Anybody out there?

Wow, it's been a long time since I rock and rolled. 
Anybody out there?

The Procedure

Damn, it's been awhile since I've posted anything here. But I do have something of worth to say today.  I had a doctor's appointment to get fixed today.  Or, as they referred to it, "the procedure."  Yeah, I finally worked up the nerve to get a vasectomy.  After a scare about a month ago, I decided enough was enough. I'm too damn old to deal with a baby; not to mention my wife, of course, as well. Should have gotten it years ago. I just hope it wasn't too late. My wife is late again (should have started today.) Now, wouldn't that be something? Why didn't I keep my promise of not getting anywhere near her until after I've been snipped? But no, had to come home from work early one day last week due to my back being out,  and although my back really was hurting, my horniness was greater. I really hope she gets it tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

stuff

I am obsessed with the idea of building a sailboat.  But I have no desire to ever sail it.

I had the same dream three nights in a row when I was a kid. I am in a small grocery store with my parents, when I realize they have left me there. I start to panic, but then immediately find myself in the cargo section of a Mrs. Bairds truck, which is filled with loaves of bread. As I am thrashing around, trying to get out, I slowly start to sink down, and the bread completely engulfs me. That was over 40 years ago. I still get an uneasy feeling in grocery stores.  Especially in the bread section.

My father once told me that Wolf Brand Chili was made from wolf meat; that was why they called wolf brand chili.  Even though I know better now, I still can't bring myself to eat it.

It wasn't until I was a senior in college before I found out I had been mispronouncing my last name all that time.

I once considered killing my father.

I have misplaced my copy of Flaubert's "Bouvard et Pecuchet."  I have looked everywhere.  I have no idea what could've happened to it.

I begged my parents to let me buy a German dagger, which I became obsessed with after seeing it in a store at the mall.  After constantly pestering them for weeks, they finally acquiesced.  While in the woods one day, using it as a throwing knife, the rosewood handle completely broke off, as it clanged against the fallen tree I was throwing it at.

 When it comes to food, I will try just about anything, but I draw the line at feet.  Also Brussels sprouts.  And Mrs. Bairds bread and Wolf Brand chili, it goes without saying.

I have changed my mind about the sailboat.  I think I would like to sail it into the ocean, and never return.

Who are you?

Just today, I noticed this blog of mine has had 4000 page views; but hardly anyone ever leaves a comment. I'm curious. Did you just land here by mistake? Is this a case of "dialing a wrong number?" Satisfy my curiosity and let me know what brought you here. Okay? Thanks!

Letters of William Gaddis

I've been busy reading "The Letters of William Gaddis." I'm really enjoying it. I have the Kindle version, so it's easy to get through a few letters no matter where I might be, either on my Kindle, tablet or phone (isn't technology grand?) I'm having a blast getting a deeper insight into the man himself, the writer who never let anyone in (would Gaddis have approved of a book such as this? Not on your life! He was adamant about keeping his private life private.)

What a complicated person he was. At times he comes across like a self-absorbed, conceited little prick (it should be noted that I'm still reading letters posted from when he was in his twenties. And weren't we all stilll full of ourselves at that age? My wife informs me that at 48, I still am--she's probably right.)

At other times you have to marvel at his fearless tenacity to discover himself. He is constantly on the move--dude makes a nomad look like a slug. He will often get a wild hair, and charge off on some crazy adventure. Most of the time his plans come to nothing, but he never lets that stop him. I would've never had the cajones to do half the things he did: roughing it in the wilds of Mexico, traipsing down to Panama to work on the canal, etc...

Almost all of the letters so far are to his mother. And hardly a letter goes out without him asking her for something (usually money.) We only have the letters he wrote, and none of the ones sent to him, but it doesn't seem she ever denied a request. That woman was a saint! What patience she had with him! So, would he have been able to do all the things he did, have all the adventures that would provide the fodder for the greatest novel ever written (The Recognitions, of course) without her? Not a chance. Much is owed to Edith Gaddis.

One letter in particular hit home with me, the one where he mentions a friend named Bernie. Bernie is trying to write a novel, and WG laments Bernie's lack of talent, even calls him simple-minded. He goes on to state how much of a tragedy it is, how he is such a nice person, but will never be able to fulfill his dream. Bernie and I are kindred spirits, it would seem.

