Sunday, December 18, 2022
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Valhalla Awaits! Pass the Salt!
Got up early to prep the pork butt, rubbing it with a spice mix (cumin, chili powder, black pepper, sea salt, paprika) and an oil mix (olive and sesame). I heat the oven to 500 then drop it to 225 as soon as the cuts go in. I'm anticipating a decent crowd, so I bought two big butts.
Later on today, I'm going to make the sauce with onions, garlic, ketchup, tomato sauce, molasses, and white vinegar.
When I sent out an invite, I specified if now the law then the spirit of the event: stuff you make yourself, stuff made with love, be it craft beer or rabbit terrine or Beijing dumplings or venison or fresh baked bread or any of the other dishes I hear people are bringing. I love it when people buy into the spirit of the day. This gives you hope for something that feels exceptional, particularly when it's the result of a group of people all pulling in the same direction.
No matter what happens, I know we're all eating well.
Until I get a new job, I've written down a list of iron rules that I will live by until the job comes along. I keep these to myself, but I committed to them absolutely and they mostly involve my writing, reading, exercise, and eating. It's a list designed, as such limitations go, to liberate me from the inessentials and to maximize my opportunities.
Speaking of which, point well taken, Matty. Jess thanks you and says the same thing. It is sometimes hard in the moment to remember.
Here's to Schrimnir and Heidrum! Tonight we feast!
From Bullfinch's Mythology:
Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts with his chosen heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the boar Schrimnir is served up to them, and is abundant for all. For although this boar is cooked every morning, be becomes whole again every night. For drink the heroes are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrum. When the heroes are not feasting they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day they ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when meal time comes they recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla.
Later on today, I'm going to make the sauce with onions, garlic, ketchup, tomato sauce, molasses, and white vinegar.
When I sent out an invite, I specified if now the law then the spirit of the event: stuff you make yourself, stuff made with love, be it craft beer or rabbit terrine or Beijing dumplings or venison or fresh baked bread or any of the other dishes I hear people are bringing. I love it when people buy into the spirit of the day. This gives you hope for something that feels exceptional, particularly when it's the result of a group of people all pulling in the same direction.
No matter what happens, I know we're all eating well.
Until I get a new job, I've written down a list of iron rules that I will live by until the job comes along. I keep these to myself, but I committed to them absolutely and they mostly involve my writing, reading, exercise, and eating. It's a list designed, as such limitations go, to liberate me from the inessentials and to maximize my opportunities.
Speaking of which, point well taken, Matty. Jess thanks you and says the same thing. It is sometimes hard in the moment to remember.
Here's to Schrimnir and Heidrum! Tonight we feast!
From Bullfinch's Mythology:
Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts with his chosen heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the boar Schrimnir is served up to them, and is abundant for all. For although this boar is cooked every morning, be becomes whole again every night. For drink the heroes are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrum. When the heroes are not feasting they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day they ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when meal time comes they recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Day One
Day one on the dole.
I purposefully avoided the whole falling apart and growing a beard route last night and drank a mug of camomile tea over the half-pint of bourbon I really wanted. The technique worked. I got up early, applied for unemployment, set up direct deposit on the payments, and changed my official residence with the DMV. I have chore-work left: laundry and all that, but I wanted to make sure I wrote while my mind was fresh. I've been trying to write late in the night, after my mind has already been taxed by the day.
And this worked, too. I got out 2,000 effortless words all on one cup of coffee.
It turns out that they might pay for my teaching certification. I'm going to an orientation next week. It really does feel as though this was lucky for me. If I hadn't been forced out, who knows how long I would have pushed the broom.
*
I also wrote down a secret list my "iron rules" -- a list of positive commands that I will abide by during my job search. Nothing too extreme, but there's a power in writing such things down. It allows you to really sense your own limits. I only put down those that I knew for certain I could follow. The commands might not guarantee a job overnight, but they'll keep me from the gutter. That's for sure.
I purposefully avoided the whole falling apart and growing a beard route last night and drank a mug of camomile tea over the half-pint of bourbon I really wanted. The technique worked. I got up early, applied for unemployment, set up direct deposit on the payments, and changed my official residence with the DMV. I have chore-work left: laundry and all that, but I wanted to make sure I wrote while my mind was fresh. I've been trying to write late in the night, after my mind has already been taxed by the day.
And this worked, too. I got out 2,000 effortless words all on one cup of coffee.
It turns out that they might pay for my teaching certification. I'm going to an orientation next week. It really does feel as though this was lucky for me. If I hadn't been forced out, who knows how long I would have pushed the broom.
*
I also wrote down a secret list my "iron rules" -- a list of positive commands that I will abide by during my job search. Nothing too extreme, but there's a power in writing such things down. It allows you to really sense your own limits. I only put down those that I knew for certain I could follow. The commands might not guarantee a job overnight, but they'll keep me from the gutter. That's for sure.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Goo Goo Gets the Axe
Billy was outside, shoveling the stairs. I had just gotten the official word.
"Another soldier down, Bubbs. They shitcaned me."
He laughed at first, but then looked at my face, and knew I wasn't joking.
He threw the snow shovel against the stairs. "What the fuck!" he yelled.
Then he took me in his bear arms and we wept as brothers.
*
Throughout the day, the bad news trickled in. There were additional layoffs in Portsmouth, Manchester, and the other branches. People who'd been with the company for years were given the axe. Many had their hours dropped to part-time, including Eddy. He's in his fifties and now has to live off of working thirty-two hours a week. Same time last year he was easily hitting sixty per.
*
The Boss called me in. "I've never really done this before, and don't know what the fuck to do. So, I don't know, if you have any questions, call Donna."
"And that's it?"
The phone rang and he answered after giving me last week's paycheck. I punched out and drove home.
And that's it. The story of the W comes to a close.
*
Here's why I'm nervous. Obviously, I'm a position of uncertainty. I want to put my heart into the novel and into the job search and into the upkeep of the house, all without feeling like a burden to Jess. It's an awkward position. I'm glad I went through it, simply because the process is somewhat different than I imagined, and it's certainly different at this moment in my life. I underestimated the emotional reaction, which, when made official, almost had a physical impact, like a slap or a kick to the shins.
