Recently I told you all about a short story that I penned that I was very proud of. In fact, I've come to the realization that out of all of the things that have ever come out of my brain, that story was my favorite.
Maybe not the most well written, or the most interesting, but my favorite nonetheless.
I've written in the past about my newfound love of short stories, and it dawned on me earlier today (as I was almost freezing to death, another entry for another day) that I might be better off entering into the world of short stories rather than a full fledged novel.
At this juncture, I find the idea of sitting down for a short period of time and just pouring myself into something visceral or heartfelt very alluring. And yes, I realize that those two feelings are entirely contradictory. Which is kind of my point.
It may never go anywhere. I may end up being the greatest short story writer of this generation. I don't know, I don't have a crystal ball.
And if I did, I would be constantly betting on horses. And I'd have the monetary means to simply publish my own rantings.
Ah, what a dream.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
On Lost Feelings
One of the greatest joys that I have in life is when I'm cleaning, or going through old things and I come across things that I have written in the past.
I wrote a short story back in like, May and I was really proud of it at the time. I wrote it by hand (which is pretty rare these days), and then planned to dictate it into a Word document later that day, or whenever I had a spare second.
I guess days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and I lost track of it. Then last Sunday, I found the story in a series of crumpled-up pieces of paper in my CD rack.The subject and story don't really matter at this time, but the pleasure that I took in reading, rewriting and then dictating it into that Word document was really refreshing.
I remembered what it was like to be creative, if even for a few minutes. It's a feeling that I've been severely missing for some time now. Now if I can harness it into something great (or even something decent), I'll finally be in a place that I want to be in.
I wrote a short story back in like, May and I was really proud of it at the time. I wrote it by hand (which is pretty rare these days), and then planned to dictate it into a Word document later that day, or whenever I had a spare second.
I guess days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and I lost track of it. Then last Sunday, I found the story in a series of crumpled-up pieces of paper in my CD rack.The subject and story don't really matter at this time, but the pleasure that I took in reading, rewriting and then dictating it into that Word document was really refreshing.
I remembered what it was like to be creative, if even for a few minutes. It's a feeling that I've been severely missing for some time now. Now if I can harness it into something great (or even something decent), I'll finally be in a place that I want to be in.
Monday, November 29, 2010
On Retribution
I've never been a big proponent of getting even for past injustices. Even though I sometimes want to act before I think, I've seldom let it get the best of me.
Sure, there are things that have happened in my life that I wish could be changed. Wrongs that could be righted.
I'd love to find the guy who sucker punched me in eighth grade and make him cry, just like he did to me back then. But life has done that for me. He's a fat pothead now with no education, no job and no future.
But I don't take any pleasure in that. The scum of the Earth never succeed.
Ok, maybe they do. But in this instance, that's not the case.
I'm the kind of guy that doesn't hold grudges. Unless you apply it to professional sports. Because the New York Islanders need to work off about twenty years worth of my grief.
Or to my fifth grade teacher who didn't let me play Peter Pan in the school play.
Why you might ask?
"You're too husky to be Peter Pan. No one will believe that you can fly."
In effect, you crushed the spirit of an eleven year old kid. Congratulations dear educator.
So it's interesting to note that she was transferred out of the school a couple of years later. It might be because of her terrible attitude towards her students. It might be because she was a dried up old whore. Either way, I hope she gets influenza.
But overall, anyone who has done me any wrong over the years can rest easy. I bear no hard feelings towards you. In fact, I bear no real hard feelings toward anyone or anything that has ever happened to me.
On another note, I found out today that a not-so-kind ex's father is not what he portrays himself to be.
And I find that absolutely hysterical!
Sure, there are things that have happened in my life that I wish could be changed. Wrongs that could be righted.
I'd love to find the guy who sucker punched me in eighth grade and make him cry, just like he did to me back then. But life has done that for me. He's a fat pothead now with no education, no job and no future.
But I don't take any pleasure in that. The scum of the Earth never succeed.
Ok, maybe they do. But in this instance, that's not the case.
I'm the kind of guy that doesn't hold grudges. Unless you apply it to professional sports. Because the New York Islanders need to work off about twenty years worth of my grief.
Or to my fifth grade teacher who didn't let me play Peter Pan in the school play.
Why you might ask?
"You're too husky to be Peter Pan. No one will believe that you can fly."
In effect, you crushed the spirit of an eleven year old kid. Congratulations dear educator.
So it's interesting to note that she was transferred out of the school a couple of years later. It might be because of her terrible attitude towards her students. It might be because she was a dried up old whore. Either way, I hope she gets influenza.
But overall, anyone who has done me any wrong over the years can rest easy. I bear no hard feelings towards you. In fact, I bear no real hard feelings toward anyone or anything that has ever happened to me.
On another note, I found out today that a not-so-kind ex's father is not what he portrays himself to be.
And I find that absolutely hysterical!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
On Pipe Dream
Last Thursday, it was late at night, I had a somewhat uneasy feeling in my gut. Something seemed to be missing. It then occurred to me that if it had been about a year and a half ago, I would have been a production night at the office of my college newspaper, Pipe Dream.
So a little background information here:
I came to Pipe Dream with very little writing experience to speak of in the reporting or writing games and ended up eventually becoming Assistant Sports Editor. I went to a general interest meeting on a whim, and ended up falling in love with the entire writing genre. It's something that I've never had any regrets about.
It's strange, I'm not normally the type of person who ever regrets anything. Sure, I've done some questionable things in my time on Earth, but nothing I would deem life altering. But I can safely say that if it had not been for Pipe Dream, I would not be where I am today.
Oh sure, I'm not exactly setting the literary world on fire, but I'm happy with the work that I do here in this blog and in other mediums, and I think that the people who do read those things walk away knowing a little bit more about me. Hell, they might even be slightly entertained. And frankly, that's part of the reason that I do what I do.
I look back on my time in WB03 (the Pipe Dream office) and I don't regret a whole lot. I worked very hard at being a sports writer, putting in a lot of hours and putting my shirt limit of patience to the test. But all in all, I walked away from my two-ish years associated with the publication with more experience and more friends.
The one true regret that I have however, is that I allowed one person to bring me down continually, with little to no reason for doing so. My significant other at the time was a vindictive and angry person who could not stand to see anyone gain any type of acclaim unless it was for her benefit. It led the managing editor of the newspaper to say on more than one occasion "When are you going to dump that bitch?"
Not soon enough K-Dogg, not until after it was too late to take advantage of all of the fun that I ended up missing.
But I digress, this entry is not about regrets. It is about voicing my opinion of the people that I worked with, without mentioning too many names. Suffice to say that if they read this, they'll know who they are.
I won't say too much about my sports staff, they were a good group of guys, and I learned a lot from them.
Our esteemed editor in chief, who now works for MLB.com, was a sports guy at heart. I didn't always agree with his opinion on things, but he knew what he was doing. And I learned a hell of a lot about writing thanks to him.
There also was a core group of a few gals that I always wished that I could be as ballsy as. They said anything that came to mind, generally to the hilarity of the surrounding people. Also, at the time, I may or may not have had a bit of a crush on one or more of them. But I'm sure as hell not naming any names there.
