Send in the Clowns

Because it's Sunday, and the last day of October (hello, winter!) I'm going to offer a quick 500 words on politics and religion. I realize there is still another day left in this month, but who made the rule that when Halloween falls on a Monday we therefore must dress in costumes for the entire month of October? Not that I'm complaining about that; I would love it if we dressed in costumes for the entire year, as long as I'm not required to participate. Honestly, it's been all downhill for me after the Halloween my mom crafted me a robot costume out of paper shopping bags spray-painted silver—but as an adult, once, I did sport an inspired costume (I was an ermine dish washer who kept spouting “I won't give up my gin until they pry it from my cold dead hands!”) which not so coincidentally was the wakeup call for me to quit drinking (though my last taste of alcohol didn't come until much later, when I accidentally ingested some flat, brown beer I had thought was iced tea at a lunch buffet in Tampere, Finland in 2001).

We have determined that blogging is out and podcasting's days are numbered, and virtual reality dinner parties are still (at least until holiday shopping season, starting Tuesday) only available to the well-heeled, so I'm going to just give up trying to be anything but a dinosaur (not a Brontosaurus, since they were faked—oh, now they're back!—who can keep up? It's like Pluto. There's an idea for a computer-animated movie, Pluto the Brontosaurus—oh, there is one already? Sorry). But I won't give up my pen until they pry it from my cold dead hands. No one has to read this—I'm not quizzing people at dinner parties. The thing that occurred to me recently is that blog entries can often be insufferable because they can be like someone standing at the dreaded lectern (and the PowerPoint assist is just that much worse), except with the blog version the audience doesn't have to act like they're listening. There was a scene in a children's book (can't remember which one!) where someone is allowed to speak for as long as they can stand on one foot, which I think is a good rule (metaphorically only, of course, due to the Americans with Disabilities Act).

The only time I've been in an actual fight is when someone wanted to take my parentheses away. The parenthetical in conversations and interviews can often be the hidden treasure. I was thinking about how I prefer podcasts consisting of two people talking (and even though there are some good ones with one person monologuing, I tend to avoid those). Three or more people (especially when fueled by coffee, cocaine, and the giggles) can get pretty annoying. I also vastly prefer a conversation in an intimate setting, as opposed to those performed on a stage in front of an audience. I'm not sure why, but it's probably because I vastly prefer human interaction as a one on one enterprise, as opposed to a bunch of humans watching a smaller bunch (or one) on a stage (regardless of whether I'm in the audience or on the stage). Small groups really depend on the people involved (if at the virtual reality dinner party you can heave a plate of spaghetti into the face of someone “holding forth”—I'm in). But it's not just the “pay attention to me” thing—people in the act of just milling around also bug me. Since I've written songs, I've had this conflict in my heart. It's OK with me if other people want to amplify, synthesize, and employ accompaniment—but would it be possible (given how the old models are shattered and recast constantly, now) for one person to communicate songs to one person at a time? (Oh, right, that's called sex. Forget I mentioned it.)

September of My Years

I guess Sinatra recordings make good titles for blog entries; I just went for several years without being able to listen to him at all (I am like that with a lot of artists, I have to take years at a time off from a lot of my favorite music), but lately I have been listening to Frank Sinatra. He put out his 1965 album September of My Years when he turned 50, no doubt inspired by a sudden influx of AARP junk mail. Thrust into the job market, as I've recently found myself, I just checked out of the library the most depressing book I previously had no idea existed: Getting the Job You Want After 50 for Dummies. If that sounds like a joke, look it up; it's an AARP publication, and the graphic design alone is enough to make one not get out of bed for a month. Maybe it will be helpful, though—I haven't started reading it yet. Instead I got caught up in the whole, which is better, “For Dummies” or “Idiot's Guide” series debate, which inspired me to speculate on starting my own book series, something like the “For Total Fucking Morons” series (and at least I'd hire a graphic designer that doesn't make you want to go straight for the hard liquor). But of course that inspiration was followed by remembering that NOW, any idea you have, no matter how specific, it has already been put into development by someone else— and these kinds of thoughts, spiraling downward, are enough to make me want to climb under the covers for a month with the hard liquor.