The whale who lost his tail

There was a little whale named Benjamin
The nicest little whale you'd ever meet.
Each sea creature considered him their friend,
Even the squid that he so loved to eat.

He'd swim around all day and sing his song
Elating all who came within earshot.
If you were sad, it didn't last for long;
His lovely voice would banish heavy thought.

But one day as he sang a little scale
A boat above him dropped a heavy weight.
It spiralled down, severing his little tail--
A careless, thoughtless act that sealed his fate.

Now, all he does is lie around and cry,
"Why did this have to happen to me?  Why?"

Book before 50

Just turned 48 the other day. Two years to the half-century mark. Two years to get my novel written. Guess I'd better get back to it. I just found the notebook I had my character notes and plot ideas in; so I'm excited about resuming. But I'm not telling anyone about it--just this blog,to help me keep track of my progress.

Re: verse

Once upon a time
I wrote a simple rhyme.

Years
F
   L
      O
          W
               E
                   D
By.
Wanting to seem
More Astute.
Made me
Muddymywater.
Depth -->(-p+a) --> Death
Contemplated.

NOW

Age has changed my mind.
I'm back to plain design.

Out of Myself

I'm in a bit of a quandary.
Not even by doing laundry
Can I spin myself out.

In a balled-up situation.
Not even through masturbation
Can I jerk myself out.

These doldrums, ennui, whatever
Got me feeling under the weather.
Gotta get myself out.

But wither can I go?
Just blither, blather, blow,
Maybe blow my brains out.

Demetri Martin saved my life (probably)

So, I was driving home yesterday after seeing Demetri Martin at Book People. He was appearing there to talk about his newest book, “Point Your Face at This.” What a cool guy, very funny (of course) but also very, very nice. As it became my turn in line to get my book signed, he made sure to address me by name, and when he asked me how I was doing, I got the impression that he really wanted to know, and wasn’t just spouting out auto-verbiage.
So, I’m driving home with my signed copy next to me, in a really good mood. I also have to say that I was in a good mood because of some of the stuff he had talked about in his opening spiel, about how he tapped his creativity. I won’t go into details here, but suffice it to say I was inspired to get back to my writing; especially the kind of writing I really want to do, what really excites me, which is short little humorous essays. The novel I had been working on was just not coming together, and the frustration it was causing me pretty much dried up any creative juices I might have had.
So, as I was saying, (so, how many times am I going to start a paragraph with so?) I was driving home in a good mood, still basking in the glowing light that is Demetri Martin, when I see some guy standing on the side of the street, hocking loogies on passing cars. Hmmm, not something you see every day. And he wasn’t just standing there nonchalantly, spitting at cars; he was really putting some effort into it. Picture some guy, angrily hopping up and down, with a crazed look on his face, and when he let loose, he put his whole body into it, launching a really large gob of spit at each car. As I get closer I start to wonder to myself, will he spit on mine, too? And I’m in such a frame of mind that I’m also asking myself, if he doesn’t, then why not? Am I not important enough to spit on? You spit on everyone else, but not me? Am I chopped liver, you sumbitch? You better spit on me too, you a$$hole.
Well, I needn’t have worried, because he didn’t leave me out. But I sensed he didn’t put the same effort into it that he did with the other cars. He just kind of stood there, and half-heartedly let one go. I chalked it up to the possibility that he could have hurt himself on the previous attempt. (the things we tell ourselves to make us feel better.)
Now, if I hadn’t been in such a good mood, would I have taken more offense to his act? I merely laughed and shook my head. I suppose I could’ve pulled over, gotten out and asked him what his problem was. And if I had been in a bad mood, I might have done just that. And it would’ve been a huge mistake. First of all, I’m an out of shape 47yo man who has never been in a fight (my 8yo daughter kicks my ass on a regular basis.) This guy was obviously mentally deranged, and apparently in very good shape. He was also obviously pissed off enough to feel the need to stand on a street corner and spit on passing cars. He probably would not have given a second thought to completely beating the crap out of me. And then spitting in my face, or what was left of it.
So, I think I can safely say, without a doubt, Demetri Martin saved my life. Thanks, Demetri, I owe you one!

Almost Done!

Well, it's been almost a year since I started this project, but it is almost completed.  Had some help this weekend from my bro-in-law, which I really needed with the roof.  All that's left is putting on the shingles, enclosing the underhang and finish the loft.  Oh, yeah, there's going to be a loft.  Here's what it looks like so far.

