Writing

Writing is a lot like sex. Sometimes it's easy, and enjoyable, and better than therapy. Everything flows, and you don't want to stop, can keep going for hours, and it makes you feel good about yourself.

Sometimes it's a struggle, and you're not in the mood, and every little bit of progress is a huge effort. You might need therapy because of it. Things on your mind get in the way, and you feel bad about subjecting other people to it.

Sometimes music helps, and most of the time alcohol is involved.

And the majority of what you'll do in your lifetime probably happens alone.

I don't get it.

So. I don't understand how a country that sells itself as the 'best country in the universe!' can almost shut down three times in a year.

This isn't a judgement, or anything like that. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it.

in my mind, a country that is a contender for 'best country in the world,' should be able to operate without the fear of shutting down a day or a week or a month from now.

In my mind, a country should be willing and able to take care of its citizens, no matter what their income bracket, or sexual partner, of skin colour, or how they spell the word colour.

Otherwise what's the point in having a fucking country? Honestly?

What's the point in having a country that can shut down because one (earning eight times more than the average citizen) member of government throws a hissy fit about some bullshit issue?

Because right now I'm pretty sure the $11,000 I've paid in federal taxes so far this year hasn't been earned by a single member of congress, Democrat or Conservative. I'm pretty sure that the programs I want to keep running have been shut down while the programs I have no taste/interest in have been paid for.

I don't want the government to cut anything, except the bullshit and the lies.

if they cut teachers salaries, they need to cut their own. if they cut people who actually contribute to society (firefighters/teachers/cops/everyone except for politicians) then they have to start cutting themselves. they need to cut subsidies to every single industry except for those involved in alcohol.

Because the only way I feel like things might work out is by drinking copiously. But the problem with that is, if I end up going to hospital for some alcohol induced/related illness, the government (who are partially to blame for my drinking) aren't going to look after me. But they'll look after themselves. They'll make sure that while campaigning against state/govt sponsored healthcare and pensions that they've got that shit.

All I want in this world (apart for a 36' CS Marlin) is for someone who votes republican to explain to me why the fuck they would do something against their own best interests.

Please.

Stephen Perkin

When Stephen asked me about six months ago to be his best man, he told me he didn't want a speech, and I thought great, I don't have anything to prepare. So when I got into town a couple of days ago and he said 'yeah, sure, you can give a speech' I thought 'great, I don't have any time to prepare any embarrassing stories about when he was younger, and maybe got caught in the homes of young women-- not his current young woman-- without his pants on.'

Actually, there aren't any stories about that. Because where we grew up, we didn't wear pants, we wore trousers. So one of these times. . .

Nah, I'm kidding. Maybe he did it to get back at me, because he knows I hate getting up in front of people and talking into a mic, and despite my best efforts growing up-- like getting him to jump out of an upstairs window when we were young-- he still asked me to be his best man.

Best man is a bit of a misnomer. He asked me to be his best man, but my brother is the best man, and we're here today to celebrate his marriage to Melissa, and I need to stop now or I'm going to start crying.

So please, join me in raising your glasses to Stephen and Melissa.

Les Langues

It's invigorating walking around Montreal. Apart from the fact I love to travel to new places, and people watch, it's been four years since I was in a country doesn't just speak English. My brain is more engaged as I walk down the street, eavesdropping on the conversations, and trying to translate them as I go. It's mostly impossible. The last French class I took was 1996. It was taught in Baton Rouge, a name that would imply French, but is in Louisiana. Another French-sounding name. And yes, there's an influence left over there, but it's pretty distant now. The class was taught by a short, squat woman, whose name I can't remember, but she was from Algeria or Tunisia or somewhere. The French I learned there was a repeat of the French I started learning in England. But that repeat was years ago, and over time my French has grown rusty.

This is the first time I've really had to use French in years, then. It's not the French I learned. There's a different accent, different dialect, and it's not as easy to understand, especially when two native speakers are in discussion. But for the most part everyone here is bilingual, and if you try to speak French but are obviously having trouble, they'll switch to English and help you get there. Cuts down on listening to conversations in the street though.

It's tiring. It was a lot like this going to Vorstetten in Germany for dad's sixtieth birthday. No one really spoke English there, so I spent a lot of the time translating for my brother and sister, neither of whom speak German. But at the same time I remember a sense of accomplishment that I could actually converse with someone in their language. It was the first time in my life I've thought in a different language, not had to think about what someone said, translate it in my mind, work out a response, translate that, then reply. It was also the first time in my life I was in a country that spoke a different language (that I had learned) and NOT while I was in school.

