Category: Postaday

Posted on

Robert Palmer Never Took Ephedrine

Postaday for January 19th: Re-springing Your Step. Tell us about the last experience you had that left you feeling fresh, energized, and rejuvenated. What was it that had such a positive effect on you?

So this one time I had a really bad head cold. Or flu or pneumonia or some crazy illness. Could have been rickets for all I know. Please send me a Vine that describes what the hell rickets is. Is that the one from not eating limes? I don’t know.

At the time I lived about half a mile away from the mall, as the crows flies. Unfortunately for me, the crow flies over a highway and a community college. If I wanted to go to the mall, I had to walk a mile or so.

On that day, I did. Stuffed nose, fever, congestion, body aches. My eyes felt like they were full of hot sand. My hands felt puffy. My lower back hurt. I put on jeans and a shirt and another shirt and a sweater and a scarf and a hat. I think I may have passed out for a few minutes when I tried to put on my thick socks.

And then I stepped out into the rain. More of an irritating drizzle, really. I trudged my way to the mall. That day, if I recall, I’d decided to see if going south first and then north was the same distance as walking north first. For the record: it wasn’t. It was longer. And there were more hills.

But I made it to the mall and wandered around until I remembered WHY I was there (to eat lunch) and WHERE the food court was (the south end. This mall has only one hall, so finding things is a simple as walking from one end to other).

Before I ate, I stopped at GNC and bought some pills. These were, specifically, weight loss pills. Back then there were legal. Then they were made illegal because some idiot swallowed a bottle of them, drank a half a case of beer, got into a car wreck, and died. They blamed the pills. Not the alcohol, not the blunt-force trauma to his head. The pills. Later, they legalized them again, but the damage was done, and no one sells them anymore.

But back then they did and I got some and took the recommended dosage. I had taken them before, knew what the dosage was, and had no intention of taking too many. I went to lunch, tacos, I think.

Then I got bored and decided to walk home. Here’s the thing— those pills? They do something to histamines. I don’t know what it is. They’re not anti-histamines per se, but let me tell you something— halfway home, they kicked in.

Every ache and pain went away. My nose cleared up. My eyes cleared up. I had a bounce in my step. I got home, and fired up the Playstation. Played Dance Dance Revolutions for hours. Sweated all that sickness out of myself.

And that’s its. There’s no moral to this story, no ironic ending. I sometimes miss those pills, but not too often. The last time I can remember feeling fresh, energized, and rejuvenated was in 2005.

Posted on

Sing Us a Song, You’re The Writer Man

Postaday for January 18th: Pleased to Meet You. Write a post in which the protagonists of two different books or movies meet for the first time. How do they react to each other? Do they get along?

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. Paul, the real estate novelist, is pounding away at his keyboard, furiously. He knows better than to used adverbs like “furiously,” but he can’t help it. He hasn’t sold a house in several months. Or were it years. Music, ignored, pours out of speakers on either side of his computer screen. 20 plus years of collected MP3, and iTune set on random. He hears none of it.

His fingers are sore. He doesn’t care. His back is sore. He doesn’t even feel it. Words pop up in staccato as his slow word processor tries to keep up with his rat-a-tat keyboard stabbing. But Paul’s eyes are in between keyboard and screen. He’s composing. He’s decomposing.

A knock on his door. Paul writes, “he gets up and answers it.”

Light from the hallway haloes a figure in an evening gown, crowned in roses. She says, “What am I doing here?”

Paul’s eyes adjust to the light. A woman, mid-twenties, sandy-blond here, chubby cheeks, bright eyes. Half a smile on her face. She looks confused but not uncomfortable. She looks real but not substantial. Paul tries to concentrate. Glances back at the computer screen.

“Um,” he says. He half turns, half points at his computer. “Um,” he says again.

She brushes past him. “My name’s Heather, right?” she says. And walks past him. She sits down on a huge overstuffed chair. Her sash reads “Miss Rhode Island” which becomes unreadable when she sits.

“Uh, yes. That is, no.” Paul says “Your name’s actually Cheryl.” He walks back into the room, sits on his computer chair, glances at his screen, focuses on the part where he’s written “Cheryl Frasier.”

“Frasier,” she says, and smiles. “Oh, that’s a nice name.”

Paul smiles back. “Thanks! I mean, well, it’s your name. I like it too.” He looks at her for a moment or two. He never had time for a wife. Most Saturdays at nine finds him in bar, talking to Davy, who’s still in the Navy, and has been since 1973.

“1973?” She says. “That’s two years before I was born!”