I'll cut out a couple of round windows above it, so she can lay down up there, and gaze out.  Here's what the playhouse looks like from the front porch of the cottage.

She wants to decorate the inside with fossils, animal bones and various other artifacts she's found on the property, and make it her archeologist's lab.  Strange little girl, huh?  Gosh, I love her!

warmth

Walking along Main St. in Bastrop last night, one of the stores had a container outside with a sign over it "Donate a doggie sweater for a cold pooch this year." 

A haggard looking man, dressed in tattered military garb was looking at the sign as well.  I overheard him say to himself, "I sure could use a sweater."

Playhouse of Death II

My wife and daughter are going out of town to spend the weekend with my wife’s cousins, which leaves me all by myself, to my own devices.  Ah, yeah!  Bachelor Weekend!  Woo-hoo!!!   

Actually, reality being what it is, said devices will be a compound miter saw, cordless drill and nail gun.  You know what that means!  Playhouse of Death II:  Back for More! (more punishment? flesh wounds?  *gasp* decapitation, perhaps?!)

Of course, my wife has assured my daughter no work will get done, as I’ll probably do nothing but lie around, drink beer and read.  Hmmm, she just might be onto something, there.  Damn that woman's intuition!  No, I promised my daughter I would work on it, and work on it I will!  That’s not to say I won’t spend some time lying around, drinking and reading.  (Friday night and Saturday night, after I’m done working, that is.  Alcohol and power tools are a bad combination.  Baaaaaad.  I’ve grown accustomed to my ten fingers, and would like to keep them, thank you very much.)  With respect to the reading, I’ve got a few books going now, two of which I might be able to finish while I’m there.  Especially since there is no internet or TV to distract me.

But during the day, I will be working away.  I’m hoping to put up the fourth wall frame, finish out the shell, install the windows, and maybe get the door put in.  Provided I can get all that done, there’s some siding in one of the sheds I might try to get out and start putting on.  Only problem there is all the snake skins I’ve seen as soon as I open the door, leaving me to believe there’s a family of poisonous vipers residing therein.  Could be interesting, hmmm?  Will Bubba brave the Snakepit of Doom to rescue the aluminum siding?  We can’t wait to find out! 

In a couple of weeks, my girls will be going out of town again.  So, if the Playhouse of Death hasn't consumed me this weekend, and I'm still of this world:  stay tuned for Playhouse of Death III:  The Wreckoning! (in 3-D, of course).   Gee Mr. B, I didn’t wealize it was going to be a twilogy. 

If I can somehow manage to get all of the aforementioned steps completed this weekend, all that will be left is to finish the siding, and put the roof on.  I can work on the roof frames during the week, so when I get back down there, all I will need to do is screw them on, and then lay the roof down.  And voila, badda bing, badda boom, Bob's your uncle, it will be finished!  Actually, realistically speaking, this trilogy will more than likely mirror Douglas Adams’ trilogy “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”  in number.  Just keeping it real, you know.

Oh, btw, I promise some pics soon.  Minus the flames.  Hopefully.

Playhouse of Death!

Last week was spring break.  I took a few days off from work to spend some time at our place in the country, to finally start construction on the playhouse I had been promising my daughter for more years than I care to admit.  I decided to keep it simple, and make it 8 ft. by 8 ft. by 8 ft. high, i.e. minimizing the number of cuts I would have to make utilizing 8 ft. lumber.  The spot we had picked out for it was in a small clearing in front of the house.  For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to do the actual construction elsewhere.  My plan was to build each section on the flat concrete surface of the little patio behind our cottage, and carry these to the site, roughly 50 yards away.  For the base, I decided to use eight 2 x 4’s, which I would cover with two sheets of exterior plywood.

Shortly after starting on it, my wife and daughter thought they might run into town, but were a bit hesitant to do so.  My wife didn’t think it fair, or safe, to leave me there working by myself.  You see, our country cottage is sequestered in the middle of nowhere, with no neighbors within shouting distance, and we don’t have a land line.  Plus, cell phone coverage is spotty at best out there.  In order to get a decent enough signal to make or receive a call, it is often necessary to walk around for quite a while until a bar will pop up, and then make a best-guess estimate of the satellite’s trajectory to track it while holding one arm at 85 degrees and hopping on one foot.  I’m not sure why the hopping on one foot is necessary, but it does seem to help. 

