Category: Blogging

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God Gave Me Ten Fingers, So I learned to Hunt n Peck

I have decided that today is going to be “write a hell of a lot Thursday” and so far it’s off to a rather mediocre start. I’ve at least managed a blog post at Wiffli, and then there’s this one. I need to do a write-up of my Ragnar experience for The Loop, I have at three e-mails to friends to write, and then I want to get in some fiction.

But my wife woke up with a sore back, poor thing, and it’s pretty much knocked her out for the day. She’s got an appointment at the clinic in a short while, so I’ll take her to that, and I am not blaming her in the least for getting the way of my silly declaration. If anything, her unfortunate state has forced me to laser-focus on my plan—no messing about with video games and Reddit and peanut-butter & jelly sandwiches.

What is it, this compulsion to write? It’s not like anyone’s reading this stuff. I mean, sure, a few people here, a few people there, at least one person per e-mail. But it’s not like they’ll miss it if I don’t. So why do it?

Many years ago a friend said to me “you have a gift and if you don’t do something with it, that’s a sin.” I was flattered at the time, but if I think about it now, my “gift” is not that I write well, it’s that I want to write. And that’s it. On days when I do write I feel good, like I just built a barn. On days I don’t I feel bad, like the chickens and the cows and the horses are standing in the rain getting wet for no reason.

A dumb analogy but I’m trying to exert a distinction here between what it means to write well and what it means to just write. If you catch my meaning.

It’s all pointless, but then I guess everything’s pointless. Video games, cans of peanuts and caffeine that are just chewed, swallowed, digested and evacuated through bowels, TV shows about old families in England, pornography and a few minutes of self-pleasure. It’s not like I’m writing instead of building actual houses for actual people. And even if I were, those people, those houses, a few hundred years from now? All gone. Pointless.

So, let’s call it a middle-class compulsion. The poor struggle to survive, the rich survive to struggle, and the rest of us sit here navel gazing. Time to stop questioning the need and succumb to it. On to those emails. Sorry I’ve got nothing more pithy to say than that. How about a joke?

There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become a great writer.

When asked to define great, he said, “I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!”

He now works for Microsoft writing error messages.

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Random Coincidence Usually Isn’t

Here’s this: “Not Allerigc to Adventure” to run-inspire you, write-inspire you, and love-whatever-you-do-inspire you. It’s the blog of ultramarathoner Sabrina Moran, and if you don’t delight in her running 100 miles or 24 hours at a time (guess which one is longer) then delight in how funny she is. Know what’s funny? I wrote the above before reading her post called “You’re Not an Inspiration.” Ha!

I have been lax in my writing. So what I’m doing is taking an email I wrote to someone and using it to write a blog post. I don’t know if that’s kosher, but I just read a quote from Johnny Depp who said “Just keep moving forward and don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks.” That resonates with my favorite Robert Downey Jr. quote: “Listen, smile, agree, and then do whatever the fuck you were gonna do anyway.”

You see what I’m doing there? I’m associating my attitudes with the attitudes of two very talented, very good-looking men. (Both of whom are older than me! But can you guess who of the two is oldest?)

Speaking of kosher, we had Hebrew Nationals last week. True Story. Here’s an ironic link, brought to you by Yahoo, now run by my wife’s sister’s old boss, who I have never formally met, but who I walked by once as she entered a house I was exiting, all 300 million dollars of her. (You see what I’m doing there?)

I’m sleepy. We went to Portland on Sunday, and I opted to drive back rather late instead of crashing and driving back the next day. It’s getting harder and harder as I get older and older to recover from bad or no sleep. While I was there, a friend of mine (call him Charles) told me about a friend of ours (call her Hanna) who had a severe psychotic break as a result of a misdiagnosed bipolar disorder and a serious case of sleep deprivation. Not that I’m at risk of that, but still. Sleep is so needed.

I know I’m not sleeping well when I have vivid dreams. I don’t like having them. Not because they’re bad, as such, but just because the imagery lingers and it makes the day’s thoughts cloudy. I read a theory that dreams are an interpretation of your brain re-arranging neurons to move memories from short-term into long-term. Last night I had a dream I was running around a deserted vacation resort, and then it turned into a casino and I saw an old (ex) friend and then another (current) friend chased me because he thought I was ignoring him. He caught me, and said “stop, damn it.”