Fortunately I don't have any hard liquor (or a bed, for that matter) and fortunately I have this blog (or journal)! The thing I've learned about these things (blogs/journals) is that if I do the wise thing, like write something and put it aside, then go back to it a little later, I'll be struck by how pretentious and insufferable it is and throw it away. So what I've learned to do is check it for spelling and typos, of course, but then immediately publish it and NEVER GO BACK AND READ IT. You, the reader, then, can laugh with me or laugh at me (or not read it)—it's entirely up to you! One interesting (to me, and maybe only to me) thing I've been doing is going back to my old notebooks (some are way old, like starting when I was 12) and re-typing the journal entries and then posting them in the “Memoir” section of this website. I've made it a little confusing, deliberately, because I'm kind of queasy about this whole venture (because these journals are sometimes very boring, and sometimes extremely embarrassing). In the “Memoir” section I am chronologically recording the oldest journals, and then on another site (called “Notebook Journals”) I'm including more contemporary journals (where the writing is a little more mature, but the proximity a little more uncomfortable).

One interesting journal I just typed (not sure if I posted yet, but maybe, or soon) was an entry from when I was maybe 16 or 17 and a couple of friends and I went on an early morning bike ride downtown (really early, like 3 AM, so actually still nighttime). We did a lot of exploring, took pictures, etc. but then also witnessed what we thought was a drug deal, after which someone in a car followed us, either to harass us or scare us, or who knows. I don't remember if I wrote about this at the time, or just thought about it (and talked about it to my friends) but when we set out on our adventure that morning, we considered taking along a handgun “for protection” but decided against it. And later, when we found ourselves terrified and hiding from this person in the car, we considered what we would have done if we had had the gun. I remember thinking I might have shot at the person who was harassing us. As it turned out, the person just drove away, nothing came of it, and we never did find out if they were really a menace or just someone goofing around, and the whole “drug deal” thing was just our fabrication—but at that point I told myself “I should NEVER carry a gun.” Not bad advice to myself for a dumb kid (for whom many, many more dumb and much dumber episodes were to come).

As my initial inspiration for this journal entry today is the Autumnal Equinox, I want to share one more thing about the miracle of the seasons (my favorite thing about the Midwest is the nature of the seasons here, and thunderstorms). It has come to my attention that a lot of adults who should know better think the beginning of autumn is when the candy corn appears on the end caps at grocery stores (as if by magic). I realize that it's confusing; people start back to school (an event which SHOULD mark the beginning of fall) during the month of August, but that is just not consistent with actual seasonal changes. So for future reference I am including a quick and easy (as it corresponds with the months) guide to the seasons, at least as I see them in southern Wisconsin (depending on your particular location, your seasons may vary).

Early Winter – November

Winter – December, January, February, March

Late Winter – April

Spring – May

Summer – June, July, August, September

Autumn – October

Enjoy your last week of Summer, and Happy (short though it may be) Autumn!

Here's To The Losers

At some point I gave up and just used the word “blog” – a word I had avoided using because I think it's an ugly, crude sounding word (I realize it's a shortened version of “web-log” – which also sounds kind of ugly, as well as dated at this point – and do people even know that, anymore?) I preferred to use “online journal” – which is too long, and probably just confuses people. So I eventually conceded to blog, just kind of giving up, but now I'm aware of the disdain people have for the idea of a “blog” anymore – it's a thing whose time is over. I hear people talking about blogs like they're hopelessly outdated jokes, and referring to “bloggers” with disgust. To say that someone is “blogging” is like saying (I'm unable to come up with a suitable metaphor here) they're doing something that's pathetic, no one cares about, is behind the times, uncool, and possibly irresponsible.

But I never did like the word, or self-apply it, so I don't really care if it dies. I'm using the word “memo” here (which is short for memorandum, which is a written note or communication – but a word that is appropriate in the fields of business, law, and politics – so essentially I'm using it wrong, here). (I could possibly endeavor to coin my own word: “memorandom” or “memorandumb”– but that would just confuse people more.) When my friends and I opened a punk record store (Garbage Inc.) in 1981, we began typing a daily, ongoing journal on the store typewriter (anyone there could choose to go sit and type, there was always a piece of paper – usually the back of a flyer – in the machine). We called this the “Garbage Memo” – and I'm not sure, but I think that name came from Keith Busch, as he started it with “Memo:” – and then went into an alcohol fueled, profanity-ridden account of the day. So it's with a bit of nostalgia and fondness for past times and lost friends – as well as a similar disdain for correct usage – that I use the term “Memo” here.