So, if I managed to injure myself (and seeing the array of power tools I had laid out, coupled with my inherent and inescapable clumsiness, her concern was not without merit) I could find myself in a rather unenviable position.  But I assured her I didn’t mind them going, and said I would be extra careful not to chop off any important limbs. 

The base went together easily enough, and now it was time to walk it over to the site, after which I would put the plywood over it.  But with the 2 x 4’s being pressure treated (which they had to be, since they would be sitting directly on the ground) it turned out to be heavier than I had anticipated, and I found I could barely move it; the size didn’t help, either.  Damn, I thought, what the hell am I going to do now?  I remembered I had a platform dolly there, so I figured if I could get it on top of that, I might be able to wheel it over.  It wouldn’t be easy, but it might work.

I managed to get it onto the dolly, but just barely.  And due to its size, I was having a hell of a time keeping it from falling off.  To make matters worse, the dolly refused to roll along the soft ground.  While trying to hunch it forward and still keeping it on top,  it suddenly wrenched out of my grasp, and down it came, right on top of my head.  With each board weighing around 20 pounds, it amounted to 160 pounds dropping directly onto my noggin.

Everything went dark for about a second or three, but somehow it didn’t knock me out.  Luckily for me, I am not only figuratively hard-headed, but literally as well. I once, in elementary school, fell head over ass down a flight of stairs, and only suffered a mild case of embarrassment.  Years later I would be involved in an automobile accident when a tree jumped out in front of the car I was riding in, and although my scalp was split open from front to back by my head hitting the windshield (no seatbelt), I suffered no long-lasting ill effects—unless you count the shabby stitching the doctor did that night, leaving me with a long scar running the length of my head; but how was he to know I would later lose my hair?  Besides, it does give me a rather sinister look that does come in handy at times. 

As I stood there, dazed, shaking my head to stop the roaring and to clear the cobwebs, I was cognizant enough to realize two things:  one, how lucky I was it didn’t knock me out (I’m not sure if such a blow could’ve finished me, but the thought crossed my mind) and two, I was a complete idiot.   I then wondered how I was ever going to get it over to where I needed it.  Taking it apart and rebuilding it at the site was not an option that occurred to me, apparently, as my next bright idea was trying to get it on the back of my truck, which I figured I could drive over close enough to manhandle it into place. 

As I was trying to maneuver this behemoth onto my truck, it again slipped through my grasp, to land oh so delicately on top of my foot.  Luckily, I was wearing steel-toed boots (unluckily, it landed just where the steel part wasn’t.)  Where the previous incident had rendered me mute to express my outrage, now the words spewed forth.  Completely losing what little composure I had left, and cursing a blue streak, I took the frame, and in a fit of rage, threw it to the ground, where it completely broke apart.

Sheer exhaustion and frustration from the morning’s events caused me to collapse on the ground.  As I sat there rubbing my aching head with one hand, and gently massaging my throbbing foot with the other (luckily not broken), I looked at the pieces strewn on the ground in front of me.  I came damn close to calling the whole thing quits right then and there.  But then I thought of my daughter, who has been waiting so long for me to build this for her, and knew she would be devastated.  I couldn’t give up.  With a deep sigh, I picked myself up, loaded the pieces into the back of my truck, and drove over to the actual site, to start all over again. 

When my  wife and daughter got back later that day, I hadn’t planned on telling them of my misfortunes.  But the large knot on my head and the limp gave me away.  As I reluctantly regaled my tale, my daughter started crying, blaming herself.  “It’s because I had to have a playhouse that my daddy almost died!” she wailed.  I hugged her, and assured her that was not the case at all, that my injuries had not been life-threatening, just possibly crippling.  And that it had only been through my own stupidity that I had suffered them in the first place.

The next couple of days I was so sore (never mind my head and foot, which only mildly bothered me—the constant kneeling down and getting up I had to do left my legs and butt muscles so overworked I could barely move the next morning), I wasn’t able to do any more, and had to leave it in its current state, which consists of a floor, with three bare wall frames.  But at least I’ve finally got a good start on it.  A few more trips down there, and I should be able to knock it out (and hopefully, avoid knocking myself out.)

Once it’s done and painted  pink (daughter’s choice, of course) I look forward to having a spot of tea in it with my daughter and her dolls.  In the playhouse that almost killed me.

