Kenneth Updates

We’ve received an enormous amount of mail (email) here at Speen HQ, asking about the wellbeing of Kenneth Oates after his last rather cryptic post while adjourning at the King Motel in Northampton, Mass. Is he OK? questionings were only slightly outnumbered by Where is he going next? It seems The Ken has captured the mind of the rspeen.com reader in a way the sparklingly water reviews just could not. Anyway, just to inform you, Kenneth Oates got the ol’ heap running, and is now on his way to his next destination—whose exact location shall reign as a surprise until revealed by his next post. Also, it may be of some slight comfort to know that Ken was informed that cryptic “cries for help”—regardless of their comic intention—are not what we want here, and indeed generally not cool as they potentially dilute the visibility of legitimate requests for assistance by actual people with serious difficulties. Ken seemed to “get it” as only a dock in pay will enhance clarity. Also, an official request was put forth to Mr. Oates to “86” the poetry—what we want is clear, concise reporting—descriptions and facts—and if we want whimsically lyrical verse, we’ll be sure to consult Mother F**king Goose!

—R.Speen 2.24.24

Ask Me If I Care That It’s Valentine’s Day

I finally remembered another of my rules for life, which is: always buy backless slippers. Why? Because you’ll turn your slippers with backs into backless ones by stepping into (and on) them, eventually. And I find nothing so depressing. If they took a survey, I bet they’d find 9 times out of 10, when you find a dude hanging by his belt in a cheap hotel closet, nearby will be some slippers with the backs pushed down.

Finally, some snow up here in Northampton—barely cold enough, though, and it’s a slushy wonderworld—but at least there was snow. I mean, it’s cold now. I’m ready to get out of here, though. King Nord. Maybe it was a mistake asking my editor (and benefactor) R. Speen for the use of a “vintage” automobile in which to get from town to destination next—since he (or his crew) decided a 1996 Plymouth Breeze was vintage. Well, it is old, has lots of problems, and needs some serious work. Or did… I think they’re about done. In the meantime, I’ve been enjoying Northampton, sure enough—especially with this snow.

The good thing is… I discovered the Bluebonnet Diner! Been by it—don’t know how I missed it—well, from the wrong angle it looks like a chicken emporium or a union hall. The diner is kind of hidden right out in the open—but easy to miss. But once inside, it’s one of the best old-time diners I’ve been in! Long counter with old stools, old wooden booths, curved ceiling, not too cutesyfied, it’s just a splendid, functional diner. It’s only about a mile from the hotel, as the crow flies—unfortunately, I’m not a crow, and this side of town isn’t that pedestrian friendly. Next stop—I hope—I stay at a place you can walk from. Or, wait, I’ll have my car back, right?

Anyway, besides the usual diner fare, I also indulged in my favorite vice—blue cocktails. I was baffled by the preponderance of blue cocktails, until I remembered: Bluebonnet—get it? Blue Lagoon, Blue Martini (I don’t approve, but it’s better than the Snickerdoodle Martini—horrors!) and the famous Blue Dream Cocktail. Later, while driving the big white bus, I had a few blue laughs.

--Kenneth Oates 2.14.24

Premium on the Letter H

Kenneth Oates here, checking in from Northampton, Mass, not much going on here. The weather here sucks. It’s in the 30’s and raining. Actually, the only thing I don’t like about the 30’s is that it’s not cold enough. To be snowing, that is. It’s coming down, the moisture from the sky—but too warm to snow. Just wasting good precipitation—right down the gutter. I kind of expected to be snowed in up here, but it’s not even very wintery. I’m still at the North King Motel—just kind of exploring the town (easy to get lost, walking, for a small place). I really like it!

One thing weird about this town—why is it spelled Northampton? Just a clever way to get extra milage from that “h”? I looked at a map—there’s a Westhampton and an Easthampton—so wouldn’t it be Northhampton? Otherwise, it’s like “Nort Hampton”—see what I mean? Though, admittedly, Southampton does the same thing. They must have got together when naming the towns.

I wondered. Is this “The Hamptons?” No, of course. I knew that. That’s Long Island—which is—glad I’m not there. I always found Long Island kind of weird in a way I can’t explain. Happy to be here with this weird spelling, the mild weather, and more time to explore. So far, my recommendation for moving here is… yes. I’d recommend it.

—Kenneth Oates 1.24.24

My First and Probably Last Memo Post

First, I probably should take this opportunity to introduce myself. My name is Kenneth Oates, and I would like to thank Ray Speen for allowing me to land this sweet gig as “memo” writer on the rspeen.com website. More on my background later. There are three things I wanted to list that kind of defines my personal philosophy (I think) but I can only remember one of them, right now! Is my brain going? Okay, I’ll do that later. So what I’m gonna do instead is a little sports-talk, seeing how my Dolphins are in the playoffs. One rule my editor, Randy, impressed on me was “no sports talk!” Yet here I am—I hope he can make an exception just this once and not can my ass on day one!

I’m sitting in this little shithole motel room in Northampton, MA—well, it’s not bad, and it’s the cheapest place in town. It’s snowing out right now, even though it seems too warm for snow—I guess the cold is on the way. Why am I here? My job, as I understand it, is to add a “travel blog” element to the website—and I’m all about that. I’ll go anywhere. My destinations, however, are kinda being picked for me. I believe the agenda is somewhat Randy’s—he’s scouting out places to move, I guess, and so I’m checking them out for him. Actually, I wasn’t supposed to let on that tidbit of info—I really hope he doesn’t can my ass!

So, I just watched the Browns lose to the Astros, on NBC, and during that game they just kept relentlessly pushing the late game—Dolphins and Chiefs in butt-cold KC—as if you’re watching playoff football and suddenly gonna switch to opera on PBS. So, I’ve got my chips and pico and I’m ready for the game. And what’s this? NBC switched to local news! Well, Springfield, that is. Did I magically arrive in a live-action Simpsons nightmare? Where’s the game? After checking all the cable channels the motel carries, I discover the game is being shown only on Peacock—which is “no dice” here. What kind of outrage is this? Another rule Randy had for me—keep the “fucks” to a minimum.” But this situation calls for a big one!