That dream has no meaning; more telling is how vivid it was, that the resort was sort of all bed-rock and tarnished brass, the casino was plush red velvet, and my friend’s hands were very strong. And what it tells me is I am not sleeping well, probably because I’m drinking too much caffeine. But Ragnar is in a few days, and I’m excited, and I won’t be sleeping well that night, or the next night. Isn’t it weird how having a bad night’s sleep can make you have another bad night’s sleep the next day? It’s silly.

And lends itself to… a thing that there’s a name for, when you start seeing coincidences all over the place. For example, on Boing Boing, there was a post about Nocebos which are like placebos but make you feel bad, not good. Add to that that ultramarathoners blog, where she in a post mentions “Doxastic penetration” which “refers to when your beliefs color your perceptions.” Now can I add those ideas to a TED talk I saw the other day, by the founder of SuperBetter, and to that add a blog post at the Happiness Project called “Want To Have More Fun? Go On a Mission.”

And shall I add to that those quotes by Depp n’ Downey? And you see where I’m going with all these? Can you see what I am doing there? WELL I CAN’T BECAUSE I HAVE NOT SLEPT ENOUGH.

But I don’t care because Ragnar is in a few days. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. I will not sleep well but so what: I’m on a mission, a mission to do one of things that makes me happy like no other, and I think Johnny and Robert would approve. No, really, I genuinely think they would provide applause.

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What I’ve Done On My Vacation

Fair warning: this will be a dull post. I’m just going to recap some of the writing I’ve been doing over the last few weeks (Since June 1st).

Here at Bukkhead: two short stories, three book reviews, six other pieces, one of which I also posted on the blogs at Runner’s World.

Over at Wiffli: “Oops, Forgot a Title,” “Screw You, BMI,” “Anybody Else Seen Snooki’s Boobs?” and “Gwyneth Paltrow Used the N Word (With Asterisks).” (By the way, if you want to write something on Wiffli, just let me know.)

On AntiPundit: “First Post in 2+ Years,” and “Nothing Could Be Finer Than to Be in a Vagina.” (You can post political opinion on AntiPundit too, if you want.)

Total: 17 bits, 10481 words. This doesn’t cover a few longish e-mails to friends, or a blog post I made on the internal corporate website at work. Or, ha, this post.

Also, I ran 65 miles.

For the month of June, so far, it looks like the “bad” day was June 9th—no running, and no writing at all. According to my paper journal, I didn’t do much—I watched the Mariners lose, and I hung out with some friends at The Bottlehouse. I think I mowed the lawn that day.

And all of this while suffering from Vestibular Neuritis (I am, this week, fully recovered). How? Why? I really do think it’s this lack of idle web-browsing. Granted, there was some Bejeweled Blitz in there, some Diablo III, some Hitman Absolution: Sniper Challenge, and a lot of Draw Something, Words with Friends, Wordament, and Plants Versus Zombies. But still, I got a tell you, this web-browsing fast has really upped my productivity.

I could really use a nap, though.

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You Gotta Run Slow

Posted this over at Runner’s World, just for the heck of it…

Bit of background: always wanted to run, usually hated it: lungs, blisters, etc. Finally read No Need for Speed, realized slow running was just fine. Finally found out about non-cotton socks. Finally found a way to run and not hate it. Been at it now 4 years, 3600 lifetime miles, one marathon, dozens of halfs, currently 40 years old, 5’8” 185 lbs, etc. I’m so average, I make vanilla look exotic.

Back when I got started running I aimed for 10-minute miles. Longer runs dipped into the 11:30 per mile range at the end, and I could scorch a 5k at 9:45 per if I didn’t mind resting a few days after. I never really tried to “train” for speed—I was just trying to stay on the road longer, if I could. I remember the first time I ran for 75 continuous minutes. Almost  7 miles! It was glorious. Almost as glorious as the beer I had afterwards. Okay, fine, beers.

