Sobriety Anniversary (XXXI)

I had my vacation (from work) last week, and time slowed down. What I mean is, it seemed like a much, much longer week than an average work week—kind of a weird phenomenon—the exact opposite of what you’d think. I don’t understand it. If I didn’t visit you—well, I didn’t visit anyone. No money. Also, it was my “sobriety anniversary” (October 15)—31 years. Since that’s not a multiple of 10, I didn’t get a confetti cake or anything. What I did do was pick up a bottle of bourbon in the grocery story—I mean, in my hand, and feel the liquid in the glass bottle. Most brands (of bourbon) still exist, and they don’t change the labels, and thus retain a potential connection to the past. But is it? I realize that is just an illusion, but still, I’m about as close to going back to drinking as I ever was. It’s always possible (well, I don’t know about after death—I’ll let you know). So, it occurred to me that it’s time to finally get serious about not drinking. I’m going to stop visiting the liquor section at Metro Market every time I’m annoyed with them not having shopping baskets, or the one item I went to the store to buy (i.e., all the time). I’m going to stop visiting bars and taverns, 100%, no exceptions—even when I have a crush on the ID checker, bartender, or person singing on stage. But am I going to stop writing about drinking, in a fictional context, I mean? Well, I may not stop doing that, but I’m going to take it very, very seriously.

—Randy Russell 10.20.24

Packers

ROUGH times lately—and it’s my favorite time of year! Well, it still seems like the summer is never going to be over—can’t sleep at night—which probably exacerbates… but look, I’m not going to sit here and complain about minor health problems… when people all around me have major ones. Interesting—while waiting for the pharmacy to open this morning (down to the last pill!) I stopped in the liquor department and found myself holding a fifth of Evan Williams bourbon for a lot longer than I’ve held a cat, a baby, or an ailing bird, lately—it used to be my brand—and this is probably not a good sign—but then later today, I realized the Green Bay Packers have a player named Evan Williams—roughly my size, young enough to be my great-grand-son—so best of luck to him!

My real sob story lately requires a bit of a setup—about two years ago I got the idea that I’d write a mystery series! Because I like to read mystery series books, and I thought I’d try my spin on the form, for fun (much more that than any delusions that it might become immensely popular—and seeing how my take on the thing is a little weird… sure). I figured I might use a pen name (just for fun) or not, and I’d see, after one episode, if I’d have enthusiasm for more. Also, keep them short, and don’t be such a perfectionist! SO, the good news is I finished the first installment, and I did keep it short—but I couldn’t help it, I still had to do several revisions, re-writes, false starts, big changes, etc.… until I was finally happy with it. But I am—and am excited for people to read it. The other thing is, I thought I might use Amazon’s eBook and print-on-demand platform—since it’s “free” to use—and I can’t afford to print another book right now. The last four books I completed I self-published using the same company (Book Baby) who did a good job and were easy to work with, but… well, considering what they provide, book design, distribution, printing, etc. are—I think— fairly priced—but I’m not making enough money, working, lately, you know… Lately, I can’t even afford to do my favorite thing in the world, go out to breakfast, much less travel, party, or print books!

But when I tried to upload, format, download, design, what-have-you this book on the Amazon thing, I just couldn’t do it. Kind of weird in that I did actually do it with kindle books in the past—and it’s supposed to be a thing any idiot can do. But apparently, I’m not just any idiot—I have become an exceptional idiot… I guess. Can’t do it. Which, I’ve got to say, turned this day into the worst day of 2024, for me, so far, just from a futility standpoint. It probably didn’t help that when I took a break and a walk, I listened to a podcast about book publishing, and it was grim. I don’t want to pick on anyone, so I’ll just call this podcast: “The Last Podcast” (as in the last one you listen to before, you know…) Wrong Choice. So, then, I was trying to use the vending machines in the laundry room (for potato chips), but after the machine took my dollar, I had to try to scan the refund code and go to a website and fill out a refund form… and after 20 minutes of that, I had to give up on that, too! It all kind of recalled that Bukowski poem… which I can’t remember the name of right now, which is probably good, or at least… okay.

Maybe it’s all a sign, I thought, that I should finally give up on this “novel” writing game and just enjoy the end of my life! The thing is, there is nothing I enjoy doing more than writing these longer form fiction things (longer form than when I was younger and wrote serial fiction in zines which was at least manageable, and thus, satisfying). You can call them “novels” and I like that word—even though this new one (the first installment of the series) is technically “novella” length—which I think some people might like (shorter, I mean). I suppose I could just write stuff… and go onto what’s next… and not worry that when I die it’ll probably all go in the same dumpster as my “art” and letters and unrecorded songs and endless photographs.