I’m not a huge sports fan—but I like to watch a little of this and that on TV. I grew up liking the Dolphins because my dad was a huge fan—and he always raved about the, I believe, 1972 season (so like 13 years before I was even born) that was an undefeated Superbowl team—so yeah. My dad’s ultimate. He even got me these four jerseys, as a kid, my most coveted shit growing up. (I still have them, in a trunk, though they’re like rags, and not eBay-able.) Dolphin’s jerseys. No. 42, Paul Warfield, what a badass name. And No. 39, Larry Zonka. (That’s how I spelled it because Csonka made no sense to me.) And then No. 22, Mercury Morris, who had the baddest-ass name of all. And kinda my fav, No. 21, Jim Kiick—because I saw my dad’s pics of him—bubblegum cards and shit—and I liked his Fu Manchu ’stache—plus, why was there two i’s in his name? Why Kiick, not Kick? It’s one of those great mysteries of life!

I know it’s dumb to be a sports fan (not as dumb as betting on sports) but come on! I just want to watch the game! Is this the beginning of the end for the NFL? Succumbing to greed like college football (which I no longer watch since it’s become a hotbed of legal gambling and virtually all the postseason games are on ESPN—which I don’t have—though, if I can extend this travel-writing gig, it seems like most hotels have it). But P-COCK TV? What the hell is that? I can guarantee that the greedy executives decided to put this particular game exclusively on the streaming service because of the “Taylor Swift Factor”—meaning they’re going to get additional numbers from non-sports fans who just tune-in for a “sighting,” Personally, I’m not a Swifter, though she’s okay, and I did have this ambition of writing a short story about what I’d imagine it to be like to date her (or more realistically, a fictional character based on her) you know—someone that famous. A short story—just an exercise to stretch the ol’ imagination!

Well, maybe it’s for the best. I’d just get too caught up in that game and maybe kick the TV in. Not because I hate KC (I admit, I’m a Mahomes fan), but I can’t stand their fans and that insipid “tomahawk chop.” Hearing those morons chant like it’s a fascist rally and do that hand-motion in unison with their mouths hanging open and vacant look in their eyes is enough to put a guy off his Endless Shrimp. I can’t stand Florida State for the same reason (they’re even worse, plus, I grew up a Hurricanes fan—which hasn’t been easy, lately). Though, I do think F. State got royally screwed in that bogus college football playoff this year. Worst thing ever. I’m sure that’s what led to Nick Saban’s early retirement—he’s got too much integrity to live with that deal with $atan and E$PN and Vega$. How come no one was talking about THAT?

Anyway, I’d better wrap this up. The only real rule Mr. Russell and Lord Speen laid on me was to “keep it brief” (one paragraph, as the ideal). Also, keep the italics and exclamation points to a minimum. And most importantly, NO ALL CAPS! And perhaps leave Taylor-Swift-talk for the mainstream media. A minimum of politics, and no sports, and “for the love of god”—no sports politics! No conspiracy-theory-talk whatsoever, please! And maybe save bellyaching, complaining, and crybaby laments for your now-defunct “Blogspot” page. And the most important rule of all: no discussing the bosses and the rules. Uh, oh, Chongo! Let me rephrase that. Uh-oh, Spaghetti-Os! Should I be looking for another job? Well, maybe not. If I go through and fix the typos myself, maybe my editor will be too lazy to read this and just trust me and post it. It must be about halftime by now… maybe I should check in on the score. Maybe the halftime show will feature the Ice Capades—if only I had P-COCK TV!

—Kenneth Oates 1.13.24

Memo 2024

IF I CHANGED the name of this page to “Blog” would I write here more often? Probably not. At one time, prior to the inception of this website (2016), I had over 40 blogs—though some only had one entry before I lost interest. But perhaps the blog ship has sailed.

I named this page “Memo” after the Garbage Memo (c.1981) (see the Strawberry Ice Cream Soda page, under the MEMOIR tab). That was an experiment in day-to-day writing, by a large group of people (we won’t mention intoxicants)—good stuff, bad stuff, but a lot of fun. Maybe this Memo was fun as well, but lately… nothing. (Last post was 8 months ago.) So maybe it’s time for a new approach. It is. Scrolling back through the posts (and years) I see some good stuff, and some long-winded stuff. I’ll leave it up. Feel free to check it out—if you’re bored!

Next… here, however, will be an entirely new approach by the newest member of the R. Speen staff—Kenneth Oates. The less we bother with biography the better—you’ll get plenty of that moving forward! (No doubt.)

Ken will be writing about… I don’t know. Anything he feels like. The only rules I’m giving him are: Try not to be too long-winded (like I’ve become), and… Nothing too offensive. Have fun. So… he’ll be getting the key to the Memo page, so to speak. And we’ll see how long it takes him to total it. Ha!

That’s a joke. He’ll be signing his posts, so you’ll know it’s him, but you’ll still see my name (Editor: Randy Russell) at the bottom of the page, since I’ll still be “editing.” Hopefully not much—ideally he’ll email me the post and I’ll just put it up. (We may be giving him the “keys”—but not the passwords! Ha!)

So… check back soon, obsessively, with anticipation and dread and hopeful wonder, and see what’s up with Kenneth Oates!

—Randy Russell 1.10.24

Birthday Cake

A funny thing happened, which I then realized kind of illustrates what I think about advertising. It wasn’t that funny, really—I know we’re not supposed to be surprised anymore about our lack of privacy and the extent to which our devices literally read our minds—but it still startles me occasionally. I was listening to a podcast (otherppl) and an author (Jinwoo Chong) passionately related how he celebrated (either finishing or publishing his novel, Flux) with a “Birthday Cake” from Milk Bar. So infectious was his enthusiasm, I looked up this particular treat on that internet when I got home (even though I can’t eat wheat or sugar, and there’s no Milk Bar local to me). Then, the next time I looked at Instagram, probably an hour later, the very first thing in my feed was a Milk Bar birthday cake. Shouldn’t surprise me but it still does. Anyway, the point of this is to say, that made me think about—for me, anyway, how much more effective and pleasing it is to be sold the cake by a guy expressing real, spur of the moment, love for something—rather than to be waylaid by a network of creepy robots with no boundaries whatsoever. I suppose that’s obvious, and maybe a simplistic way to look at things—but still worth remembering, as far as I’m concerned. Now I probably really should go out and read that book, Flux (which sounds very good, as well, and not quite as sweet as the cake). And… okay… maybe I will fall off the wagon and reward myself with that $62 cake (if they make gluten-free version), perhaps on my 62nd birthday. Though, for that, I’ll need time travel (perhaps the novel will help me there), as I’ve got to go back about a year and a half.