This is the second, and I feel the same sense of satisfaction sifting through the years of memories to just exactly what the MRS VAN DER TRAMP verbs were, and remembering enough of them to get by. Don't remember them all, but it shows that those years of school weren't a waste. I've always said that most of what I learned when I was in school I learned outside of the classroom, and I still think that's true, but I guess unbeknownst to me, and despite my best efforts, my teachers were able to force some knowledge into my stubborn brain.

It makes me want to learn a new language. It makes me want to get better at the ones I hack my way through, buggering up the tenses and genders and still managing to communicate. It makes me want to immerse myself, disappear for a while to a place like Vorstetten, where they don't speak English, and use my brain.

Mais je assis ici, sur mon balcon, et je bois une biere, et le semaine prochaine je retourne aux Etats Unis, pour oublie tous que j'ai . . .bugger. Unforgotten. Relearned. Never learned that.

Guess I've got three more days to find out.

Revelation.

you know what growing up is? It's the ability to reevaluate who you are, and what you think and believe and know, and question it.

When you grow up, you believe certain things. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings and classmates and children's teevee presenters, all of them tell you about the way the world works and help form your opinions. As you get older, your feelings about everything ebb and flow. You'll feel stronger about something, and then care less about it next week or month or year. As time goes on, you'll (hopefully) never stop growing, evolving, and adjusting who you are. And we do it unknowingly. you might hate one sort of music, and come to like it over time. You might think a film is shit, but in later viewings recognize it's merits.

You might hate the taste of whisky when you're young-- scratch that, you WILL hate the taste of whisky when you're young. But as you get older, your palate changes. I took twenty years before I took an interest in politics, and about twenty three years before I developed a taste for whisky. Now, I vote and caucus and volunteer for the campaigns I believe in, and I have no problems making friends with a bottle of Dalwhinnie.

So change happens whether we want it to or not, and wether we're conscious of it or not. But growing up, reaching maturity, coming of age, any of those bullshit terms we use as a society to try and justify legal drinking or cheaper car insurance or the maturity to fuck someone, none of that comes because of a specific age. Hell, I'm not old enough to drink, because I enjoy it too much and do it too often for polite society. My car insurance never dropped because of a speeding ticket or two. And the maturity to fuck someone? Show me one person on the planet who has the maturity to do that, taking into consideration all the possible repercussions of that little bit of hedonism, and I'l buy you a drink. Or maybe try and sleep with you.

But that's not the point. The point is, tonight, I really thought about a viewpoint I had, I've had for years, and it changed. It's personal, and it's not world-changing, but it might have the potential to be subtly life-changing. We shall see. But the acknowledgement that I was wrong, and that I'm okay with having been wrong, and want to move on with my new mindset is satisfying. I had an opinion, and I'm not going to excuse it, but it was wrong. And I'm going to go forward, knowing that I can admit that and change my opinion. I'm probably going to be slightly smug about it too, but that's just my way, and baby steps to maturity.

So growing up isn't the ability to change, but it's the ability to recognize those changes in yourself, and accept them, and use them to become the person you should, are meant, to be.

Or maybe I'm saying all this cos I'm just trying to sleep with you.

Noises.

When you own a house (read: when the bank has had your balls in a sling), you get used to certain things. There's the pleasure of coming back to the same place, decorated how you want it (to the best of your budget's abilities). You get used to the creaky stair at the top but one, that you try to step over so as not to disturb the puppy. You get used to the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, to make sure the Vegas summers are mostly liveable. I guess it's mostly about the noise. I'm used to the aforementioned step, and a/c. I'm used to the buzz from the light that the HOA decided, in their infinite wisdom, to mount on the exterior of my bedroom. There's the sliding patio door, the front door, the fridge kicking on, the microwave beep, the dishwasher and washer and dryer.

But then there's the noises you think you hear. My condo is pushing twenty, and it wasn't fantastically built. None of the houses in Vegas are. But it's mine until the bank decides to kick me out or lets me sell it for less than I owe, whichever comes first, and I pay attention to its moods.

The summer I first moved in, I was flush with the excitement of being a first-time homeowner. I'd never planned on buying a house, I saw myself as a more footloose and fancy free type, content to roam the earth like Caine (except without the mysticism and kung fu). Then something snapped inside, and I decided it was time to try being a grown-up. I would accept real responsibilities. I would buy a house! And it was everything I thought, until that summer when I realized what owning a wood-and-plasterboard (I hesitate to use the word) construction meant.