Five years ago? I would have probably been very excited to sit around reading all day and still get the government check. Now, there is the additional pressure of a home and a family. Now, I hear about other layoffs, and the fact that I'm not the only one is a cause for concern. I wish I was alone in all this. I wish I wasn't heading out there with hundreds of other hungry, ambitious, responsible, thoughtful people, all angling for car payments and mortgages and rice and pork tenderloin.
You know how it goes. If I write a book and it gets published and I end up teaching creative writing at a working class state school in middle Massachusetts, then I'll sit there in my hush puppies and think: thank goodness. This was all worth it. Thank goodness I went through it, so I could understand. Thank goodness for all those difficult events that shaped me and helped me realize at least a larger swath of the the human condition than might otherwise have been my lot.
But.
If I'm sitting down by the river, trying to fish for trout with a shoestring wrapped around my bunioned old toe, then maybe it will seem the beginning of the end.
And you think: well, that's not likely. And it isn't. But it's possible. And even if the chances are slim, they still have to be accounted for.
It's not as though new jobs are springing up. It's not as though FDR is chomping on his cigarette holder and smiling as the national intrafructure blossoms like a morning glory.
Angling for spins, positive and negative, is a sort of rude game we have to play under such circumstances.
What I'm most thankful for is this: it happens and I still have the fight in me. That never went away. I could write ten-thousand pages before the bells on the chuch strike midnight. I could wrestle the themes like Jaco and the Angel, all with the cat trying, inexplicably, to stick his asshole in my face. I could call on Muse or Machine and rest assured that at least one will answer. I have enough slight control over my own fate to state that, now and forever.
"Another soldier down, Bubbs. They shitcaned me."
He laughed at first, but then looked at my face, and knew I wasn't joking.
He threw the snow shovel against the stairs. "What the fuck!" he yelled.
Then he took me in his bear arms and we wept as brothers.
*
Throughout the day, the bad news trickled in. There were additional layoffs in Portsmouth, Manchester, and the other branches. People who'd been with the company for years were given the axe. Many had their hours dropped to part-time, including Eddy. He's in his fifties and now has to live off of working thirty-two hours a week. Same time last year he was easily hitting sixty per.
*
The Boss called me in. "I've never really done this before, and don't know what the fuck to do. So, I don't know, if you have any questions, call Donna."
"And that's it?"
The phone rang and he answered after giving me last week's paycheck. I punched out and drove home.
And that's it. The story of the W comes to a close.
*
Here's why I'm nervous. Obviously, I'm a position of uncertainty. I want to put my heart into the novel and into the job search and into the upkeep of the house, all without feeling like a burden to Jess. It's an awkward position. I'm glad I went through it, simply because the process is somewhat different than I imagined, and it's certainly different at this moment in my life. I underestimated the emotional reaction, which, when made official, almost had a physical impact, like a slap or a kick to the shins.
Five years ago? I would have probably been very excited to sit around reading all day and still get the government check. Now, there is the additional pressure of a home and a family. Now, I hear about other layoffs, and the fact that I'm not the only one is a cause for concern. I wish I was alone in all this. I wish I wasn't heading out there with hundreds of other hungry, ambitious, responsible, thoughtful people, all angling for car payments and mortgages and rice and pork tenderloin.
You know how it goes. If I write a book and it gets published and I end up teaching creative writing at a working class state school in middle Massachusetts, then I'll sit there in my hush puppies and think: thank goodness. This was all worth it. Thank goodness I went through it, so I could understand. Thank goodness for all those difficult events that shaped me and helped me realize at least a larger swath of the the human condition than might otherwise have been my lot.
But.
If I'm sitting down by the river, trying to fish for trout with a shoestring wrapped around my bunioned old toe, then maybe it will seem the beginning of the end.
And you think: well, that's not likely. And it isn't. But it's possible. And even if the chances are slim, they still have to be accounted for.
It's not as though new jobs are springing up. It's not as though FDR is chomping on his cigarette holder and smiling as the national intrafructure blossoms like a morning glory.
Angling for spins, positive and negative, is a sort of rude game we have to play under such circumstances.
What I'm most thankful for is this: it happens and I still have the fight in me. That never went away. I could write ten-thousand pages before the bells on the chuch strike midnight. I could wrestle the themes like Jaco and the Angel, all with the cat trying, inexplicably, to stick his asshole in my face. I could call on Muse or Machine and rest assured that at least one will answer. I have enough slight control over my own fate to state that, now and forever.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Band Members . . .
used to drop out to become Buddhist monks and I'm pleased that they still do so.
Although.
It troubles me, somewhat, still.
Although.
It troubles me, somewhat, still.
Big D, One of the Cats
I know people ascribe all sorts of strange qualities to their cats. And ours have theirs easily ascribed.
Big D, one of the cats, the male, sits on the windowsill as I shovel and rubs against me with great glee when I come back in the house. I went out back to clear the porch, and he climbed into the speaker columns to watch. I humanize him and get the clear impression he wants to help. I can"t read it otherwise.
Big D, one of the cats, the male, sits on the windowsill as I shovel and rubs against me with great glee when I come back in the house. I went out back to clear the porch, and he climbed into the speaker columns to watch. I humanize him and get the clear impression he wants to help. I can"t read it otherwise.
Three Times Plowed
My driveway is short and wide. Because we can only shovel to one side, it takes a deceptively long time to take care of.
I've been outside, trying to get it ready before Jess comes and we have to puzzle-piece our cars together to make them fit. While shoveling, a plow drove by and left a thick, heady clump of thick snow at the end. I shoveled that out. Fifteen minutes later, the guy comes back and does the same thing. I shovel it out again, and a curse escapes my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, same thing. I pull the shovel back and think about throwing it at him. It's hardly snowing. The street looks no different. Is he racking up hours? Is he taunting the poor shoveller?
*
Truth is, I feel better out shoveling than wallowing in my own thoughts.
I couldn't write and didn't have the mind for reading. Even from the great Portis.
A little music and optimism and back. That's what I'm working on now. That, and the promise of a warm shower. A small trace of fecal matter, unwiped but just barely, has started to trouble and itch me. I noticed it nearly an hour into the shoveling. By now, that small smear has me thinking in terms of chili oil. But no. I continue working. I shovel. I have my ipod on. I want to grow my beard longass. I want to finish up and still find quiet in the house and bake chicken for the the fam and cuddle up as though there were a fire burning.