I can also say that in my time with Pipe Dream I met the nicest person that I have ever known. And anyone who worked in that office with me will know exactly who I am referring to.
And then there's my buddy Dave. I mention him by name only because I know that he won't mind. Sir, you might be one of the most underrated humorists that I have ever known.
High praise from a man who doesn't give it easily, no matter what this blog entry might convey.
But that's neither here nor there.
The bottom line is that no matter what, these people have earned my respect, which is not something that I give away easily. Anyone who knows me for any more than five minutes will tell you that if I don't like you in that time, I probably will never like you.
And while we're on the subject, I am fully aware that not everyone likes me. And I'm ok with that. But I can sleep soundly at night in the knowledge that no matter what anyone says, my work ethic in the post of Assistant Sports Editor was never lacking.
So my overall advice, if any can be gleaned from this rant, is that in life, you never know when something great will come along. And if something seems like it's worth taking a chance on, do it.
Only good can come of it. And if it's not good, at least it'll be fun.
So a little background information here:
I came to Pipe Dream with very little writing experience to speak of in the reporting or writing games and ended up eventually becoming Assistant Sports Editor. I went to a general interest meeting on a whim, and ended up falling in love with the entire writing genre. It's something that I've never had any regrets about.
It's strange, I'm not normally the type of person who ever regrets anything. Sure, I've done some questionable things in my time on Earth, but nothing I would deem life altering. But I can safely say that if it had not been for Pipe Dream, I would not be where I am today.
Oh sure, I'm not exactly setting the literary world on fire, but I'm happy with the work that I do here in this blog and in other mediums, and I think that the people who do read those things walk away knowing a little bit more about me. Hell, they might even be slightly entertained. And frankly, that's part of the reason that I do what I do.
I look back on my time in WB03 (the Pipe Dream office) and I don't regret a whole lot. I worked very hard at being a sports writer, putting in a lot of hours and putting my shirt limit of patience to the test. But all in all, I walked away from my two-ish years associated with the publication with more experience and more friends.
The one true regret that I have however, is that I allowed one person to bring me down continually, with little to no reason for doing so. My significant other at the time was a vindictive and angry person who could not stand to see anyone gain any type of acclaim unless it was for her benefit. It led the managing editor of the newspaper to say on more than one occasion "When are you going to dump that bitch?"
Not soon enough K-Dogg, not until after it was too late to take advantage of all of the fun that I ended up missing.
But I digress, this entry is not about regrets. It is about voicing my opinion of the people that I worked with, without mentioning too many names. Suffice to say that if they read this, they'll know who they are.
I won't say too much about my sports staff, they were a good group of guys, and I learned a lot from them.
Our esteemed editor in chief, who now works for MLB.com, was a sports guy at heart. I didn't always agree with his opinion on things, but he knew what he was doing. And I learned a hell of a lot about writing thanks to him.
There also was a core group of a few gals that I always wished that I could be as ballsy as. They said anything that came to mind, generally to the hilarity of the surrounding people. Also, at the time, I may or may not have had a bit of a crush on one or more of them. But I'm sure as hell not naming any names there.
I can also say that in my time with Pipe Dream I met the nicest person that I have ever known. And anyone who worked in that office with me will know exactly who I am referring to.
And then there's my buddy Dave. I mention him by name only because I know that he won't mind. Sir, you might be one of the most underrated humorists that I have ever known.
High praise from a man who doesn't give it easily, no matter what this blog entry might convey.
But that's neither here nor there.
The bottom line is that no matter what, these people have earned my respect, which is not something that I give away easily. Anyone who knows me for any more than five minutes will tell you that if I don't like you in that time, I probably will never like you.
And while we're on the subject, I am fully aware that not everyone likes me. And I'm ok with that. But I can sleep soundly at night in the knowledge that no matter what anyone says, my work ethic in the post of Assistant Sports Editor was never lacking.
So my overall advice, if any can be gleaned from this rant, is that in life, you never know when something great will come along. And if something seems like it's worth taking a chance on, do it.
Only good can come of it. And if it's not good, at least it'll be fun.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
On The Moon
Before anyone gets too excited, no, I have not relocated to that shiny round orb in the sky that we call the moon.
Instead, as I was sitting on my front stoop this evening, in a creepy, but not too creepy manner, enjoying this cool and windy night, I was at once overwhelmed by the calmness that enveloped me.
I'm a pretty intense guy, this is no secret. I'm an in-your-face, take no prisoners type of dude. In other words, at times, there's no living with me.
My famous "beach runs," and long drives in the car are normally what calm me down when the world seems too hectic. But sitting under the moon tonight was eye opening in a way that only a late night staring contest with an enormous semi-circle can be.
The downside to this discovery however, it that it's mid-November and sitting outside in New York weather is soon going to be quite prohibitive. In fact, it should have been that way weeks ago, but due to that glorious concept of global warming, it's still, like 60 degrees outside.
Take that Mother Nature!
Or maybe I can blame it on the economy. Or the terrorists.
Whatever the reason, I'll take the calm while I still can. Because before long, I'll be back to complaining about the stupidity of life and/or the other existential crises that I encounter on a daily basis.
Instead, as I was sitting on my front stoop this evening, in a creepy, but not too creepy manner, enjoying this cool and windy night, I was at once overwhelmed by the calmness that enveloped me.
I'm a pretty intense guy, this is no secret. I'm an in-your-face, take no prisoners type of dude. In other words, at times, there's no living with me.
My famous "beach runs," and long drives in the car are normally what calm me down when the world seems too hectic. But sitting under the moon tonight was eye opening in a way that only a late night staring contest with an enormous semi-circle can be.
The downside to this discovery however, it that it's mid-November and sitting outside in New York weather is soon going to be quite prohibitive. In fact, it should have been that way weeks ago, but due to that glorious concept of global warming, it's still, like 60 degrees outside.
Take that Mother Nature!
Or maybe I can blame it on the economy. Or the terrorists.
Whatever the reason, I'll take the calm while I still can. Because before long, I'll be back to complaining about the stupidity of life and/or the other existential crises that I encounter on a daily basis.
Friday, November 12, 2010
On My Cranium
Caution: What you are about to read will make me sound like a madman. I assure that I have not lost my mind, no matter how this particular blog comes across.
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I do not possess the ability to "shut off my brain." A lot of people can simply block out their thoughts, or pretend to, and just let their own thoughts consume them.
I can't do it. I've never been able to. And I wasn't even one of those kids that people always called a "dreamer." I don't even have a very active imagination.
But here's the thing; it's getting to a critical point. There's a lot of thoughts floating around in this head. And the two concussions (possibly three, but two are documented) that I've sustained in the past year don't help matters either. If anything, they're making things worse. The daily headaches don't help either.
But if anything positive can come of this situation, it's this: I have never felt more creative. Ideas are pouring out of me at a rapid pace. At least three book ideas have taken shape, and are in the works.
I plan on calling on a dear friend if I ever need illustrations. I wish that I could say that it was Jim Davis of Garfield fame, but he won't return my phone calls.
Ok, I haven't even called him.
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I do not possess the ability to "shut off my brain." A lot of people can simply block out their thoughts, or pretend to, and just let their own thoughts consume them.
I can't do it. I've never been able to. And I wasn't even one of those kids that people always called a "dreamer." I don't even have a very active imagination.