“Podcast” is another word I avoided using for a long time (for one thing, it always bugs me to use brand names, like iPod, or Walkman) (for another, it makes me think of “pod-people” – though, I think the battle against pod-people is a losing, or lost one – we may as well just give up at this point). Some have said that “blogging is out, podcasting is in” – which seems to be the case – but I don't find them mutually exclusive any more than reading an article is the same thing as listening to a radio show – and also this seems incredibly shortsighted, as you can already see the trend of podcasting marching to the cliff of now (it's probably already over the edge, and I'm just behind in mentioning it). I don't know what's next (and it's probably already here and I just don't know about it) – maybe virtual reality dinner parties. Anyway, I avoided podcasts for a long time, but then tried a few, and soon came to be dedicated to many. I used to really look forward to the Fresh Air or Charlie Rose segments with artists (musicians, writers, filmmakers, etc.) which seemed too few and far between. But now, one can easily satisfy several hours a day (if you have a really long commute) on just that kind of subject matter – and you can find even more long form, intelligent, (seemingly) unedited discussions of history, politics, philosophy, and on and on. I guess it really is kind of a golden age for smart, articulate people who like to drink a lot of coffee and talk a lot, and for those of us who want to fill hours of listening without spending a dime, except for a device on which to listen.

For me, listening to people talking leads to reading (further about subjects they are talking about), and reading (current interests, obsessions) leads to more reading, and also more listening to more podcasts. One thing doesn't replace another. Hopefully the virtual reality dinner party won't replace the flesh and blood dinner party (though I can't remember the last time I was invited to a dinner party). For me, writing a blog/journal/diary/memo is something I've always done, and never considered it would replace writing fiction, for me, because I've always loved fiction (reading and writing). You hear people say that fiction is out (it's over, through) and maybe for some people, they have no interest in reading fiction anymore, and that's okay, because it's a personal preference. It does kind of alarm me when I hear that, though – not for careers of fiction writers, or the fiction publishing industry, but for the people who say they no longer read fiction. Part of me feels like they have been led astray, and could, with some guidance, and love, find their way back to an activity which, for me, is more important than any other. For me, I can't imagine a life without reading fiction. (But then, there was a time when I couldn't imagine a life without drinking beer... and I haven't had a beer, now, since 1992.)

The golden age for anything is brief and usually gone before you even have a chance to appreciate it. There is probably someone saying (tweeting, podcasting, broadcasting, micro-casting) right now (or last week/last year) that virtual reality dinner parties are dead. The theatre has been dead for centuries (though depending on what passionate person you talk to, there is nothing more exciting than theatre, right now) – but people find narratives somewhere (because, of course, without narrative, we don't exist). I feel like we live in a highly verbal time (maybe it's just that the coffee has gotten stronger, but maybe it's designer pharmaceuticals) – people are smarter than ever, and they're letting you know it. People are dumber than ever, too. No one reads anymore. But more people are writing more words than ever in history! Here's 1000 more words no one is going to read. Here's to the losers! I was just thinking something – about quiet, silent people – about how “Shutting Up” is a lost art-form – and whatever happened to people just being quiet? Of course, it's not an art-form, and there are plenty of people who do choose to keep their thoughts to themselves. The quiet people have always been here and always will be – they're here right now, holding all of this up – but we don't notice them because they know how to shut the hell up.

Full Moon and Movie Screenplay

The full moon definitely causes insomnia, but maybe more so for me because I have no curtains, and the moon, on certain nights, is shining right in my window down on my face as I try to sleep. When I finally did sleep last night I had a vivid, exhausting dream about writing a movie screenplay, and it was one of those dreams where it really feels like a separate reality and you're just working and working and you feel like you're on to something, and it's exhausting. First of all, I have to apologize to my late cat, Louis, because this misappropriates his story, but I'm sure he'd forgive me (seeing how it's a dream). Second, apologies to Todd Solondz, whose latest movie, Wiener-Dog, I saw two days ago, and which I have obviously misappropriated things from as well, though subconsciously (hey, it's a dream).