*
I bought two shovels. One big, one small for whoever else. The big one is mine. It's light and broad and serves me well. I'm going to return to that shovel, and to the outside, and let the chicken slowcook so it will be ready for dinner.
I've been outside, trying to get it ready before Jess comes and we have to puzzle-piece our cars together to make them fit. While shoveling, a plow drove by and left a thick, heady clump of thick snow at the end. I shoveled that out. Fifteen minutes later, the guy comes back and does the same thing. I shovel it out again, and a curse escapes my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, same thing. I pull the shovel back and think about throwing it at him. It's hardly snowing. The street looks no different. Is he racking up hours? Is he taunting the poor shoveller?
*
Truth is, I feel better out shoveling than wallowing in my own thoughts.
I couldn't write and didn't have the mind for reading. Even from the great Portis.
A little music and optimism and back. That's what I'm working on now. That, and the promise of a warm shower. A small trace of fecal matter, unwiped but just barely, has started to trouble and itch me. I noticed it nearly an hour into the shoveling. By now, that small smear has me thinking in terms of chili oil. But no. I continue working. I shovel. I have my ipod on. I want to grow my beard longass. I want to finish up and still find quiet in the house and bake chicken for the the fam and cuddle up as though there were a fire burning.
*
I bought two shovels. One big, one small for whoever else. The big one is mine. It's light and broad and serves me well. I'm going to return to that shovel, and to the outside, and let the chicken slowcook so it will be ready for dinner.
Snowstorm with Bubbs
The snow caused the branch to shut down early. I was the only one to show up.
The Boss said to me, "Hey, don't tell anyone, but I've heard from the owners and we're struggling. I'm probably going to have to lay you off on Friday."
He seemed a little teary eyed. I don't usually see much emotion in him.
"You see," he continued, "it's either reduce everyone to 32 hours, in which case Billy quits and I'm screwed, or cut one guy."
My first thought was: poor Billy. The last time I left, supposedly for good, he nearly started balling. He's an emotional guy. Since I don't drive the big truck, the new driver beats me on the driving side. Since, despite having been there, on and off, for three years, the others still beat me on seniority, I'm beaten there, too.
Go on unemployment, take two weeks to finish the novel, not so bad. I still had an emotional reaction, and I'm not sure why. Sure, there were financial concerns, but also because a job becomes homelike after a certain amount of time, and you begin to see it as part of what constitutes you.
I've also gotten, after a long period of silence, a few nibbles, maybe even bites, at potential jobs just in the past few days, including a small, freelance writing gig and a marketing position.
*
After a few, brief, early morning runs, the Boss closed the branch and sent me home.
When I started on my way, the radio dj's were joking about "the horrible storm of a mere three inches of fluff."
And so it was.
By the time I got to Route 119, people were starting to skid off the highways, and I even began skidding, despite my snow-friendly car and conservative driving speed.
Snowstorms, like whiskey, make music sound better.
Since I bought Jess one of those single cup brewers for Christmas, I began to wonder if my mom would give me her ancient drip coffee maker, since she never uses it. Two weeks of solid writing. Sixty-thousand words. That's a lot of fresh ground coffee. Balzac, the great French writer, used to go into debt to get enough coffee to write. No need for that, here.
*
I'm going to make the most of having a near free day by turning to the novel. It's been slow go for the past four days because there's been so much going on around the house. Still, it's better to be inspired and have little time than to have lots of time and jackshit to write about.
The Boss said to me, "Hey, don't tell anyone, but I've heard from the owners and we're struggling. I'm probably going to have to lay you off on Friday."
He seemed a little teary eyed. I don't usually see much emotion in him.
"You see," he continued, "it's either reduce everyone to 32 hours, in which case Billy quits and I'm screwed, or cut one guy."
My first thought was: poor Billy. The last time I left, supposedly for good, he nearly started balling. He's an emotional guy. Since I don't drive the big truck, the new driver beats me on the driving side. Since, despite having been there, on and off, for three years, the others still beat me on seniority, I'm beaten there, too.
Go on unemployment, take two weeks to finish the novel, not so bad. I still had an emotional reaction, and I'm not sure why. Sure, there were financial concerns, but also because a job becomes homelike after a certain amount of time, and you begin to see it as part of what constitutes you.
I've also gotten, after a long period of silence, a few nibbles, maybe even bites, at potential jobs just in the past few days, including a small, freelance writing gig and a marketing position.
*
After a few, brief, early morning runs, the Boss closed the branch and sent me home.
When I started on my way, the radio dj's were joking about "the horrible storm of a mere three inches of fluff."
And so it was.
By the time I got to Route 119, people were starting to skid off the highways, and I even began skidding, despite my snow-friendly car and conservative driving speed.
Snowstorms, like whiskey, make music sound better.
Since I bought Jess one of those single cup brewers for Christmas, I began to wonder if my mom would give me her ancient drip coffee maker, since she never uses it. Two weeks of solid writing. Sixty-thousand words. That's a lot of fresh ground coffee. Balzac, the great French writer, used to go into debt to get enough coffee to write. No need for that, here.
*
I'm going to make the most of having a near free day by turning to the novel. It's been slow go for the past four days because there's been so much going on around the house. Still, it's better to be inspired and have little time than to have lots of time and jackshit to write about.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Fuel for the Hours
OH, the troubles of the week are deep. Too deep for the light of the web. But they're there. With the eels, no doubt!
And it feels like a bolt has been thrust between my forehead and ear. It really does. From the mid-left forehead to the inside of my right ear.
*
If it seems that the problem with this forum is that the material that would be most revealing, difficult, insightful, or challenging oftentimes has to be left out, then it gives us hope.
See! That's what fiction is for! You can wrangle with those themes in stories and leave yourself out of it. All fuel for other hours.
Bubbs has recovered nicely from her surgery. I made nachos for dinner, and tried to roast peanuts but burnt them, sadly. Instead of hitting shuffle, I'm listening to albums and artists. I suspect this is because my attention span, once again focused on books, is taking root and sucking up the necessary nutrients.
I fucking love Charles Portis. Please read him someday. I'm reading him now. Despite everything, he makes me deeply happy, and I wonder why so few comic novels make the canon -- Huck Finn! The Trial! What else is there?