But here's the thing; it's getting to a critical point. There's a lot of thoughts floating around in this head. And the two concussions (possibly three, but two are documented) that I've sustained in the past year don't help matters either. If anything, they're making things worse. The daily headaches don't help either.
But if anything positive can come of this situation, it's this: I have never felt more creative. Ideas are pouring out of me at a rapid pace. At least three book ideas have taken shape, and are in the works.
I plan on calling on a dear friend if I ever need illustrations. I wish that I could say that it was Jim Davis of Garfield fame, but he won't return my phone calls.
Ok, I haven't even called him.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
On The Works Of Stieg Larsson
I have never been much of a book critic.
Sure, I have incredibly strong opinions about practically everything in life, but I never really pontificate about books. Mainly because, well, most people don't even read them anymore.
So it is with great enthusiasm that I recommend to you, my reader, the complete Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series, also known as The Millennium Trilogy, penned by the late Stieg Larsson.
Granted I'm only halfway through the second book in the trilogy, but I'm loving my life thus far.
Maybe it's just the feeling of thinking I'm a detective trying to figure out a mystery. Because in all honesty, Shaggy and Scooby have nothing on this guy.
A small warming though, the books are very wordy. They're also incredibly descriptive, and can be repetitive. But seeing as Larsson wrote these books mainly for his own pleasure, and not for the mass market, I guess I can't really complain.
Also, the repetition is good for someone with as limited an attention span as me.
Don't get me wrong, I love to read. Anyone who knows anything about me will tell you that. The issue in my case is that I will give up on a book after as little as five pages if the text doesn't grab me.
I made it three pages into The Catcher in the Rye the first time that I tried to read it. I have read it three times since and it's in now one of my all time favorites.
These Larsson books start very slow, but I sluggishly plowed through the first book simply based on speculation.
I was not disappointed in the slightest.
However, the second book moves in roughly the same manor, and about 300 pages in, finally picks up. Be patient, it's worth it. And again, that's coming from me, the master of the short attention span.
I'm also told that the film versions (the Swedish ones) of these books are pretty incredible as well.
I guess we all know what my impending Netflix deliveries will contain. Well, that and Leprechaun in the Hood.
Guilty pleasures never go away.
Sure, I have incredibly strong opinions about practically everything in life, but I never really pontificate about books. Mainly because, well, most people don't even read them anymore.
So it is with great enthusiasm that I recommend to you, my reader, the complete Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series, also known as The Millennium Trilogy, penned by the late Stieg Larsson.
Granted I'm only halfway through the second book in the trilogy, but I'm loving my life thus far.
Maybe it's just the feeling of thinking I'm a detective trying to figure out a mystery. Because in all honesty, Shaggy and Scooby have nothing on this guy.
A small warming though, the books are very wordy. They're also incredibly descriptive, and can be repetitive. But seeing as Larsson wrote these books mainly for his own pleasure, and not for the mass market, I guess I can't really complain.
Also, the repetition is good for someone with as limited an attention span as me.
Don't get me wrong, I love to read. Anyone who knows anything about me will tell you that. The issue in my case is that I will give up on a book after as little as five pages if the text doesn't grab me.
I made it three pages into The Catcher in the Rye the first time that I tried to read it. I have read it three times since and it's in now one of my all time favorites.
These Larsson books start very slow, but I sluggishly plowed through the first book simply based on speculation.
I was not disappointed in the slightest.
However, the second book moves in roughly the same manor, and about 300 pages in, finally picks up. Be patient, it's worth it. And again, that's coming from me, the master of the short attention span.
I'm also told that the film versions (the Swedish ones) of these books are pretty incredible as well.
I guess we all know what my impending Netflix deliveries will contain. Well, that and Leprechaun in the Hood.
Guilty pleasures never go away.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
On What I Perceive As A Great Question
There are some things in life that are great ideas.
Offhand I can think of mixed drinks, Mexican cuisine and the overall catalog of Kevin Smith films.
Then again, there are fiercely terrible ideas.
Anything involving Jagermeister would be included in this category.
Normally, I would include sequels in this group as well, but ever since I got the idea about a week ago, I've been consumed by this question:
What happened after Willy Wonka gave Charlie the chocolate factory?
I intend to answer that question.
Offhand I can think of mixed drinks, Mexican cuisine and the overall catalog of Kevin Smith films.
Then again, there are fiercely terrible ideas.
Anything involving Jagermeister would be included in this category.
Normally, I would include sequels in this group as well, but ever since I got the idea about a week ago, I've been consumed by this question:
What happened after Willy Wonka gave Charlie the chocolate factory?
I intend to answer that question.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
On Random Musings
Today was a rough day.
The daily grind is messing with my head, which is fine. But I've become moody and somewhat stand-offish, and that is not fine. I had the time to actually write today and what followed can only be described as short, but heartfelt drivel.
I admit that a lot of this will sound sappy, which is kind of against my nature, but take it for what it's worth:
-There are really only six ways to say "I'm Sorry":
1. I was wrong.
2. You were right.
3. You are everything to me.
4. Maybe, perchance, I was not right this time.
5. I would be nothing with out you.
6. I love you.
-The heart of a hopeless romantic is just that; hopeless. It withers and dies without a counterpart. Sometimes being hopeless together is the only kind of hope that there is.
-Mistakes are meant to be made. Without them, there would be no reason to become a better person. No one is perfect, but the mistakes are there to be corrected. It gives life a reason.
-It is impossible to be perfect, but the biggest imperfection that a person can have is believing that they are, in fact, perfect.
-Depending on the moment, "insecurity" can be the most alluring trait a person can have. It also can be a beautiful word, given the right circumstances.
-Without take, there can be no give (and yes, I realize how fucking stupid that sounds).
- Some people get by simply on beauty or charm. Others rely on hatred or self loathing. The key to life is a happy medium between the two. A true "meet in the middle" relationship.
At this point, the "inspiration" was lost. But I get the feeling that it won't be far away from now on. Something changed today. Something clicked. I once again feel like I can be entertaining. And I say that despite the fact that most of what I have just written was sanctimonious bullshit.
It happens to us all.
Even the great ones had an off day.
The daily grind is messing with my head, which is fine. But I've become moody and somewhat stand-offish, and that is not fine. I had the time to actually write today and what followed can only be described as short, but heartfelt drivel.
I admit that a lot of this will sound sappy, which is kind of against my nature, but take it for what it's worth:
-There are really only six ways to say "I'm Sorry":
1. I was wrong.
2. You were right.
3. You are everything to me.
4. Maybe, perchance, I was not right this time.
5. I would be nothing with out you.
6. I love you.
-The heart of a hopeless romantic is just that; hopeless. It withers and dies without a counterpart. Sometimes being hopeless together is the only kind of hope that there is.
-Mistakes are meant to be made. Without them, there would be no reason to become a better person. No one is perfect, but the mistakes are there to be corrected. It gives life a reason.
-It is impossible to be perfect, but the biggest imperfection that a person can have is believing that they are, in fact, perfect.
-Depending on the moment, "insecurity" can be the most alluring trait a person can have. It also can be a beautiful word, given the right circumstances.
-Without take, there can be no give (and yes, I realize how fucking stupid that sounds).