It meant when things broke, I had to fix the damn things or call someone in who could. That summer, my roommate handed me the towel rod from her bathroom. It had fallen out, because the wall was soggy. How the fuck does a wall get soggy? A wall gets soggy when the runoff pipe for your a/c compressor in the attic gets clogged with insulation, causing the water to seep through the ceiling and walls. Not fun, and if it had gone on any longer there would have been major damage. But I spent an hour in the roof, with a saw and a pipe patch kit, and fixed the problem.

Two nights ago (and this is where the noises part comes in), I thought I heard dripping. Jumped out of bed, listened to the wall I thought it was coming from, and panicked. Spent ten minutes in the roof, feeling for water, listening for water, because I was buggered if I was going to let the ceiling collapse this close to moving out. It turned out that nothing was wrong, there was nothing leaking, but owning a house has made me completely paranoid about the slightest little change in noise.

Why am I even writing this? It's a pretty mundane story as far as stories go. It's definitely not as exciting as the train ride through Morocco, or camping out in a Swedish park, or running automation even. I think I'm writing it, because soon I won't be a homeowner. I don't know how long it's going to take, but the condo's on the market, and a lawyer has been hired because the the thing's 'worth' about $140k less than I owe on it. At a time when a lot of my friends are buying houses, starting families, I'm doing the opposite. And I've never written much about owning a house. I've wasted six and a half years of living in my own place and not talked about it as much as I should have. So when I move out and no longer own my own abode, I guess I'll miss the small familiar sounds. I'll miss the first fireplace I tiled myself, and the way I can hear the pigeons that perch on top of the chimney. I'll miss the creaky step, and the buzz of the light. I'll miss the drip of water and the panic of moist drywall.

But I won't miss having to fix the bloody things myself.

Writing.

Everyone says that when you are writing, there's nothing so daunting as a blank screen. I don't agree. A blank screen is full of potential and promise. It's when I'm into a project that writing becomes daunting. All of a sudden I have characters who are waiting to find out what they're going to do next. I've got worlds to finish crafting, and similes and metaphors to pull out of my arse.

And I get to a certain point, and I start to worry about what I'm writing. Is it any good? Am I going to be able to convince anyone to read it? Or is it some unremembered story I once read, that I've become convinced is my own idea? You always hear that there's no such thing as originality any more. Every story's already been told, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

I haven't written much this year. I'm not sure why. But about two months ago I was in something of a funk, and decided to make a concerted effort to write. A month later, I started. I set myself goals, but because of the nature of life, I don't like to say I'll write five hundred words a day. Life gets in the way of that, and writing doesn't work like that for me. I have to do it when it lets me. I'll go month to month, setting a goal in the hopes that not too many things will distract me.

I'm not a fan of February. It gives me fewer days to reach my goals.

Anyway, I've been writing this month. Not as much as I'd like, but there's still time. Book II isn't going to go anywhere. I started another screenplay. I started and finished a short yesterday afternoon before work. Maybe as the year progresses, I'll get more and more down on paper/on the screen/in the hard drive/whatever I should call it these days. It's the pattern I seem to follow right now; bugger all until June, and then thousands on thousands of words, some of them usable, until the end of the year.

I got a tonne to get done before December, then.

Satisfaction

Sitting in my boat, listening to the rain come down, with the lights I rewired working and the holes I patched not leaking. One of the sails is my pillow. Outside, I know the world is continuing. People are living and dying, eating, sleeping, shagging. Acts of evil and acts of kindness are being committed. And I lie here, not off round the world yet as I intend, but that's okay, because there's time.

And when I decide to make a move, leave my boat behind and head back to my car and the drive home and civilization, it'll be closer. Not here, but closer.

Until then I'm content to lie here, the sail under my head, and listen to the world happening around me. Just so you know.

The Past

Is a foreign country that you can go back and visit, but you wouldn't want to live there again. Or maybe you would. Some people loved High School. Some people would do anything to live in the dorms again. But some people hated the food, got the shits from the local water, and don't even want to look at the pictures.

Spent the weekend at my ten-year University Reunion. And I'm not sure in which of the above categories I fall. Do I think about it? Yeah. Do I want to go back to it? Well, there's a couple things I would have done differently, but not really. It was part of how I got to where I am, and for that I'm eternally grateful. But I'm also grateful for not having to work full time AND go to class full time. I'm glad I don't have to share a bathroom, or worry about intervisitation and sneaking out of girls rooms after a certain hour. I'm grateful that I can now live on something other than Tuna Helper and ramen. Although I still have a weakness for ramen.