And it feels like a bolt has been thrust between my forehead and ear. It really does. From the mid-left forehead to the inside of my right ear.
*
If it seems that the problem with this forum is that the material that would be most revealing, difficult, insightful, or challenging oftentimes has to be left out, then it gives us hope.
See! That's what fiction is for! You can wrangle with those themes in stories and leave yourself out of it. All fuel for other hours.
Bubbs has recovered nicely from her surgery. I made nachos for dinner, and tried to roast peanuts but burnt them, sadly. Instead of hitting shuffle, I'm listening to albums and artists. I suspect this is because my attention span, once again focused on books, is taking root and sucking up the necessary nutrients.
I fucking love Charles Portis. Please read him someday. I'm reading him now. Despite everything, he makes me deeply happy, and I wonder why so few comic novels make the canon -- Huck Finn! The Trial! What else is there?
Anton wrote from me in Brooklyn, reminded me that two of the members of the Hold Steady used to be his upstairs neighbords.
Meaning: at least one of my most vicious hangovers occured beneath the near famous as they made their morning coffee.
He told me he hardly knew them, and that they listened to their own music a lot. They could have been working, it's true, but I know there are musicians who secretely enjoying listening to their own works. If Picasso almost certainly masturbated at the beauty of the females he drew, then certainly we can expect a little air guitar from Johnny Napalm as he grooves to his own riffs. And, of course, that's one of the delights of the musical ear: you hear new and unexpected things, even if they came from your mitts.
Ah, that gentle mix of the new and familiar; the roots of aesethetics.
*
Mikey's passion for the Hold Steady wore off on me, and, yes, it was the lyrical specificity that drew me in. Such specs are old -- some old blues guys would give you the name of the post office clerk that wronged then, and the time of the day, the cost to the cent of whatever was in their belly. The vague sometimes aims at some type of universality, as if by being vague we have a better shot at not seeming dated by the time the product is finally off the press. Plus, I imagine we have a learned instinct to be indirect, because of lawyers.
Yet the Hold Steady use the vague, too, and use it well. Consider these lines:
'Cause most kids give me credit
For being down with it
When it was back in the day
Back when things were way different
When the Youth of Today
And the early 7 Seconds
Taught me some of life's most valuable lessons
There's gonna come a time
When the scene'll seem less sunny
It'll probably get druggy
And the kids will seem too skinny
There's gonna come a time
Where she's gonna have to go
With whoever's gonna get her the highest
There's gonna come a time
Where the true scene leaders
Will forget where they differ
And get big picture
'Cause the kids at the shows
They'll have kids of their own
And the sing-along songs will be our scriptures
Whoahoho We gotta stay positive
For those of you who haven't heard the song, imagine a mix of Springsteen nostalgia, Husker guitar buzz, and Misfits crew o' dudes sing-along choruses. In other words: enough to distance the singer from the words and make you wonder if he's playing a character. Longing for the past meeting with a shaky legged nervous energy.
But the vague part, and what tickles me about this, is the switch between "the scene" and "the personal," and yes, I know the band are being allusive here.
And I like it because, well, that's the way my memories and fears seem to work, too. But it involves leaving gaps and not putting two and two together. Why mention the girl? Why give that sense of betrayal? I thought this was about moshing and being creative and being a kid and being optimistic and all that good stuff!
Meaning: at least one of my most vicious hangovers occured beneath the near famous as they made their morning coffee.
He told me he hardly knew them, and that they listened to their own music a lot. They could have been working, it's true, but I know there are musicians who secretely enjoying listening to their own works. If Picasso almost certainly masturbated at the beauty of the females he drew, then certainly we can expect a little air guitar from Johnny Napalm as he grooves to his own riffs. And, of course, that's one of the delights of the musical ear: you hear new and unexpected things, even if they came from your mitts.
Ah, that gentle mix of the new and familiar; the roots of aesethetics.
*
Mikey's passion for the Hold Steady wore off on me, and, yes, it was the lyrical specificity that drew me in. Such specs are old -- some old blues guys would give you the name of the post office clerk that wronged then, and the time of the day, the cost to the cent of whatever was in their belly. The vague sometimes aims at some type of universality, as if by being vague we have a better shot at not seeming dated by the time the product is finally off the press. Plus, I imagine we have a learned instinct to be indirect, because of lawyers.
Yet the Hold Steady use the vague, too, and use it well. Consider these lines:
'Cause most kids give me credit
For being down with it
When it was back in the day
Back when things were way different
When the Youth of Today
And the early 7 Seconds
Taught me some of life's most valuable lessons
There's gonna come a time
When the scene'll seem less sunny
It'll probably get druggy
And the kids will seem too skinny
There's gonna come a time
Where she's gonna have to go
With whoever's gonna get her the highest
There's gonna come a time
Where the true scene leaders
Will forget where they differ
And get big picture
'Cause the kids at the shows
They'll have kids of their own
And the sing-along songs will be our scriptures
Whoahoho We gotta stay positive
For those of you who haven't heard the song, imagine a mix of Springsteen nostalgia, Husker guitar buzz, and Misfits crew o' dudes sing-along choruses. In other words: enough to distance the singer from the words and make you wonder if he's playing a character. Longing for the past meeting with a shaky legged nervous energy.
But the vague part, and what tickles me about this, is the switch between "the scene" and "the personal," and yes, I know the band are being allusive here.
And I like it because, well, that's the way my memories and fears seem to work, too. But it involves leaving gaps and not putting two and two together. Why mention the girl? Why give that sense of betrayal? I thought this was about moshing and being creative and being a kid and being optimistic and all that good stuff!
Monday, January 26, 2009
And While You're at it, Mikey
Stuff came up so you'll get part two tomorrow, but I'm adding a few suggestions for Mikey:
Husker Du's New Day Rising
Jawbox
late period Government Issue
Dinosaur Jr.'s You're Living All Over Me
and Superchunk
Maybe you know all these. Maybe not.
I have a lengthy reply on the subject of The Hold Steady, specificity, early blues, early Bruce Springsteen, Charles Bukowski, but it'll all be folded into part two, cornbread style.
Husker Du's New Day Rising
Jawbox
late period Government Issue
Dinosaur Jr.'s You're Living All Over Me
and Superchunk
Maybe you know all these. Maybe not.