5 Mega Po-Mo's

The Recognitions 
Delectable.  Delicious!  The best I've ever had.  It had everything in it.  Everything.  Some stuff I couldn’t even identify, but hell, even that tasted good.  I believe it took me four months to finish, as some days I had to settle for just a few bites while I chewed and chewed and chewed.  But it was well worth it.  And that last morsel?  Divine.  Divine!

The Sot-Weed Factor      
I've got this one waiting for me.  I just need to finish a couple of appetizers first:  The Floating Opera and The End of the Road, which I’m working on right now.  Oh, they are whetting my appetite, that’s for sure.  I just hope I can survive it, because from what I’ve heard it’s pretty damn funny.  And you know it can be dangerous having a laughing fit with your mouth full.  Anybody know the Heimlich maneuver?

Gravity’s Rainbow           
I devoured this one years ago, yet there are parts I can still taste.  A dense, difficult masterpiece.  A fair amount of gristle, to be sure, but I just kept chewing and swallowing, and eventually got it down.  Recommended side:  banana pancakes.

The Tunnel                          
Watch out for this one, as it could give you gass.  It’s an acquired taste, I would have to say; definitely not for everyone.  How do you finish this monster?  One bite at a time.  Chew slowly...slowly...savoring each bilious bite, until it’s absorbed into your guts and brain.

Infinite Jest                        
I have yet to try this one, but I’ve been gazing at it on the menu for quite some time now.  For quite some time.  And it’s going down the gullet later this year, make no mistake.

Well, those are just a few examples of mega po-mo's.  There's a whole smörgåsbord of others, I know.  Care to share a few you've enjoyed? Or some you've been salivating about?

Floating Operas and Flying Squids

Now there’s an imposing title for you.  Got your attention, didn't it?  Definitely got you over here to see what it was all about.  Sounds like a title for a book Stephen Jay Gould might have written.  Whenever a catchy title occurs to me, I can’t help but use it in some way.  This time in a blog post.  So yes, the title came first, and I had to come up with the actual body of the post after the fact.  I apologize if you find that off-putting.  But if you’ve been reading my blog up till now, you already know that none of my posts are exactly what one would  call profound.  According to my stats, I get quite a few visitors here, but very few leave comments.  I imagine a typical perusal goes something like this:  hmm, this looks interesting, let me take a closer look…hmmm….mmm…ugh…well, this is crap.

So, what’s this post all about?  Well, I recently picked up John Barth’s “The Floating Opera,” (so now we have the origin for the first part of the title)  I’ve only just started it, but am really enjoying it.  I had it in my hand yesterday, while leaving from work.  I always pay my respects to my boss, instead of just sneaking out quietly, like the rest of my workmates.  Why?  Because my boss has had a fascinating life, and tells incredible stories.  And I’ve always been a sucker for a great story.  This penchant of mine for his story-telling has gotten me into some hot water with my wife, as I have often stayed at work late, in rapt attention as he regaled me with a particularly fascinating tale.  I wish he would take my advice, and just write a book already, so I could read them at my leisure. 

As I walked into his office yesterday, he saw the book in my hands, and asked what I was reading.  Despite his erudition (you’d be hard-put to find a subject that he isn’t knowledgeable about,) he hardly ever recognizes anything I happen to be reading, since my taste runs along postmodern lit, and that is one of the few subjects he isn’t interested in.

When I showed him the book, he said, “Barth…Barth… is that the same Barth who wrote “The Sot-Weed Factor?”  I was a little surprised, but then remembered that he was a child of the 60’s, and it was published in 1960.

He went on to tell me that it was one of the funniest books he had ever read.  He and a bunch of his “hippie” friends would sit in a circle and pass the book around taking turns reading from it, and laugh their butts off (he didn’t say, but I’m sure it wasn’t the only thing being passed around.)  He said he could still quote passages from it, after all these years. 

The Floating Opera is damned funny, too.  Barth really does have a killer sense of humor, and I love his phrasing and timing, just perfect.  My wife just shook her head last night while I was reading from it, chuckling and guffawing to myself at regular intervals.