- Some people get by simply on beauty or charm. Others rely on hatred or self loathing. The key to life is a happy medium between the two. A true "meet in the middle" relationship.
At this point, the "inspiration" was lost. But I get the feeling that it won't be far away from now on. Something changed today. Something clicked. I once again feel like I can be entertaining. And I say that despite the fact that most of what I have just written was sanctimonious bullshit.
It happens to us all.
Even the great ones had an off day.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
On Great Things
On a recent road trip to Pennsylvania, I was struck with a new idea for a book.
This is the one.
It's heartfelt, personal and easy to relate to.
No one knows about the content, save one person. I'll give you one guess who.
Well yeah, God. So strike that then, two people.
The rough draft began tonight with an outline. The actual writing process starts immediately.
I expect big things, which is more than I can say about any other thing I have ever written.
This is the one.
It's heartfelt, personal and easy to relate to.
No one knows about the content, save one person. I'll give you one guess who.
Well yeah, God. So strike that then, two people.
The rough draft began tonight with an outline. The actual writing process starts immediately.
I expect big things, which is more than I can say about any other thing I have ever written.
Monday, August 9, 2010
On Short Stories
As a high school student, I used to view short stories as an easy homework assignment.
And as the years wore on, I came to have a deep seated disrespect for short stories.
I just thought the idea of trying to pack so many details and so many ideas into an abridged volume was kind of unfair to the reader, and a pure cop out for the writer.
But lately, I've been indulging in the genre, and I actually find it quite refreshing. I have written a lot of things in my life, but a short story that I wrote about a month ago is without question the thing that I am most proud of in my literary career.
It hasn't been published. It hasn't been reviewed. Hell, it hasn't even left the Microsoft Word document on my laptop. But it's from my heart, not from my gut (which is where all of my previous work has stemmed from).
It took me about an hour to write, as opposed to many hours, or even days overall in the past for longer works.
It deals with love and loss. Oh, and ducks.
Yes, I might be going soft. But I'm strangely okay with that. As long as I'm inspired, I'm happy.
And a happy me is a content me. And that's a "me" that everyone can get behind.
So I'll keep the short literary contributions coming, because they might be the thing that ends up defining me...much to the chagrin of yours truly circa 2003.
And as the years wore on, I came to have a deep seated disrespect for short stories.
I just thought the idea of trying to pack so many details and so many ideas into an abridged volume was kind of unfair to the reader, and a pure cop out for the writer.
But lately, I've been indulging in the genre, and I actually find it quite refreshing. I have written a lot of things in my life, but a short story that I wrote about a month ago is without question the thing that I am most proud of in my literary career.
It hasn't been published. It hasn't been reviewed. Hell, it hasn't even left the Microsoft Word document on my laptop. But it's from my heart, not from my gut (which is where all of my previous work has stemmed from).
It took me about an hour to write, as opposed to many hours, or even days overall in the past for longer works.
It deals with love and loss. Oh, and ducks.
Yes, I might be going soft. But I'm strangely okay with that. As long as I'm inspired, I'm happy.
And a happy me is a content me. And that's a "me" that everyone can get behind.
So I'll keep the short literary contributions coming, because they might be the thing that ends up defining me...much to the chagrin of yours truly circa 2003.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
On The Death Of Creativity
It's been awhile since I've done anything of real value. My creativity was waning. My head was full of ideas, but no way to convey them.
For some time, I really thought that I had reached my literary peak. I had flamed out before I had even sparked.
But I feel good now. I feel invincible in fact.
I come back tomorrow.
For some time, I really thought that I had reached my literary peak. I had flamed out before I had even sparked.
But I feel good now. I feel invincible in fact.
I come back tomorrow.
Monday, July 19, 2010
On New York City
For the majority of my life, I always saw myself as a suburban guy. I like big yards, white picket fences and cul-de-sacs.
But in the past few years, I could totally see myself being a city guy.
Sure, it doesn't hurt that the greatest city in the world (New York City, for those of you not in the know) is about an hour train ride away from my front door, but for quite some time I never took advantage of that.
After spending a fair amount of time in the city in the past few years however, I think that I can finally wrap my head around the idea of settling in that area.
I have some reservations of course, because why would anything ever be easy with me?
First, I hate crowds. So in theory, that should write of Manhattan right away. Wandering down 7th Ave this past Saturday, carefully dodging the less than fortunate, and some people who were just plain crazy, I was completely out of my element.
Second, the prices of everything.
And I'm not even going to go into detail on what the real estate must go for, I don't need to be that depressed.
.
Third, I love the theatre scene. I always have. But unless I soon hit the lottery, I can't afford to see nearly as many shows as I'd like to. One or two a year is all that I can handle, but I wish that I had the wallet for an exponentially higher number.
I will say however, that American Idiot is maybe the best show that I have ever seen, and it's completely worth the money for anyone to see it, especially if they like Green Day as much as I have over the last roughly fifteen years. A must-see in fact.
So could your favorite pissed-off blogger be in for a trek to the city, perhaps to live?
Probably not.
Because after all, the suburbs give me so much more to bitch about.
But in the past few years, I could totally see myself being a city guy.
Sure, it doesn't hurt that the greatest city in the world (New York City, for those of you not in the know) is about an hour train ride away from my front door, but for quite some time I never took advantage of that.
After spending a fair amount of time in the city in the past few years however, I think that I can finally wrap my head around the idea of settling in that area.
I have some reservations of course, because why would anything ever be easy with me?
First, I hate crowds. So in theory, that should write of Manhattan right away. Wandering down 7th Ave this past Saturday, carefully dodging the less than fortunate, and some people who were just plain crazy, I was completely out of my element.
Second, the prices of everything.
And I'm not even going to go into detail on what the real estate must go for, I don't need to be that depressed.
.
Third, I love the theatre scene. I always have. But unless I soon hit the lottery, I can't afford to see nearly as many shows as I'd like to. One or two a year is all that I can handle, but I wish that I had the wallet for an exponentially higher number.
I will say however, that American Idiot is maybe the best show that I have ever seen, and it's completely worth the money for anyone to see it, especially if they like Green Day as much as I have over the last roughly fifteen years. A must-see in fact.
So could your favorite pissed-off blogger be in for a trek to the city, perhaps to live?
Probably not.
Because after all, the suburbs give me so much more to bitch about.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
On Life Lessons
As a young boy, I don't recall ever learning any real life lessons. I kind of came to most conclusions on my own.
I wasn't an impoverished child, didn't want for anything. I wasn't abused, nor did I ever want for attention. I just never really was ingrained with any of the life lessons that kids get.
Not even the "If you touch a hot stove, you WILL burn yourself" chestnut.
I never went to church or anything back then (and this was years before my religious epiphany), so I never knew the Ten Commandments. Not murdering someone just seemed like common sense.
But coveting thy neighbor's wife? Hell, what if she's a hottie?
I never got the "birds and the bees" talk from my parents. In fact, they never said anything at all about sex.
Actually, that's not true. When my dad and I were at the park flying a kite when I was nine, and I came across a used condom, my father simply said, "Oh that's where the spermies go."
As if I knew were "spermies" were then. I'm still not entirely sure what the hell they are now.