Going to a Reunion is a bit like taking drugs. You probably shouldn't do it, but your friends convince you it's a good idea. It gives you a bit of a buzz, fucks with your head, and you're affected differently than you thought you would, but it's not necessarily a bad trip. And it's a little bit addicting-- you kinda want to do it all again, once you recover. Recovery range being anywhere from a year to the hardcore user addicts, and ten years for the more recreational user.

I don't think I'll be back for another reunion for ten years. There was something strange seeing how young the most recent grads look, and how old some of the other classes look. It made me very aware of my oft-forgotten youth, and my own mortality at the same time. I've got some grey hair, but it's not receding. I've put on weight, but I can still see my own dick. I've gotten more responsible, but I can still choose to do stupid things.

At the same time, it's not just about the reunion. I caught up with almost as many friends from High School as I did with College friends. I'm a hundred percent unbiased in my catching up with whomever over lunch/dinner/drinks/hike up a mountain, as long as I have time. Whichever region of the foreign-country past you're from, let's catch up. Reunions are a good excuse, but honestly, do we need an excuse?

Last Time

My cousin, Gareth, is getting married sometime next year. He lives in Melbourne, Australia, and assuming I'm invited to the wedding I'm really looking forward to going over there again. I spent three weeks there five years ago, catching up with old friends, making new ones, and getting chased down a Queensland beach by a cassowary. My parents are looking forward to it too, and it seems the older I get the more often I see my parents away from their or my house. Germany four years ago, Lorna's wedding three years ago, England earlier this year. And Australia next year?

I digress. Unusual for me, I know, but that's not what I was getting at. The point is, when my folks go over there they're planning on visiting New Zealand as well. That's somewhere I've always wanted to go, but right now with the short sale etc., I can't really afford to go over to Oz, let alone take the time for NZ as well. So it means at some point in the future, I'll possibly fly across the Pacific on my third trip. That's a lot of miles.

If and when I make that third trip (the one next year being my second), I won't be meeting up with my parents. They've already said that the reason they're doing the two places is because they won't be making the trip again. And that's depressing. I don't think of either of them as old, but obviously they're starting to become aware of their own mortality. Dad's got six years until he's the same age that his father died, so that's probably in the back of his mind when he acknowledges this will be his last trip to Australia and New Zealand.

But at what age do people generally start thinking about 'this is my last time doing...'? Not that any of us can plan how much longer we've got to live-- some people die tragically young, and some people die tragically old, and people pop it everywhere in between-- but is it something that happens once you reach a certain age? I'll admit, it's in the back of my mind sometimes. Travelling around Europe and on cruise ships, I met a lot of people from a lot of different places. And while I try to keep in touch through Facebook and email, it's probable that I'll never actually see some of them again. Our lives will get in the way, take us down different paths, and one day it'll be too late for a final catch-up.

I hate thinking about this shit at 31. I do my damnedest to not think about it, so as far as I'm concerned I've got several more trips to Australia in me, and several more Oktoberfests, and more than one shark dive, and at least a happy hour with you guys. But eventually I, we'll, all run out of time, so here's to the last time of everything, whenever and however it happens. Fucking enjoy it, okay?

Spring Cleaning

Is May too late to do a little spring cleaning? I just deleted the nine drafts that have been languishing in the shadowy, not-really-real world that is online. The seconds and minutes I spent on them, the thoughts and care and soul I put into them, is all gone. But was I ever going to finish and publish them? No, so they're gone.

I've been going through that quite a bit recently. I finally got my mediation notice through for my house, so moving out at some point in the near future is all of a sudden real, and I've got too much crap to take to a one-bedroom apartment. Sure, I could get a bigger place, but I don't really need it. I'm not married, don't have any pets, and want to discourage anyone who visits from actually staying with me. So at some point I'm downsizing, and not everything can go with me, so it needs to go. Too many clothes, books, kitchen stuff- although I'm not getting rid of the kitchen stuff until I absolutely have to. Paperwork in my office is being shredded, CD's are being ripped to my hard drive and gotten rid of.

Even things that take up no space. The aforementioned draft blogs. Email. But email's an ongoing problem, and the root of that problem is I need to stop subscribing to things, or signing petitions complaining about campaign financing and fox hunting. I want to still do these things, but every time there's a cause you believe in, you end up on another couple of email lists and begged time and again to put your name out there, help out etc. I'd do it more if I didn't have to give out my email address every time.