As for the second part of the title, it’s due to my being a member of Mensa.  You might be wondering what a flying squid has to do with a high-IQ “nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah I’m smarter than you are!” society—and just as an aside, I’ve only been to one actual meeting since I joined Mensa back in 1993.  One.  My wife wonders why I continue to pay my yearly dues, when I don’t bother participating.  I’ll tell you why.  Because I get this nifty little card I can put in my wallet that says I’m an official smart guy.  Whenever I’m feeling down, or my self-loathing hits a certain level, I can open my wallet, whip that laminated bad boy out, and make myself feel a little bit better:  “Well, at least I’m pretty smart, right?  I mean I wouldn’t have this card if I weren’t, right?  So, at least I got that going for me.”  

 Still, what the hell do aerial cephalopods (ooh, he really is smart!) have to do with Mensa for crying out loud?  Well, one of the other little perks about Mensa membership is an email I get each week called the MENSA Weekly Brainwave.  Mensa in all caps, because that’s the way they roll, I guess.  Weekly, because like I said, it comes once a week.  And Brainwave, I suppose because it sounds cool.  And in this email are articles culled from the internet, which they assume fellow smartie-mcfarties might find interesting.  Actually, they usually are.  One of the articles in today’s Brainwave was entitled, “Squid can fly to save energy” from nature.com.  Not a very catchy title, I must say.  "FLYING SQUIDS?  WTF?!"  would’ve been better.  Or how about, “Squids Suffering Identity Crises, Think They are Birds.”

I haven’t met many squids in my life.  I do enjoy squid sushi.  By the way, squid is called ika in Japanese.  Did I mention I can speak Japanese? (how long is he going to keep showing off how smart he is?)  I do rather like Squidward from SpongeBob Squarepants.  As a matter of fact, he’s my favorite character on the show.  Probably because he’s the smartest, and we smart guys like to hang together (okay, I've just about had it with this guy...what an asshole.)  Just like Dietrich was my favorite character on Barney Miller.  Ah, I loved that show.

I don’t know if real squid are actually intelligent or not, like Squidward.  If they are, I suppose I shouldn’t be eating them.  They probably aren’t, otherwise PETA would be up in arms (or tentacles.)  But apparently they are intelligent enough to be able to fly, so...

So that’s how I came up with the title.  I had The Floating Opera on my desk, and then I got the email from Mensa, and noticed the article about the squids.  Floating Opera.  Squid can fly.  Flying Squids.  Floating Operas and Flying Squids.  I wish the actual post was as much fun to read as the title.  But, we can’t have our ika and eat it too, can we?

Boo!

I have been on a mad tear (strange idiom, that) lately to watch nothing but horror films.  What sparked this is going to see “The Woman in Black” last Friday.  My wife and daughter wanted to see “Journey to Discovery Island,” or whatever it’s called, you know, the new Rock film, um…excuse me, Dwayne Johnson.  As I had no interest in it, I figured I’d see something else.  The only other two movies playing at that time were the latest Underworld flick, and WiB.  I was very tempted to see the Underworld movie, as I have had a major crush on Kate Beckinsale ever since I saw the first one.  Watching her wheeling around dealing death in that tight, black leather outfit, damn, I must say that does something to me.  But as I hadn’t seen a scary movie since my wife and I watched “The Ring,” back before our daughter was born, about eight or so years ago, I figured it was time for another one.  Plus, one of my employees said he saw it, and had trouble going to sleep that night.

The Ring, by the way, scared the bejeezus out of both of us, especially my wife.  To this day, all I need to do is simulate the girl crawling along the ground, and I can expect a rather vicious punch in return.

As a kid, I was especially sensitive to scary movies.  The combination of having a very active imagination, and being able to lose myself in a film (same for a book, as I would often forget I was reading and became sucked into the narrative—that is, if the writer had done his part) didn’t bode well if the movie were at all frightening.  This resulted in my aversion to horror films, as a rule. 

What turned this around was a particular math teacher I had in high school, Mrs. Culberson.  She loved watching scary movies, and said instead of getting scared, she found them extremely funny.  I asked her how in the world could anyone find something that scary, funny?  She said she thought it was amusing, all the things the director, actors, etc… did to try and scare you.  “You realize, they’re just make-believe, right?” she asked.  Well, of course I knew they weren’t real, but that didn’t mean that such things couldn’t happen.  But still, she gave me a new perspective , and they didn’t bother me as much after that.