Paul gives her a quizzical look. He doesn’t like that he’s used a trite phrase like “quizzical look,” but at least it’s better than “he looked at her quizzically.” He turns to the keyboard. How did she—

“Ooh, what’s this song?” she says, jumping up and leaning over his back. She smells like flowers, sweet, yellow, and just a hint of something else… he can edit that in later, maybe.

Paul reaches for the mouse to show her the song is Burning Down the House by The Talking Heads. Before he can click away from the word processor, She giggles. “Burning Down the House,” she says. “I was ten when that song came out.”

Paul spins the chair to face her. She smiles down at him, the look on her eyes enveloping, trusting. He says “Well, Heather Burns was 10 when this song came out. You would have been somewhere between 7 and 13.”

She sits in his lap. Puts her arms around him. “I think I like you.”

Paul rest his head on the “Miss” of her sash. They hum along to the rest of the song together. Then the writer stops before the next song comes on, because he’s afraid of what it might mean for them.

Posted on

Hand Cramps and Leg Cramps and Head Cramp, Oh My

Postaday for January 17th: Pens and Pencils. When was the last time you wrote something substantive — a letter, a story, a journal entry, etc. — by hand? Could you ever imagine returning to a pre-keyboard era?

November, 2007. NaNoWriMo. It’s possible that someone who reads this blog doesn’t know what NaNoWriMo is. But not at all likely. (Actually, it’s not at all likely anyone reads this blog at all.)

My “novel” was about a guy who works for a corporation and has a wife and likes to run and gets a cramp. The whole novel was supposed to be about the cramp. The corporate job was just background, not worth really examining, like describing someones shoes just so you know they’re not barefoot. Same with the wife, who was just there so you know the guy’s got no interesting characteristics. A straight dude in his late 30s, as plain as they come. I didn’t even give him a name.The point was to focus on the cramp, not the guy.

Or so I thought. NaNoWriMo is a community thing, really, and someone advertised a local meet-up for writers to come work on their novels together. So off I went, expecting we’d all sit around and smile at each other and ask how the process was going and in general be buddies.

WRONG! I got to the crowded cramped tea-house and found no place to sit. Most folks were at this big table in the middle, while others were huddled at smaller orbiting tables. Nobody smiled. Nobody even asked my name. And I had purposefully NOT brought a lap top! Didn’t they see the cool hipster notebook in my hands?

I found a small chair squashed in a corner, one without even a table next to it. Opened my notebook and stared at that blank page. My hands started to cramp even before I clicked my pen. This was stupid. But I drove all the way here, I thought, and eventually wrote: “He’s addicted? Fine. He’ll go to a meeting.”

My hand cramped up a lot, but I kept going, and eventually found a groove. NaNoWriMo suggests you write 1667 words a day, so that you can hit a goal of 50k in one month. So that’s what I did, using breaks to count words and let my hand rest. Took about an hour or so.

I never finished that novel. I DID, however, turn that day’s writing into a short story, which you can read if you want. I much prefer typing, but it does strike me as ironic that the only part of the whole crap novel that was salvageable was the part written by hand.

Could I ever imagine returning to a pre-keyboard era? Imagine, yes. But I know I’d write a lot less often.

Posted on

I Say Potato, You Say Organic Potahto

Postaday for January 16th: Agree to Disagree. Do you have a good friend or close relative with whom you disagree on a major issue (political, personal, cultural)? What’s the issue, and how do you make the relationship work?

Got into it a few years ago over the issue of organic food. I’m not a fan. I try, as much as possible, to avoid organic foods when I shop at the grocery store. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with them, in terms of their nutritional value. But I don’t want my money to go to people who profit off of lies.

I’ve done a fair bit of research, and found that so-called “organic” farming is not sustainable. Simply put: you can’t feed everyone on the planet with organic farming. Also, organic farming is not better for the environment, nor does it provide for healthier food. “Organic” is just a feel-good word, slapped on some products to justify a juicy mark-up.

In fact, there are some small farms that are, actually, “organic,” but can’t use the label because they can’t afford to pay for the inspection process. The irony here is that these farms, which only serve local markets anyway, have to compete with corporate farms that get to call themselves “organic” because they invented the term and the rules for using the label.

Whoever you are, reading this, maybe you eat organic. Maybe you think its good for you, good for your kids. Here’s why I bring the subject up: that’s fine with me. And THAT’S the gist of the argument I got into a few years ago. It wasn’t that we disagreed on the subject of organic farming. It was that I was so darn condescending about the whole thing.