Physically, getting rid of my appendix last month was a good move. Didn't need the bloody thing, so out it went.

And then, to get absolutely metaphysical on you, getting rid of the baggage in my head. Sorry, I know it's been a while since my last blog, and to just dump that on you all of a sudden is a little bastardish, but that's proof there's things in my head I could do with losing.

So please sit back during this period of adjustment. My office will be slightly messier than usual (two tornadoes on a scale of messiness, where one tornado is my natural level of messy). I may not have full use of my bed every night, as things are removed from the closet and contemplated. My head might be doing some internal filing and take slightly longer for a snarky comment. And Itunes is going to be horrible to find anything for a while.

Don't worry, I'll soon not be back to my old self. Not that you'll probably be able to tell.

A Plan.

I have a new plan to get myself out of debt. It's a great plan. It's a plan that's being tried by the country right now, and with so many important people in public positions trying it, who am I to try any less. First, I'm going to stop paying for my electricity. Summer's coming, and being in Vegas with the a/c running all the time, I'm just not going to be able to afford it if I want to get out of debt. Maybe I'll stop running the a/c a little, but then the candles on the mantelpiece will start melting, and the puppy probably won't like it. I won't sleep well, because trying to sleep in a hundred and ten degrees (about forty three celsius) just doesn't work. If I'm rationing the a/c, I should probably ration other appliances that use electricity, like the fridge and freezer. Eating and drinking food out of the defrosted appliances might make me sick, but at least then if I have to stay overnight in hospital I'll be able to get a decent night's sleep, as there will be air conditioning.

If I'm getting sick from food that's gone off, I definitely shouldn't waste my time cooking it, so that'll save on the gas bill too.

Driving. Driving to work takes a lot of gas, but you know what I've noticed? If I get stopped by fewer traffic lights, I don't have to accelerate as often, and that's what burns most of the gas. So I'm going to ignore traffic signals, which should enable me to stretch a tank of gas for at least another half a week.

I do feel the need, however, to buy a home security system. Sure, I have locks, the same way my neighbours do, and walls, but I think an infra-red intruder alert system, with sensors on all the doors and windows, is very necessary. Maybe some razor wire for the eaves, spikes hidden in the bushes. But that's the only thing worth spending money on.

And this is the piece de resistance. This is what will enable my plan to work.

I'm going to ask for a pay cut.

That's right. My theory is (closely modeled on what's going on with the US right now) if I have less income, then I'm able to get out of financial problems sooner. Apparently the way to get rid of debt is to being less money in. That's why tax cuts were extended, right? If you can't leave within your means, then you should, I'm learning from the government, have less means.

Correct me if I'm wrong here. . .

Insecurities

They pop up at the most unexpected times, don't they? But then, if it happened at any other time, we'd be better able to deal with them. On Monday, I signed paperwork that takes me out of the world of hourly employee, and firmly into the world of salaried, lower-level management. It's a place that is both strange and comfortable to find myself. Comfortable, because I've been doing the job off and on for a year now, what with the bloke who had the position before being out for surgery, and then family emergencies. Strange, because I've always had something of an anti-authoritarian streak.

That last part isn't entirely true. I haven't always had it. I used to be a right little kiss-arse, but I got to about the age of thirteen, and decided I didn't like being like that. I wouldn't say I changed overnight, but I definitely started pushing boundaries with everyone except my parents. I'd already pushed those boundaries starting around four.

'Come on Richard, you should read this book.' 'Not gonna.'

'Richard, it's been two months since your last haircut. Don't you want to have it nice and short for the summer?' 'No.'

'Richard, you're here to play golf, not help those damned bugs hatch.' 'Don't like golf. They need my help.'

'Richard, you don't want to always do theatre, do you?' 'Yes.'

And so on. The ironic thing is, I now read avidly and intend to be a published author one day, I'm getting my head shaved on Saturday (but it's for a good cause), and the idea of golf appeals to me (as long as I can drink a six pack whilst playing). The theatre thing is the one bit I stuck by, and apparently that's working out too with this promotion.

