Crenellated Flotsam

It’s been a pretty quiet weekend. Yesterday my friends were out on excursions and I did some thinking.

Planning, actually, or maybe just what passes for it in my life. Left to my own devices I got bored. I started reading, checking on things, and knew one of the groups I wanted to see was playing at a bookstore as part of Rob’s book announcement tour. Checked around, and ended up seeing if I wanted to go I’d have to ride the bus. Not so bad, and it would be possible to take a fairly direct route home (one of the troubles with LA mass transit is that it effectively dies after nine at night).

On the plus side, I’d be able to see some people, listen to the Violet Rays, and have a good time. On the down side, I’d be waiting for half an hour at eleven at night in a neighborhood I know nothing about except reputation. I would, no doubt, be the only middle aged white guy standing on a corner, trying to look nondescript.

That’s not so bad, but the battery in my watch is dead. Having a working timepiece is helpful when you’re catching buses. It’s a long haul to the only place I know of to get my watch fixed, so I hopped on my bike and rode to this mall that has a jeweler guy working a cart on the floor.

I stopped on the way and looked for long-sleeved T-shirts (there was one, with a huge, disqualifying Fila logo) and tea kettles. Again, I don’t *need* a tea kettle (I can boil water in a sauce pan) but I don’t *have* a tea kettle so I’ve been oddly obsessed with buying one. They had a little cheap one, and I thought I’d pick it up on my way back.

Got to the mall and my ATM card didn’t work in either of the machines I tried. Rode back home in a funk, realizing also that this hour a day of exercise as mandated by government is entirely too much exercise.

Without the watch it was easy to talk myself out of the bus rides, the book signing, and the concert.

Today I clipped some branches into small enough pieces to fit in the cans and wished, not for the first time, that I owned a chipper. On the bright side, it was warm enough for me to wear shorts and be stripped to the waist.

(writing musings in “more”…)

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I’ll try putting the writing stuff on top for a change.

I’ve reached a conclusion about my rewriting efforts, one that surprised me. I cannot, actually, rewrite anything and make it better than the way I write, at least not yet.

I’m aware of the controversy surrounding “Can Writing be Taught?” and have concluded that, yes, it’s possible for anyone’s writing to be made better. *Certain* elements of writing can be taught, can be learned, but not everything.

In looking over the original TRE and seeing what I’m writing now, I realize the story is different, if not better. No matter how many times (at my current level) I rewrite it, it’s not going to change. It may be akin to painting a salmon room light green to better agree with the carpet, but the room’s not changing much.

I can only write as good as I can now. I may never have what it takes to be legendary, most certainly will never be a giant, and it seems no matter how many times I retell Brad’s story, it will be the same. I don’t know, maybe some day I could turn it into a classic, but I think I’m dealing with realities here.

I can spend years training to run, but at a certain point it’s diminishing returns. I think this may also be true of writing, and my time would be better spent creating and crafting rather than in endless polishing.

Also…the shotgun approach may work to my advantage. If I write a hundred stories maybe the odds are one of them will be good!

(speaking of “running,” musing on marathons in more…)

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I remember once reading that we knew things were changing when we first started hearing Satisfaction as elevator music. It’s true, too.

Each generation grows up and eventually grabs hold of the reins of production and culture. The music *we* grew up with becomes soundtracks, and people our age are the ones writing TV shows and movies, we’re the ones now producing plays and writing books, and our voices are heard.

I was pretty damn happy when that happened. It was as if we’d been recognized. What never occurred to me is that it wouldn’t stop with my generation, but that following on our heels was another one who wanted their say.

And another. And another.

This foot in the door of culture is a curious thing to think about. We first get a show or two (we always had the music), then become the majority of mainstream, then start to ease out, stage left. Like the paper millionaires during the dot-com boom, we think it will never end, but it does. And not with a bang, but a whisper. Soon what we think of as cool becomes increasingly suspect, then irrelevant, and finally retro.

Youth has its way. It always does. Just not as quickly as we ever want it when we’re young.

(writing in more)

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I may be in this group, this one I dislike. Those who are narrow, but think anyway.

It doesn’t do much good to have an active brain if all you do is see everything to support beliefs you already have. I think we’re supposed to add to our experiences, consider new stuff, and not simply continually convince ourselves that we are right. A quip I read years ago sticks with me: If you’re looking for it, you can find obscenity in a Mickey Mouse cartoon. Life should, I think, be more than a process of validation.

This has little to do with the Skookum Man, whom I’ve just “met” on a horrid TV show. I guess he’s like Yetti or Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman, another one of these huge hominoids that leaves in the wilds and is very camera shy. I’d like to think they’re out there, but have a trouble with the numbers.

Seems to me that they’d need to live in a tribe of about twenty to continue living, what with infant mortality and all. I’m not sure why we can’t find them. The TV show was half about all the great technology they were going to use to catch him on film, including pheromone spraying bikes that played mating calls, and much less on the results (one pic that could have been most anything). They did capture a rock he threw at them, so that’s something.

The thing that bugged me the most is they had a re-enactment of some hunters who’d seen him by the side of the road. They’d been driving, spotted him, and left their truck to pursue him on foot with “high-powered hunting rifles.” Now, I’ve never hunted in my life, but they showed them leaving the cab of their pickup and cocking a shotgun. I can see Hollywood doing that (cocking a shotgun is fairly dramatic and makes a nice sound), but why would the hunters go along with the charade? They said they’d been hunting deer and elk…but with a shotgun? Does “buckshot” refer to bucks? Immediately the show lost credibility, irrecoverably. Even the mention that the state of Washington has imposed a ban on the hunting of unknown bipedal hominoids did nothing to salvage the damage of these shotgun toting fools.

Oh, I’d love to see some hunter facing a bear with buckshot. Only not. I think you’d be better off with a bow.