But all in all, I think I turned out all right. I haven't burned myself badly on anything.
I haven't killed anyone, so as Bill Murray would say, "I've got that going for me."
As for those latex sheaths and their vaunted catching skills? Well I'll remain mum on that.
Problems with that?
I wasn't an impoverished child, didn't want for anything. I wasn't abused, nor did I ever want for attention. I just never really was ingrained with any of the life lessons that kids get.
Not even the "If you touch a hot stove, you WILL burn yourself" chestnut.
I never went to church or anything back then (and this was years before my religious epiphany), so I never knew the Ten Commandments. Not murdering someone just seemed like common sense.
But coveting thy neighbor's wife? Hell, what if she's a hottie?
I never got the "birds and the bees" talk from my parents. In fact, they never said anything at all about sex.
Actually, that's not true. When my dad and I were at the park flying a kite when I was nine, and I came across a used condom, my father simply said, "Oh that's where the spermies go."
As if I knew were "spermies" were then. I'm still not entirely sure what the hell they are now.
But all in all, I think I turned out all right. I haven't burned myself badly on anything.
I haven't killed anyone, so as Bill Murray would say, "I've got that going for me."
As for those latex sheaths and their vaunted catching skills? Well I'll remain mum on that.
Problems with that?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
On Alcoholism
I had my first beer around age three. There's pictures marking the occasion. Today, that would probably be grounds for an urgent call to ACS. In the 80's though, it seemed to be funny.
I should have known at that point that I was destined to be an alcoholic. The look on my face as I drank the sweet nectar from that Budweiser bottle (which is probably the only time ever that that swill has ever been referred to in such a reverent manner) can only be described as giddy. I look happy. Accomplished. Content.
I then went through what I now term "a thirteen year attempt at sobriety." Age sixteen marks my next foray into the wonders of booze, which promptly ended around two hours after it started with a guy around my age taking a drunken dive off of the top of a swing set, breaking his arm in two places.
I found this fact out later, as he got up and dusted himself off with his arm hanging by a thread. To this day, it's one of the most gruesome things I've ever seen.
Recreationally, I had run-ins with alcohol over the next few years, all the way into my early twenties. Then the real abuse began.
I was drinking or smoking weed nightly. I gained about thirty pounds, and looked like I was ten years older than I really was. I also entered into a roughly three year long relationship that proved to be even more toxic than the poisons that I was ingesting in the first place.
That trend ended in July. And I don't miss it at all.
I should have known at that point that I was destined to be an alcoholic. The look on my face as I drank the sweet nectar from that Budweiser bottle (which is probably the only time ever that that swill has ever been referred to in such a reverent manner) can only be described as giddy. I look happy. Accomplished. Content.
I then went through what I now term "a thirteen year attempt at sobriety." Age sixteen marks my next foray into the wonders of booze, which promptly ended around two hours after it started with a guy around my age taking a drunken dive off of the top of a swing set, breaking his arm in two places.
I found this fact out later, as he got up and dusted himself off with his arm hanging by a thread. To this day, it's one of the most gruesome things I've ever seen.
Recreationally, I had run-ins with alcohol over the next few years, all the way into my early twenties. Then the real abuse began.
I was drinking or smoking weed nightly. I gained about thirty pounds, and looked like I was ten years older than I really was. I also entered into a roughly three year long relationship that proved to be even more toxic than the poisons that I was ingesting in the first place.
That trend ended in July. And I don't miss it at all.
On My Active Mind
I can't turn my brain off. It's always been my problem. Whether it's over-analyzing trivial details or letting my imagination wander to far-off places when I should be focusing on a specific task, it's always been my issue. I'm a dreamer in the purest sense of the word. I've been thinking lately that I had undiagnosed ADD as a kid. I often wonder how life would have been if that type of thing were prevalent when I was a kid.
I'm full of useless information, and I'm willing to share it with you.
I have a poetic soul (or so I'm told) and I'll share my thoughts with you. You may not want to listen, but you'll get nothing but complete candor and truth from me.
I'm constantly thinking. I can't shut it off.
Where will I find my head in a hour? A minute? Even a second? It could be anywhere, thinking about anything.
I'm full of useless information, and I'm willing to share it with you.
I have a poetic soul (or so I'm told) and I'll share my thoughts with you. You may not want to listen, but you'll get nothing but complete candor and truth from me.
I'm constantly thinking. I can't shut it off.
Where will I find my head in a hour? A minute? Even a second? It could be anywhere, thinking about anything.
On Soccer
I just finished watching my boys Die Mannschaft (Team Germany) advance the second round of the 2010 World Cup. I have a serious case of soccer fever and the only cure is more of that sweet sport.
The following is an article that I wrote about a year ago for Bleacher Report. The original article can be viewed here.
I'm currently watching The Green Street Hooligans on DVD (God Bless Netflix!), and rowdy soccer fans aside, it made me very nostalgic.
From an early age, the game of soccer was pounded into my head. Coming from a German family, you would think that my family would have seen the source of my love for the game, but that could not be farther from the truth.
No one in my family, save my grandfather, was or is a sports fan. My love for all things athletic has always been the source of a lot of speculation at family functions. Rumors of my mother sleeping with that proverbial milkman, in my case, one that loved sports, have always floated around.
That aside, I think my first love has always been soccer.
Sure, I’ve strayed and loved other sports briefly, but you never forget your first love. Just thinking about it now makes me want to lace up the old cleats and run out onto a field and defend my net against anyone who dares to test me.
I was a goalie for six seasons of Police Athletic League soccer. And not to brag, but I was very good at it. I routinely recorded shutouts, and have the newspaper clippings to prove it. But the game offered more than that.
One, I always earned the praise of those around me. Coaches, players, parents, it didn’t matter, I was vain and just loved to be recognized as having a true talent.
Second, as a goalie, I would stand in net, ready to defend, but during the off-moments, I would bite my nails like they were the greatest source of nutrition on Earth. My aunt agreed to pay me one dollar for every game that I did not partake in that dirty habit.
She still owes me three dollars.
But as life goes on, frustrations mount and people change.
At age 12, I hung up my cleats and walked away from the game.
Why? My genius coach (whose name I remember so vividly that I want to scream it…but I won’t) decided to replace me in goal with his son. Now granted, his son was a talented net-minder, but he had nothing on me.
After playing four games as an offensive player (career goal total; two), I told my parents that I no longer wanted to play the game.
They didn’t fight me.
I have regretted the decision many times over the years. But there’s nothing that can be done now except to look back fondly at my time on the field, my accomplishments, and all the kudos I had received.
I’m smiling right now.
The following is an article that I wrote about a year ago for Bleacher Report. The original article can be viewed here.
I'm currently watching The Green Street Hooligans on DVD (God Bless Netflix!), and rowdy soccer fans aside, it made me very nostalgic.
From an early age, the game of soccer was pounded into my head. Coming from a German family, you would think that my family would have seen the source of my love for the game, but that could not be farther from the truth.
No one in my family, save my grandfather, was or is a sports fan. My love for all things athletic has always been the source of a lot of speculation at family functions. Rumors of my mother sleeping with that proverbial milkman, in my case, one that loved sports, have always floated around.
That aside, I think my first love has always been soccer.