A long time ago I decided I would stop making people feel bad for liking things. I decided to stop teasing people for their music choices, or reading choices, even their political points of view. I used to be a real cynic, a real jerk. But it’s only recently that I realized this seemingly laissez-faire attitude comes across a bit holier-than thou.

“I have no problem if YOU think organic is good for people. I don’t think it is, but it’s fine with me if YOU choose to buy that stuff.” That’s what we ended up arguing about.

Disagreeing with people is not really much of a problem. Indeed, disagreeing with people can lead to learning opportunities. Trying to convince someone of something can serve as a gut check for one’s convictions. Failing to, in an amicable conversation, can lead one to a more honest pursuit of truth.

But isolating oneself under the guise of “let ‘em think what they want” only reinforces arrogance. I’m glad my family respects me enough to tell me when I’m being disingenuous. But I still ain’t eatin’ no organic potatoes.

Posted on

I’ve Got A Lot On My Minds

Postaday for January 15th: Brain Power. Let’s assume we do, in fact, use only 10% of our brain. If you could unlock the remaining 90%, what would you do with it?

First of all, I would separate my brain in ten pieces, so that I could do ten things at the same time.

One part of my brain would be watching TV shows, so I can get caught up on all the pop culture. I’m caught up on Game of Thrones, Brooklyn 99 and I Zombie. Need to watch all of Justified, Boardwalk Empire, The Wire, and House of Cards. Should also probably watch Breaking Bad and Walking Dead, but I’m only willing to do that if I can get a whole chunk of brain dedicated to it. Not that I have anything against those shows per se; I just found them tedious and dull when I tried them the first time.

Oh, and Battlestar Galactica, Portlandia, and Hannibal. People on Tumblr are going nutso over Hannibal, and I want to know what’s up.

There are other shows I’m way behind on, but I’m watching those with the wife. We’re just starting season three of Scandal, and we’re also watching True Detective. We watch Modern Family when it comes on, and we want to watch Suits and Homeland.

Then I’d have another part of the brain read books. Maybe have on part read news books and one part rereads old ones. I just discovered one of my all time favorite writers, Thomas Berger, passed away last year (kinda feel bad I didn’t know this sooner). So I’d reread all of his books. And reread The Chronicles of Amber by Zelazney, although I bet my super brain would get through that pretty quickly. I think also I’d reread Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies because when Hillary Mantel puts out the third book in the series I want to be ready.

The third book I’d read with the part of the brain for new reading. It would also read every Booker-prize nominated book over the last ten years that I haven’t already read. It might also read Game of Thrones, even though I’ve already read the first book and I did not care for it. I also have a lot of Jim Thompson to read.

Of course another part of my brain would be dedicated to writing. Blog entries, short stories, and all of the novels I’ve started and never completed. Also, book reviews for all those books those other parts of my brain are reading.

Here’s where it gets tricky: I have a lot of video games to get through. Not sure how I can write and play video games at the same time. I’m tempted to use some sort of dictation device for the writing, leaving me hands free, but I like the discovery aesthetic of writing and wonder if I would get too glib, being able to just let it flow. I don’t think I can think fast enough to speak what I write!

I know— I’ll dedicate a whole other part of my brain to solving that problem.

So one part for TV, one for books, one for re-reading, one for writing, one for video games, and one to figure how to do these things all at the same time. That leaves three parts. One I’ll need for miscellania, sort of a catch-all. Internet research, meal planning, vacation planning, and so on. One will have to be dedicated to work, I guess. And the last one is for meditation.

People will say to me, why do you meditate? I’ll tell them, I’ve got a lot on my minds.

Posted on

His Hobby Is Photographing Bridges.

Postaday for January 14th: Connect the Dots. Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow.

Disco sucks, apparently, if you listen to the people who like, what AC/DC? Old AC/DC? And what did disco ever do to them? It got a lot of people killed, is what it did, in the summer of Sam. Not the people Sam killed, no, but the people who thought they knew who Sam was. Sympathetic murders, all fixated on Reggie Bush. New York Yankees, no. 44. Had a bat like the forearm of a longshoreman. No longshoreman ever listened to no disco. Stevedores put on black knit caps in any weather, hulk down to the docks and hump crates, and come home and watch the ball game on tiny TVs. While long hairs listen to AC/DC and their upwardly mobile Latino cousins go to discos.

A guy with perfect hair and perfect knowledge of Brooklyn’s two dozen bridges. Knocks a girl up and she commits suicide off one of those bridges. The last thing she sees: a wadded up copy of Mad magazine. Wadded up like a discarded porn rag on the side of a Midwest highway. Suicide, cause her fat ass was good enough for Johnny’s little man but not enough for his big heart. 40 years later what would have been her grandson’s best friend pulls an old Saturday Night Fever LP from a bin in a Salvation Army and realizes: you can’t buy record needles anymore.