4.30.23

The Doughnuts author/character diagram/map

November 5th is National Doughnut Day (confusing, because there’s also a National Doughnut Day in June, every year—but why not have two of them—there’s two of everything else!) ANYWAY, for today’s doughnut holiday (which is also “Book Lovers Day”) I thought I’d have another book give-away contest. But then I noticed it’s also “National Love Your Red Hair Day”—and it occurred to me that two major characters in The Doughnuts have red hair—and they are two of the “authors.”

That led me to making a hand-drawn “author map” of The Doughnuts—which diagrams the ten authors in the book—and how each one of them is writing the story of one of the others—who is writing the story of one of the others, and on and on. There is ultimately a circular structure, then, which is why we’re limited to ten. It is hopefully a device which contributes to the complexity and depth of each story—and the book as a whole.

If that makes you want to gouge your eyes out, rest assured that you can also read the book as a straight narrative—a saga involving a lot of related and unrelated people (who may cross paths), over a relatively brief period of time. But if you are a geek like I am and enjoy messing around with a metafictional puzzle, you might find this author/character diagram helpful. I used a similar diagram while writing it, to help keep things straight.

So, for anyone who has obtained The Doughnuts (and has read it or not), or who might want to obtain it or read it in the future—and would like me to send a copy of the diagram, let me know via email, text, DM, or mail (and make sure I have your mailing address). I’ll send one!

Also, why not (and if you’ve read this far, thank you!)—here’s another “contest”—the first ten people to respond (either by email, text, DM, mail, or comments in social media)—I will send a signed copy of your choice: The Doughnuts (2020), Black Iris (2021), or Love, Lies, Bleeding (2022). Make sure you specify which book! U.S. addresses, only please.

I am just happy to send out some books to someone who might want them. Please don’t think that means you need to read the book anytime soon, or get back to me about it. Books take time, and there are a lot of good books out there. Also, holidays might be coming up and books might make good gifts. Very few people ever respond to these “contests,” so if you’re not even seeing this until next Thursday, or the following one, you probably still will win!

11.5.22

Coming Soon! Love, Lies, Bleeding

The back of the novel Black Iris advertises the next book, “Be Still My Heart”—that’s italics surrounded by quotes, because: I decided to change the title—to: Love, Lies, Bleeding. Let that be a lesson about being “sure” of the title of the next book—and advance notices! This new book of stories, Love, Lies, Bleeding is to some extent a rewrite of my old book of stories called Nine Lies, which was available as an eBook awhile back. Some stories are changed very little, some changed a lot, and there are a couple of new stories. But I don’t want anyone to feel swindled. If you bought Nine Lies, and want to buy this one, I owe you an eBook, coffee, beer, taco, your choice. Or maybe an advance copy of Love, Lies, Bleeding. Let me know. Its publication date, for print, is September 22, 2022. You can preorder it if you like. Or you can buy an eBook now, if you can track one down. Thank you!

—Randy Russell 8.19.22

New Book!

It’s kind of shocking to me that I haven’t managed to write a “memo” here since last April—busy! I also haven’t written many reviews on this website (though I’ve been keeping up with once-a-week record reviews on my DJ Farraginous site). One of the reasons I’ve been so busy is that I had to find a job (which gets harder as you get older, for some reason!) in order to, you know, survive—but also to pay for the self-publishing of a new novel. The other reason I’ve been so busy is that I was working on my new novel. And the other reason I was so busy is because I was revising, copyediting, and proofreading my new novel. Finally, it’s finished—it’s called Black Iris, and it’s (currently) my favorite thing I’ve written. It’s a detective story, mystery—but there’s more to than that—it’s also, to some degree, a 1990s period college novel—and also, to some degree, a romance. But there’s more to it than that—but I’m not going into all that now! It’s relatively short, and also funny (at least I think so). For more information see the “Black Iris” page of this website (rspeen.com)—it’s under the “Media” tab. You can preorder a paperback on Amazon now, or you can buy an eBook version from most places eBooks are sold. Or you can order it directly from the publisher (see the Black Iris page). One more thing… I will give away a few free copies. If you keep an eye on my Instagram and Facebook page, I will occasionally have a contest and offer a free copy of the book. Or maybe I’ll announce a contest here—since not everyone cares for social media. But everyone loves contests, right?

—Randy Russell 12.7.21

Anniversary

Thank you for reading, anyone who is reading this. It is the five-year anniversary of this website, rspeen.com, and even though I don’t make much of birthdays, anniversaries, dates, or time—it’s something. Please keep visiting for an odd variety of writing—and occasionally images and podcasts. Something new goes up pretty consistently several times a week. It doesn’t cost anything, and you don’t need to register, sign in, grant permission, reply, “like,” or endure annoying things that pop up in front of what you’re trying to look at. It’s all here for one reason only: love.

—RR 4.20.21

New Old Book

I am working on a new book of short stories that is also, to some degree, a rewrite of the collection of stories called Nine Lies that I offered, previously, as an eBook. This might only be of interest to those who’ve read Nine Lies. I have pretty good reasons for wanting to rewrite parts of that book (in short, to make it better), though I’m doing very little to most of it—some formatting changes, but that’s about it. A couple of the stories, however, will be significantly different, and I believe much better. Also, I’m adding two or three new stories, written since Nine Lies was finished, and I’m going to come up with a new title for the whole mess. I haven’t decided on a title yet. I’m considering: The Whole Mess—but probably not.