Now that I’m a full-growed man, I ain’t skeered a nuttin.  Okay, well, like I said, The Ring scared the crap out of me; although it really shouldn’t have, because I don’t have the background structure anymore that would support that.  As I might’ve mentioned in a previous post, I lost my faith sometime after going to college, and am now pretty much an atheist.  I do have my moments of weakness, mind you, when I will slip into an agnostic, mode, but for the most part, I'm godless.  So, I believe when you die, you die.  You cease to exist.  There is no spirit world, ghosts do not and cannot exist.  And you sure as hell can’t drag your undead ass through a 32” Magnavox.  

But maybe, just maybe, there’s enough belief left over from my Catholic brainwashing (you know, it’s almost impossible to erase all of that programming, cause hell, they get you when you’re young, and it’s practically hardwired into you) to leave the door open just a crack, just enough to allow a really well-made horror film to scare the tuna salad out of me.

But that movie wasn’t The Woman in Black.  It had no effect on me whatsoever.  I had even worked myself up beforehand into a veritable tizzy, thinking it would.  So now I’m wondering if I am finally, completely immune to the effects of even a really well-made horror film.  I just checked out The Ring from the library again, to see how it will affect me this time, so we’ll see.  Of course, I’m on my own, as my wife adamantly refused to watch it again.  She’s not even sure she wants the DVD in the house. 

My daughter, in her innocent way, said, “I’ll watch it with you, daddy!”  Bless her heart.  Yeah, not gonna let that happen, though.  That could almost be grounds for child abuse.

So, I’m wondering, does anyone have any recommendations they could send my way?  What was the scariest movie you ever watched?

Decisions, Decisions

I recently finished reading David Foster Wallace’s first novel, “The Broom of the System.”  Great book.  But then I found myself in a quandary as to what I should read next.  This happens almost every time I finish a book.  Although I have declared this to be the year of reading all of DFW’s works, I didn’t feel quite ready yet for Infinite Jest, which has been sitting in my library for quite some time now, taunting me, double-dog daring me to crack it open, then snickering as I slink out of my office, defeated once again.  Besides, like I told it, I wanted to read his works in chronological order, and I didn’t as yet have a copy of “The Girl with Curious Hair."  So there, IJ!! 

But, so, what to read? 

I had several motivating factors to consider.  One is the need to start whittling down the size of my library.  Concentrating it into what I consider a core collection.  I have quite a few books I own which I consider “one and done.”  Once I read them, into the box destined for taking to Half Price Books to sell.  But I keep making it harder to make any headway in this endeavor by continuing to buy more books!  It’s a sickness, I know. 

In addition, there are some books I want to read that have other books as prerequisites.  So, knowing that, by picking one of these books, I've just committed myself to two or more!  I don't know why this bothers me, but it does.  Take for example, Gilbert Sorrentino’s “Mulligan Stew.”  I very much want to read it, but don’t feel comfortable doing so before reading Flann O’Brien’s “At Swim-Two-Birds,” which Mulligan Stew is based on.  I had tried reading At Swim-Two-Birds a while back, but for some reason, ended up putting it down.  I can’t recall why, as I was enjoying it. More than likely because there's so much Irish mythology in there, of which I am woefully ignorant, so I probably figured I needed to bone up on that before tackling it.

But anyhow, as I was saying, I was having a hard time deciding on my next book.  I stood in my office, perusing my overloaded, sagging, imitation oak, Ikea bookcases, picking up one book, only to put it back in favor of another.  This went on for quite a while, and was starting to drive me a little crazy.  

I finally, don’t ask me how, decided on Annie Proulx’s “The Shipping News.”  Which was good and bad.   

Bad because I just bought the darn thing a few days ago at my library’s book store.  All of the other unread books that I've had for years must’ve been really pissed off, seeing this newcomer which barely made it on the shelves, get picked before them.  I could almost hear the shouts of protestation.

Good because I’m having a tremendously fun time reading it, as it’s a wonderfully well-written book (although I hear the movie they made from it stinks—too bad.) I had no idea what to expect of it, as I hadn’t read much about it, except that it garnered her a Pulitzer Prize in 1994 and an National Book Award in 1993 (Gaddis got an NB in 94 for “A Frolic of His Own”—just thought I’d throw that in there (and no, I haven’t read that yet, either…I know, I know...))

I’ve tried making my reading decisions easier by coming up with a reading plan, but it never works.  I’ve found that I really enjoy coming up with reading plans, but when it comes time to actually following them, ...well, I never do.

