's something to be said about music, punk rock, friends, alcohol and freedom, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.

I'll regret a lot of things on my deathbed, I'm sure. This ain't one of 'em.

O Superman

2008-04-25T10:28:00.000-07:00

O superman. o judge. o mom and dad. mom and dad. o superman. o judge. o mom and dad. mom and dad. hi. Im not home right now. but if you want to leave a message, just start talking at the sound
E tone. hello? this is your mother. are you there? are you coming home? hello? is anybody home? well, you dont know me, but I know you. and Ive got a message to give to you. here come the plan
O you better get ready. ready to go. you can come as you are, but pay as you go. pay as you go. and I said: ok. who is this really? and the voice said: this is the hand, the hand that takes. thi
The hand, the hand that takes. this is the hand, the hand that takes. here come the planes. theyre american planes. made in america. smoking or non-smoking? and the voice said: neither snow nor
Nor gloom of night shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. cause when love is gone, theres always justice. and when justive is gone, theres always forc
D when force is gone, theres
Always mom. hi mom! so hold me, mom, in your long arms. so hold me, mom, in your long arms. in your automatic arms. your electronic arms. in your arms. so hold me, mom, in your long arms. your
Chemical arms. your military arms. in your electronic arms.

Brent & Pete, Art Studio, Beaumont, TX 4/19/08

2008-04-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

Brent & Pete, Art Studio

Cousin Phelpy

2008-04-19T18:36:00.001-07:00

Scrabble Robot

2008-04-18T22:04:00.001-07:00

Bathroom, Vortex, Beaumont

2008-04-16T21:05:00.001-07:00

Tommy, Port Neches, TX

2008-04-16T13:27:00.001-07:00

KFG, 2008. (I'm hiding)

2008-04-15T18:10:00.001-07:00

Drinkin' at Lola's, Houston

2008-04-15T18:08:00.001-07:00

Lone Star Beer Diet, lost 15 pounds!

2008-04-15T17:48:00.001-07:00

Brent, trying to remember his own lyrics...

2008-04-15T14:02:00.000-07:00

No country for old men...

2008-04-14T20:50:00.001-07:00

...totally country for snakes, though

El Rio Grande

2008-04-14T20:45:00.001-07:00

San Antonio

2008-04-14T20:36:00.001-07:00

Whistle Stop Art Studio, Santa Barbara

2008-04-14T00:29:00.001-07:00

You can see it from the station. Cool building. Reminds me of where I'm going...

Micro packer

2008-04-14T00:28:00.001-07:00

11-day trip, and this is all I carry. I'm pretty fuckin' proud of myself. Includes 3 sets of clothes, laptop, various pills, towel, food, vitamins, water bottle 3/4 full of Seagrams, and first season of Starsky & Hutch. I am sooo hyphy I could pee myself.

View from a Window on a Train

2008-04-14T00:26:00.001-07:00

Ahh

Congress Hotel, Tucson

2008-04-14T00:24:00.001-07:00

Drinkin Red Stripe ... yeah, I know these pictures are totally out of order...

Sittin' on the Embarcadero

2008-04-14T00:22:00.001-07:00

Eastbound and down...

Henry on DJ'ing

2008-02-17T18:52:00.001-08:00

watch video

Disclosure: I like some DJ-ing. I think DJ-ing is an art.

Yet I'm closer to Henry's view on the matter.

Working too damn much

2008-02-15T09:34:00.000-08:00

...but making good money.

Actually, the money hasn't been that great until now. I got my first real copywriting gig, and I think I charged too low, but the end result is it's more money per hour than I've ever made in my life.

Last year I went bananas reading all these self-help, motivational books and starting planning what I wanted to do financially with my life. It's nice to see things not so much coming together, but getting better, and habits forming that mean something.

The goal was always working for myself, personally controlling how and when I worked, and spending quality time with my family and friends. Lately it's just been WORK... but I'm starting to see some light at the end of the flashlight.