I have a lengthy reply on the subject of The Hold Steady, specificity, early blues, early Bruce Springsteen, Charles Bukowski, but it'll all be folded into part two, cornbread style.
Puzzling Incidents
Listening to Songs: Ohia's cd, Let it Rain. Never listened to it much until now. It is apt. I'll let you figure the figuring.
Bubbs is with me and her presence presents a stacked moral conundrum. First of all, I felt strange about even getting her spayed. We had no choice, since we have one male kitten and one female and don't want to run a nursery. Since Big D showed the first signs of sexual activity, she was the one to go under the knife, lest there already be Big D Juniors in her belly.
There weren't. She is wobbly, but seemed to recognize me when I brought her out of the carrier. She is lying by my side now. Her face is a little puffy and her eyes are unfocused. But she wants to be close and has occasionally started purring when I touched her ears.
The vet seemed sketchy. I'd never used him before but he came up first, alphabetically. He ended up charging me an extra sixty for shots. I told him I didn't have the money. I didn't. He shrugged. I said I'd find a way to get it. He took her in.
"She's in heat," he said, rubbing her belly. "That's an extra thirty."
Then he turned, as if remembering my situation, and looked away. "I will waive the fee."
*
When I picked her up, he took nearly fifteen minutes to charge my credit card. I had to pay partly on the card, partly with money lent to me by the Boss.
When I got out to the car, I looked at the receipt. He had accidently undercharged me by one-hundred dollars.
Fuck.
I put her in the car and stood outside in the cold.
I shut my door and started walking back to the office.
I went back to the car and turned around perhaps two times.
I thought of how long it took for him to charge me. He didn't speak English well. I don't know if he ever understood me, or if he was, underneath his bumbling outward nature, a charitable person, and was taking pity on me.
And then I thought: I'm going to have to wait another fifteen minutes while he processes my card again, while the cat stays out in the cold. It was a long enough drive ahead: I opted for a vet near the W, not near my home.
I got in the car and drove off, with one-hundred dollars to my name.
It was a dark drive home. I listened to Dinosaur Jr. Instead of hitting shuffle, I've started listening to artists on my ipod, and shuffling between their songs (the answer to Mikey's comment is that I didn't listen to the songs in order, which may have been a mistake, but it worked.)
The Dufflebag just knocked and told me it's dinnertime. I'm off to go eat and will write more later.
Bubbs is with me and her presence presents a stacked moral conundrum. First of all, I felt strange about even getting her spayed. We had no choice, since we have one male kitten and one female and don't want to run a nursery. Since Big D showed the first signs of sexual activity, she was the one to go under the knife, lest there already be Big D Juniors in her belly.
There weren't. She is wobbly, but seemed to recognize me when I brought her out of the carrier. She is lying by my side now. Her face is a little puffy and her eyes are unfocused. But she wants to be close and has occasionally started purring when I touched her ears.
The vet seemed sketchy. I'd never used him before but he came up first, alphabetically. He ended up charging me an extra sixty for shots. I told him I didn't have the money. I didn't. He shrugged. I said I'd find a way to get it. He took her in.
"She's in heat," he said, rubbing her belly. "That's an extra thirty."
Then he turned, as if remembering my situation, and looked away. "I will waive the fee."
*
When I picked her up, he took nearly fifteen minutes to charge my credit card. I had to pay partly on the card, partly with money lent to me by the Boss.
When I got out to the car, I looked at the receipt. He had accidently undercharged me by one-hundred dollars.
Fuck.
I put her in the car and stood outside in the cold.
I shut my door and started walking back to the office.
I went back to the car and turned around perhaps two times.
I thought of how long it took for him to charge me. He didn't speak English well. I don't know if he ever understood me, or if he was, underneath his bumbling outward nature, a charitable person, and was taking pity on me.
And then I thought: I'm going to have to wait another fifteen minutes while he processes my card again, while the cat stays out in the cold. It was a long enough drive ahead: I opted for a vet near the W, not near my home.
I got in the car and drove off, with one-hundred dollars to my name.
It was a dark drive home. I listened to Dinosaur Jr. Instead of hitting shuffle, I've started listening to artists on my ipod, and shuffling between their songs (the answer to Mikey's comment is that I didn't listen to the songs in order, which may have been a mistake, but it worked.)
The Dufflebag just knocked and told me it's dinnertime. I'm off to go eat and will write more later.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
In Brief
I have to take Bubbs in to get spayed tomorrow. There was a brief time a few years ago when I took over all my mother's household expenses and paid for surgeries for her cats, but they were effectively her cats. This is the first time I've taken in a cat I consider my own.
Needless to say, there is a different emotional resonance. It's been on my mind. I love that cat, and worry about the effects. It is, of course, a necessity: against our knowledge we picked up a male and a female and we don't want incest babies climbing up the shades.
*
It's ten o'clock and I'm finally settling in. I vowed to write today, and now is my only chance, so I'm making this short.
*
I also didn't get to the store in time to properly cook tonight, so I'm marinating my meat for the week overnight. I'm marinading my pork with lime, chili oil, vinegar, and spices. I'm marinating my chicken in paprika, brown sugar, fish sauce, and, again, lime. They'll be ready to cook tomorrow night.
While keeping an eye on the boy, I cooked up some jalapeno cornbread, based loosely on the recipe in the Moosewood Cookbook. It made me want to bake bread more. I found a bread baking book that noted how cumin is an underused spice in breadmaking, so I added about a teaspoon to the mix. I'm not sure if it added anything noticeable, but it certainly didn't hurt.
I ate the cornbread with hot pepper jelly. The jalapenos, after cooking, turned very mellow and added just the slightest kick, but with a nice, solid, crunchy texture. I used a coarse ground cornmeal, but in the future will food process it or buy a finer grind -- Jess likes the crunchiness but I find it a distraction.
That's it: applied to two more jobs, looked after the Dufflebag, and listened to three albums from The Hold Steady, back to back.
Needless to say, there is a different emotional resonance. It's been on my mind. I love that cat, and worry about the effects. It is, of course, a necessity: against our knowledge we picked up a male and a female and we don't want incest babies climbing up the shades.
*
It's ten o'clock and I'm finally settling in. I vowed to write today, and now is my only chance, so I'm making this short.