Books and magazines recommended so-called “Tempo” runs, but frankly, I was baffled. How do people know what pace they’re running at? Is there really that much difference between 10k pace and half-marathon pace? Can a person really know that they’re running at “10 seconds less than 5k pace.” Ah well. I was just in it for sweat and the excuse to listen to loud music in my iPod. On good days I might have been able to say “I finished that guitar solo one telephone pole earlier than usual, hmm…”

I figured I’d just log a few thousand miles and see what happened. And what happened was that I did get faster, of course. I live in Seattle- it’s hard to not run up hills here. And hills just make you faster. And running longer, naturally, makes you faster. And I started running more consistently, too. Instead of a run starting around 9:30 per mile and ending around 11:30, I was better able to stay within 30 seconds or so of per-mile variance. Not an elite achievement, to be sure, but the mark of a little road experience.

Unfortunately, when I say  got faster, I got only faster. It got to the point where a 5k run or a 10 mile run was at about 8:45 per mile, give or take.  No matter what. (I know this isn’t really “fast.” I ain’t qualifying for Boston at that speed.) I still had no idea how people were able to know the difference between their various tempos.

And I was so in love with running. I wanted to do more than 15 miles per week, but I just couldn’t manage more than three days out of seven. Maybe four every once in a while. More than that and I was getting overuse injuries. It was very frustrating. Yes, I was faster, but I felt like I was back at the drawing board.

So one day, I decided, if I’m back at the beginning, I’ll start over. Why not? Why not run slow, like I used to? Yes, when I started, a 5k was a marathon. So I’d try running at my old pace. I went out and did 5 miles at about 9:45 per mile. It was tough, forcing myself to slow down. Had to put slow songs on my iPod, songs I’d never run to before. I am living proof one can run while listening to Adele. Not ashamed to say it.

And I tried running slow again the next day. And then a third day. No soreness, no fatigue. I decided to take another page from the conventional wisdom, and force myself to rest one day. But after that, I did another three-day mini streak—and two of those days where back-to-back eight milers! I had run six days out of seven, and covered three times as many miles.

So here I am, falling in love with running all over again, and logging more miles, more days. I’ve got way more songs that are run-appropriate now to try out. And since more running means I get to drink more beers, I’m thinking this “run slow” thing is actually a gift from the Heavens. Lotterty, schmottery. I got my miles!

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Couldn’t Disagree More, Runner Ted

Over at Runner’s World Ted Spiker’s written a little ditty about being true to himself, and not letting summer indulgences ruin his goals. Getting in his runs and not letting the weather stop him, not eating too much. Good for him. But I couldn’t disagree more.

Let me quote the lad:

Manage Indulgences: Vacations should be fun and relaxing and, at times, rule-breaking. But you’ve got to get out of your mind the fact that a couple of bites of a coconut-covered something-or-other means you automatically go all in. Bite, enjoy, bite again, step away. Eat right 90-some percent of the time; feel no guilt the rest.

Oh god, no. It’s not that you get to automatically go all in, you get to go all in by virtue of having lungs and a heart i.e by virtue of being alive i.e because you #$%^&* want to. Eat till you pop! That’s what vacations are for!

Rock the Mornings: You have to start every day strong: Get your runs and lifts done early and you won’t feel like ruining it with a frozen drink that has the caloric equivalent of an entire grocery-store aisle.

Won’t feel like ruining it? Ruin a run with a frozen drink, Ted, seriously? Sometimes the only reason I run is for the beer afterwards. Which is why I try to drink them on my non-running days, too, for the sake of consistency. And yes, that means I drink them in the morning. But it’s summertime, which mean the sun is out early, so it’s not like I’m drinking vodka shots in the gloom of a winter morning. Not in the summer, anyway.

Step Back: We know, we know. You stopped weighing yourself this spring when you grew frustrated with a plateau. But you know what? You’re going to step your cheese-loving arse back up on the scale to keep yourself accountable and gauge your progress. Because you have made some, and you’ll tell these good folks about it soon. You are—are!—going to come out of this tempting (yet glorious) seasonal stretch with a smaller number than where you started.