But these longer form things, writing them, is really what keeps me going. Right now, I have four finished books (well, finished to “the end”—but in various stages of revision)—and they’re what I think about when I go to sleep at night—I mean, solving story problems, not tech-y problems—that’s how I’m able to sleep. You work on story problems in your dreams. Also… it’s how I can get up in the morning—for the two hours I have for writing before going to my job. So I won’t say I have to have these novels to work on—but I will say, I really, really want to. I don’t think I’m going to take up shuffleboard just yet. And as much as the endless re-writing, revisions, copy editing, and proofreading is seemingly endless sometimes, and even feels like slog-work at times, it’s still part of it—to get to the finished thing. Just writing first drafts and putting them aside strikes me as kind of depressing.

Oh, well, again, there are people with much worse problems. And I will have much worse problems, I’m afraid, and sooner than I want. But at least I can write about this stuff here (“Memo page”) where no one will read it—and not bother friends with my sad-sack complaining (who soon would no longer be friends, because who can put up with it?) —while watching the Packers game, which I’m doing now—and they just won! Just barely! (If life was like football, with the endless fucking official reviews, I don’t think I could take it!) Also of note, I put a good luck charm on Evan Williams by writing this (above)—and he just (minutes ago) was in on the game’s final, decisive, defensive play. You can’t make this kind of stuff up. It’s why I endure sports. You don’t have to, but you’re welcome to thank me, Packers fans.

—Randy Russell 10.6.24

Migraine

IT WAS INTERESTING, I had a migraine this weekend, Saturday, one where I didn’t really have a headache—but just felt irritable and depressed and distracted. Since I didn’t imagine it was a migraine, I didn’t take one of the prescription migraine pills until later—but once I did, it worked—and the rest of the day was productive. I don’t understand how those pills work, and I don’t understand migraines—still haven’t read that Oliver Sacks book. This malady set me back, yesterday, because I wanted to finish editing my new story, a mystery adventure that I am intending to be the first book of a book series. I thought it would be fun to write some detective mysteries and try to make a series. This depends on not getting tired of writing them after the first one, or so—so we’ll see. I like the first episode a lot. It’s relatively short—what is probably a “novella” length, technically—though I’m just calling it a series book mystery. Twenty chapters. I like the characters. The only problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to publish it. I am thinking of trying the Amazon print on demand thing—to make a kindle book and, also, hopefully, print paperbacks. I cannot afford to use the book printing service I used in the past (partly because I’m planning on doing a book that way next year, and that’s my limited budget). I’ll do my best to publish it in some way, and to make some copies affordable and available for people—I want people to read it!

—Randy Russell 9.29.24

Sunday Memo – Autumn Equinox

SO MUCH FOR the memos—and this failed page, which has fallen by the wayside. Well, the previous entry, courtesy R. Speen, is… if you can understand it, let me know. And before that… the less said the better. It’s always nice to have a fresh start, and the Autumn Equinox is as good a time as any. Since I haven’ t been going to breakfast by myself as often as I used to (money) I don’t write as many journal entries (physical, paper, notebook, pen) as I used to, because breakfast by myself is usually when I’d write. So why not here, every Sunday? Well, I’ve got to get an earlier start, because by now (9 p.m.) I’m too tired. Too tired, even, to complain about this and that, so maybe that’s good. Maybe I can talk about what’s up, what’s new, what’s to look forward to. But not right now. Right now all I can think about it how long until coffee time.