*
I also didn't get to the store in time to properly cook tonight, so I'm marinating my meat for the week overnight. I'm marinading my pork with lime, chili oil, vinegar, and spices. I'm marinating my chicken in paprika, brown sugar, fish sauce, and, again, lime. They'll be ready to cook tomorrow night.
While keeping an eye on the boy, I cooked up some jalapeno cornbread, based loosely on the recipe in the Moosewood Cookbook. It made me want to bake bread more. I found a bread baking book that noted how cumin is an underused spice in breadmaking, so I added about a teaspoon to the mix. I'm not sure if it added anything noticeable, but it certainly didn't hurt.
I ate the cornbread with hot pepper jelly. The jalapenos, after cooking, turned very mellow and added just the slightest kick, but with a nice, solid, crunchy texture. I used a coarse ground cornmeal, but in the future will food process it or buy a finer grind -- Jess likes the crunchiness but I find it a distraction.
That's it: applied to two more jobs, looked after the Dufflebag, and listened to three albums from The Hold Steady, back to back.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Dissolves with Deceiving
A theoretical disaster, today, but peaceful. Here are the bad parts in order:
1. The Dufflebag's audition, all the way in Providence, Rhode Island, turned out to be a scam, and the "agency" wanted credit card info and a couple of grand to "train" him.
2. We stopped afterwards at the Newport Cremery in Smithfield, where it took took so long to get a table we felt the waitstaff were taunting us. I had a decent burger and fries. Jess got a veggie burger with steamed veggies. The veggies were still slightly frozen, so we sent them back, and they were returned, on the same plate, obviously microwaved, but now white and dry, although cooked. Vomitous. We originally were planning on getting their supposedly famous ice cream, but couldn't wait to get out of there. So we didn't.
3. We watched Control, the Ian Curtis biopic, which I've been excited to see. It is a photographer's film -- visual and rich with black and white contrast. The music, to me, is still powerful. However, as a life, there simply wasn't that much going on. Sorry, Ian. Or at least that was our sense from the film. At one point, Jess, knowing the ending, was cheering for Curtis to hang himself, just to get it over with.
But now the skies are clear and cold. We're listening to good music, and cuddled up on the couch. Jess has dozed off, giving me a few minutes to write.
The cd is Devendra Banhart's Cripple Crow. I used to listen to it intently on the farm. It still sounds good. Great, even. Yes, great.
Let's consider the positives:
1. Ian liking the Unsane when I played them for him.
2. . . . and still curious about acting despite our bad experience today.
3. Pizza at Dario's in Lunenburg tonight. Completely made up for the awful pizza experience on Friday, detailed below. Praise be to garlic! We just got a pie and all drank water, bringing the bill for a family of three to a whopping twelve bucks. Cheaper than Mikey D's but actually good and everyone left full. Next time, I'm going with just Jess and we'll go for the putanesca.
4. And, okay, I didn't get a word written, but I will, tomorrow. Jess is going to a baby shower, leaving me to look after the Dufflebag and work on the novel. And I'll do both. I will do both. Today, I drove long distances. And if that isn't part of being an American writer, I don't know what is.
5. Have I told you about Billy's flask yet? Just wait.
6.
1. The Dufflebag's audition, all the way in Providence, Rhode Island, turned out to be a scam, and the "agency" wanted credit card info and a couple of grand to "train" him.
2. We stopped afterwards at the Newport Cremery in Smithfield, where it took took so long to get a table we felt the waitstaff were taunting us. I had a decent burger and fries. Jess got a veggie burger with steamed veggies. The veggies were still slightly frozen, so we sent them back, and they were returned, on the same plate, obviously microwaved, but now white and dry, although cooked. Vomitous. We originally were planning on getting their supposedly famous ice cream, but couldn't wait to get out of there. So we didn't.
3. We watched Control, the Ian Curtis biopic, which I've been excited to see. It is a photographer's film -- visual and rich with black and white contrast. The music, to me, is still powerful. However, as a life, there simply wasn't that much going on. Sorry, Ian. Or at least that was our sense from the film. At one point, Jess, knowing the ending, was cheering for Curtis to hang himself, just to get it over with.
But now the skies are clear and cold. We're listening to good music, and cuddled up on the couch. Jess has dozed off, giving me a few minutes to write.
The cd is Devendra Banhart's Cripple Crow. I used to listen to it intently on the farm. It still sounds good. Great, even. Yes, great.
Let's consider the positives:
1. Ian liking the Unsane when I played them for him.
2. . . . and still curious about acting despite our bad experience today.
3. Pizza at Dario's in Lunenburg tonight. Completely made up for the awful pizza experience on Friday, detailed below. Praise be to garlic! We just got a pie and all drank water, bringing the bill for a family of three to a whopping twelve bucks. Cheaper than Mikey D's but actually good and everyone left full. Next time, I'm going with just Jess and we'll go for the putanesca.
4. And, okay, I didn't get a word written, but I will, tomorrow. Jess is going to a baby shower, leaving me to look after the Dufflebag and work on the novel. And I'll do both. I will do both. Today, I drove long distances. And if that isn't part of being an American writer, I don't know what is.
5. Have I told you about Billy's flask yet? Just wait.
6.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Bad Slice
Right now I'm taking a quick break. I'm printing up a headshot of the Dufflebag for tomorrow when we head to Rhode Island where he's going to audition for a show on a kid's television network.
*
I had one of the top five worst pieces of pizza in my life today at the Papa Gino's in Lexington. I'm so broke, and to shell out the five bucks for dogfood killed my spirit.
When I say it tasted like cardboard, I'm not saying it in the usual, metaphorical sense. It tasted, strongly, of actual cardboard. I am lucky I didn't break a tooth on the crust. Its saving grace was that it was small -- hardly enough food for a child. Despite it causing my ears to go numb from tasting so horribly, I managed to get it all down, since I was hungry and hadn't eaten anything all day other than a few slices of dry bread for breakfast. It was either that or eat nothing.
It was the type of pizza that is so bad, you wonder if there shouldn't be laws passed that prevent such horrible food from being served. It went beyond industrial pizza. At some point, someone in the chain at that restaurant should have had a flicker of guilt and thought: we can't possibly serve this to a paying customer.