I don’t feel too bad about doing this because my inclination comes from a sincere desire to improve the book, not to sell more. If any of this was about money, I’d be a big fool indeed. Seeing how the Nine Lies eBook cost only as much as a takeout coffee, I don’t feel too bad about this. The eBook version of the new book will also cost about as much as a takeout coffee. So… for the very few out there who might end up reading both, I’d be glad to discuss my motives and means over a takeout coffee. The new, as yet untitled, book will also be available as a paperback, which might be nice for those who don’t like eBooks. I hope to have it completed and available sometime in the year 2021. Though I need to first find a job in order to be able to afford to publish it. There’s a lot more indecision there (given the job market) than in my decision and effort to finish the new book. Good luck to us all.

—Memo: Randy Russell 3.3.21

Contest! Win a paperback copy of The Doughnuts!

There is a copy of The Doughnuts with your name on it. I mean, not literally, unless your name is “Doughnuts”—which probably means you’re a cat or a gerbil, in which case, why are you reading this?

I have ten extra copies of my novel, The Doughnuts, burning a hole in my desire to give one away.

This is the easiest contest in the world! All you have to do is email me before ten other people do. No purchase required! You don’t even have to “allow cookies” or provide incriminating information. All winners will remain anonymous.

So! All you need to do in order to “win” is be one of the first ten people to email me between NOW and my birthday, which is a week from today. (If you don’t have my email, find it on the Contact page of my website, RSPEEN.COM. If you are one of the lucky ones, I will mail a book to you in the next couple of weeks! (Via media mail, so it might take a few more weeks!) (Or, if you reside locally, near Milwaukee, you can get it more quickly—and save me packing and postage—by picking it up at the Plaza Hotel.)

Here is the fine print:

(It’s not that fine.) You do not have to write a book review. You do not have to write a book report. You do not have to let me know if you read it. If you do read it and have constructive criticism, you do not have to tell me. (You can if you want to, and I’ll be appreciative of your wisdom.) You do not have to read the book anytime soon. You do not have to read it at all. (It’s a long book in a short-attention-span world.) You do not have to report your good luck on social media. You do not have to keep the book. You can sell the book if you want to. Or give it to a friend (or enemy). I can’t even really tell you that you can’t just put the book directly into the trash, or the recycling, though that would be kind of a dick-move, right?

—RR 1.12.21

’72 – The Superior Solitaire Card Game

I don’t know why exactly, but recently I’ve found myself playing more games of Solitaire, or Klondike, than in the past—to the extent that I’ve devised several of my own versions. After much experimenting, I’ve finally come up with the best version of the game ever invented. Since I’m getting constant requests for the details of this game, I’ve decided to write out a description here to share with everyone in the world.

It’s called: ’72 – because 1972 was the year I started my first band, started drinking, and also is the pinnacle of English-speaking culture (at least for movies, TV, and music—not children’s books, necessarily). Also, the game uses 72 cards. That’s a big deck, and handling it—shuffling it, etc., will do a lot for your card handling skills. This might be useful if you are eventually pursuing a career as a croupier.

To build this large deck, you will need two (or more) standard, 52-card, French-suited decks with the same backs. You can get by with a mishmash of backs—though that ends up being a bit like cheating with marked cards—but seeing how you’re only cheating yourself, it’s up to you. What you want to end up with is, first: a standard deck, Ace, 2 through 10, Jack, Queen, King, of the suits: heart, spade, diamond, and club. Next, from the additional deck, add an additional set of aces. And finally, add 16 Jokers! That’s a lot of Jokers to come up with—but however you do it, it’s worth it. That makes 72 cards, total, or I don’t know my math.

Shuffle the cards well, naturally. You’ll need a large table. Lay out a horizontal row of 10 cards, all facedown. Next, starting left to right, place one card faceup, and the next nine facedown. Go back to the left, and on the first facedown stack, place one face up, and then across, place 8 facedown. (This is much like the layout for traditional Klondike.) So what you end up with is a horizontal row of ten cards, with the far left stack, one down, one up, next is two down, one up, and so on, until the far right stack has ten down, one up.

You will then have seven cards left over. These are free cards. You can lay them faceup on the table or hold them in your hand—whatever is easiest for you. Now you play the traditional Klondike/Solitaire game (black on red, red on black, descending numbers, etc.—I’m assuming you know that game, already—I’m not going into it). The differences here are as follows. You don’t have a stack to go through for additional cards to play—but rather your free cards that you can use at any time. Next, the Jokers. When you come across a faceup Joker, place it above. When you amass four Jokers, you can then take a faceup Ace and put it on top of the four Jokers. This starts the same-suit stacks that you’re trying to complete.

Since there are eight Aces, you must find the second Ace of the same suit to continue with the stack. Now there will be four Jokers, two Aces of the same suit, and then you can continue with 2, 3, etc. on up to Jack, Queen, and King. Once you have competed the four, same-suit stacks, each built on four Jokers, the game is over.

Now, here is the big thing—why I like this game so much. Instead of simply playing until you win (it’s not going to happen much, unless you’re a genius, and lucky) or lose (which can happen fast), you can continue each game by “cheating”—which isn’t really cheating—and this is how you tally a score. When you get to the point where you are stuck, take a card from the bottom of the far right-hand stack. If that card allows you to continue, do so. If not, take the next bottom card from the far right-hand stack.

You must keep track of each card you take from the bottom. Write it down, as you go. This is your score. So, say, if you end up needing to take 13 facedown cards, in order to continue your play until the game is over, then “13” is your final score. It goes without saying that the best score you can achieve is “0”—and the larger the number, the lower the score. After playing this game countless times, I’ve scored anywhere from 0 (not too often, but it does happen), to—I believe my worst was 30. That’s a real bad game, 30!