But I'm not supposed to be talking about my rebellious streak. That's a story for another, possibly drunken, blog. I'm talking about the insecurities I felt today on my first 'proper' day on the job. See, while I was covering for Tenn, it was easy. I could always blame it on the other guy, or use the excuse that I'm just filling in. There was a safety net of sorts. Now, I have to make the call, and at present there's no one else running the department. Ten guys, eight of whom are older than me, all expecting me to make the right call, and make sure things get done, and that's a little intimidating. I'm having to make calls now that, two weeks ago, wouldn't have fazed me. Should I have done it that way? Did I say the right thing to that person? Could I have done that differently? I can't back out of it now, I can't give back the mantle to someone else, cos with a blasé 'Eh, fuck it, why not?' I signed that piece of paper and became what I've always mocked and pushed back against. . .management. So while it's comfortable, I'm still going to spend the next couple of months secretly doubting the decisions I make, being all insecure while putting on a brave face and acting confident.

Don't tell the guys that gave me the job.

Hair...not the short story

I'm proud of my hair. I'm 31, and have a full head of the stuff. There may be a couple grey strands here or there, but who's looking? Me, actually, every week or so. They first appeared. . .at an earlier date, but once thirty hit I felt I could admit to them. And now thirty-one is here, well, fair enough, I have some grey hairs. At least I have hair, unlike some of my contemporaries. My hairline hasn't changed in about six years, so I'm pretty sure it's staying where it is. My father and grandfather both have a full head of hair, so I'm good.

My one concern is when I shave it all off in March, it'll come back greyer. I'm not ready to look distinguished. Give me another couple of years before that, please?

Oh yeah, I'm shaving my head in March. Been talking about it for a while now, and it's for a good cause. It's to raise money for the St. Baldricks foundation, which raises money to fund cancer research, specifically to help kids. The last couple of years I've been to the event, in McMullans pub,but this year I'm taking the plunge, joining the Cirque Du SoBald team, and shaving it off. Never had a completely shaved head before. Dad used to make us get buzz cuts when we were younger, but right now my ears have disappeared under the three musketeers look I've got going right now.

Anyway. Shaving head. What is it with this year, me being all impulsive and taking the plunge over and over? Well, whatever, at least this one's for a good cause. Here's the link to my page, click on it and donate money to help kids with cancer!

http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/participantid/421456

The End

You know what the end of civilization is going to be? It won't be nuclear war. It's not going to be the rapture or the events according to the book of Revelations. Mayan's 2012 predictions? Large Hadron Collider? Nope. None of the above.

It's going to be spam. Not the processed and packaged meat product that's become a staple in the diet of many Pacific Island Nations, that's had songs (well, one song) sung about it.

I mean the unsolicited mail, email, blog postings, thread comments, anything that clutters up and gets in the way. Eventually, it's going to grow and grow and grow, taking up too much space, to much bandwidth, too much of our natural resources, to the extent that everything will end.

Your email inbox will end up being nothing more than promises of financial reward and larger, better erections. You'll miss real emails from friends, co-workers, that actually matter. Bandwidth will be too busy pleading for your assistance for wealthy but beleaguered Nigerian Princes, that even Larry Flynt will ask the government for help-- and when the porn industry begs help from the Government, you know things are bad. You'll miss a work call that got changed and sent via email, so you'll lose your job.

But why will you lose your job? Surely they could have rung you, let you know that work was changed? Well, unfortunately spam began showing up on cell phones around 2009, to the extent that you stopped answering calls from numbers that were unavailable, or you didn't recognize. What should be a useful little device to keep you in touch with aforementioned friends and co-workers became nothing more than a useful little device for playing Bejewelled and Angry Birds on. When work tries to call you, because it comes from a larger corporation, the number that comes up doesn't show as your boss' number, so you don't answer it.

They can't even mail you, what with all the sale offers and coupon offers that come through the mailbox every day. While those things are keeping the post office in operation, what's the point when they're only keeping the post office in operation to send more of the things you don't read or want?

Eventually, it's going to get critical. Bloggers won't be able to blog any more because blogging is pretty narcissistic. And it's pretty hard to be narcissistic when you have to wade through hundreds of spam comments, again promising money and. . .other stuff. People will stop posting on YouTube because the spam, crappy comments will take up too much space on their servers. Facebook will crash, what with farmville and spartacus and pirate games clogging the service. Once Facebook's gone, we won't have any way of communicating, and the end will rapidly approach.

It might be another ten years off, or it might be six months from now, but spam will be the end of us all.

Mostly, I'd just like people to stop calling me with an 'unavailable' number popping up. And it would be nice if the spam blog comments would go, too.

Preparation

I've been doing this all wrong. I keep thinking about the things I'm doing, and how they're a means to an end, a path to take to go where I want to go, but that's not the case. I used to know that, but somewhere along the way I forgot.