Sure, I’ve strayed and loved other sports briefly, but you never forget your first love. Just thinking about it now makes me want to lace up the old cleats and run out onto a field and defend my net against anyone who dares to test me.
I was a goalie for six seasons of Police Athletic League soccer. And not to brag, but I was very good at it. I routinely recorded shutouts, and have the newspaper clippings to prove it. But the game offered more than that.
One, I always earned the praise of those around me. Coaches, players, parents, it didn’t matter, I was vain and just loved to be recognized as having a true talent.
Second, as a goalie, I would stand in net, ready to defend, but during the off-moments, I would bite my nails like they were the greatest source of nutrition on Earth. My aunt agreed to pay me one dollar for every game that I did not partake in that dirty habit.
She still owes me three dollars.
But as life goes on, frustrations mount and people change.
At age 12, I hung up my cleats and walked away from the game.
Why? My genius coach (whose name I remember so vividly that I want to scream it…but I won’t) decided to replace me in goal with his son. Now granted, his son was a talented net-minder, but he had nothing on me.
After playing four games as an offensive player (career goal total; two), I told my parents that I no longer wanted to play the game.
They didn’t fight me.
I have regretted the decision many times over the years. But there’s nothing that can be done now except to look back fondly at my time on the field, my accomplishments, and all the kudos I had received.
I’m smiling right now.
Monday, June 21, 2010
On An Age Old Question
What would you do if you won the lottery?
It's a question that everybody can answer, whether they give you an actual response or not.
Obviously the answer to the question ca be altered depending on the amount of money that is won.
My usual answer is "a solid gold (insert random item here)."
My real answer is a house, a car, and a bunch of DVD's. That's an honest answer. I figure that I could do all of those things for less than $750,000.
And still have some money leftover of shiny and impressive jewelry.
On another note, I'm still trying to reclaim my past literary magic.
It's on the horizon, and it's rapidly coming.
It's a question that everybody can answer, whether they give you an actual response or not.
Obviously the answer to the question ca be altered depending on the amount of money that is won.
My usual answer is "a solid gold (insert random item here)."
My real answer is a house, a car, and a bunch of DVD's. That's an honest answer. I figure that I could do all of those things for less than $750,000.
And still have some money leftover of shiny and impressive jewelry.
On another note, I'm still trying to reclaim my past literary magic.
It's on the horizon, and it's rapidly coming.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
On Father's Day
As this Father's Day comes to close, it made me think about a few things.
Number one, this is a completely ridiculous holiday. If you really love your father and/or everything he means to you, you shouldn't need an assigned Hallmark Holiday to tell him. It should just be a free dialogue.
Number two, my father (and probably yours as well) despite all of his faults, is probably one hell of a guy. He might not be a millionaire, or have a high profile, jet-setting lifestyle, but he's still your dad.
I think at times it's easy to forget that fact. A lot of people see their fathers as ATMS, or simply the older guy doing their mom. But you should really look harder into that.
He's the man who's been trying to put food on the table for your family for years.
He's the man who is hopefully setting the stage for you to be great parent yourself.
And yes, he probably is the guy who's nailing your mom.
And good for them too.
Number one, this is a completely ridiculous holiday. If you really love your father and/or everything he means to you, you shouldn't need an assigned Hallmark Holiday to tell him. It should just be a free dialogue.
Number two, my father (and probably yours as well) despite all of his faults, is probably one hell of a guy. He might not be a millionaire, or have a high profile, jet-setting lifestyle, but he's still your dad.
I think at times it's easy to forget that fact. A lot of people see their fathers as ATMS, or simply the older guy doing their mom. But you should really look harder into that.
He's the man who's been trying to put food on the table for your family for years.
He's the man who is hopefully setting the stage for you to be great parent yourself.
And yes, he probably is the guy who's nailing your mom.
And good for them too.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
On Exhaustion
Mentally I'm so burnt out. Physically it's even worse.
I need to start sleeping more, because four-ish hours per night just ain't working anymore. I used to be able to stay up until the wee hours of the morning and not have an issue. I used to stay up until the middle of the night texting my now-girlfriend.
I can't even imagine those days now.
And it's not like I'm one of those people that doesn't like sleeping. In fact, it's one of my favorite activities. Oh well, let's see where tonight takes me.
Let's hope for good dreams, because good dreams equal good ideas. And I could use one of those right about now.
I need to start sleeping more, because four-ish hours per night just ain't working anymore. I used to be able to stay up until the wee hours of the morning and not have an issue. I used to stay up until the middle of the night texting my now-girlfriend.
I can't even imagine those days now.
And it's not like I'm one of those people that doesn't like sleeping. In fact, it's one of my favorite activities. Oh well, let's see where tonight takes me.
Let's hope for good dreams, because good dreams equal good ideas. And I could use one of those right about now.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
On Lulls
It's been awhile since I've gotten around to casually tossing around my musings in print form, so here's a few things that have been dominating my thoughts recently.
My job requires me to spend long hours in a moving vehicle. And other than the nagging back pain that it causes, I actually enjoy it. There's nothing like a deserted interstate at 4 a.m. to get my mind a-flowing. It's not so much that I've had creative ideas, but I've never felt more in control of my sometimes raging thoughts as when I"m traveling seventy miles per hour in a brand new car.
And driving a Camaro just makes me feel like such a badass. It also makes me a huge target for bored law enforcement officers. But so far, so good.
Overall, I've decided that there's a few things that I need to change. First and foremost, I have to stop caring about the little things, and focus more on the big picture. Be it love, life or the pursuit of happiness, seeing things on a grand scale has suddenly allowed me some clarity. Some things seem so easy given that perspective.
Second, I need to get my ass back to the gym. I used to be cute. Now I'm getting doughy. I'm changing that ASAP.
Third, I need to keep on top of my writing. With every passing day, I felt like I was losing a step. Even now I feel kind of hokey and cliched. I'm coming back stronger tomorrow, and by weeks end, I should be unstoppable.
Friday night will be a night of debauchery, so look for a fantastic entry then. But check in before then and watch me regain my strength.
Later kids.
My job requires me to spend long hours in a moving vehicle. And other than the nagging back pain that it causes, I actually enjoy it. There's nothing like a deserted interstate at 4 a.m. to get my mind a-flowing. It's not so much that I've had creative ideas, but I've never felt more in control of my sometimes raging thoughts as when I"m traveling seventy miles per hour in a brand new car.
And driving a Camaro just makes me feel like such a badass. It also makes me a huge target for bored law enforcement officers. But so far, so good.
Overall, I've decided that there's a few things that I need to change. First and foremost, I have to stop caring about the little things, and focus more on the big picture. Be it love, life or the pursuit of happiness, seeing things on a grand scale has suddenly allowed me some clarity. Some things seem so easy given that perspective.
Second, I need to get my ass back to the gym. I used to be cute. Now I'm getting doughy. I'm changing that ASAP.
Third, I need to keep on top of my writing. With every passing day, I felt like I was losing a step. Even now I feel kind of hokey and cliched. I'm coming back stronger tomorrow, and by weeks end, I should be unstoppable.
Friday night will be a night of debauchery, so look for a fantastic entry then. But check in before then and watch me regain my strength.