Because of the wide variety of scores, it makes this game unpredictable and fun. There is a combination of luck and skill involved. You can see your skill increase, but even the most skilled player can’t regularly score 0. And even the worst player might hit it. Since you can keep track of your scores, you can essentially compete against yourself (or even others, if so desired), and you can keep track of progress. You might even want to create a graph composed of your ongoing scores, to note improvement—or perhaps the unpredictable vagaries of the thing we all need and desire, but don’t fully understand—called luck. You might even want to create a spreadsheet, or a PowerPoint presentation—and pretend that you’re employed!

Good Luck, and Happy Solitaire!

—RR 1.10.21

Now What?

I finished The Doughnuts—no, not that box of doughnuts, which I can't eat, since I quit eating wheat in 1992, and sugar in January, and anyway, doesn't exist. I'm referring to my novel, The Doughnuts, which some people are sick of hearing about, most people will never hear about, and a few people are reading about, here, right now. This is a novel I started working on in the late 1990s, actually, and probably went through more re-workings and re-imaginings than anything I've ever worked on. It started out as one thing, became something else, then became something else. I also feel like it's the best thing I've ever written—but I know I can't trust that feeling.

I have started working on a new novel, which is what I'm excited about now. In the past, whenever I would finish some long, engaging project, I would get really depressed for awhile, so I learned that to prevent this, it's best to kind of overlap projects. I love the feeling of having to figure out all the problems and questions that go into long writing projects, particularly novels. I don't know if there's anything particularly profound about this, maybe it's just another version of playing games or shopping, but it's what keeps me going at this point. Maybe at some point something else will be the thing that keeps me going, and at some point I won't keep going. But anyway, now that I've shifted into a different phase of this, the creative part of my life, the question that remains is: what should I do with The Doughnuts.

Part of me wants to put it in a drawer (it would be nice to have a fireproof box—I do care that much). Or, you know, a file folder, a safe, a hard-drive, “The Cloud.” Not that I don't want to share it—I'd be happy to share it—I just don't expect anyone to care. It's not like sharing a drawing, which is easy to do, or a song, which might take five minutes of your time, or even a movie, which you could dedicate a couple of hours to. It's not easy to read a novel. It takes a major commitment from a person who wants to experience it—a major commitment of time, hard work (reading can be hard work), and emotional space, if it connects (and if it doesn't connect, that's even harder—having to make the decision to, and when to, “break up” with the work). This is a long novel, too. It only exists on word processing at this point, so I don't know how many pages, but it's 210,000 words or so, which is pretty long. For the sake of comparison, Moby-Dick, a novel many people consider long, is about that long. Not that I'm comparing my novel to Moby-Dick (whales to donuts)! Though I did read Moby-Dick, and it was an influence on The Doughnuts. I loved Moby-Dick, actually—it was published in 1851, yet is relatable, funny, and fresh. The Doughnuts might not be fresh by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. But that remains to be seen.

The Doughnuts also has over 100 characters, which is also asking a lot from a reader. It might feel like starting a new job where no one is wearing name-tags. Though, personally, that's one of my favorite parts about starting a new job. I find people pretty fascinating. A lot of these characters, of course, are little more than background actors, but a few of them are fully realized, and I love these characters. The extent to which I've come to feel like they're actually people might be considered a little odd, or even disturbing, but we won't dwell on that right now. My immediate problem is: “what to do with The Doughnuts.” Word processing files take up remarkably little space, so that's not a problem. It won't even take up half my sock drawer or anything. But what worries me is the feeling that working this hard and for this long to create something, and then just keeping it to myself—that feels almost wrong in some way. If that makes any sense.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days of making photocopied zines, which I really liked doing and felt was satisfying. I would write for awhile (on a typewriter, back then!) and compile stuff over time, then usually put the actual zine together in the course of a day, then take it to the copy shop. It was satisfying, it was doable, and we all communicated by mail. I don't want to be one of those Good Old Days old dudes, and honestly, having a website (where you're presumably reading this) is kind of a better, current version of making zine, at least for me. Also, I did attempt to write novels back when I used a typewriter, but I don't think they were very good. I don't know if this (The Doughnuts) is any good. I don't know if I'm not a digital game-piece being manipulated by a bored AI presence in a future or long-ago space outpost. Or the overactive imagination of a lonely cockroach.

I guess I haven't solved the problem I set out to, though I didn't really set out to do anything, but write this memo. I'm sure I'm not the only one to think that this pandemic time is so strange and disturbing that I often find myself wondering, “if I was to go totally insane, might it be exactly like this?” Just saying that, though, somehow helps. If you've read this far, that is very kind of you. I hope you maybe got a laugh somewhere. If you're laughing at me, that's okay, too. I'm laughing at myself.

—RR 10.11.20

Lost and Found

After writing about my current feelings about social media, I saw that there was documentary on the subject, but I haven’t watched it yet. I doubt if it will change how I feel—maybe enhance how I feel?—but I’m interested to see if they make any of the points I was making. I’ll watch it someday. Last week or so, I had various technical difficulties—no internet, and such—which forced me to lay off any new entries on this website. The short time away made me look at things a little differently. I had to wonder to what extent I post things because I’m addicted to it. Not so different from social media, after all. Whenever you’re forced to take a break from an addiction, that’s often when you recognize it as an addiction.

So, that made me think. I don’t care for addictions—I’ve had too many, in the past, that were not making my life better. Recently, on this website I removed the “like” button, just because I felt like it was pointless. I also have no “comment” boxes, on purpose. I don’t much care for public comments. I mean, on my social media, it can be nice at times, in that I have so few followers, and the ones who do comment are relatives and friends, usually—so that’s okay. But the vast majority of comments on everything on the internet are garbage. If anyone reading anything on my website really wants to comment on anything, the email address is on the contact page, and a person is free to send me an email.