Working on ships, it used to piss me off no end when people sad 'what happens on ships stays on ships,' and claim that it wasn't real life out there. I always refused to take that point of view, because if you're spending nine bloody months out there, that's a good chunk of life that I'm not ready to write off. Admittedly, a lot of the shit you can get up to seems surreal, like you're living someone else's life. You can cram a lot of experiences into a short time on a ship, and looking back it sometimes doesn't seem real, but you can't qualify a part of life as not real. I used to know that.

Well, I'm getting back onto that train of thought. The past couple of years, I've been talking about becoming a writer. I've talked about leaving Las Vegas. I've talked about living on a sailboat. I've talked about travelling more. And the whole time, it's as though I've been waiting for something. I've been preparing for when I'm a writer. I've been getting ready for when I live on a sailboat. And I need to stop doing that.

I'll leave Vegas one day. I'll do all the things I talk about, because, hell, I'll never live it down if I don't. I expect each and every one of you to give me a full serving of shit if I fall short in anything I intend to do. But I've been bumming around thinking that what I'm doing right now is preparation, and doesn't really count. I got a cheap sailboat, not because I like the boat, but because I'm getting ready, learning all I can, for the day I can finally move aboard a bigger one, and cast off. I'm preparing for the future by doing this now. But when you keep doing that, you forget that now is part of your life too. None of us get enough time to live, and if you spend too much time looking ahead, you miss chunks. So the boat, the writing and editing I'm doing that is preparing me to be an author, sure, it's all preparation. But I'm enjoying it. I'm already doing things that a lot of people never do. And while I'm doing them with the express intention of moving on to bigger and better things, I'm going to try not to lose sight of the fact that I'm a third of the way through the final edit of my first novel, which already makes me a writer. I'm spending weekends out at the marina, working on the 23' Ranger sailboat that's mine, which already makes me a sailor. The preparation for what I want to become, what I want to do, has already got me there. And I almost didn't notice.

Impulsive.

I make some decisions easily. Some I find impossible. If we're talking about which restaurant to eat at, or which movie I want to see on Netflix tonight, you may as well settle down and raise a family in the time it's going to take me to choose. But if it's something big, something that requires a lot of thought, planning, and has potentially life-changing decisions, then I'll give you an answer in about five minutes flat.

Remember back in the summer when I started talking about new life plans? The plans involve living on a sailboat and literally travelling where the wind takes me, casting off and saying goodbye to the world of daily commutes, HOA payments, and all those things we're supposed to do. The means to do this would be my writing, as I'd be able to do that anywhere and I fully intend to make a living doing it. Well, I've already taken a few steps to that end; I've written a shit-tonne, and not just since I came up with this particular plan. Book two is 80% done, book one is being edited as soon as I'm done with this entry, and I'm still chipping away at those bloody screenplays.

Now, I've taken another step. It's the first step in the second part of the plan. I bought a 23' Ranger sailboat on Wednesday. It's docked out at Lake Mead, so I've got about two years of sailing before there's no water left (who builds a city in the desert? I mean honestly?). She needs a little work, but it's work that I need to learn to do on a boat for when I eventually sell all my furniture and move aboard. . .that won't be this one, she's a little too small. But for the next year or so, I'll be learning by doing. The more I write, the more I enjoy reading what I've written; hopefully, the more I sail, the less likely I am to sink. . .

NOT resosoddinglutions

New Year's Resolutions are bullshit. They really are. If you want to make a change in yourself, why do you have to wait for a specific date or time? I've been working for years, with a small amount of success, to become less hypocritical, and I'm nearly there.

Having said that, here's my list of things I want to do/change, at some time in the near future. It just so happens that it's right around New Year's, but that's not my fault.

1. No more smoking. I've never been a habitual smoker, but I'm done even having the occasional cigarette when I'm drinking in a bar. 2. Number 1. Doesn't apply to hookah. 3. Count to fifteen before I say anything. Counting to ten just doesn't give me long enough. 4. Be quieter about my opinions when talking to people. Only an hour ago I went off on someone who wants to buy a gun for home protection. Must. Not. Call. People. Stupid. 5. Blog more regularly. Which will hopefully help with Number 4., because if I'm getting it out here, then I don't feel the need to say it to someone's face. 6. Write more generally. Last year was pretty productive, but having slacked the last six weeks of the year, there's a little bit of guilt there. 7. Drink less. 8. Swim more. 9. Hang my laundry up straight away. 10. Stop telling the puppy I'm going to make him into gloves one of these days. 11. Be nicer to the people I already like (I stole this one, but see it as something I can actually accomplish). 12. Sail. 13. Swear less in speech and writing. Already buggered that one up tho, haven't I. . .