Later kids.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
On Motorcycles
In my endless pursuit to waste time, I was flipping through the channels this afternoon and came upon an episode of American Chopper.
And even though she normally doesn't complain about anything that I watch, it helped that Mel was napping right beside me, blissfully unaware that I was about to indulge one of my guiltiest of pleasures. Plainly put, I think I'd look like a total badass on a motorcycle.
My buddy Dave always talked about getting a bike, or taking his test for a motorcycle license and I was always secretly envious.
I've always had a real appreciation for all things two wheeled, but for many years, was completely forbidden to even think about ever owning a motorcycle.
I used to love watching shows about motorcycles, be it the aforementioned Chopper, or that one with Jesse James whose name is currently escaping me. Hell, I even loved Sons of Anarchy on FX because it dealt with the subject.
I feel like the openness of the craft could be very freeing. And I've always felt tied down. In my mind, it's time for this boy to be cut loose.
In the end, I won't ever end up buying a bike. I'm too rational. I feel like painting the asphalt with my skin is probably something that I can live without ever experiencing.
But a boy can dream, that's for sure.
And even though she normally doesn't complain about anything that I watch, it helped that Mel was napping right beside me, blissfully unaware that I was about to indulge one of my guiltiest of pleasures. Plainly put, I think I'd look like a total badass on a motorcycle.
My buddy Dave always talked about getting a bike, or taking his test for a motorcycle license and I was always secretly envious.
I've always had a real appreciation for all things two wheeled, but for many years, was completely forbidden to even think about ever owning a motorcycle.
I used to love watching shows about motorcycles, be it the aforementioned Chopper, or that one with Jesse James whose name is currently escaping me. Hell, I even loved Sons of Anarchy on FX because it dealt with the subject.
I feel like the openness of the craft could be very freeing. And I've always felt tied down. In my mind, it's time for this boy to be cut loose.
In the end, I won't ever end up buying a bike. I'm too rational. I feel like painting the asphalt with my skin is probably something that I can live without ever experiencing.
But a boy can dream, that's for sure.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
On Sinking Slowly Into Inebriation
The first shot of whiskey slides down my throat, warm and satisfying. Many more will follow this one.
I think to myself, "My heroes would be proud."
True, Hemingway and Bukowski might be compelled to join me in my drunken fun, but upon further review, Hemingway ended up blowing his brains out, and Bukowski lived his life in a seemingly constant angry state, and would probably be more apt to take a swing at me than accept my offering of free booze.
So let's scrap that plan.
The second shot comes five minutes after the first, making me shake my head side to side as is runs down my throat. I already feel good. Sometimes booze is the way to go.
The third one comes faster than the second, as my lips greedily reach for the rim of the glass. My tongue feels momentarily numb before being awoken by the strong flavor of the liquor.
I've never been one to drink heavily. I could always do it if need be, but I never enjoyed it as much as my friends. My coping mechanism was always to internalize. To choke on my own thoughts, swallow them down deep, much like the way I'm doing to the drink now. But I don't do that anymore, there's no need.
I'm happy, despite this small detour to the bottle. Once in awhile, this just seems the way to go. It'll be a night of deep sleep if nothing else.
Christ, it's not even midnight.
I'm beginning to question things. Nothing on a grand scale, just silly things. I question curling being an Olympic sport. I question why gas prices are so expensive, although I already know the answer to that. I question why I never took certain roads, and at the same time, why I chose some of the ones I did take. All in all I have no regrets, truly.
Should I take a break before the fourth? Maybe. But why bother? I have nowhere to be right now, nor in the morning. I can afford to be slightly reckless, given the fact that I currently have nowhere to be reckless. I don't do that anymore.
Life's been good to me, I realize this now. And in the time it took me to think that, number four was tossed gleefully down my throat.
I've never wanted for anything, never gone hungry. I've never been homeless. I've never lived the life of someone on skid row. But somehow I feel like I identify with those people. But in truth, it's probably just the alcohol speaking for me.
I'm still on number four, but it's officially hit me. My mind has gone hazy. I'm fading. Tonight might be a good night for sleeping. Or I might wake up in a fog in a few hours and not be able to remember ever writing this. I've been honest here, and as the life lesson tells us, honesty is the absolute best policy. But does it make you a good writer? Maybe. But the alcohol helps a great deal.
Just ask Ernest or Hank.
I think to myself, "My heroes would be proud."
True, Hemingway and Bukowski might be compelled to join me in my drunken fun, but upon further review, Hemingway ended up blowing his brains out, and Bukowski lived his life in a seemingly constant angry state, and would probably be more apt to take a swing at me than accept my offering of free booze.
So let's scrap that plan.
The second shot comes five minutes after the first, making me shake my head side to side as is runs down my throat. I already feel good. Sometimes booze is the way to go.
The third one comes faster than the second, as my lips greedily reach for the rim of the glass. My tongue feels momentarily numb before being awoken by the strong flavor of the liquor.
I've never been one to drink heavily. I could always do it if need be, but I never enjoyed it as much as my friends. My coping mechanism was always to internalize. To choke on my own thoughts, swallow them down deep, much like the way I'm doing to the drink now. But I don't do that anymore, there's no need.
I'm happy, despite this small detour to the bottle. Once in awhile, this just seems the way to go. It'll be a night of deep sleep if nothing else.
Christ, it's not even midnight.
I'm beginning to question things. Nothing on a grand scale, just silly things. I question curling being an Olympic sport. I question why gas prices are so expensive, although I already know the answer to that. I question why I never took certain roads, and at the same time, why I chose some of the ones I did take. All in all I have no regrets, truly.
Should I take a break before the fourth? Maybe. But why bother? I have nowhere to be right now, nor in the morning. I can afford to be slightly reckless, given the fact that I currently have nowhere to be reckless. I don't do that anymore.
Life's been good to me, I realize this now. And in the time it took me to think that, number four was tossed gleefully down my throat.
I've never wanted for anything, never gone hungry. I've never been homeless. I've never lived the life of someone on skid row. But somehow I feel like I identify with those people. But in truth, it's probably just the alcohol speaking for me.
I'm still on number four, but it's officially hit me. My mind has gone hazy. I'm fading. Tonight might be a good night for sleeping. Or I might wake up in a fog in a few hours and not be able to remember ever writing this. I've been honest here, and as the life lesson tells us, honesty is the absolute best policy. But does it make you a good writer? Maybe. But the alcohol helps a great deal.
Just ask Ernest or Hank.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
On Life Goals
I talk about it all the time, but the talk really needs to stop.
I am going to finally devote some time to an endeavor that I talk about all the time.
Starting tonight, I begin writing a book.
My issue has always been that I have so many ideas running through my head, it's nearly impossible to devote enough rain-space to just one. The other issue is that these supposed "great ideas" may in fact suck big time.
But how will I know until I try?
Dreams do come true on occasion, and it's time to give mine a shot.
Wish me luck kids.
I am going to finally devote some time to an endeavor that I talk about all the time.
Starting tonight, I begin writing a book.
My issue has always been that I have so many ideas running through my head, it's nearly impossible to devote enough rain-space to just one. The other issue is that these supposed "great ideas" may in fact suck big time.
But how will I know until I try?
Dreams do come true on occasion, and it's time to give mine a shot.