What’s this accountable nonsense? Are you running to lose weight, Ted? You little cheater! Running’s not for losing weight! I’m not saying you gotta gain when you run, I’m just saying: the run should be enough. You know those commercials: What’s your Anti-Drug? For me it’s “What’s your Anti-Diet?” Running! I run so I don’t have to weigh myself.

In Ted’s defense, he does title the blog entry “Letter to My Summer Self.” And I’ll never begrudge a man his inner dialogue to get himself going. Probably, Ted’s better looking than me, faster than me, thinner-even-when-he’s-fat than me. (He’s certainly a better writer than me and more famouser).

But he’s delusional. Eat the coconut thing, Ted. Drink the frozen drink. Smile while you do it, love the calories, and go bust out a fartlek. Not because you have to, but because you can. Attaboy.

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Potrzebie (Without Apologies)

Con call in half an hour and I just can’t be bothered. Book to read, less than 50 pages to go, and I just can’t be. Bothered. Just watched Weird Al’s “Fat” video, followed up with Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Laughed the whole time I was watching the MJ. Not that it’s a horrible video. Actually it’s pretty darn good. Actually, and this might be the old man in me talking, it hearkens back to a day when music videos where a thing. I don’t know if they’re a thing anymore. Have not watched Mtv in years. I guess I do see things on Youtube, so maybe they’re still a thing.

Naw, I laughed the whole time because I had just watched the Weird Al version, and during the MJ I was only able to think of the WA lyrics. That happened the other day too: we were in the car, some new remix of Bad came on, and I was singing the Fat version throughout. Al Yankovis is a genius. It’s been said before, it will be said again.

But this is a rambling blog post about how I can’t be bothered. Normally, in this mood, I’d go to Reddit, or Pinterest, or Tumblr. Woe is you, I’m writing instead. Already wrote two lengthy emails to friends this morning.

I’m STILL clicking on Facebook every ten seconds, but that’s mostly megalomaniacal, since I like it when people respond to any content I generate. That’s why I have everything linked to Facebook. I had a dream about Mark Z last night—I was at some friend’s wedding, in the hotel in the hours before it all got started. Mark Z was there, played by Justin Timberlake when he was still in N’Synch, with that bleached hair with the tight curls. Except it was orange, and he had a black goatee.

Meaningless, all dreams are meaningless, so I only mention it to entertain. Are you not entertained? Gladiator quote.

Cause that’s what most writers are, you know. Bloggers, self-incarcerated gladiators pitted against the soft-copper armor of their own ennui, their self-perceived inaquecies, and all of us desperate for that ironical insight that makes what we spew funny if not interesting.

Me for example: I sure do spend a lot of time by myself. I’ve taken to talking to myself, or, if not to myself, to imaginary interlocutors, out loud. I even had a conversation with myself out loud about it today while making a sliced-turkey-and-lefotver-satay wrap:

-Do you think I’m stupid?
-Yes.
-What?
-Yes, I think you’re stupid.
-Oh, you think you’re smart, eh?
-Yes, I do. And I think you’re stupid. Can we talk about something else, please?
-You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
-Hence my requesting it.
-What?
-And we’re back to how stupid you are again. Brilliant.
-Yeah, you’re the brilliant one.
-Your sarcasm is ill conceived I’m afraid.
-What?
-Oh god I could use some illegal pharmaceuticals.

Not that I’d know what to do with them. Lately running a little too much and writing things no one reads has been my pharmaceutical, but for what, I don’t know. I mean besides boredom. Lately, and I don’t know why, I’ve been in a really bad mood. I drive places, the radio is on, the Mariners are losing, some asshole in a Lexus is driving ten miles under the speed limit and so some other asshole in an Acura cuts in front of me to take an exit; meanwhile, I’m thinking I need to change lanes but there’s another asshole in a Prius sitting on my left rear bumper, talking on his cell phone, and then I notice the handicap sticker and I get even angrier because, handicap parking, grrr, don’t get me started.

What’s the point of all this? I don’t know. I don’t have a thesis statement. Con call in 15 minutes, Pandora keeps playing ads at me whenever I skip songs that DO NOT FIT THE STATION I AM LISTENING TO and I don’t feel like rereading this and editing it into making sense. Nothing makes sense. Nor does it have to. There, there’s your furshlugginer thesis statement.