There it is. My list of (These aren't fucking resolutions, thereby enabling me to stick by me other non-resolution to be less of a hypocrite) things to accomplish. See if I manage any of them in the next three weeks.

Why three weeks? Because while I may not feel the need to attempt self-betterment on a time scale, try telling that to my soon-to-be 31 year-old body. . .

remiss in my duties

It's been almost a month since I posted anything here. And I feel a bit guilty about that. So much has gone on since the last time I posted, there's something in me that is kicking my own arse for not keeping people informed in what's going on in my life. Which is all too egotistical for my liking, because it makes me sound way too much like a bunch of studies that have been done recently about how egotistical people are these days.

Here's a quick run-down.

Did a film shoot at work that involved my being mildly less-than-complimentary to James Cameron. Yeah, that James Cameron. Lost motivation to write. Drank a shit-tonne. Bought a lovesac. Started dating someone. Went into default. Decided not to go for a job in Los Angeles. Picked out the boat I want to live on. Started playing world of warcraft again. Got to 85. Took a screenwriting seminar. Tour of warner bros. studios. Made pasties. Made pasties twice, actually. Acquired and decorated a christmas tree.

So there you go. I'll be back soon.

Here's a promise. I'll post a short story christmas day, because it's been too long and I need validation.

And maybe you might enjoy the story too. Payment for my slacking. . .

Pressing on

I finished the first draft of my first novel almost a year ago. The day before Christmas, to be exact. It wasn't perfect, and due to the nature of the subject, there were things I already knew I had to change-- either the chronology of events, or a little bit of research into the science behind what I was describing. I messed around with it in January and February, and in April I emailed to to someone who had offered to edit it, give me feedback, suggestions, anything that would make it a better novel. She said she'd get it back to me asap, probably a month, no more than two. I received an email from her a couple of days ago.

Criticism is never easy to take. There's a sinking feeling, when you find that all that hard work isn't enough. You beat yourself up, wondering why her opinion is so different to the people who have read it out of an interest in what you're doing-- friends and family who may have a biased opinion because, after all, it's you who's writing it-- and you think that maybe it's the impartiality they bring to it that unmasks your words for what they really are. I was a little angry when I got her email, because as I read on I found out she hadn't even read past the fourth chapter. Seven months to not even get past the fourth chapter? Is it really that bad? Tell me that, at least, tell me that after the second time you 'couldn't get past the fourth chapter.' Then I can go back, rework it, make the changes to the first chapter that you say it needs.

Or not, as the case may be. I don't want to write some cookie-cutter novel, with the plot generic, the characters typical, where you know exactly how they're going to react in every situation. I don't want you to have an instant, immediate relationship with them. That's not what happens in the real world. Relationships develop, they aren't usually thrust on you.

Maybe this is me just being unable to take criticism. Or maybe this is me remembering a lesson I thought I'd already learnt. My senior year of College, I designed a set for Lysistrata, the classical Greek comedy by Aristophanes. The show was very surreal, and I used Dali and Henry Moore as influences for most of the set. At the beginning of the play, the director wanted Lysistrata seated, surrounded with four ages of womanhood, while scenes of war were projected onto a screen. Our theatre didn't have a projection screen, so instead I painted the head from Dali's Sleep, 20' by 10', to be projected onto. When we had a bloke come in and give notes on the show, he mentioned that he loved the Dali and the Moore references in the set, but he didn't understand what the big head at the beginning had been. It was then that I realized that people will always have gaps in their knowledge, and won't always necessarily want to admit to them. If he didn't get that reference, at 20' by 10', then had he actually got the rest of them?

I'm trying to remember that again. While there are books that should have you totally interested by the end of the first page, I'd argue that very few of what are considered vital parts of English literary canon do that. Nothing by Jane Austen does that for me (full disclosure: I don't like Jane Austen. Not my type of book, although I've read a few for classes.) Neither did Lord of the Rings, books I loved. So maybe this is just me being unable to take criticism, or maybe it's me realizing another important lesson. Just because someone has edited books that have been published, it doesn't mean that their email will have perfect grammar. Just because someone offers something, you shouldn't take them up on it, especially if they don't generally read the genre you're writing in. That's what I want to take from this. I'm going to press on regardless, write the book I want to write, and not let one instance make me rip it up.

The manuscript's too thick for me to do that.