A man near the end of his rope is pushed over the edge when he has to take his sick cat to the vet to be euthanized, because he cannot afford the expensive operation that may or may not save the cat's life. After saying goodbye to the cat, he doesn't stick around for the end, but instead, in his bitterness, returns with a time-bomb, which he hides at the vet's office, but set for a time after which he is sure his cat will already be dead. Then the man heads off to a local coffee shop, because by now he is without sleep, exhausted, and just needs coffee. While in the LONG line at the counter, he gets a call from the vet, and they happily explain to him that they decided they love his cat so much (because the cat IS like the sweetest, most friendly and loving cat on Earth) they decided to just go ahead and give him the operation for free, which they have just performed, and it was successful, and now the cat is resting in recovery.

The man, of course, freaks out, and he starts to admit that he set the bomb, and warn them to evacuate, but then realizes his phone has died and he is talking to no one. He gets out of line and starts asking around at the coffee shop, which is full of people working on laptops, if anyone has a charger for his particular phone. Mostly he gets indifference and annoyed stares, but finally a kind old woman produces a charger from her purse. The man then starts hustling around, looking for an outlet, but finds they are all covered with those metal plates they cover outlets with. He then interrupts the line at the counter and asks an employee about the outlets, who explains that they covered them all because they were just being used by homeless people. The man is incredulous, but then remembers to get back to his task. He again starts bustling around the shop, now in a panic, and finally just plugs the phone charger, uninvited, into a USB on the side of the closest person's laptop. The person protests, but the man is so desperate, the person with the laptop allows it.

By now the man is so fatigued, as he still hasn't had coffee, that he falls asleep waiting for his phone to register a charge. When he wakes up, he looks at his phone, which has come back to life, but now the charging cord has somehow become tanged with the mouse cord being used by the person with the laptop. There is a long, kind of slapstick, comic segment while they get the cords untangled. Finally, he calls the vet's office back, but gets no answer. Now he notices some people are gathered around a TV in the coffee shop. There is some breaking news about a terrorist attack: a bomb has gone off at the office of a local veterinarian.

This was as far as I got, but in my dream I decided that it was the end of the first act, and I needed to figure out where the story went from there. Then I woke up. As I slowly regained my awake person senses, the idea, which seemed brilliant in the dream, became gradually less appealing. This is the way ideas in dreams often go, unfortunately. It's also the way screenplays often go, and is one reason I don't try to write them anymore. You come up with a good first act, but then where does it go from there? There are so many good ideas that once they are committed to paper no longer seem like good ideas. So many first acts with nothing to follow.

620 Express

I meant to write about the 620 Express on June 20th for no other reason than the date, but I guess I lacked enthusiasm on that day, or else had too much coffee. Anyway, "620" is the secret code for coffee, if you didn't know that, and it's also the time of day (AM and PM) when I see the time and tell myself, "Time for coffee," and also, "Time to get on with things, or get on with the next thing." I wouldn't blame anyone if they were over it, this endless talk about coffee, and onto more important ideas in their lives, but I'm a simple person and like rehashing the same shit that gives me pleasure. There is really no excuse to write about it, but the good thing is there are NEW PEOPLE all the time (360, 000 born every day!) and each one of them hopefully will get to experience joy for the first time, at some point, and before everything gets old for them everything will presumably first be new.

I read a humorous article recently with the title Maybe Just Don't Drink Coffee about how it's impossible to keep up with the coffee trends, and trying to just causes anxiety, etc., and it's funny while having good points, and ends by throwing its hands in the air and settling for a Diet Coke. Which is actually what a lot of people do. And everyone knows, right, that Diet Coke is Pod People Fuel? Well, now you know. Then I read another article (which I can't find now, but there are TONS of these articles out there) about how we should drink a lighter roast coffee at room temperature and all that. Far from being annoyed by all the reassessments of coffee habits, I am endlessly fascinated, because really, it's no simple thing, a simple cup of coffee, and you can follow your obsession if it amuses you, why not? Every time I stay at someone's house I seem to adopt a new coffee method. Even quitting altogether is sometimes attractive. The biggest single improvement in my life was when I switched to exclusively black coffee, no cream, milk, or sugar (though for awhile I drank hot coffee with butter).

