Down, Down, Down
Alas, I’m pretty much out of ideas right now. Nothing I’m writing feels right because I’m not doing anything to back it up. I’m kind of a downer right now, and people lose interest when this leans too far on the bummer side of my psyche anyway. So here’s a rock, here’s a hard place.
Once upon a time I thought I’d start this ridiculous word jumble and it would somehow help keep me in shape. The notion being that I would know you folks are reading and it would keep me in line… but no, that didn’t quite fuckin’ work out right, now did it?
There’s this part of me that’s done with this. That part hates writing. Writers, too. Mostly poets and the parents that so morosely over-adjectively described them into this world. That part is also not much of a reader. Warren Zevon once said that the reason we like to buy books so much is because we think we’re buying the time to read them. That part of me couldn’t agree more. And looking at best-seller lists that include soul-raping jerk bags like Glenn Beck makes me want to forget I know how to read anyway. Mostly though, that part of me is just tired of trying to put failed thoughts to words.
There’s this other part of me, though, that really digs writing. That part always feels better when I’m doing it. That part goes to the Writer’s Almanac every day because Garrison Keillor knows better than most how to pick a poem, because that part also likes poets (some poets, e.e. will forever rock). That part has about a half dozen short stories sitting in an old Batman bookbag waiting to be mailed out just to see what happens. That part really likes finding old used book stores and just wandering through them, and that part really wouldn’t mind owning one someday himself.
Always treading that line. It’s the same with my health. Get better? No, fuck it. No, get better. It’s funny how the those two things run along like that for me, writing and health. It all does though in my head, I’ve talked about that.
Christmas, you ask? Christmas was a wash… I just couldn’t get my head in it. I’m tired of the scheduling, tired of the hurt feelings because we’re not in one place or the other long enough, tired of nobody appreciating anything, tired of not seeing friends we’d like to see more of, just so goddamn tired. I could never understand people who don’t want to head out and see family for the holidays, but I almost got it this year. I joke with Sue that we’re staying up here this Christmas, but it surprises me to find I don’t think I’d actually mind… won’t happen though. Probably because I’m a goddamn sucker…
I thought about trying to nail down some resolutions, but meh… Sue and I are trying to eat better. We’re cooking more, which is nice. We’re even sitting at the table more often to eat as a familia with the little one which is even nicer.
But my house is not in order, and neither is my head.
So a new year… 2010. Yeah, here’s to you, sport.
Let it ride
Let the wind blow past my shoulders
Let the road like a ribbon unwind
And the pain of it make me older
Let the world keep bringin’ me
Down, down, down
Who the hell would cheat on Liz Phair? You gotta be out of your mind. She’s the chick you cheat with! Then that leads to an ultimately fulfilling long-term relationship, because you weren’t just a fan of Exile to Guyville, Whip-Smart, and Whitechocolatespaceegg… no, you even appreciated her two forays away from indie and into the pop princess world that lost her so many of her fans. And she, in turn, appreciates that. You even went to Banana Republic back in May of 2009 just to hear her new tune, which for some corporately whorish reason, was only available there. But it’s cool, it was for the money, honey – it was all for the kid. And you know how that is, since you took on that hit that one time, killed those two guys and made it look like a Jiffy-Pop accident just for a few grand so you could buy your own kid that Thomas the Tank Engine bed. Fuckin’ Thomas, man – the Tiffany’s of train-based imaginary play. We all gotta do bad things for a few bucks now and again. But it wasn’t until that night… it was a Tuesday, since you regularly meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Clarion. You both thought you’d throw caution to the wind and go for a walk on the pier instead of the usual post-coital viewing of Kitchen Nightmares on BBC America. Walking along, you mention to her, “You know, there was a guy who entered our local paper’s pun contest. He sent in, like, ten different puns, in the hope that at least one of the puns would win. Unfortunately, no pun in ten did.” That’s when you find out that Liz is a pun-fetishist, and she’s just gone all smitten on your ass…
…or something. I just really dig that song. That, and Liz Phair permanently holds spot #2 on my ‘Allowed List.’