But I give the world too much credit. I'd rather have them robbing me of my five bucks than, say, a grandmother. And I could only assume some sort of sociopath cooked and served and overheated that wretched slice, instead of hacking the neighbor into bits. It could only have been either someone deprived of all moral agency through slavery or someone without any moral sense at all who quickly slipped it into the "to go" and handed it to me, hoping I'd be long gone before I'd opened it and discovered I'd been served a lesson in roadside hucksterism.
Rotten. Rotten. Rotten.
The only local pizzas that have come close to being as bad were served to me in Nashua, at a little place behind Home Depot (it must have been shut down -- if it's still open, there truly is no order to the universe) and at the Pizza Pizzazz in Pepperrel, MA (where, aside from my pie being horrible food, they also got my order screwed up. I waited so long for it -- noting the whispering, it seems something went wrong the first time -- I didn't want to wait another twenty minutes.)
*
To a hungry man, a bad slice transcends the laziness and cynicism that must have produced it.
The bad slice is a shot to the gut. It's a curb stomp. It's a direct hit on your nuts with a slapshot.
It's a rigged shellgame.
And I fell for it. Sucker!
*
I had one of the top five worst pieces of pizza in my life today at the Papa Gino's in Lexington. I'm so broke, and to shell out the five bucks for dogfood killed my spirit.
When I say it tasted like cardboard, I'm not saying it in the usual, metaphorical sense. It tasted, strongly, of actual cardboard. I am lucky I didn't break a tooth on the crust. Its saving grace was that it was small -- hardly enough food for a child. Despite it causing my ears to go numb from tasting so horribly, I managed to get it all down, since I was hungry and hadn't eaten anything all day other than a few slices of dry bread for breakfast. It was either that or eat nothing.
It was the type of pizza that is so bad, you wonder if there shouldn't be laws passed that prevent such horrible food from being served. It went beyond industrial pizza. At some point, someone in the chain at that restaurant should have had a flicker of guilt and thought: we can't possibly serve this to a paying customer.
But I give the world too much credit. I'd rather have them robbing me of my five bucks than, say, a grandmother. And I could only assume some sort of sociopath cooked and served and overheated that wretched slice, instead of hacking the neighbor into bits. It could only have been either someone deprived of all moral agency through slavery or someone without any moral sense at all who quickly slipped it into the "to go" and handed it to me, hoping I'd be long gone before I'd opened it and discovered I'd been served a lesson in roadside hucksterism.
Rotten. Rotten. Rotten.
The only local pizzas that have come close to being as bad were served to me in Nashua, at a little place behind Home Depot (it must have been shut down -- if it's still open, there truly is no order to the universe) and at the Pizza Pizzazz in Pepperrel, MA (where, aside from my pie being horrible food, they also got my order screwed up. I waited so long for it -- noting the whispering, it seems something went wrong the first time -- I didn't want to wait another twenty minutes.)
*
To a hungry man, a bad slice transcends the laziness and cynicism that must have produced it.
The bad slice is a shot to the gut. It's a curb stomp. It's a direct hit on your nuts with a slapshot.
It's a rigged shellgame.
And I fell for it. Sucker!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
On Catalogues
Blogger seems to occasionally eat my comments, or make it hard for me to post them, so I want to reply to a few here.
As for the glasses, Walmart is considered a deal, but the eyeglass bloggers, and they do exist, insist on better deals if you use the internet. Since I already have a script, I'm going to give it a try once I get my tax refund.
Mikey asked about the name of the Springsteen cd alluded to in a previous post. It was Devils and Dust. And while you're at it, if you want a serious challenge, how about the back catalogue of The Fall and Guided by Voices?
Or, the ultimate challenge . . . nah, I can't even say it . . . it's too much . . . .
As far as the food contest, I'm sure the podcasts will clear that all up. I haven't heard back, even though I've written twice. I am willing to practice.
I remember seeing a surprisingly compelling documentary on Kobayashi in which he explains that the great challenge of his sport is to bring yourself almost to the point of death. I need that 3000 bucks. I will do it.
And as for the nightclub, it is opening early next month. Details will follow: I tend not to name names if there's the slightest chance it will impact my job. That's just for the record.
*
Today, the Boss called us in and explained he was cutting all our hours. I am temporarily reduced to thirty-two a week, and this after resolving to find a weekend job. Billy, who often works sixty hours a week, and supports his girlfriend and, to a lesser extent, her daughter, was harder hit by the news that he is limited to just over forty. All day, he looked pale.
*
I wore my ipod in the W today, carefully kept safe under my sweatshirt. It was transformative.
There is a categorical difference between music that you tolerate and music that you care about. The gulf is wide.
*
Bubbs is the smaller of the two cats, and the one who most insists on being close to me when I write. I got home late so I haven't turned to the novel yet. But Bubbs is here, my notes are out, and I'm ready to begin.
As for the glasses, Walmart is considered a deal, but the eyeglass bloggers, and they do exist, insist on better deals if you use the internet. Since I already have a script, I'm going to give it a try once I get my tax refund.
Mikey asked about the name of the Springsteen cd alluded to in a previous post. It was Devils and Dust. And while you're at it, if you want a serious challenge, how about the back catalogue of The Fall and Guided by Voices?
Or, the ultimate challenge . . . nah, I can't even say it . . . it's too much . . . .
As far as the food contest, I'm sure the podcasts will clear that all up. I haven't heard back, even though I've written twice. I am willing to practice.
I remember seeing a surprisingly compelling documentary on Kobayashi in which he explains that the great challenge of his sport is to bring yourself almost to the point of death. I need that 3000 bucks. I will do it.
And as for the nightclub, it is opening early next month. Details will follow: I tend not to name names if there's the slightest chance it will impact my job. That's just for the record.
*
Today, the Boss called us in and explained he was cutting all our hours. I am temporarily reduced to thirty-two a week, and this after resolving to find a weekend job. Billy, who often works sixty hours a week, and supports his girlfriend and, to a lesser extent, her daughter, was harder hit by the news that he is limited to just over forty. All day, he looked pale.
*
I wore my ipod in the W today, carefully kept safe under my sweatshirt. It was transformative.
There is a categorical difference between music that you tolerate and music that you care about. The gulf is wide.