So, how do you decide on what to read next?  I would love to hear!

Hot Diggity Dog!

Happy day, happy day!  My new books just came in!  The new Dalkey Archive editions of The Recognitions and JR by William Gaddis.  I'm so excited!  Although I just recently finished reading The Recognitions recently (library copy,) I'm tempted to read it again.  Right now!  Best damn novel ever written, hands down.  But I've got too many books going right now, so it will have to wait.  Besides, I haven't read JR yet, so that will have to be my next Gaddis.

One of the books I happen to be reading now is Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson.  I have to admit, I enjoy Mr. Markson's books very, very much.  His are some of the most enjoyable reads I've ever come across.  Reader's Block and This is not a Novel were brilliant.  I practically inhaled them.  And I'm having as much fun with this one (funny, his character even mentions Gaddis and The Recognitions quite a few times in it.)  

I also happen to be reading Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet.  I didn't realize it until after I started reading both, but they each have isolation as a key theme. 

Isolation.  Solitude.  Something I cherish very much.  Don't get me wrong, I love my wife and daughter.  But I also enjoy my time to myself.  Some people can't stand to be alone.  They will do anything to deflect it if they find themselves alone for more than a few minutes:  watch TV, turn on the radio, surf the net, anything to keep from being alone with their thoughts. 

But not me.  It is the only time I can think.  Really think.  And while I've never deluded myself in believing I have anything grandiose lurking in my cerebrum, still, my mind is the only thing I can perhaps ever really hope to understand.   No matter how much you think you may know someone, you never really know what's going on deep in their brain.  Hell, they're probably not aware of much of it themselves.  How could they be if all they're looking for is distraction?

Know thyself, Socrates said.  If I could just accomplish that, I would be content.  And although I'm quickly approaching the half-century mark, I feel I still have a long way to go.

FFF Unite!

Did you know that the universe continues to expand? It gets a little bit bigger every day. As this happens, galaxies move ever farther away from each other. There will come a time in the distant future when we (I say “we,” but of course we will be long dead by then (although I have been thinking about having my head frozen so my brain could be put into an android’s body when that technology becomes available—and it will happen, trust me))look up to the night sky, and won’t see anything, because the stars we see now will just be too far away. Twinkle, twinkle, little star? Not anymore. The future is cold and dark.

It also occurs to me that humans by then will look completely different than we do now. One of the differences will probably be the loss of our pinkies. And I’m talking hands and feet. I think the pinky toe will be the first to go, because it’s already damn small, and really doesn’t serve much of a purpose anyway. But the pinky finger won’t be too far behind. It’s going to be harder to flip somebody the bird, because the symmetry will be off, and it just won’t look right. But maybe it won’t matter, because by then all of that hostility will probably be gone, since we will have learned to live together in peace and harmony.

I’m beginning to think that certain cartoons, like The Simpsons, and others that show the characters with only four fingers on each hand, may have been due to time travelers coming back and subliminally planting that idea in the cartoonists’ heads, just to give us a taste of what it will be like. Or maybe the cartoonists themselves are from the future. Yeah, that seems more likely. Anybody have any photos showing Matt Groening's hands? Of course, he could just have holographic projectors embedded in the sides of his hands to give the illusion of pinkies. People from the future are pretty damn clever, you know. Evolution at work, again.

But every once in a while that old genetic code will still manage to pop out, and someone will be born with ten fingers. Of course, they will be looked upon as some kind of aberration, and won’t be allowed to procreate. They can’t take a chance of that mutated DNA getting passed on. Besides, who would want to have sex with them anyhow? Disgusting. I mean, it would be like one of us going to bed with one of our evolutionary ancestors, like, say, Homo Erectus. And I somehow managed to restrain myself from making any jokes from that.  I'll leave that to you guys.

But then again, maybe enough will be born (I’m back to the people with five fingers, not the Homo Erectuses (Erecti?)), and they could get together in some kind of underground movement. They could call themselves the FFF (Five-Fingered Freaks.) They would probably have to live in caves or something, so the rest of us normal people wouldn’t have to look at them (yeah, I said “us,” because like I said, I’ll be there in my android body, and you can bet you’re ass it’ll be one of the newest models with four fingers.) But they could always come out and gather together at night. I can see them now, standing around in a circle, their five-fingered hands interlaced, gazing up at a darkened sky and wishing upon a non-existent star for a brighter future.