Anyway, after this forced, short, break I had from posting, I decided that feeling like I had to post something every day, or near that, was pointless. (Maybe in the future, regardless of how much I’m writing, or posting, I’ll just check-in on the News Page once or twice a week.) I’m not sure anyone is reading any of this, at all. It’s okay if no one is—it’s for me, more than anything—but still, it’s important to me to have this writing in a public place. I don’t need to know what people think about it, if they “like” it or not, or even if they are reading, or who is reading. I do suspect that I have one reader, someone out there (it’s you, after all, reading this, now!)—and one is enough. I am only one person, ultimately. I read a number of blogs and websites on the internet regularly, and I don’t feel the need to comment on them or otherwise let the author know that I’m reading their writing. But it’s pretty important to me, the stuff that I can read on the internet. It’s funny—we used to read it in newspapers, and magazines—and I still do, to some extent. I just read more on websites now, and I think that’s a good thing—in that I’m able to focus my reading toward my pretty esoteric interests. And the fact that I can potentially be part of that, here, if even for one reader, I feel like that’s okay.

—RR 9.25.20

Whatever Happened to…?

There have been plenty of articles circulating (more than usual, lately?) about the benefits of quitting social media (SM), and I’m not going to get into if I agree or not, or even how I feel about it at this point. Everyone has to decide for themselves. I will admit that I’ve been increasingly unhappy with SM, but I’m still “on” various sites (see the little icons atop this website). I’m afraid of totally isolating myself (being currently physically isolated), and I want to use SM to make people aware of my novel, when it’s finished. But just recently, due to technical problems with my handheld device (smartphone) and wi-fi, etc., that I won’t go into, I’ve been forced to lay off the more phone-based sites (while already having been avoiding the PC-based ones). While at first experiencing dread and anxiety (coupled with tech rage), I very quickly started to notice that the less time looking at social media sites, the better I felt.

Then… I started on a little project (as one who has seen precisely four friends in person in the last six months will naturally do) of making a list of all the people I know. I’m talking about people who I would feel comfortable sending a letter or email—not necessarily a phone call, text, or coffee date—and not people who I’ve worked with, or otherwise crossed paths with, who I don’t necessarily consider “friends”—as lovely as they are as human beings. To make this list, I used my email contacts, phone contacts, social media contacts, and even the old card file I maintained in the days before email. The list got to be quite big. Most of these people I’ve been seriously out of touch with. With some of them, I used to exchange zines and long letters through the mail. Some were old roommates, bandmates, collaborators. As thorough as I was about compiling this list, I’m sure some people have fallen through the cracks. I’ll make it an ongoing project to keep updating it.

The thing I realized by having this long, physical list of names (and thus memories, and portals to memories) is that over time, we’ve undergone a shifting landscape of that part of our reality. I mean, it would be a natural thing, anyway, if you moved around a bit—different cities, different friends, to some degree. But the thing that really stuck me, that seems obvious, but maybe isn’t, is what social media effectively does is make people who aren’t on that particular social media effectively disappear. I mean, aggressively so. It doesn’t kill people and allow us to visit their memorials. It erases all traces of people, including your memory of them.

I realize that is both obvious and a bit hyperbolic, but here’s an example. Not to pick on any one site, I’ll make up a fictional one—let’s call it Identity Guerilla (IG for short). Let’s say you can only make IG function on your handheld device (smartphone). First of all, some people never got on board, either being loyal to, or already fed up with, a previous social media giant. Some people may not have a handheld device, or don’t want to spend the money to soup up their operating systems. But then, there are the people who were on IG, formerly—maybe you used to see them there every day, posting their lunch, or good times, or important message, or a different way to look at something. Then one day, with no announcement, they were gone. For whatever reason. IG doesn’t say: “Where is X? Are they okay? Maybe you should send them a handwritten, perfumed note! Or give them a call.” IG doesn’t even say “fuck that guy”—it’s worse than that. IG says: “They don’t exist. They never existed.”

I thought about this while compiling the names on my big list of people I used to know. I suddenly realized, hey, I used to see her on IG all the time. But no more. I used to “like” his posts, and he “liked” mine. But I have no idea exactly when and why they disappeared. Of course, it could be because IG now “curates” my “feed”—"for a better user experience.” Maybe it was IG who decided we shouldn’t be as close, anymore. Or maybe X just decided to move to Y, and leave no forwarding message. IG has no provision for forwarding messages.

It’s kind of like those old movies or books where there were social groups, and maybe everyone even had nicknames (not necessarily preceded by “@”). And there would always be this one person, who was maybe the most charismatic or rich or good-looking, who was the leader. And then he/she would ultimately tell people in the group who they could or could not be friends with, including members of other groups. Eventually, some of them would realize that this leader is a bully, a fascist, and there would be a physical confrontation, usually a fistfight. I know, that’s dumb, but we’re talking about movies and TV shows. Fistfights sell cola. In real life, of course, people just disappear. And if you don’t take it upon yourself to remember them, corporations aren’t going to help you, because there’s no money in it. We’re on our own—no penalty, no rewards. I guess that’s when we find out who we are.

—RR 9.15.20

Memo Challenge

Rather than writing a “memo” here about three times a year, which is pretty pathetic, I'm going to try to post something more often—and keep them short. For as long as I can remember I have spent some time, usually on weekends, sitting at the counter of a diner, writing in a notebook. Over breakfast, most likely. Haven't been doing that lately. Also, I haven't, except on rare occasions, been talking to anyone, and no one emails, anymore; one person, only, has written me letters; and I can't text. I mean, I can't type on that tiny keyboard, so I speak texts, which my phone then translates into something barely coherent. Sure, I am officially “on” multiple forms of social media, but I'm also unofficially through with them all. SO, in the event that anyone wants to know what's up with me, check back here, to the Memo page from time to time. Or ignore it—that's okay, too. But who knows, it might get interesting, or personal, or embarrassing, or funny. But mostly, probably, goofy. And that's okay, I hope.

RR 8.6.20

Melody Hill

AS I TYPE THIS I feel like my skin might melt off my rotting bones at any moment, and that's because I picked this time (now) to try to quit eating sugar. Seeing how writing that sentence, alone, was like climbing over a stone wall with glass shards on top, maybe this isn't the best time to try to write a “memo.” Or maybe it's a GOOD time to. Maybe I'll be concise. That's one of my latest goals or resolutions, or what have you—besides not eating sugar—is to be more concise—kind of going against my natural inclination to go on and on and on. Seeing how writing that, above, took me the entire evening, and now it's the next morning, makes me want to get this over quick. I feel a little better, except for that I hurt all over, but in no place in particular. Anyway, I may have had no (zero) readers of the “Memoir” section of this website, and I kind of let it die off like a New Year's Resolution “to be good”—and I realize I could just say goodbye. But while I still have a few labored breaths yet to breathe, I'm going to continue it, if not for that one reader who might be out there (even if that's a future or imaginary reader), then for me.