*
Bubbs is the smaller of the two cats, and the one who most insists on being close to me when I write. I got home late so I haven't turned to the novel yet. But Bubbs is here, my notes are out, and I'm ready to begin.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Ten Songs I Listened to Tonight
- "Joseph's Song" The Angels of Light
- "Beautiful Land" Nina Simone
- "End of Time" Danzig
- "Hard Travelin'" Woody Guthrie
- "I Want Her Back" The Five Budds
- "You Can Do Anything" Moby Grape
- "What She Said" The Smiths
- "New York City Serenade" Bruce Springsteen
- "Sometimes Always" Jesus & Mary Chain
- "Open All Night" Bruce Springsteen
I told Billy that I was tired of eating ramen noodles. I tried to find something to eat last night, and finding nothing to my tastes, squirted pink frosting in my hand.
"You had frosting for dinner? That's worse than me!"
Tonight I wanted something more than frosting. I remembered that I had a leftover plantain from this weekend. I fried that -- I must say, doing a better job than I did on Saturday -- and microwaved two of Jess's hotdogs.
It was salty and good. I don't know what I'll do for lunch tomorrow. I'm set with breakfast -- I carefully divided the the marinated pork into four plastic baggies on Sunday. I cook the tortillas in my skillet and add the park while they're heating, to save time. With hotsauce, they are more delicious than I deserve, and the eating kills a good ten minutes of the commute.
I'm going to stay with some sort of tortilla next week: good combination of heat and efficiency.
"You had frosting for dinner? That's worse than me!"
Tonight I wanted something more than frosting. I remembered that I had a leftover plantain from this weekend. I fried that -- I must say, doing a better job than I did on Saturday -- and microwaved two of Jess's hotdogs.
It was salty and good. I don't know what I'll do for lunch tomorrow. I'm set with breakfast -- I carefully divided the the marinated pork into four plastic baggies on Sunday. I cook the tortillas in my skillet and add the park while they're heating, to save time. With hotsauce, they are more delicious than I deserve, and the eating kills a good ten minutes of the commute.
I'm going to stay with some sort of tortilla next week: good combination of heat and efficiency.
Gnossiennes 1. Lent
Billy sang to me: "What happens when your need to survive kills the thing you love?"
Bruce Springsteen. Off an album I don't have. I said, "That's good. Which one is that?"
He told me and offered to lend it to me. He got it from his car, but it was so horribly scratched that I had to refuse the loan.
He looked sad.
"Don't give up on your dreams, Goo Goo."
"Fuck my dreams," I told him. "All they ever made me is . . ."
"Broke?"
"Yeah, broke. No more dreams. I just have to be a . . . "
"A worker."
"Yeah, a worker," I said.
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Yep. Nothing wrong with that."
"Fuck it, Goo Goo. I've got to get out of this place. It's eating me up. I want to learn shit, but I'm too busy to learn the new stuff that'll get me out of here. There's no fucking way fucking out."
"We should fight on," I said.
"Yeah. Let's fight on."
*
The Boss started violently vomiting, so he took the truck and drove home. I finally had the ambition to bring my ipod in. I hooked it up in the truck during my runs. It made the driving easier. I didn't want to listen to the filler about Obama, of whom there isn't much to say yet, the most notable part of inauguration being, I'm told, Aretha Franklin's hat.
*
I worked late and stopped at my mother's house to pick up a few things. I searched online, and sure enough, there are not only sites about buying cheap prescription glasses online, but blogs about buying them as well and I already feel relieved and well informed. I'm going to use my tax refund to get a new pair, finally pay off the old ones, and then, with whatever is left, put money into the house.
I'm also looking for a weekend job. I've worked seven day weeks before, and it eventually wore me down. But I'm also pretty tolerant of a high work load. I've already applied to a weekend driver position and as the bouncer at a Worcester area club that is opening up at the end of the month. I'd rather do the driving -- night hours will kill both my attempt again at a writing career, my longass Mondays, and my energy reserves. But it might open doors. I keep knocking.
Once, people believed in vocations, in callings. And you only had to hear it.
I've heard it. But I suspect it was just ghosts and gremlins, doing their mischief. There are all sorts of nightsounds that can deceive you into thinking there are monsters under the bed.
*
I'm trying to enter a WBCN eating competition. I've sent an email to the station and am waiting to hear more. Once again, expect updates and insights as I learn more.
Bruce Springsteen. Off an album I don't have. I said, "That's good. Which one is that?"
He told me and offered to lend it to me. He got it from his car, but it was so horribly scratched that I had to refuse the loan.
He looked sad.
"Don't give up on your dreams, Goo Goo."
"Fuck my dreams," I told him. "All they ever made me is . . ."
"Broke?"
"Yeah, broke. No more dreams. I just have to be a . . . "
"A worker."
"Yeah, a worker," I said.
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Yep. Nothing wrong with that."
"Fuck it, Goo Goo. I've got to get out of this place. It's eating me up. I want to learn shit, but I'm too busy to learn the new stuff that'll get me out of here. There's no fucking way fucking out."
"We should fight on," I said.
"Yeah. Let's fight on."
*
The Boss started violently vomiting, so he took the truck and drove home. I finally had the ambition to bring my ipod in. I hooked it up in the truck during my runs. It made the driving easier. I didn't want to listen to the filler about Obama, of whom there isn't much to say yet, the most notable part of inauguration being, I'm told, Aretha Franklin's hat.
*
I worked late and stopped at my mother's house to pick up a few things. I searched online, and sure enough, there are not only sites about buying cheap prescription glasses online, but blogs about buying them as well and I already feel relieved and well informed. I'm going to use my tax refund to get a new pair, finally pay off the old ones, and then, with whatever is left, put money into the house.
I'm also looking for a weekend job. I've worked seven day weeks before, and it eventually wore me down. But I'm also pretty tolerant of a high work load. I've already applied to a weekend driver position and as the bouncer at a Worcester area club that is opening up at the end of the month. I'd rather do the driving -- night hours will kill both my attempt again at a writing career, my longass Mondays, and my energy reserves. But it might open doors. I keep knocking.
Once, people believed in vocations, in callings. And you only had to hear it.
I've heard it. But I suspect it was just ghosts and gremlins, doing their mischief. There are all sorts of nightsounds that can deceive you into thinking there are monsters under the bed.
*
I'm trying to enter a WBCN eating competition. I've sent an email to the station and am waiting to hear more. Once again, expect updates and insights as I learn more.
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