…some writing stuff in “more”…

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eyI’ve seen this on a few blogs, so I may as well answer it, too.

“Ten Things I’ve Done That You Probably Haven’t”

10. Attended an historic, iconic boxing match.

9. Gambled in the casino in Monte Carlo.

8. Burned down an outhouse.

7. Brought momentary < ?> hope to a sobbing twelve year old junkie hooker, who hugged me in gratitude.

6. Was a Master Concilor in DeMolay.

5. Rescued a pelican that was stuck in the middle of a four lane road.

4. Dropped LSD in my eyeball.

3. Was unconscious for over three hours.

2. Took a two week, ten thousand mile train trip around the US.

1. Was commited to a mental health facility.

(now, onto writing remarks in “more”)

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I have no idea why, but I’m thinking about the Iditarod. It’s fairly cool here, but that can’t explain it.

Here’s the thing. The Iditarod showcases one of my dislikes about this world. I think the history is wonderful, and my heart is warmed by thoughts of dogs dashing through the snow carrying medical supplies. The thought of a race to commerate the event is wonderful. I’m not sure the world is better for having dog races that don’t involve mechanical rabbits, which I also like, but it’s become another example of a strategic attitude I find sorrowful.

See, the thing is, I’m pretty naive and idealistic. Were I king, we’d have the race every year and the winner would get prizes, or maybe just a plaque. What bothers me so is that now that this is big time event those who compete in it spend the whole year practicing, training, getting sponsors and spending tons of money on what I can only assume is monofilament threads woven on the thighs of virgins to produce ropes to carry carbon fibre sleighs.

I want it to be amateur. I want it to be as pure as I believe sack races at company picnics to be. I want people to compete to see who will win, but not have them doing anything in the off season to increase their chances.

I am so immature.

(Writing in “more”)

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One question I ask never gets a good answer. “Do you have any chocolate cake?”

Sometimes when I want chocolate cake I ask that, and the answer invariably disappoints me. Without conducting exhaustive surveys and studies, I’m inclined to believe it’s the same for “apple pie” or most anything else that would strike my fancy. Sure, sometimes people have ice cream or candies, and that’s encouraging, but it’s not like anyone, ever, has some special dessert just waiting for me to ask about it.

I worked once with a guy who was taking a class in stained glass. His wife was joining him and was taking a class in cake decorating. For three months Fridays were the best day of the week. I never knew what to expect, but there was always a cake, and each successive one was the best so far!

…writing in “more”…

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I wrote a great entry for this yesterday. It was full of humor and ethos (if that’s the word I want), insight and wisdom, in short it was just like me.

Then, right before posting it, my browser crashed, taking with it all my writing.

“Oh, sure,” you say. “It was just more lame ramblings. Why didn’t you just write it again?”

I was discouraged, that’s why. It was late at night and I knew, down to the fuzzy dust bunnies in the farthest reaches of my soul that I could never again write so profoundly. I wept. It had all been so good, and it was all lost. The blog entry that would have put me on the map, that would have justified the bandwidth it takes to visit my site, all gone.

Well, not exactly. I gave kind of a cross between a sigh and a whimper, then crawled off to bed.

What I recall saying about writing is in the “more” section…

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I nearly choked during the SOTU message last week when Bush nominated his wife to head up the youth and gang thing. I don’t think that came from any feelings I have about him or his politics, it’s just ludicrous. I was never in a gang, but I certainly wouldn’t listen to any middle-aged white woman about it.

But that’s not the point.

Today she was interviewed on the news. Her hair was perfect. In a move that could only make sense to executives who never do any actual work she told Jim Lehrer how this came about. I imagine all first ladies have to find some cause, and Laura Bush had been “reading newspapers” and “compiling statistics” on troubled youth, or, as she put it, “boys.” She said something about liking boys, or something like that, and I thought of Michael Jackson, but that’s not the point either.

I get this mental image of her going through papers, seeing that there are troubled youth in the world, and then assembling some task force to get “information” on the problem. “Why,” she says, “these boys need help. I will give it to them.”

What she’s going to do as gang czar isn’t anything practical, like stepping aside and letting someone with street cred head it up. No, she’s going to create a task force (the first step of any good executive) and study it. That’s the second step of anyone in charge, not to do anything, but to study it. We should measure our grass before cutting it, even though anyone can see that it needs trimming!

Anyway, she’s “discovered” two great programs in the first two cities she’s already visited! One might think that’s because other people, credible ones, have already discovered this “problem.” Anyway, her group and mission will be to mention to other cities < ?> what these people are doing. Because she’s an executive, she need not wonder if they already know about this, if there isn’t already groups and conventions and meetings where the problem is discussed. Nope, she can just plunge right in and solve the problem.

Or, more truthfully, tell group A how group B is handling it.

I say this isn’t political because I’d feel just as sad if Teresa Kerry were doing it.

(oh, a little writing stuff in “more”)

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I know, I know! It’s Chinese New Year and Fat Tuesday all rolled into one!

Everybody’s eating chicken! Everybody’s celebrating! It’s the Year of the Rooster, which I’m told is less self-obsessed than the monkey, but I doubt anyone finds it as cute. I have no idea what number year this is, or how it compares with other ancient calendars (Jewish comes to mind), but I think it’s safe to say it’s somewhere up there.

I will be celebrating this New Year by entering a period of deprivation. Although my only association with Catholicism is having some Catholic friends, I like the idea of giving something up in the hopes that it will do something positive. No, I don’t think it will, but it’s good to want.

I want quite a bit, sometimes.

This year is no exception, and to aid my acquisition of love and money, I’m giving up whale blubber. For forty long days and nights I will let no blubber pass my lips, not even a taste. At the end, I expect much.

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