He’s a lonely type kid. His grandfather literally worked on the docks and so didn’t teach his own kid how to be a good dad. An almost good dad buys his son whatever he wants and watches Rodriguez apologize for taking steroids. The kid watches Saturday Night Fever on Netflix, asks his dad for a camera. His hobby is photographing bridges. The ones that disco danced in Brooklyn in 1976. Little proto-hipster.

Peering up at girders and beams. Little man overhears an argument at a bodega. Every sports got its crooks, a voice hollers. Baseball’s got the dope heads and football’s got the wife beaters. That’s different a voice hollers in reply. Proto hipster goes home, dumps his camera’s memory card, cues up a Spike Lee joint on Netflix. Where’s dad. Murdering someone for suspicion of pederasty. Witch hunts don’t go after women anymore. That’s progress. Disco sucks.

Posted on

Seriously Screwy Mixed Metaphors

Postaday for January 13th: Image Search. Pick a random word and do Google image search on it. Check out the eleventh picture it brings up. Write about whatever that image brings to mind.

anonymous+rolled+a+random+image+posted+in+comment+284+at+_a9afbd060e82000ab9f73039313eec64This pink guy is a Pokemon character. Maybe. I’m not sure. I never got into Pokemon, not the video game, not the cartoon, not the card game. Not for any reason. “Gotta collect them all” is right in my wheel house. I’m not a hoarder, per se, but I like to collect things. I have over three hundred rubber ducks! But I’m getting better.

There are a billion things in the world to fascinate a nerd, and this nerd right here was distracted by something else when Pokemon happened. It wasn’t like I chose to ignore Pokemon, just that I succumbed to a different drug. I’m only human, and “gotta collect them all” might refer to all of the nerd things, and there’s just too many of them these days.

Collecting things is a such a nerd aesthetic. One I am trying to eschew. There’s this thing, Lootcrate, which simultaneously fascinates and depresses me. You subscribe to Lootcrate and once a month they send you a box of nerd stuff. Figurines and posters and t-shirts and all manner of branded miscellenia. Detritus. Nothing against nerds who want all that stuff. It just feels like clutter to me, and I can’t think around clutter.

Pokemon is a perfect symbol for this. Nerds collect all these things and then use trivia to fight with each other.

I don’t even know what a nerd is anymore. And at risk of coming across as a hipster, I don’t even think I’m cool enough to be a nerd, these days. Like, I’m too old. I still like video games and such but… I’m getting too judgmental when it comes to sci fi and fantasy and super-hero fiction. Also, I’m mad at nerds, (at least the ones on Reddit) who are constantly making fun of “neckbeards.” They’ve taken all that bullying they’ve survived and, now that nerdom is cool, they’ve started dishing it out.

Oh god, I am a hipster. I sit here and write my little rants on this blog and try to differentiate myself from the rabble. I’m no better than these nerds! I’m not collecting Pokemon, maybe, but I’m collecting nerd foibles, and jousting with the windmills of the nerd agenda, something I’ve created out of my own insecurities.

All in an effort to create and justify seriously screwy mixed metaphors.

Posted on

Area Man Decides Witty Blog Makes Up for Mediocrity In Every Other Endeavor

Postaday for January 12th: Audience of One. Picture the one person in the world you really wish were reading your blog. Write her or him a letter.

Dear Cole Bolton, editor of The Onion:

I am Bukkhead, long-time blogger. Long-time refers to the days between the first time I blogged and now, although little can be said for the years in between. A few posts here and there. Mostly book reviews—some of which got liked by people on Goodreads!

I’ve recently undertaken a huge endeavor, to write on my blog everyday. And I mean every day. In fact, I’m going to go back and post blog entries for every day of the year so far— this post, for example, dated January 12th, was actually written on May 6th!

I’m not very good at most things. Mediocre is the best way to describe me. Not incompetent, to be sure, but mediocre. I’ve tried my hand at stand-up comedy, playing acoustic guitar, writing movie reviews, collectible card games, learning French, photography, running, biking, cross-fit… I could go on, but as a mediocre person, going on would probably require too much effort.

I’m mediocre in other walks of life as well. I’m a mediocre husband, although my wife is fairly self-sufficient, so that’s okay. I usually get birthday cards and anniversary cards to people in my family a few days late. At my job, I do a little bit more than the bare minimum (I’m writing this while half-listening to a conference call).