In fact, I'm adding to it, a new memoir page. So, first of all, if this isn't obvious, none of this is actually memoir, as in its strictest definition. Maybe I will actually do that kind of thing, some day, but probably not. First, there's The Golden Pineapple, which is not a memoir, but “a novel by R. Speen”—which is to say, it's either a novel in memoir style, or a memoir in novel style—and R. Speen may be me—and it may or may not be worth reading (I haven't, in awhile), and I may or may not continue it at some point, but don't hold your breath. Next, there is the “Memoir” page, which is where I'm typing up my old journal entries from notebooks (starting in 1972) in roughly chronological order. Currently, I'm up to 1981, during a period where I didn't seem to write in (or save) any notebooks, but rather type on a communal typewriter in the Garbage Inc. record store. I'm re-typing some of those entries (not all), including some by other people, including Keith Busch, who was a big influence on me. I'll get back to the actual notebooks come 1982, no doubt, as I spent a lot of introspection time that year freaking the fuck out. It should be fun to read, especially if you want to laugh at a 22-year-old with no clue—just an ink pen and the luck to survive.

The next destination of note is “Notebook Journals” which is actually just a page to link to a separate website, one of my old, long-running “blogs,” where I first started to re-type old notebook pages written in around 1996, onward. There, I'm currently up to 1998, when I lived in Portland, Oregon and things, journal-wise, really started to heat up—maybe a little too much. The next page, then, is called “No Memory” and was meant to be my current notebook entries—well, starting in 2016, anyway, which is no longer current (or too current, depending on how you look at it). Anyway, this will be the chronological journal from 2016 to the beginning of 2020, which I'll attempt to slog through, with some difficulty, because my handwriting got worse, the words got wordier, and the midlife reached crisis level. It sounds grim, but who knows, it might be funny. If I can laugh at myself, perhaps a hapless reader could, as well—though you might just want to tell me to shut up and die.

And if that's not enough—if you haven't yet, imaginary reader of one, please check out the new Taco page, where I'm trying to write something about every place selling remotely Mexican food in the greater Milwaukee area, one week at a time, in a not very comprehensive but hopefully entertaining paragraph and listing. Trying to make my “Taco Tuesday” more than a dumb hashtag. Also—seeing how February is almost upon us, I like to celebrate that snowy month as “Farraginous February”—writing on another external site, DJ Farraginous, where I'm attempting to write short bits, or at length (sometimes), about all the vinyl records I own—which is a motley bunch, believe me, that keeps growing. This year I'm going to either listen to and start writing about, and/or post an entry on each day of this short yet long month—though we'll see how this sugar withdrawal thing plays out...

And though that's more than enough, this is where I'm either announcing an exciting new project, or finally confessing to a kind of pathetic, boring insanity (take your pick, but please, don't tell me—let me at least try to keep afloat on my own weird idea of fun). Yes, a new page, a new memoir, which will be starting with the alarmingly contemporary date of my birthday, January 19, in the year we are now struggling to grasp the significance of, 2020. (And seeing how my first notebook entry, on that date, went about nine pages, “concise” might just be a pipe-dream.) At any rate, if you check back here in the coming months, or weeks, you will see it magically appear—titled “Sexagenarian Diary”—a title that may be at once provocative and very unprovocative. Maybe I'll even present the clickable page heading as “Sex Diary”—both as a kind of joke, and because, I've heard, “sex sells.” Though I don't have anything to sell, at least not until I finish my novel, The Doughnuts, which I'm still working on—but let me tell you, with age, a full-time job that is NOT going great, and a fairly long manuscript to be revised, it's not easy. Nothing is easy for me, but then nothing is easy for most people, maybe all people, and probably most things are a lot easier for me than for most people, and to be anything but thankful for my life would be just pretty offense. Most of the time, like when I'm not in the throes of this dumb sugar withdrawal, I feel really, honestly, pretty fortunate. So it's about time for a spellcheck, then overdo the italics, and then it's showtime, folks!

Randy Russell, 30 January 2020

Clovering

It's not every day you get to make up a word, and I think I made up this one: “clovering”—I don't think it's a word. It is now. Earlier, I was looking up the different versions of Kurt Weill's “September Song” (so many great renditions of that song, often with widely varying lyrics), and I saw this one version on a website that included the line, “Will the clovering last 'til you reach September?” I thought, that's beautiful—but now I'm not sure it's not a typo! Earlier in the song there's something about a “clover ring”—which is what? A ring with a jewelry rendition of a clover, given for good luck? Or the childhood thing of making a very temporary ring by twisting together clover? Either way, clover is a symbol of luck, four leaf clover more so (I have a four leaf clover that my grandfather gave me taped the the headstock of my acoustic guitar). Anyway, later in the song, I'm wondering if “covering” isn't supposed to be “clover ring” again—or did Kurt Weill make up the word clovering—I guess it's something I can research further, or maybe someone can tell me. Either way, I'm going to consider it a word, now, meaning a covering of clover, to protect the ground, to nourish the bees, and wide open for metaphor. My dictionary (I love using a real, physical one) says In The Clover means “in pleasant circumstances.” Of course, down the page, the next world after clover and its various forms is clown.

I'm writing this memo today because I haven't written one all summer, and now it's fall, today being the autumnal equinox, and probably the occasion of me writing something or other every year. Also, I'm making some changes on this website. In my life there are few changes—I'm still working in a full time job and still working on a full time novel and still suffering from song writing writer's block. But my new ambitious positive project for fall is to try to get back to writing about food, and this time, specifically, try to get back to writing about establishments serving Mexican related food. Or, if you will, for short, tacos.