Wish me luck kids.
Monday, January 25, 2010
On Culinary Skills
One of the well known facts about me is my penchant for all things food related. I love to cook and I love to eat.
Hell, my favorite channel on TV is the Food Network (which thank the Lord is finally back). I even subject my poor girlfriend to countless hours of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Or worse yet, Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel.
Put me in a fully stocked kitchen and there's no telling what I'll create.
Tonight's creation involved steak, potatoes, cheese, broccoli, hot sauce and sour cream. This unholy grouping of ingredients actually turned out to be one of the best and most satisfying meals that I've eaten in a long time.
And that kids, is the secret to my culinary prowess. Experimentation. Some people experiment with their stock portfolios, others in the bedroom. I experiment in the kitchen.
My father always did it, so why not his only son? I used to dread the words "Here, try this." Now, not only do I look forward to hearing them, but I find myself saying them often.
So if you're a little gun shy to experiment, it's well worth the attempt. You might create a science experiment. Or you might come up with food nirvana.
You'll never know until you try.
Hell, my favorite channel on TV is the Food Network (which thank the Lord is finally back). I even subject my poor girlfriend to countless hours of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Or worse yet, Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel.
Put me in a fully stocked kitchen and there's no telling what I'll create.
Tonight's creation involved steak, potatoes, cheese, broccoli, hot sauce and sour cream. This unholy grouping of ingredients actually turned out to be one of the best and most satisfying meals that I've eaten in a long time.
And that kids, is the secret to my culinary prowess. Experimentation. Some people experiment with their stock portfolios, others in the bedroom. I experiment in the kitchen.
My father always did it, so why not his only son? I used to dread the words "Here, try this." Now, not only do I look forward to hearing them, but I find myself saying them often.
So if you're a little gun shy to experiment, it's well worth the attempt. You might create a science experiment. Or you might come up with food nirvana.
You'll never know until you try.
On Late Night Boredom
It's eleven minutes after midnight on a Sunday into Monday. Shouldn't something good be on television?
I've stopped on Comedy Central to watch Futurama. But I hate that show.
I could read some more, but I've been doing a lot of that lately. And I feel as if I'd fall asleep if I read another word.
I could pop a DVD in, but then I'd actually have to sift through the hundreds that I have to finally watch ten minutes of some second rate flick before angrily turning it off to choose another film. So that's out.
I could listen to music, but blasting some tunes at this hour could force the parental units to like, kill me.
It's a sad existence when the best activity seems to be staring at the candle on my bookshelf, watching the flame flicker back and forth. I've tried to explain this idea to countless people, most recently Mel.
There's just something about watching fire (whether it's a raging inferno or the tiny flame of a Walmart candle) that is very comforting and real to a man.
And I've just struck on something.
I've stopped on Comedy Central to watch Futurama. But I hate that show.
I could read some more, but I've been doing a lot of that lately. And I feel as if I'd fall asleep if I read another word.
I could pop a DVD in, but then I'd actually have to sift through the hundreds that I have to finally watch ten minutes of some second rate flick before angrily turning it off to choose another film. So that's out.
I could listen to music, but blasting some tunes at this hour could force the parental units to like, kill me.
It's a sad existence when the best activity seems to be staring at the candle on my bookshelf, watching the flame flicker back and forth. I've tried to explain this idea to countless people, most recently Mel.
There's just something about watching fire (whether it's a raging inferno or the tiny flame of a Walmart candle) that is very comforting and real to a man.
And I've just struck on something.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
On Dreams
I don't ever recall having a real dream when I was a little boy. I never aspired to be a firefighter, or a professional athlete, as I don't like being hot, nor can I hit a 100 mile per hour fastball.
In high school, I excelled in psychology, history and Enlgish, but none of those things really screamed career to me.
Over the years, I toyed with the idea of becoming a police officer, an English teacher, even a pro wrestler. Ok, stop laughing at the last part, it's perfectly true.
Over the last few years, given my affinity for writing, my love of words, I decided that the idea of writing a book was an appealing one to me. I've started dozens, but never gotten beyond a few pages. o subject has ever really grabbed me. I have what I think are brilliant ideas, and they later turn out to be boring, or topics that I just can't sink my teeth into.
A lofty dream I know, but I would love to write the great American novel.
I had an idea yesterday to begin writing the definitive work on Charles Dickens. A biography. The only roadblock there is that know nothing about him. I've enjoyed a couple of his books, but beyond that, I'm stumped. It's also likely that I'll end up hating this idea as well.
In fact, as I'm writing about it, I'm losing interest.
I've thought for several years that I'd love to do a work on Charles Bukowski and his library of works. But several people have already done it. Which doesn't mean that I couldn't be the next, as Bukowski's life had layers that may not be discovered for decades.
I long for the moment when I'm struck by a great idea. Maybe in a dream, maybe while driving, possibly while in the shower, as these are typically the three places in which my "brilliant" ideas come about.
In high school, I excelled in psychology, history and Enlgish, but none of those things really screamed career to me.
Over the years, I toyed with the idea of becoming a police officer, an English teacher, even a pro wrestler. Ok, stop laughing at the last part, it's perfectly true.
Over the last few years, given my affinity for writing, my love of words, I decided that the idea of writing a book was an appealing one to me. I've started dozens, but never gotten beyond a few pages. o subject has ever really grabbed me. I have what I think are brilliant ideas, and they later turn out to be boring, or topics that I just can't sink my teeth into.
A lofty dream I know, but I would love to write the great American novel.
I had an idea yesterday to begin writing the definitive work on Charles Dickens. A biography. The only roadblock there is that know nothing about him. I've enjoyed a couple of his books, but beyond that, I'm stumped. It's also likely that I'll end up hating this idea as well.
In fact, as I'm writing about it, I'm losing interest.
I've thought for several years that I'd love to do a work on Charles Bukowski and his library of works. But several people have already done it. Which doesn't mean that I couldn't be the next, as Bukowski's life had layers that may not be discovered for decades.
I long for the moment when I'm struck by a great idea. Maybe in a dream, maybe while driving, possibly while in the shower, as these are typically the three places in which my "brilliant" ideas come about.
Friday, January 8, 2010
On Chicken Nuggets
As a child, there were few in life that could satisfy me like chicken nuggets. I liked playing with Play-Doh, liked to color, but there were few things that really truly made me as happy as having a plate of chicken nuggets in front of me, waiting to be consumed.
Some twenty-ish years later, very little has changed. Those little pillows of fowl-y goodness still have the power to make everything ok.
They can be really crappy, cheap chicken nuggets, or even the "Rolls Royce of Nuggetdom," the Chicken McNugget. It makes no difference to my tastebuds. I'm in heaven either way.
So...that being said, I've gotta dash, the timer on the oven just beeped, and I have some 400 degree delicacies to devour.
Later y'all.
Some twenty-ish years later, very little has changed. Those little pillows of fowl-y goodness still have the power to make everything ok.
They can be really crappy, cheap chicken nuggets, or even the "Rolls Royce of Nuggetdom," the Chicken McNugget. It makes no difference to my tastebuds. I'm in heaven either way.
So...that being said, I've gotta dash, the timer on the oven just beeped, and I have some 400 degree delicacies to devour.
Later y'all.
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