But when it comes to writing, I’d like to think: I got this. I know how to string words together. I can write about anything, in any tone, as many words as you want. (Assuming you’d never want more than a thousand words or so. That’s how long it takes me to get through a cup of coffee, and my wife doesn’t like me to drink too many of those).

I don’t know if you ever look to free-lancers for material, but let me assure you: I’m no free-lancer. I’m not writing things in the hopes that you’ll see them and want to put them in your paper. No, I’m more of a mercenary type. Pen-for-hire. I’m hoping you’ll read this blog now and again, and then one day, when you realize “Oh snap, we need three hundred words about standing in line to buy an Apple Watch,” you’ll think of me.

“Get me that self-deprecating guy who talks about 7-11’s frozen burritos all the time,” you’ll say. To yourself. Because you’re the only one who reads this nonsense. And you know I’ll work cheap.

Posted on

Not Worth It

Postaday for January 11th: Bone of Contention. Pick a contentious issue about which you care deeply — it could be the same-sex marriage debate, or just a disagreement you’re having with a friend. Write a post defending the opposite position, and then reflect on what it was like to do that.

I suppose I would agree with you— that texting while driving is like driving drunk— if I could just drop my drunk and be instantly sober when someone honks their horn.

Oh, wait. I can’t.

Millions of people drive every day, and how many accidents are there? Not even thousands, I bet. Maybe hundreds. And most of them don’t involve cell phones at all. Why should I be held to a standard set by the idiots who don’t know what they’re doing? Are you going to ban people from drinking coffee while they drive, just because some loser spilled his latte in his lap?

And what are we talking about here, taking my eyes off the road for a second, maybe two at the most? People take their eyes off the road all the time. Adjusting the radio. Looking in the rearview mirror. Reading street signs. That last one, especially- how is a text on my cell phone any different than the text next to a highway off ramp?

I have things to do. And let’s face it— sitting in traffic is dull. Back in the day, people just sat there, polluting the planet. At least now I can offset my carbon footprint with some activism. I hashtag #green, I’m making the world a better place!

So what if there’s a bit of a gap between me and the guy in front of me. It’ll close up, eventually. You want I should be switching lanes all over the place, like those idiots who think they’re going to get somewhere faster? Frequent lane changes don’t get you to your destination any sooner— but reading a few jokes on my phone can sure make the time go by more quickly.

There’s a story in the news every now and again about somebody sending an inappropriate text right before getting into a huge crash. I think that’s karma. And I’m a good person. I know there’s a bit of a risk, but there’s risk in just getting by the wheel of a car in the first place. We can’t make it 100% safe no matter what we do.

So where do we draw the line? We wear seatbelts, and only drive 10 MPH over the speed limit at most, and use our turn signals if there’s anyone watching, and slow down at stop signs… so many rules to follow as it is. Why clutter up the brain with more? Not worth it!

Posted on

I’m Sorry, Joel Porter

Postaday for January 10th: Call Me Ishmael. Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.

Call me Russel Wren. I like to steal. I stole my name, stole the heft and weight of it, and stole its meaning. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what scholars say when they say my name to each other. I don’t read books. You can’t cross the same river twice, they say, and you can’t read the same book anyone else has ever read.

Have you read Thomas Berger? I have. He died last year. No one told me. I’d been checking the web for years, seeing if he’d written anything, or died. Neither, for years, and then I stopped. And then I wrote the above, and decided to check one last time. His last novel, ever, was ten years ago. My favorite is Who Is Teddy Villanova? That’s where I stole that line from.

Listen to me. I’m Jason Edwards, but call me Russell Wren. I’m a fictional character. I’m a bumbler stumbling from one made-up mystery to the next. I don’t read books because I am in books. Joel Porter died too. I didn’t know that, either. I met Joel in grad school, and his writing was exquisite.

Thomas Berger, Joel Porter, Percival Everett. A handful of writers who makes sentences I want to steal. Joel went crazy, or was already crazy, literally crazy, committed suicide, and I didn’t even know until two years later. And I want to steal his words? I do. I can’t, but I want to.

Percival Everett is still alive. I’d steal from him too if I could. “I will begin with infinity.” That’s the first sentence of Glyph.

Joel Porter was like David Foster Wallace, but readable. “I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” Infinite Jest, my ass. I never saved any of Joel’s stories. Maybe if I’m lucky I can find one in an old email. And steal it. Steal the weight and heft. DFW killed himself too, that coward. That overrated coward.

Thomas Berger died of old age. I’m going to die of old age. But call me Russel Wren. I’ll die of being forgotten about. Jason Edwards will not die of being forgotten about. He’ll never die because no one will even remember they’ve forgotten him.