I realize that returning to a project that once was, but failed, often is folly, but I'm still going to try. So to complete this memo today, I'm going to reprint the introduction to this new project, below, and then later post it on the new Taco page, which is under the subject tab called LUNCH (which refers to food in all its forms). Happy next season to everyone, moving on or not, with hopes that prosperity in some form is clovering your world.

Randy Russell, 23 September 2019

Taco Introduction

A few years back a friend suggested we try to eat at all the Mexican restaurants in Milwaukee, and while that project fell by the wayside, or never really became a project, I got excited about the idea and never could let it go, even though I'm far from the person for the job. I am not an expert, not a foodie, not Mexican, don't even speak Spanish, not a Milwaukee native, I'm a poor researcher, a worse organizer, have no funding, no car, half an appetite, and as a Celiac, I can't even get to the bottom of any cuisine, except for gluten-free cuisine. Yet, I'm still really excited about the idea, so is there a point at which enthusiasm can make up for all the other shortcomings? Personally, I think so—I'm consistently enamored with stuff that has a big heart, even when it fails on other levels. Or sometimes because it fails, or when it fails because its heart so large it sinks it like a cargo of sentimental rocks.

My favorite Mexican restaurant in Milwaukee was a little place in a smaller shopping plaza called The Happy Chicken, over on Greenfield across from the Blue Kangaroo. (I also just love saying “across from the Blue Kangaroo!”) I only ate there a few times, and it was subtly magical, but it's long gone now. But that's the memory that I'm after—not to replicate it, of course, but to find another place that has so much good going on you almost can't believe it's true. Of course, a place doesn't have to achieve mythical status to be great, and I love places that are just good, and I love the not so good ones even, because there's always something fascinating about a food-making establishment on some level. Two nice things about Mexican food—one is that at its very worst it's still usually delicious, and also cheap, and it's also one of the world cuisines that is naturally gluten-free in a lot of its forms: tacos with corn tortillas, corn, rice, beans, and most of the meat preparations just bypass wheat altogether. Burritos, no, but oh, well, I didn't ask for this genetic dietary disposition, I'm just dealing with it best I can. Anyway, at one point I did set out to visit and taste all of Milwaukee's Mexican food, and I very much failed on every level. Well, I ate a lot, wrote a few things, but eventually the writing part just fell by the wayside. So this is a new beginning, and even though I realize all of the shortcomings I listed, I'm once again excited about trying again.

As with any kind of project like this, part of the fun, and definitely a necessity, is creating a kind of declaration of principals—along with parameters, rules, boundaries, and borders—all those things that will soon be broken, crossed, and revised. My first idea is to not be too ambitious in what I try to cover—that is, each time I visit a place to write about, don't try to do a comprehensive thing, but rather just write about a single aspect or experience, something about the visit or the meal, one paragraph, two or three hundred words. Then, if I visit the place again, I can write about more. The next part of that is to go right home and write about it, and post it that day or the next. That's the best way to write about anything, but easier said than done, sometimes. We shall see! And then, the final defining thing at this point is: What I'm covering—and I'm making this the widest possible definition of “Mexican” food, which is any place that serves tacos or otherwise Mexican influenced food, whether or not it's a Mexican restaurant, and regardless of any degree of authenticity. Also, I'm going to include everything from small solo restaurants to large chains, and also bars, coffee shops, grocery stores, and food carts and trucks. Maybe even the next door neighbor who happens to be running an illegal taco franchise out of their kitchenette.

May(be) Not Memo

Like I said before, May is always the shortest month, which is I guess why they didn't even give it a full name. Just out of protest, I'm going to, from now on, insist on always calling it by its complete name: “May You Stay Forever Young.” So, yeah, I'm extending Memoir May through the entire summer, or maybe the rest of the year, which means nothing, really, if I don't sit down and type some stuff. And who can blame me, on any given day, if instead of sweating over a keyboard and a tattered, nearly illegible, 37 year old text—I go to the beach? But wait! All of this might be a moot point (expression I never use) because I have decided to dedicate my life (or at least my free time) to my newest passion: Board Games! Well, it's not that new, and more of an obsession than a passion, and not games plural, just one: Clue. That was the one game me, my mom, and my brother would play every Thanksgiving, and while I feel that the Brandy Alexanders were an integral part of the charm, I'm still drawn to that memory. But recently, while haunting Board Game Barrister (it's a local store), it came to my attention that there are now ALL THESE ridiculous versions of the Clue game—and I'm appalled! Okay, I can live with the Harry Potter one, and the Scooby-Doo one, but Star Wars? That doesn't even make sense! And Bob's Burgers? Golden Girls, okay, but Five Nights at Freddy's? (I don't even know what that is.) And Game of Thrones Clue?? They've gone too far! You think I'm making this up, but look on the internet or at your local kind of creepy gamers' hangout. I mean, what's next? Kardashian Clue? Manson Family Clue? Trump White House Clue?

Enough is enough, and that's why I've decided to make my own Clue game, but not license any tired franchise, and not even call it Clue (because they will sue my ass)—so it's a similar game, but I'm going to give mine an entirely new name and a new twist, and I don't even think it will be about a murder, because, okay, this is just me, but I don't find murder particularly a hoot. I'm not sure what my version will be, yet, but I think it will be in an old house, because that's my favorite part about Clue, but my house is going to have maybe two floors, and a basement and an attic! Up and down front stairs, back stairs, up the secret passage ladder, and down the clothes chute! I always wanted more rooms, more geographical complexity, and a longer game. It will be much more complex, yet more family oriented with the omission of the life shattering heinous crime. Though, I suppose I have to have some kind of transgression—to make it interesting... not sure yet. Maybe someone borrowed the vacuum cleaner, or stole the last slice of pizza. We'll see, but anyway, this is what I'm going to dedicate my time to, so if you miss me reviewing all those coffee shops that aren't in your town, and soap you don't care to try, and records you've never heard, put it in writing (RandySRussell at gmail), and if no one does, I'll know I'm in the clear tackle Monopoly next.

Randy Russell, 28 May 2019