Today, for instance. I could afford to wake up and drink a beer for breakfast. Just one beer, because I don't have to think too much today. I can't tell you how good it feels, day or night, to be in the shower with hot steaming water engulfing your skin and the cold, hoppy goodness of a Lagunitas IPA sliding down your throat, generating a warmish glow in a very chi-ish place.

No. I couldn't begin to tell you.

What's up...

2008-02-02T10:50:00.000-08:00

Damn what a holiday season. Six birthdays in the immediate family, Xmas and New Year's all in one month. Nintendo DS's for three kids. I'm a broke ass mutha.

Got sick with one of my vintage Coughs From Hell. Still don't think I've buried it yet.

The band's getting back together. Bought a new guitar and amp, heading to Texas in April. Maybe getting a band together here. Learning old songs, writing new ones, getting my musical chops back... however shitty they were to begin with. Sometimes I think the only musical gift I have is playing loud. But I love it.

Writing. Forcing myself to. Working 60 hours a week, four kids, force is the only way.

Oh, and a bright spot. I go into work yesterday, and Sharon's trying to score tickets to the Deadheads for Obama show at the Warfield Monday by refreshing Ticketmaster over and over again. I offer to help, she sends me the link and blam! we both hit the jackpot. So within ten seconds, I decide I like Barrack Obama, Bob Weir, Mickey Hart and Phil Lesh just enough to buy my own tickets.

The show sold out in nine minutes. Craigslist is littered with sad Deadheads looking to pay between $1 and $1,000,000 for a ticket. But I'm getting my Dead on, ya'll!!!

Writing in the present tense

2007-11-22T08:01:00.001-08:00

Struggling right now with this. A while back I started righting short fiction in the present tense. It was fun to reveal story as it happened. I liked the immediacy of it. And in first-person, I felt it was almost easier to hoist the reader on my back, so to speak, and show him or her around.

This seems to work particularly well in short, single-scene pieces. In longer form, however, I'm finding that staying in the present tense is pretty tough. It's tricky to describe the past in the present without it feeling cumbersome or awkward.

Just something bugging me right now, because I like the present tense and want it to work. With a couple days off, I may try finding novels that manage to do this. We'll see...

Tom Wolfe on writing

2007-11-18T13:05:00.000-08:00

My latest hobby is scrolling through the NPR archives for interesting pieces on books and other stuff. I know I'm late to this particular party ... I used to only listen to public radio -- or any radio -- while driving. I don't drive that much.

What I just realized--duh--is that I don't have to wait for the clock to roll around to catch a good program on the radio. I can just go to the NPR site and click what programs I want to listen to. Somehow I always knew I could do this, but hadn't really wanted to until I missed a Normal Mailer interview that took place earlier this year.

After that, I hit up a Tom Petty retrospective interview, caught up on This American Life, and some odd book readings that I'll never have the time to make in person.

The best one so far was a Tom Wolfe interview aired 20 years ago and re-aired to celebrate Fresh Air's 20th anniversary. Wolfe talked a lot about writing and the genesis of his writing style... like writing a novel like you're pretending to be writing a letter to a friend, and how he purposely choose clothing that stood out, which seems antithema to the traditional fly-on-the-wallishness of being a writer.

"It is much more effective," he said, "to arrive at any situation as the Man from Mars, than to try to fit in."

I'm probably guilty of idolizing mainstream or popular authors like Wolfe too much. It's not like I don't read lesser known scribes. But I'm fascinated with why certain authors are considered greats, and I often find I waste little time when reading them.

Anyway Wolfe's interview is good stuff.

Norman Mailer, RIP

2007-11-14T02:27:00.001-08:00

Seems all the giants of letters that I got to know as a young man are going, one by one. This week it was Norman Mailer, arguably the biggest one left. (Not too long ago it was Vonnegut.)

NPR had a really good interview with them recently, by Michael Krasny, that they aired tonight. In it, Mailer toys with the idea of death and reincarnation, and how God judges our worthiness by what he assigns us to be in a second life. Mailer wants to be a black athelete, but figures he'll just be a cockroach -- but the fastest cockroach on the block.

I, like Krasny, hopes he becomes a black athelete. Toodles, Norman.