—Randy Russell 9.22.24

Last Chance at the Open Mic

A SEEMINGLY ENDLESS dream set me on this crazy path, which I’ll now describe, but first, it might be useful to recount the dream. After scraping out the last of the overpriced hummus from its plastic grocery store container, I struggled to clean the container to a pristine elegance. And then, in fact (dream logic) recreate the empty hummus container—not a drawing, but the actual container. Upon waking, I tried to dismiss this nonsense, but I was compelled, nonetheless, to take a bus to a local musical instrument store (the only one accessible by bus after he recent reduction of bus lines) and purchase an acoustic guitar—quite against my better (financial) judgment. Alas, I have been working on a story (admittedly, a novel) where the protagonist is writing a new, pandemic inspired love song and vows to play at the local open mic, when it reopens. Even though we no longer have an open mic along our drastically reduced bus lines, I have made the same vow, and thus opted for the fine guitar I can’t afford (a 1970s, Japanese, “Will Travis Signature” Alvarez acoustic) in order to give me a fighting chance at success. I was able to charge the purchase on my (relatively) new Burj Khalifa Onyx credit card which recently offered me a promotional 0% interest rate for six months, after which it will revert to “variable market equivalent rate”—which is a polite way of saying, “like the deal you get from a loan shark.” Six months is no-time-at-all—so I feel an urgency to write, rehearse, record, and start making money with those songs. I put the BK Onyx card back in its cedar shipping box once the purchase was made—it’s an elegant, black card, chip-enabled, of course, but fashioned from the world’s hardest substance (the material’s name escapes me) so the card feels like metal but is actually an indestructible glass-like stone. I needed to remove all my other cards (except for bus card) from my wallet so that it would fit, and even then, it made my wallet feel like I had a half pound slab of aged cheddar in my back pocket. So, anyway, I’ll have to pay off the guitar before using the card again. Once home, I inspected the instrument, which, except for a few well repaired “anger dents” in the wooden body (I wish I was able to identify wood types) is in fine shape. It also included a “hard shell” case, which sweetened the deal, especially as I’ve heard stories of people ripping out the linings of secondhand guitar cases to find caches of cash hidden there. (Apparently, a popular hiding place for musicians to skirt the the IRS—but then passing away without having alerted the heirs to the treasure within—the instrument is sold off with no one the wiser.) I had no reason to expect that… in “this case.” And I didn’t want to ruin the fine fuzzy interior or faux-leather exterior by exploring it—but I did doublecheck that little compartment that you find in most guitar cases right under the support for the neck. People usually keep things in there—like strings, picks, slides, tuners, mojos—what have you—so they tell me. Anyway, this one was well cleaned out, no doubt by the music store, and empty—but upon closer examination I found that there was a false bottom in the compartment which revealed a shallow hidden hollow just big enough for a glassine envelope filled with approximately one ounce of white powder. I’m not sure if the envelope was actually “glassine”—I don’t know what that is. It was probably more accurately a “plastic bag.” What was the white powder? Not labeled. I’ve seen guys, in movies, dip a finger in the white powder and taste it—I guess to see if it’s cocaine, or heroin—but how do they know? If it’s, say, coke, does it make you whistle zip-a-di-do-da? I’d be able to detect powdered sugar, or baking soda, or Johnson’s Baby Powder—but not any kind of drugs. And what if it was rat poison, do you want to be tasting that? I considered that I should go to the police—but no one in books or movies ever does that. So my solution was to go to the pharmacy and, claiming I was a diabetic, pick up a supply of syringes. Then I heated the white powder in a very large spoon (actually, a stainless-steel ladle) over my gas stove burner, until it turned into a clear liquid. Then I injected it, syringe after syringe, into the vein in my left arm. I’ve seen all this in movies—so it was surprisingly second nature. Now here… I have to interject. Kids (of all ages) don’t do this! It will probably kill you—regardless of what the substance is! Me? How did it make me feel? I don’t know—and I was able to get away with such a stupid move because, just at that moment… I woke up. It seems the acoustic guitar dream was just an extension of the hummus container dream. But definitely a much better dream. The End.

—R. Speen 9.19.24

Give a Guy a Deadline!

Way to spooring the assignat on me—my seemed detours at rspeen.com—I won’t name names, out of decorum—and not wanting to get my ass canned! Kenneth Oates, here, buy the tweaky—yore (not quiet) foreign correspondent. Scab I say that? Well, anyway, here I am, back on the payroll, for the time being at least—that is if I can get this current blog entree jinn by the dateline imposed on my by these spleenish taskmasters! First of all, where have I been? (They wanted me to include an introduction with my sad stories of woe, regarding the last spherical months—I guess it’s been-personally I’ve kind of lost track of time! Well, seeing how my assumingly is to keep exploring midsized towns in various ructions of the Unknitted States—kind of a scouting trip for my boss (additory) to help him devised where he wants to eventually move—I was heading up to Watertown, New York, which I got calls back home—my parents adornment against me forcovering several years of undergraduate study just to drop out and attempt a wayworn careers as a drunken journalist! So, yeeha, it was back to school for apiole, my not yet ama matter—Wayne State College in Wayne, Nebraska—where I was able to take egoist accelerated courser in order to finish my year’s courses of stocky with jolly a wick after spring breach. Well, whirl the other kids went to places like Ft. Ladarrell and the Ozarks, I was alba to user that amply library nod burn the midnight oil and so forth. So, besides taking a few exams by mail, I’m done for the academic percoid and have until next fall to get on with my joinability careener, and really explore some towns that I’ve never benne to beers in depth! Zahnd hop felly write about them in an egging and intel light way! Knegt stop is, oxlike I sadism Watertown. Alsop I got my car repapered—welly not really. I shad to junk it, but I got a new (hoarsely depend ale) vehicle, and hopefully it be more mechanical free! But more on that lager!

—Kenneth Oates 4.28.24

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