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What Would Andy Rooney Write? (Or: My Transistor Radio is a Cat)

Remember Andy Rooney? I think he died. Not sure. After I write this I’ll go to Wikipiedia and link his name. But by then I’ll have written this, and I don’t feel much like editing. Which might be more introspection than is readable, but then that’s the point of this post.

I saw Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes a few times, and my point of view on him is the one of the popular and uninformed, the PoV fit for creating parody: that he was a rambling bafoon. Part of that is a reactionary disposition, one that rebels against good old fashioned Americana. You know, the same PoV that makes fun of Norman Rockwell and members of the VFW who wear suspenders. We’re such (young) curmudgeons (we’ll be fun to make fun of when we’re old (if we don’t all die of heroin overdoses first (or limp bizkit overdoses (because it is now ironic to listen to limp bizkit (good god time is getting compressed, innit))))).

My transistor radio, which I bought just to listen to AM stations, doesn’t get the best reception all of the time. Or any of the time, now that I think about it. Sometimes, the only place where it doesn’t whine and click is sitting right in front of me, between me and the keyboard. Which is fine if I’m just surfing. But if I want to type (crap) like right now.

“So turn it off!” I can hear you say (and here “you” is a fake person, since no one reads this blog, and if someone does, that person is a crazy person, who understands a little well why the radio can’t be turned off). Well, that’s not going to happen. I abhor silences. One of the (many) reasons I talk all the time.

The point of all of this of course is that I need to write more, a common lament that comes from me, a chronic dirge that comes after a derth of blogging. Blogging… that’s just extemporaneous writing that I’m not ashamed enough to not share in a publically accessible way. And yes, whining that I whine too much has become de rigueur of late as well. So what. Would that have stopped Andy Rooney? A veteran of opinion writing, a professional, a man with a storied career and thousands of fans possessed of and respectful of his intelligence?

I have no idea; I have not read that Wikipedia article yet (and this one-line Dave Barry wannabe end of article zinger is hereby ruined by my pointing out that it’s a failed Dave Barry-esque zinger, if only to say next time: instead of not writing anything like Andy Rooney I’ll try and I’ll fail at emulating Dave Barry).

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Airborne Toxic Event

My to do list says “blog!” and Mondays are for book reviews because I’m supposed to read one book per week. But I haven’t finished last week’s book, White Noise by Don DeLillo. I’m almost done, could probably finish it today and write my “review,” but I want to get my every-day to do list done NOW! Damn it! I could just fake it. No one reads these damn things anyway.

I’ll just go over to a few other websites, see what they have to say, see if it jibes, say something similar. For example, Wikipedia says:

White Noise explores several themes that emerged during the mid-to-late twentieth century, e.g., rampant consumerism, media saturation, novelty academic intellectualism, underground conspiracies, the disintegration and reintegration of the family, human-made catastrophes, and the potentially regenerative nature of human violence. … The novel’s style is characterized by a heterogeneity that utilizes “montages of tones, styles, and voices that have the effect of yoking together terror and wild humor as the essential tone of contemporary America”

(quoting Frank Lentricchia, editor of New Essays on White Noise, apparently).

Now me, I’m a writer. Those of you who have waded through my self-indulgent pages know this. You know that a writer is someone who is compelled and accomplishes, as a reason for being, stringing together words in sentences in a chronic or at the very least pathological fashion. Nothing to do with being published, having readers, actually finishing anything. As long as I am wont to go blah bah blah, I’m a writer.

So, as a writer, I have to wonder, what’s the deal with themes? Do writers set out to have “themes” in their books? I never do. Not ever. I don’t say “I think I’ll write about the break-neck speed at which we’re forced to live these days, sacrificing sleep for sensation, the irony being that we’re dulled by stimulation, numb to anything except the joy of oblivion.” No, I just think it would be cool to write a story about 4 kids who decide if they can stay awake for 96 hours straight. And style? I can assure you, I don’t ever set out with a fixed style in mind. I just slap the words together in a way that seems to work.