"Speed is just a question of money. How fast can you go?" That's the sign at the auto mechanic in the first Mad Max movie. I think it applies to a lot of things, and of course I'd like to only buy the best quality coffee beans (grown and picked by blissful farmers) and roast it at home, only dark when it makes sense and not to hide inferiority. And then massage it into powder and cold brew it in a NASA vacuum simulator and enjoy it while floating in a sensory deprivation chamber. Most often, though, I don't even measure the grounds I throw in my Mr. Coffee, and then I just try to pound a few cups before I start screaming at car alarms and leaf blowers. Every day should be a miracle, but it doesn't always have to be a symphony. Sometimes it's just nice to know that I'm enjoying my cup of coffee—even if it's kind of crap—more than that guy over there, not because of the coffee, but because of me.

Doughnut Day

There are a billion people in the world (probably more, but we can't even process a number that big) but I only know maybe 100 of them. Still, that's a lot of people, 100. And as it turns out, today was National Doughnut Day, but I didn't find out until way later, and by then it was too late. Of course, as soon as I heard about it I started seeing stuff everywhere, all over the internet, where to get your free doughnut and all that. Which got me thinking, do people really care about the free doughnut? How much do they cost, anyway? Do they not usually buy them, but then do on this day, not because they're free, but because it's an event? Anyway, the thing that got me was that no one told me. Not one of these 100 friends thought, Oh, I should mention that. Doughnut Day. But then I started thinking, Maybe no one mentioned it because I had given them my completed novel, The Doughnuts, and they either haven't read it, or have, and don't like it, and the mention of doughnuts therefore becomes awkward. Best not to even bring up doughnuts! Or maybe they know I'm Gluten Intolerant and can't eat doughnuts anyway, so what's the point?

Forgive Me

I'm still working on this new website. It's been kind of fun, when it's going well. Nothing is all that difficult about it, but of course, for me, I will find difficulty. But for the most part, it's looking pretty good, but some days I just don't want to deal with it. A few things weren't working out and I over-reacted, freaked out, and got a stress-related backache.

What has been most fun has just been trying out some ridiculous stuff, and writing some crazy and dumb shit, not worrying that anyone will see it because I've only shared this with like two people so far. So I figure I can write anything I want to and there will be a chance to edit it or delete it. Then it occurred to me that I might like the whole thing better if I never actually showed it to ANYONE. Which, of course, misses the whole point of having a website.

So I guess I have to start putting this website address here and there, since my old one has gone down, as the hosting expired. I guess the way I should approach things, which is the way I should approach all writing, is to write something in a draft, then come back to it and edit it. It's amazing how often something that seems OK when you write it comes across as ridiculous, foolish, and bad, later on. I thought that maybe the older I got, the less this would happen, but no. I'm just as capable of bad writing as I've always been.

So, I've got to go through and change some stuff NOW, I suppose, because I wrote and posted some pretty lame shit. But I'll fix it. That's OK. I want to try to free myself from constant self-doubt and criticism and just have fun. But I do want to have the option to go back and erase the mistakes I've made when a little TOO goofy. Anyway, the one place that I'm not going to do much editing is in this "Memo" section... because the idea here is that it's like what I might be writing in a notebook in a coffee shop, and so of course may well be boring or insane. So, anyone who might read this, if there is anyone reading it ever, please forgive me.

420

I'm painfully aware of the date, 4/20, and always make a joke about it, and even go on and on sometimes, even though I haven't smoked marijuana since 1989, and am not inclined to return to it any time soon (even then, I wasn't much into it).

Anyway, this is my first observation on this day, which happens to be the day I'm first creating this "blog" or "online journal" for my new website, which I'm working on right now, with quite a lot of impatience and frustration. Not that it's that hard, and in fact seems fairly easy, it's just that there is a lot to it, and I'm generally not fond of spending too much time tinkering around with anything technical, from computers to automobiles to musical compositions. Fiction writing is what I'm interested in; that's what I want to spend my time tinkering with. But for some reason it seems we have to all be good at all the things we're not good at.

I'm not even sure what sense it makes to have some kind of blog on this new website, but if nothing else, this might be a good place for me to complain about leaf blowers.