But then, I’m no Don DeLillo. Thank god! If I was, and if I were ever published, I’d have to compete with the other Don DeLillo! Can you imagine, someone walks into a bookstore, says to the guy wearing glasses: “The latest from Don DeLillo, please,” wanting the book a friend of a friend of my mom told them about, only to get the other Don DeLillo’s book instead! Which is why writing should never be about praise. They’d read the book, find it excellent, tell their friend, who tells their friend, who tells my mom, who tells me. “They said they liked the theme of novelty academic intellectualism, and appreciated your montage of styles.”

And me, not knowing that’s what I’d written, I’d be all “Gee, cool!”

Anyway, there’s 500 words. Enough for a blog post. See what I mean about writers being those who just @#$%^&* write, and to hell with the results? I’m a god damned natural.

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No Book Review Today

You’ve heard the phrase First World Problems? That there’s no book review for you to read today is what I call a Fantasy World Problem, because only in a fantasy world is there anyone who wants to read my book reviews. They very idea that someone is disappointed today is silly. That’s not me feeling sorry for myself. I recognize that writing is often a selfish act, and so is reading, and for the most part these book reviews are for me.

And they’re not even for me to read later, they’re just denouments, an ironic attempt at maintaining book-reading momentum. I want to read 50 books this year (one per week, with allowances for a few slips). So far so good—in fact, thanks to finishing three books on vacation last week, I’m slightly ahead of schedule. For what it’s worth, right now I’m in the middle of Johannes Cabal the Necromancer and I am enjoying it quite a bit. And it’s the first in a series, which I find exciting to anticipate.

Why write any of this today then? My daily to-do list has “blog” written on it, and Mondays are for book reviews. So this is my substitute. And if, by some very meager stretch, you ARE reading this, why not drop me a line (in the comments or via email) and tell me what you’re reading and whether it’s any good.

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Ten “New” Stories for You to “Read”

If you want, here are some short stories. (I stole that sentence, by the way, from Stephen King). I’ve posted them over at Rife With Typos, although a few have appeared on this blog over the past few weeks. All of these come from my daily exercise at 750words.com, which is why they’re so short. But you’ll notice that I’m not publishing everything from the daily exercises—sometimes I wind up just blither blathering too much. I mean, I do have my arrogance, but I try to be at least somewhat discerning….

Anyway, enjoy.

We Accidentally Found a Trillion Dollars appeared on this blog on January 18th. I’d had the idea for this story for a while now, but when I finally got into it, I couldn’t get away from the one detail that I wound up riding all the way to the end.

But Frederick, You Died Last Week. This one is not very good, and the ending is a throw-away, but I want the darn thing done so I can move on.

The Devil Inside- A Bad Film Review. If you get nothing else from this, at least watch how I try to develop better writing technique in the “coming up with last names” department and fail miserably.

Different Rules, Same Game. Not only are these from daily exercises, a lot of them come to me while I’m at the gym running on the treadmill. This one was posted on the blog on January 26th. I was going to called it “Buzzard Beater,” but then when I got done, I couldn’t remember what I was going to call it.

Icy Drops of Water Running Down the Sides. Slightly experimental, just one paragraph, two sentences. If I may so say, this one has a writing style I use all the time, taken, maybe, way too far.

Just Another Tuesday. Published on the blog yesterday. Supposed to be evocative of Tooth and Nail was written while listening to Nightwish and Blind Guardian.

Lemon Jefferson, Stripper Pole Salesman. Not sure where this one came from. Had the phrase “stripper pole salesman” in my head, and when I sat down to write, “Lemon Jefferson” just popped in there. Then, while I was writing it, I tossed in a few gratuities, for the hell of it.

Messin’ With Texas. I really like this one, not sure why. It’s in the same style as The Most Important Person in the Restaurant, a style I might play around with some more in the future.

Mr. Luigi’s Delicious Pizzas. I do these daily writing exercises, and sometimes I can’t think of what to write about. So I got the idea then when I’m stuck, I’ll write about this pizza place. So far, I’ve only done so twice, and the first one never got finished.

The Witch Nutella. Maybe this one is a bit silly, but oh well. Sometimes you just pick a genre, pick a few tropes, and see what happens.